Defining Moments

Chasing Words

2011-05-08T22:00:00.002-05:00

The weekend, like most of my life was spent chasing time, sleep, and words. After many decades, there still is not enough time to do everything I want or sleep as much as I think I need. I remain tortured over the exact meaning of words and live life in close proximity to dictionaries and thesauruses.

Precious time goes by as I search for nuances between words such as amid or amidst and among or amongst. Unrelenting, incessant debates rage over correct verb tense and punctuation. I’ve learned it’s difficult to win a debate when you argue with yourself. I wonder how much of this linguistic battle spills into my life impacting all that I do. How much of the quest for the perfect word bleeds into my definition of self? How much energy do I expend searching for the right, the perfect, and the best?

I’m not that sure that I care although I do mull over these questions. I am who I am and I believe words count. Words are important and this weekend, I found a few locked away in a cedar chest. Old writings from childhood lay in piles describing life with cats, first loves, and storms. As I spent the day working on an essay to enter a writing competition, I remembered thinking as a child that I simply wanted to grow up, write, and be happy. That’s still all I want to do and as I compare the topics of a youthful childhood, it’s remarkable that I still write about topics of first appeal. Except for the animals, unless you consider descriptions in my mind for some people I know. I could write about last weekend and the cat that jumped up on the toilet and urinated like a person or the dog that lay on the couch like a little man. Alas, these are other stories.

What I know is that I love words and in my quest to find those that matter most, to rise above the mundane, the cliché, and the overused, I am fortunate. I have a vocabulary that will prevent me from ever using the word party as a verb and amidst the trials of life, I am amongst friends. In the end, that’s all that really matters.

Bologna and Blessings

2011-04-24T23:31:00.002-05:00

This Easter weekend I prepared my first bologna sandwich since the days my father packed four school lunches in small, brown paper bags. He would tuck in pieces of fruit and if we were lucky; a “Little Debbie” snack cake. The tiny bags and shiny dimes for milk money were lined up each morning as my brothers and sister clamored to school. Some 40 years later, the white bread had changed to wheat; the mayonnaise to light and the pickles to sugar free, but the thick bologna bore the same distinctive red band. Shortly, I found myself humming the old Oscar Mayer commercial tune.

My father and I carried our sandwiches outside and sat on the porch overlooking the rushing creek. Swallowtail and monarch butterflies floated above the school of minnows darting in the cold water and hiding under cloak of tree shadows. The season’s first hummingbird came in the annual search for food. Dogwood trees and blackberry bushes alike bloomed and I remembered my granny’s cobbler. Thinking back, I also remembered the long eight hour car rides to this land of his parents. I hated the trip, the heat, the gnats and sleeping with my sister in the same bed. I hated dusty roads, cow patties and unpasteurized milk. I hated the loud crows of the rooster waking me up and then having to get up before dark in order to eat the only food available until lunch.

And yet, here I was, excited about my bologna sandwich and spending time with my father in this familiar place. I suddenly longed for time with my sister and family and wished for breakfast with my grandparents. I wanted to pick along the land with my granny and search for polk and turnip greens and stroll in the dark to the hen house and gather the morning’s eggs. I wanted to play in the barn with my cousins and hide in the scratchy hay. I wanted to walk up the country road to my uncle’s small store and be rewarded with a small glass bottle of coke. I wanted to bite into the cold flesh of ripe watermelon after swimming in spring creeks. I wanted to go pond fishing for catfish with my uncle and let anyone bait my hook.

I turned to my father and asked, “Did you ever imagine growing up that we would be so blessed and have all of this…?” He looked up from his sandwich and with a knowing smile replied, “No.”

Pink Carpets

2011-04-17T15:56:00.002-05:00

My father’s house has a room with pink carpet. Soft, plush pinkness oozes between toes and splashes the walls with more cotton candy color. Aged pink curtains cover two windows and line an entire wall revealing splatters of bright pink roses and faded green vines. This room was created during a time when someone followed some long forgotten trend and perhaps never imagined another marriage. I’ve always thought she left behind her poor taste and Pepto-Bismol styled room as a way to haunt the survivors of her life.

I didn’t think about the pink room on the day the cherry tree in front of my house reached peak. I simply stared at it reaching towards the blackened grey sky with plump pink arms heavy with soft cotton balls. Tender green leaves were hidden beneath decadent pink blooms and I was transfixed within a single moment of nature bursting into focus for even those with heavy lidded eyes to see. It was gloriously spectacular and wondrously perfect and gone by afternoon.

Heavy spring storms wreaked havoc across the suburbs. Dangerous winds swept roofs off businesses, shutters into yards, and sent objects flying to unknown destinations. The beautiful cherry tree, which had unveiled itself that morning, still stood but no longer wore a cover of solid satin bloom. Instead, a pink carpet lay under the tree. Soft petals covered the grass and reached into the driveway. Long fingers of muted color gently hid fresh mulch and scattered under the adjacent dogwood just revealing the white blooms of Easter. This new vision, so different than the morning, was even more stunning. I imagined walking amidst the pink carpet and feeling the softness on tender feet.

Perhaps that is how it felt to have pink carpet installed surely some 30 years ago in a strange house nestled against the panoramic view of the mountain. A carpet to walk on barefoot while dreaming the dreams of the free; a carpet to enjoy while remembering the magnitude of windswept color the softness of fading sunlight going down over white beaches and aqua oceans. A carpet overlooked by some and overdone by others, but for the ones moving along life’s tumultuous straight line winds and lifted by gentle breezes – a carpet representing another view of perfect beauty.

I wonder what my father recalls when he steps into the pink room. I hope he is able to see what I now see. A room that was glorious in a particular time and yet, with a different view remains stunning. A room that contains good memories and glory among the branches and leaves: that was and is a showcase: that is beautiful for those who survive the storms and still view life through rosy pink glasses.

Living

2011-04-10T21:06:00.002-05:00

I’m back. I’ve been living for some time in the darkest chambers of the heart. Places that beat out of rhythm for guilt and shame. Echoes from the past bouncing off weakened walls. Passageways narrowed from fear. My blood pumps images of futuristic visions and merges them with realities and soon this present become normal in the dark of night. Strange voices whisper in the sounds of water falling and swirl in layers of stormy air.

Sometimes I am hurled into a chasm of space and remain frozen in time watching the world go by. Effortlessly others flow through life seemingly without cares or concern. They wander aimlessly or live in pursuit of the unknown while passing without empathy for those who carefully place wounds in scarred hiding places.

Struggling for air, I go down but each time, I fight back. My hand reaches out for something to believe in and someone to hold. But it’s my struggle. I am both rescuer and victim. I am both saint and sinner.

In the mazes of my mind, I search. In the trials of the world, I breathe. In the pursuit of peace, I exist. I am alive and blessed. I am my journeys and no matter where they take me, I live.

Braces

2011-03-06T21:13:00.004-06:00

As I stare at the shiny metal lining my bottom teeth, I realize that I’m not unlike any number of children and teenagers who go through this same rite of passage into adulthood. With one huge exception -- I have to wear reading glasses in order to see these braces and have long, long transitioned into adulthood.

The orthodontist’s office staff shared that adults are the worst patients. Apparently we pout more (check), whine more (check), and want prescription pain pills (check). None of these versions of the adult temper tantrum work. Maybe it’s because we actually chose to go down this path of torment and torture. No, it’s not the same as water boarding but it hurts. I am fortunate in that I only have six months of wear to endure, as well as a retainer at night thank you very much. I am lucky in that I have a lot of weight to lose and 10 pounds have already magically melted. Some magic though. It’s easy to lose weight when all you can eat is yogurt, cream of wheat, oatmeal and soup.

One of my friends called on Saturday, and I told him my metallic news. “Braces,” he exclaimed, “On your teeth?” I wanted to say no, on my legs because I’ve been stricken with polio. Of course, I didn’t. I understand his surprise. I’m shocked every time I look in the mirror or slurp down pureed soup.

I’ve been told it will get easier with time. All things do. Perhaps that’s the part of this ordeal that does make sense. Months of suffering to a child may seem forever, but adults know better. Life passes in a blink of an eye. We grieve over loss and trudge through the pain. We overcome adversity and move on. We are the fittest in a modern day Darwinian world and have grown wise enough to live; strong enough to cry; smart enough to learn. Somewhere along the way, we accept who we are and love ourselves first. If it means smiling through braces as hair color and colonoscopy appointments are made, then so be it.

And yet, I am glad to be going to visit my mother this week. She has promised creamy potato soup and a hug. So for a short while, I’ll take off my reading glasses and be a child once again. Glad that I’m not too old to want a warm embrace and will never be too blind to see a mother’s love.

Emergency Preparedness

2011-02-27T18:03:00.003-06:00

As winds begin gusting under a setting sun, tornado watches and warnings are appearing in black and red shades dotting the state map. The gloomiest of meteorologists begin talking about taking motorcycle helmets to closets. I sit under a cozy blanket by the fire wondering if I should take a shower and get dressed. I’m well prepared for disaster. Candles, matches, batteries, water, and weather radios – I have it all.

But how prepared are we for disasters that don’t come with sirens and notice? And what are the definitions for disasters? We stare at life and it stares back watching as jobs are lost, relationships fail and children disappoint. People don’t meet expectations and pets die. Sometimes, disaster happens in a second of time and the hours of life are changed forever. Disasters are self-defined. From a cake that doesn’t rise to a death in the family, each one of us may use the same terms for catastrophe of minor or major consequence.

I’m tired of planning for might be. I’m tired of catastrophizing. I’m just plain tired. And so my emergency plan is now to move forward secure with life lessons rather than armed with cases of green beans. I will focus on skills instead of purchases of beef jerky, vegetable seeds and solar powered showers.

My new preparedness tools begin with kindness to people - - they will be there for me in times of need. Non-judgmental attitude to others –- they may not judge me so harshly. Empathy for the downtrodden –-they may find me in their company when I need a helping hand. Compassion for the circumstances others find terrifying – -for surely, each definition belongs to the owner and is not mine to change.

Acceptance, openness, honesty. These are among the skills that will take us through life when it slaps us down because these are the ways in which friends are made and family is redefined. Life may find us opening a can of beanie weenies in the dark or crying under the sheets; but it’s only people who pick us up when we’re down and surround us with that which cannot be bought at the last minute-–Love.

Redefinitions

2011-02-20T21:21:00.002-06:00

I asked someone once if he were happy. “I’m not unhappy,” he responded. At that time, I thought his answer was sad. Where was joy, elatedness, contentment? If you weren’t unhappy, weren’t you happy? What kind of scale did he use to measure his life?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about happiness and how to define it. It seems that I’ve given a lot of power to other people when it comes to how I feel. Give me a little praise and I’m like a lap dog panting for more. Say I look like I’ve lost weight, and I’m your friend for life. Sadly, I’ve given even more power to the nasty ones--the wicked, rude, mean human replicas that sabotage good feelings and who were the authors of my life’s chapter and paragraph. They defined if I were happy or not or if my day was good or bad. But, I’m not going to let them write my book any more.

Once if you asked if I were happy, I might say yes if it was day lived in the absence of destruction and terror and gloom. Or if I successfully turned my back and shunned the people who did not evoke joy, then I also would be happy. After all, happy is the opposite of sad. Good the opposite of bad. Right the opposite of wrong.

Life doesn’t work that way though. I’ve learned that manipulative people, by nature, will manipulate. Liars will lie. The corrupt will find ways to burrow like chiggers into the skin of the innocent. Not to me. Not anymore. I’ve taken the power back and use it to stand in the same room with the wretched and understand their evil and not let it touch me. I let their falsehoods bounce off me and reabsorb in their heartless body shells. I've accepted the reality that these people exist and live on the planet.

Somewhere in regaining power, I’ve redefined happiness. Somewhere in this game we call life, emotions live in the grey between black and white. Happiness is not the joyous height of euphoria that comes from surviving a life altering event or the mere absence of those who cause heartburn. Sadness is not the blank feelings of those pondering suicide. In between the extremes, there is not an abyss. In the space where the pendulum swings, it stills in a place that one person defines as not unhappy, another; peace and another; simply good.

I’ve believed that life was about swinging from trees on vines that never break jumping away from bad and into good. I’ve spent decades climbing from threat and into a peaceful canopy. I now realize that sometimes the vine breaks and I land smack in the middle of life. This event is not a catastrophe plunging me into the depths of dispair and misery. It doesn’t have to be defined or categorized. It doesn’t have to fit someone else’s definition. It’s enough to simply be alive. Every once in a while, I may find myself staring down someone whose weak vine dropped them into my world at the same time, but I have the power to walk away. They are not going to change my day or define my life. They are not going to control my emotions. Each day is an adventure and I don’t know if I will be unhappy, happy or perhaps feel something different, but it’s mine to define…mine to feel…mine to own.

In the distant past, after encountering the wicked, I would run home crying and be miserable. In the recent past, I might run away screaming over my back, “Adios, sucker. Sayonara, Satan’s seed. Au Revoir, insipid idiot.” Today, I might just say Goodbye as I slowly walk away and breathe in all the emotions that life offers which cannot be weighed and measured on a scale.

Change

2011-02-13T22:33:00.002-06:00

Anyone who has ever walked into a dressing room only to discover that sizes which fit come in larger numbers understands exactly how I feel about change. Staring at the mirror in disbelief that life has altered is difficult, no matter how hard I try to shove my body into it. For those who can’t understand this feeling, consider pulling on a wet, cold bathing suit - - drunk. In other words, I don’t do well with change.

Big change is considering brown as the new neutral. It’s toning down big hair (just a little) and wearing sunscreen. It’s ordering tater tots instead of fries. Some of my friends thrive on change. Only a few weeks ago, I went to a hockey game with a friend who has been looking for a job. A few days later, I received an email inviting me to her going away dinner before she moves this SATURDAY to CHINA. I can’t even comprehend moving to another neighborhood, much less a foreign country, alone, and within the span of about 10 days.

Change is unsettling to me. When routines are altered, I feel like I’m flying on trapeze bars without safety nets. After the adrenaline ebbs, I fall in bed safe under flannel sheets pulled high around my neck well into the warmer days of spring.

Over the last few weeks, my routine altered plunging me into the chaos of change. During this same time, familiar people re-entered my life bringing along their human containers of bile and evil. I saw lying faces, that I still wanted to slap, hiding wicked hearts. I thought they could no longer touch me with their cold, wretched claws. I thought wrong.

But then again, I thought wrong. The time is different. I am different. Mahatma Gandhi said, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” I understand now that change doesn’t happen to me. I am slowly becoming the change I want to see. Regardless of leprous forms slinking towards me, I am not a bystander allowing random targets to invade a porous spirit. The mean ones have power only in their heads and while they are in there, they need to think again. They need to reconsider their places in this world, and it’s not anywhere near me.

While I may not choose to move to China in a heartbeat, my heart beats true, and I am fortified through the strength of others. I have friends encircling me and extending open arms as I learn to walk. I have the one who believes in me more than I believe in myself whispering soft words. Through his eyes, I can sometimes imagine wearing new brown shoes until night falls and then slipping under cool, crisp cotton sheets.

More and Less

2011-01-30T23:02:00.000-06:00

I understand there live people in the world who eat when they're hungry and quit when they're full. They sleep when they're tired and get up when they awaken. I don't fall into these categories. I eat all of the time and sleep until I have headaches. I ascribe to the theory that if one bite is good; more is better. Forget napping - I'm down for the count on a Sunday afternoon.

I don't really grasp the concept of savoring one treasured morsel. If it's that good, move aside the dainty bowl and hand me the pint and a big spoon. You can also forget the tiny 100 calorie healthy snacks. My grandmother often says, "Just push yourself away from the table - for heaven's sake." She is from the South after all. Well, I do push away. After I vow I'll never eat again because I have overindulged.

I know I have company out there. After all, we live in a jumbo world of more. More square footage; fries; caffeine - all the better. More cars, vacations and botox - all the best. Some probably believe that the more contacts in their Blackberries and Friends on Facebook - absolutely better than the best. Of course, these may be the same people who put their forks down when full.

As for me, I do grasp the concept that there is one time when less is more and that's when it comes to real friends. It's not the numbers of mass acquaintances who keep social calendars full. It is simply - the few who never say never. The ones who don't ask what can be done; they just do. The ones who fill in your aging memory while sharing that you haven't aged. The ones who have been and will always be regardless of location or circumstance.

Maybe a day will come when I can put into action the notion that more is not better when it comes to food; it's only more. Until then, one thing I do know - less is more when it matters most.

Big and Huge

2011-01-23T21:22:00.000-06:00

“Do you think we ever see ourselves as big as we really are?” she softly asked.

My friend and I were catching up and eventually found ourselves in various closets trying on clothes. Even though she is small and petite, as we played dress up, she found several items which were too small. I wondered why she thought she looked big to others and why she thought she looked big to herself.

I think about the words, unwanted and hurtful, that others give us. Words that float in the air long after they stab our hearts and mercilessly implant themselves with permanence in our brains and memories. We seem to have an endless capacity to judge others until we imitate life and become experts at judging ourselves. Believing the lies that others tell us, sometimes their opinions become ours and we no longer see ourselves as we really are. In my friend’s case, I do see her as big. She has a big heart that cannot be measured. She has big talent without scope and big humor that makes me smile.

In the movie Pretty Woman, Julia Roberts whispered to Richard Gere that the bad things are easier to believe. We listen so well to others that we only see what they see in the mirror and soon, believe it for ourselves. We become so good in our new identities that we can no longer utter any good about ourselves. Those words are long forgotten and discarded -replaced by ugly phrases from others. Soon, we have transformed and become an other fulfilling prophecy.

I hope that one day my friend will no longer hear the voices of others and will no longer see their judgment personified in the mirror. I hope she will laugh as she looks both outwardly and inwardly and know that she is not only big, but she is HUGE. Huge in spirit and making a huge impact in the lives of her friends and the world.

Mean People

2011-01-16T20:50:00.000-06:00
There’s a lot of mean people out there who need to learn about civility, and I’m not talking politics. I’m talking about dim-witted replicas of mankind who push aside others with hostile words and nastiness. The surly ones hiding congealed strands of DNA which never properly formed into fully functioning adults. The wicked ones among the populous reeking havoc on the innocent. The ones, whose harsh tones leave imprints on my heart and images in my brain, I choose to remember for one brief moment.

A few nights ago, I met a friend in a bar. Arriving first, I leaned against the wood wall in a large entry way and finished a few text messages. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my arm and a loud voice shouting, “You’re going to have to move. You need to move RIGHT NOW.” Startled, I looked up at a hulking replica of humankind and responded, “Where? Where do you want me to go?”

“ANYWHERE BUT HERE. YOU ARE IN THE WAY.”

And so I positioned my body between two pub tables and shrugged my apologies to those who sat enjoying their appetizers. As I waited, I recalled another screaming maniac. Shortly after cranial surgery and before I was cleared to return to work, I ventured out for the first time. A few friends wanted to treat me to a slice of my favorite New York styled pizza. The line moved quickly but I was slow. Tired already from the stimulus and noise, I couldn’t make lightning decisions regarding my choice of salad or bread. The evil pizza human replica screamed, “CAN’T YOU SEE I HAVE A LINE? TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT OR LEAVE.” I started crying. Somehow managing to make it to the cash register, I apologized for having suffered a car accident resulting in head surgery and for leaving my house.

A few years later, I’m still lowering my head to the ugly who berate before they think and inflict their pain. And yet, recently I’ve had a few shining moments of confronting the emotionally vulgar. Moments that made my head throb as I avenged justice and as uncomfortable as pulling on tight jeans. Moments which magically stretched until I could walk and talk and breathe at the same time.

I’ve learned from a few lowly amoebas that I don’t have to act like them, and I don’t have to react to them. As much I my parents taught me about love and goodness, these bullies taught me the opposite and gave me living lessons of who I don’t want to be. They played a part in shaping the person I am today. A person who doesn’t want to hurt others and inflict suffering with words or deeds. A person who tries not to hold grudges but I have to admit, I’m still working on that issue.

Call me up, and I’ll tell you which pizza place to boycott and which bar to avoid. I’ll tell you the names of the cads who work there. Then, we can discuss topics of peace and harmony while shopping for new and comfortable jeans.

Snowflake Moment

2011-01-09T21:29:00.000-06:00
I think we know too much and live life trapped in repetitive sequences of events both past and yet to be. We relive moments to all who feign interest and collectively gather in anticipation of upcoming events. As I watched football games, I was caught in the reminders of a week which saw a quarterback fired and a coach saved. I faced an orthodontist who confirmed braces in my not too distant future. I held silent vigil for one friend facing the unknown and had dinner with another living in new realities. I visited the grocery to overstock an already stocked pantry as the entire South braced for the fury of winter storms cutting an icy swath across our innocent path. We waited with eagerness like children on Christmas Eve for the first flakes to gently cover the present in pristine white. Untouched by the past and obliterating the future, the world would finally still.

I am tired by preparations and the excitement wanes as darkness fades slowly into my neighborhood. Relaxing to soft music and warmed in a cocoon of safety, my mind drifts as I remember the days of youth. Days with nothing to do except live in the moment. If clouds blew across a blue sky, it would rain. If the temperatures dropped and I could no longer smell the earth and fresh pines, it would snow. If the sky turned green, we would run for the basement. Food magically appeared on the table and everyone gathered at 6:00 for supper. Worries of flossing between foreign metal objects and travel on slick roads soon dissipated, and I was lulled into darkness the way of dimming stars under the weight of blackened night clouds.

In a drugged space between awake and asleep, I hear sounds like rain on a tin roof. Rising to gaze out the window, I am surprised that freezing rain is hitting a snow covered deck and trees are already bending towards me covered with ice. The glistening scene stretches deep into spaces lit from the ground and in wonder, I am transfixed. Braces and football and anxieties are forgotten as I open the door and breathe the chilled air. The past and future merge into a present rain changing into snow and I smell the virgin moment.

Oh that I could be trapped in this time where I only know what is felt on my tongue as I raise my face to the sky and capture snowflakes.

The Christmas List

2011-01-02T19:11:00.000-06:00
I listened to my niece recount, in holiday tradition, Christmas gifts received earlier in the day. Over the next few hours, the phone rang and different family members went through similar lists for others celebrating the holidays from afar. My turn was no different. I punched my card and kept moving forward reciting cake holder, gift cards, and chocolates.

I wonder why I didn’t share the real list -love from family and laughter with friends; peace, joy, happiness, and good health. Time to slow down, rest, and reflection on all that we possess which cannot be wrapped in boxes and presented with glittering silver bows.

If we’re lucky, we’ll get the same gifts every day of every year. We’ll recognize them and speak often of their fragile strengths. Give me another chance and ask what I got for Christmas. This time I will simply say Blessed.

Moving

2010-12-19T23:46:00.000-06:00
The difference between running away and running to is a concept I now understand. I don’t know how life would have been if I had stayed put – living in the land between loss and failure. I ran away thinking that physical change would remedy my heart and new spaces and places would fill the old familiar sadness.

Over time, I learned that haunting aches lingered in the area hanging heavy on my soul and permeated my heart regardless of location. Old regrets moved with me and settled in the neighborhood. With care, I unpacked each mistake from well worn boxes. Whispered words floated in the gentle breath of the wind and found old resting places between each beat of my heart.

In the stillness of the woods, I searched for peace and amidst the glory of Tennessee lilies on a country morning; I found lingering Kentucky memories in full bloom. There was no hiding from the truths blinding my sight. In the hollows of the mountains, I again found the emptiness of my life and settled into the routine until change abruptly slammed me against concrete walls and barriers.

Today, I may only walk on paths but I have chosen these trails and the people who walk alongside. The damp air no longer hides sorrow and I am home in these new places wearing well worn shoes and moving towards a place that is only found in my heart.

Standing Still

2010-12-13T00:24:00.000-06:00
On a day when color blended into swirls of grey and white, I stood still and the earth stood still with me. On occasion a blood red cardinal rested on a branch as the northern wind whispered softly through barren woods. The air was damp with sorrow and I reflected the earth’s mood mirroring southern trees bent under the weight of fresh snow. I heard the creek waters slow and languidly dance in new rhythms before stilling in the hush of a darkening sky.

Another gentle gust of air pushed the clouds away from the sun. The landscape sparkled under the winter rays and freshly lit crystals rose with unabashed glory. Icy fingers lingered mid-air creating rare moments in frozen time.

I wondered if my life shone each day with icy glitter or soft as fairy dust sprinkled on the air. Am I found in the soft snow drifts that look solid and firm but fall apart with the slightest touch of a broken twig? Perhaps, I am heard in the harsh sounds of ice laden branches falling off strong trees and shattering into myriad pieces upon landing.

I don’t know what colors others see. Nor do I know what they hear when I speak. Do they remember me during the seasons of time? Perhaps they have already passed me by in search of that which they don’t know -rushing onward with fast steps and faster words always racing without pause. These are all things I don’t know.

And yet, this is what I do know. In the eyes of those who love me, I sparkle as a polished gem and shine like the northern star shimmering above a winter wonderland. They look beyond the cold and through the shadows. Their love burns into the clouds and illuminates my heart. They see what others miss. They listen and hear me in the quiet. They search and patiently uncover my secrets. They know me and still love me. All because they stood still long enough and I stood still with them.

Handful of Dreams

2010-12-05T23:55:00.000-06:00
Long, slim fingers gesture in the air articulating his thoughts with eloquence. Sometimes I get lost in my words as I focus on his hands which typically rest quietly as if waiting for my whispers to permeate his skin and breathe gentle life into hidden veins. Soft hands betray no secrets except how his money is earned as he moves through hallowed halls. His fingers touch cold door knobs which open into dimly lit rooms with scarred desks and metal file cabinets and only enough space for the past and future to collide between us.

I lose coherent thought often in his dark eyes and imagine his fingers caressing moist lips and touching my cheek to smooth away tears. Thinking of interlocking hands, I almost feel his strength course through my body. I wonder if he would touch my hair feeling the smooth weight before tucking loose locks behind one ear. When he reached my heart would he hold the fragility long enough for his pulse to match each tender beat? Would his hands blaze hot trails on my skin searching for new paths to ancient destinations?

Watching as he holds his pen loosely between practiced fingers, I soon am again lost in thought and time and place.

Until his fingers stretch out to cover the distance,I will hear his words float in space before touching my heart. I will feel his kindness find space in my soul. I will look at his hands and imagine myself tightly held. I will dream.

Seasons of Blessings

2010-11-28T21:26:00.000-06:00
As Thanksgiving draws to a close, memories fall gently through my mind floating as stray leaves in the air until landing without sound. Random thoughts scattered in the breezes of past holidays give pause to the darkening sky on the eve of a new day. In the still, I remember loved ones and past holidays filled with friends and family beckoning to my heart with soft voices.

The venue changes each year, as do the people gathered around the table, and thankfulness the only constant. Thankfulness for the basics of food, clothing and shelter; for people who are loved and love us back; for those who have crossed our paths and enriched our lives; for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; for health; for every small thing and every large thing, we are thankful.

We take time to dream about the future and lift prayers for those who are fighting so we might continue to be blessed. We plan for the next holiday and ponder different menus and soon will go back to a routine normalcy. It is in the span of these days that we may need to see the leaves swirl together and fall as a rainstorm gusting into our faces and slapping our sleeping senses. How easy it could be to forget all for whom and all of which we are thankful. As we trudge through barren trees and walk amidst land edged in crimson and gold, we might forget the same landscape dotted with bluebells or laboring under the noise of cicadas or frozen under white icing. We might forget that Thanksgiving is not simply a day but the culmination of seasons and the people who have walked the earth before and with us.

Time moves forward and backward fluidly and we along with it as long as we don’t sit at the table too long.

Protection

2010-11-22T00:59:00.000-06:00
In an effort to protect ourselves from harm, we strap on seat belts and wear bike helmets. We floss our gums so our teeth won’t fall out and wear sunscreen to prevent skin cancer. We stock up, store up and plan for the days ahead. We protect our hearts from hurt; our spirits from bruising; our souls from damage. And yet, when we look beyond ourselves, the unimagined surprise is worth more than a passing glance.

So it was recently with a friend at yet another hockey game. Oblivious to the commotions around me, I stared at the jumbotron during intermission, while multi-tasking with food, drink and conversation. Suddenly, my friend leapt out of her seat and wrapped her arms around my head burying me in her protective clutch. Within a moment, she released me and startled, I asked her what was happening. It turns out that hockey pucks were being thrown into a receptive audience and she had seen one flying our way.

I wonder how often we spend so much energy looking out for ourselves that we lose opportunities to look out for others? And when the moment comes, would we instinctively jump up to protect others or would we duck and save ourselves? What can we do to prepare for those moments?

Perhaps the answer starts with each one of us. Examining our hearts and discovering what type of person we think we are or hope we can become. Then we expose vulnerable hearts in order to surround ourselves with people who show us the way and teach us how to be there for others--especially when the world is not looking.

If Only

2010-11-14T20:27:00.000-06:00
If only I could paint, I would dip an artist’s brush in nature and color the landscape of your life entwined with mine as forest trees growing together reaching for the sun. I would draw your hair, the color of falling ripe acorns, tumbling across my path until gently resting on solid ground. I would paint the curve of your face in broad, sweeping strokes as if etched into ancient lands until chiseled in stone and carved with graces of time. I would reach for my reflection in the depths of your enigmatic eyes and portray their mysteries in bottomless, black pools. I would trace the flutter of your eyelashes and feel the breath of a gentle breeze against my skin. I would blow onto the wet painting and blur the lines until the calm of a soft night sky emerged sparkling with the wonder of myriad twinkling lights.

If only I could paint, I would dip my brush into your heart and draw a cave beckoning for me to enter. I would lightly feather your bubbling laughter spilling down canyons in wild abandonment splattering my life with goodness. Your strength would stand tall as the oaks weathering a white world until you showed me the colors of spring, summer and fall before drawing back within. Rooted in the earth, your independence would withstand trials and your character would be perennial seeds effortlessly emerging regardless of trodden steps on a leaf strewn trail. Your kindness and mercies would rise high in the background as a sheltering bluff protecting all who draw close to your warmth seeking shelter against ravaging storms. My finger would reach into the soft pastels of a sudden rainbow and design perpetual surprises seen by those who look with love. The birds would soar in complex patterns against the sky detailing a keen intelligence. Featured as the backdrop on my canvas, your soul would shine like the sun casting warm rays into wooded crevices.

If only I knew your name, I could paint.

Nyquil and Me

2010-11-07T23:38:00.000-06:00
I have found peace in many places. This week, I found it in the form of a cherry flavor syrup named Nyquil. However, I'm hopeful to kick my new best friend out of the house soon. Planning on a better day next Sunday, November 14.

Cold and Flu

2010-10-31T21:09:00.000-05:00
These unwelcome guests have made themselves at home. Let's plan on their quick departure and I'll write again on November 7.

Peace.

Secret Storms

2010-10-24T23:44:00.000-05:00
Thunder rumbles into my small piece of the world as lightning races across the midnight sky backlighting rain wrapped tornados. Waves of water deluge the earth; gusts of wind pick up speed; and debris swirls in the midst of the storm. Havoc and chaos form twin torpedoes of destruction and hurl their insults upon the vulnerable.

People can wreak harm as swiftly as tornados breaking free from the clouds and suddenly take that which is not their own. Words aimed with the certainty of missiles to the heart cause the innocent to collapse or fall slowly to private deaths. Thoughtless, careless acts, witnessed by others in the briefest of moments, expose the cold and calloused hearts of the ignorant and illuminate their transgressions.

We can run to our shelters for escape or we can stand exposed to life-- taking chances, living by faith and looking for love. Staring down the storms with open eyes teaches us where to seek refuge and how to gain strength. We learn how to look through howling winds. We touch the source of fury because it first touched us and then we refuse to budge. All that is good and kind, merciful and forgiving, thoughtful and true cannot be wrenched out of our souls. And when the rainbow arches across the sky in shimmering pastels of soft pinks and greens, we will be among kindred spirits racing through the dew wearing grass stained jeans.

Scrapbooks

2010-10-17T21:04:00.000-05:00
Today is my birthday, and one of my friends shared that she will be giving me a scrapbook. I began wondering what would go into this keepsake book and if I needed to attend a scrapbook party to decide. I also wondered if I still possessed my childhood scrapbooks, and so I searched for and found these relics of my past; blew off the dust and opened yellowed pages. My youthful life came to life under crinkled tape. A childhood spent reading, writing, earning Girl Scout badges and attending camp. Accomplishments, notes and vaccination records filled the pages.

I think I might put highlights of my life beginning a few years ago as a starting place. I am eager to lay hands on the scrapbook and feel the pages under my fingers as I ponder what items to place within. I imagine that some 50 years into the future, as perhaps I look back and blow the residue of more life from faded pictures, torn ticket stubs and certificates of achievements would only mirror the older scrapbooks.

And yet, I know now what I did not as a child. That scrapbooks and photo collections are only symbols of precious memories stored in the mind; love captured in the heart; and passion emblazoned in the soul. I know my spirit soars when falling leaves the color of pumpkins, squash and cranberries swirl in wooded paths. I understand the power of music to heal and renew. I believe that magical rhythms of words are art and gentle illusions painted on canvasses defy words. I have experienced the beauty of waterfalls, casting double rainbows in the mist, which stopped me in deafening silence. I have felt the roll of thunder rumble through barriers and heal internal fractures. I’ve heard the roar of the crowd at football and hockey games blend with my beating heart and drown out critical voices. I know what it’s like to face death and live. I have watched friends depart on trails that left no footprints and walked alongside others on paths blazed into my heart.

I can’t tape happiness in the scrapbook binder or paste love on its pages. I won’t attempt to capture dreams and contain them under the hard covers. What I can do is live life to the fullest and along the way find mementos to help me remember not what I did, but how I felt during these moments of my life.

Healing Music

2010-10-11T01:51:00.000-05:00
Every night, fatigue slammed my body against massive boulders and left me pulverized under the crush of torrential storms and swollen rivers. By the end of the week, I was so tired that creative thought was not an option and my spirit was too heavy for transport. The weekend was a blur and the few moments alone were spent re-applying under eye concealer and changing clothes for the next activity. It ended Sunday night at a jazz concert.

In the historic auditorium, the talented saxophonist did not play his instrument. Instead, he played my heart with long, slim fingers that deftly merged our pulses using the background rhythms of drums and organ. He poured his soul into my molecules and lifted my weighted spirit into the air. Music flowed in the musicians’ veins and I flowed with them tumbling down waterfalls and into swirling foam. We flung our cares into the controlled chaos of the watery abyss and floated on the still of peace. Soon, the only evidence of our journey shone in the lingering moisture in my eyes.

I received more than the joy of hearing good music played by extraordinary musicians, and I certainly received back more than the event ticket price. The ensemble gave me the gift of contentedness. For two hours, I was absorbed into the keys of well loved instruments and thought of nothing; worried about nothing; wished for nothing. For a few short hours, I lived in the music and felt shared heartbeats. I heard the chords and soared in the wind on harmonic tones of life. I was alive and in the place that was exactly where I was supposed to be --in the present moments of my life.

Wishes

2010-10-03T21:46:00.000-05:00
I wish I were the wind, uncontained and wild, meandering through time with freedom. Caressing the cheeks of the suffering; breathing life into the lungs of the weary; and gusting through the minds of the impenetrable.

I wish I were the rain, soft and gentle, falling through dimensions with abandon. Quenching the thirst of the desperate; filling the empty barrels of the needy; and echoing off tin roofs of the untouchables.

I wish I were the sun, radiant and bright, shining through clouds with ease. Lighting the paths of the lost; warming the hearts of the tired; and illuminating the secrets of the isolated.

I wish I could see that my spirit flies in the wind; my heart beats in rhythms of storms; my soul glows in love.

Until then, I will feel my way through life's journey hearing echoing pulses, tasting salty tears, and living in the brevity of peace.

Surprises

2010-09-26T17:26:00.000-05:00
Beyond the arched frame of the condo’s balcony, limbs grow in tangled abandon. Wind wafts through intertwined fading leaves stirring fall’s colors until they float to the dry ground below. The afternoon sun casts long shadowy fingers swaying into each other until they merge into one shape pulsating in summer’s final heat remaining together until the sun drifts below the horizon.

Alive with forest movement in the midst of the city, the surprising scene captures my imagination. And yet there are people whose souls are not stirred and believe to expect nothing in life. According to them, if anything beautiful happens, it’s as rare as love slipping her hands into the gnarled, arthritic grip of the aged prying apart stiff knuckles.

Although I believe in expecting the unexpected, I was happily surprised when a former business associate called this week. A few years ago, she moved out of town just as I thought we might become friends. We will soon add each other into busy days and let each moment unfold. Every day is a treasure and within its bountiful chest lays sparkling nuggets even more beautiful than the rest and can be found when we immerse ourselves in life looking at both the forest and the trees.

Daddy Nine Toes

2010-09-19T23:51:00.000-05:00
My friend lost his toe last week. Actually, his toe is not missing but surgeons removed it. The toe was not an important one as toes go, but a toe nonetheless. This happened not because of anything exotic but rather a common infection that assailed this frail appendage until doctors decided it was no longer needed. Over time, the medical profession has determined that we don’t require several body parts – appendixes, gallbladders, tonsils, and now an errant toe seeking its own way in life. I wonder how they know what the body needs, and how did they acquire this knowledge? I wonder why some people heal after life altering events and others dispair in perpetuity until their suffrage becomes contagious and spreads to unwitting family and friends?

We’re all composed of bone and blood; heart and soul; good and trouble. Perhaps the only real difference between people is how some are able to rise above harsh realities and keep moving forward while others remain mired in muck and time. For all of life’s inequities, we live a common life. We suffer trauma, heartbreak, joy, and pain. We yearn for understanding and belonging. And yet, our unique reactions define and shape each one of us.

Daddy Nine Toes survives life’s assaults whether it hits him in the foot with infection; in the face with injustice; or in the heart with loss. He never went to medical school to fully understand the functions of livers or brains or colons, and yet he understands what is truly needed to live. It’s not a full head of hair. It’s not 20/20 vision or perfect hips. It’s not the ability to eat 20 ounce steaks or kick back martinis.

He knows that life is not a number, a thing, a perfect set of 10 toes. Life is love defying definition, friendships enduring time, and beauty surpassing description. Life is best when authentically shared, treasured when almost lost, experienced when fully lived. After slogging through the mud, Life is rising tall with wise eyes and mischievious grins. Daddy Nine Toes takes it as it comes and keeps on going, standing strong on nine toes and balanced by values, humor, and integrity.

First Steps

2010-09-12T23:01:00.000-05:00
The screen door crashed behind her as she stumbled into the beach house before collapsing on the kitchen floor. Sand and blood mixed together on her foot and for the briefest of moments, I simply stared until her voice shook me out of my trance. “I’ve been stung by a catfish,” she cried. “It hurts! It hurts!” Another friend and I leapt into action cleaning the blood, the mess, and the wounded. The three of us seamlessly played our parts without rehearsal. One found the first aid kit, Kleenex, tweezers, aspirin and other resources. The fallen friend screamed “Google” when I hesitated on an appropriate course of action. I played nurse and peered into her punctured scrape using a needle to find and extract the venomous barb. Some 36 hours later, she found herself surrounded by even more people in an emergency room and on the receiving end of an x-ray, tetanus shot and antibiotics.

That vacation day is not so unlike other days. Life explodes through a door and lands at our feet. We may freeze, run from the pain, or stand to deal with that which confronts us. When Life slaps us in the face, we can turn the cheek or slap back. When Life disappoints, we can curl in a fetal position or find our backbone and move forward.

I’ve been down and stayed down before. I’ve also slowly straightened wobbly legs and felt trembling knees. I’ve been steadied by family and friends. However, the journey ultimately begins in each one of us. My friend could have chosen to remain on the beach feeling the salt water wash her wound until dizzied with pain; she collapsed under the hot sun. She could have chosen to be helpless and simply lay on the sand until someone saw her. And yet, she chose to struggle towards the house; to reach out to waiting friends; to find safety and relief.

Life waits behind every door whether we open it or not. We simply have to get up, take a step and trust that others are there along the way to help when we need it most.

Thumb Rings and White Gloves

2010-08-22T21:58:00.000-05:00
The sun outlined her long, blond hair and body in gold as she entered the room. Bracelets jangled and earrings danced down her neck. She confidently wore her unique style from her headband down to her tanned legs. Expressive eyes sought me out and she quickly finished her text conversation and hurried over to meet for lunch. We really didn’t know each other. I met her during a time when I was confined to live from dusk to dawn before barely making it home to rest. While I couldn’t make up for lost time, I could now spend my time with people I imagined would connect in heart and laughter and spirit. Some two hours later, I left the restaurant with a new friend and a commitment to buy a thumb ring.

A few days later, I attended a regional meeting for an organization I recently joined. Some 300 women gathered to honor the noble cause and seek ways to further unite together in time-honored traditions. I was the only one wearing blue jeans –- black to be exact. I was dressed from head to toe in black -- black cotton shirt above black jeans and my favorite black platform sandals. Big silver hoop earrings jangled above a beaded necklace my sister made and my long wavy hair was barely contained by a lace black headband. For lunch, I seated myself at a table with two elderly women. With disdainful tones, they described the relaxed dress code and spoke with animation about the upcoming state conference during which white gloves and dresses would be worn. I broke into hives.

On the way home, I thought about my two different lunches with these separate women. Stopping at a jewelry store to purchase the much anticipated thumb ring, I pondered the white gloves. I had no doubt that my new friend, sporting her own thumb ring, would have white gloves. Maybe I would have the guts to wear my large silver thumb ring on top of the crisp gloves I could borrow. Maybe I would wear it under the gloves. Maybe I would not wear it at all in deference to the honor and respect the white gloves portrayed.

What I do know is that it feels good to have discovered someone who owns both white gloves and jangly bracelets and earrings. A friend, who lived on a farm, loves her own thumb ring and suns at the pool. She is a Mercedes driving, free-spirited woman who lives life on her own terms and wears her hair as she pleases and would be perfectly comfortable lunching at my organization’s meeting.

The key is not to look for a perfectly labeled and categorized box, filled with groups of people who are just alike, and have the same personality and interests, to fit within. The secret is to learn that the box isn’t for people. It’s for the assortment of clothes and jewelry and shoes that we can pull out and put on as we float through the universe embracing all that life has to offer. The secret is to look for one person at a time and see if their box contains and assortment of life’s sparkles and glitter, boots and hair clips. That’s when we start finding ourselves. The self capable of wearing both the white gloves and the thumb ring; conforming as needed; rebelling as desired. And then, what fun we’ll have together along the way.

Football Aspirations

2010-08-16T00:21:00.000-05:00
It's football time in America. Hope is alive and all things seem possible- well, maybe some things. I remember the end of last year's season. Along with Superbowl aspirations for 2011, I vowed my body would readily fit in the snug stadium seats. I swore I would buy a cute Tennessee Titan's t-shirt and sport it on game day. I imagined myself effortlessly strolling back up the long bridge without needing to stop in the middle to breathe before finally collapsing in my car.

A week from Monday is the first home game. I will once again sweat my way through crowds and arrive breathlessly to cram my heaving flesh into a hot seat. I will step on toes and feel my skin pressing into the skin of others as I clumsily work my way into the middle of the row. No doubt, I will drop corn dogs and spill beer along the way (another memory of last year).

I will pray that others around me don't show up and are mired in traffic (certainly the kid who vomited a few seats down last year). I will pray that oppressive summer heat takes a sudden departure and a cool breeze will settle in the night air. I will pray that we really might have a shot at a winning season.

Just in case none of these things work out, I do have another plan that makes me happy. I have enough hope to imagine that the shrieking woman who has occupied the seat next to me for several years has lost weight.

That's the beauty of a real and hopeful optimist. If I don't live up to my expectations, I do hope that others succeed. And do I hope my seat mate has lost weight (or changed seats). If not and we are joined as Siamese twins watching our Titans, I will secretly know that her hips are still bigger than mine and she is half in my seat, instead of me in hers.

Roller Derby

2010-08-08T22:25:00.000-05:00
I think we all have a need to belong; to fit in; to go where everyone knows our name. Places like the bar in the old television show Cheers; places to fit together and form something bigger than ourselves; places where we are united by common goals and uniquely understood. I was not in that place Saturday night. I stood alone in a crowd and stared.

That night, I was a pink lipsticked southern belle in the middle of a sea of black gathered to cheer women’s roller derby. I watched the crowd watching women bearing names that wouldn’t be found in any pastel pink or blue baby book. This crowd of the night wore tattoos. They wore lip rings, nose rings, and tongue rings. They wore dyed hair as art --standing tall, cropped, shaved, formed and shaped as sculptures for an exhibition. They wore glitter. They wore just enough strategically placed clothing scraps to possibly avert arrests. They wore stockings with seams; with rhinestones; with holes. They wore each other in the hallways and bathrooms.

There were cheerleaders. I’m well-read, articulate and even eloquent according to some. Allow me to simply say – I’ve never seen such. I felt certain I was not like any of these people. Wearing a judgmental attitude and a headband, I stood on platform sandals looking down at these fans of roller derby.

Maybe it was seeing the old man sitting in the chair that helped me gaze around with different eyes. Generations older than the crowd’s median age, he too stared. He couldn’t take his eyes off the roller girls. I imagined that perhaps he was someone’s grandfather. Perhaps he was a former Olympic speed skater who taught a young girl to adore roller skating when she couldn’t ice skate. Perhaps he financially supported the team or maybe he was to roller derby what Hugh Hefner is to many,many, many women. So I looked around the crowd and saw that everyone was someone’s daughter or son; brother or sister; mother or father. I looked beyond the chain smoking pregnant girl and saw her within a family of tourists taking pictures of themselves and the beautiful skyline. I heard the discussions of hot dog or nachos amidst the rattle of chains at the concessions. I saw the love among couples waiting in the perpetual line at the women’s bathroom.

That night when I got home, I looked in the mirror. I looked at the piercings in my ears. I thought about the trouble I took with my hair earlier in the evening. I thought about my hair dresser who I visit every three weeks. I washed the makeup off my face. I took off my new jeans and white cotton shirt.

Under our costumes, masks and jewelry; we are more alike than different. We want those we love to love us back. We want to find a bit of ourselves in others; to fit in; to belong. We want to find a place where we are special.

We can find that place anywhere. We just have to look hard enough.

JELL-O Decisions

2010-08-01T22:48:00.000-05:00
My grandmother used to make a lime JELL-O salad that I loved. Pecan pieces hid in a cream cheese blend of crushed pineapples, and marshmallows dotted the fluffy mixture like cotton clouds on a clear blue sky. I thought about her and my childhood today as I looked at the recipe card scrawled with familiar childish writing. I wondered why no one seems to make JELL-O salads anymore. When did we outgrow congealed salads filled with cans of fruit cocktail?

Life seemed simple back then. As children, we learned in terms of good or bad, right or wrong, and neither/nor. We were either well enough to go to school or we weren’t. Maybe being sick is when we learned about decision making and how to live life in the middle of two big field goals colored black on one end and white on the other end. We learned when to advance from eating nothing to nibbling dry toast or crackers and sipping Sprite. We learned when to graduate to cold cubes of JELL-O that would slide down red swollen throats. We looked forward to the big day when we feasted on Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup accompanied by JELL-O filled with crushed pineapple or fresh bananas. Before we knew what happened, we grew up, and it seems that collectively we threw out the old JELL-O molds and moved into more complex lives.

We fell in and out of love; lived in valleys and on summits; experienced tragic loss and great joy. We savored expensive wines; took pills in good times and bad, and lost touch with both our childhood and ourselves. And yet, the lessons learned while lying in a pile of crisp white sheets next to a nightstand of icy cold washcloths, thermometers and JELL-O bowls stayed within us even though life is not as simple as right or wrong; sick or well. Life is lived in the moments of decision making when we don’t quite know if we’re able to eat the JELL-O with fruit cocktail, take it plain or if we’ve graduated to full blown concoctions shaped in rings or layers or stripes. Life is lived when we don’t know what to do, and no one can tell us if we want plain or parfait. We yearn for someone else to make the decision for us, just like when we were sick, and bring us exactly what we need.

Picking up my mother’s cookbook entitled Joys of Jell-O, I flip through the pages with black and white pictures of JELL-O shaped in cake rolls, pies, and tall towers. I skim tips on how to whip it, flake it or cube it. Putting it back in the pantry, I pick back up the yellowed, stained index card with my Grandmother’s congealed lime salad recipe and set out the cream cheese to soften. I’m not alone, and I don’t make decisions alone. I carry within me a lifetime of lessons taught around the kitchen table, at picnics by a creek, and lying in a bed waiting to be well. On JELL-O's foundation, I’ve been taught I can achieve any dream. It’s up to me to create my future and some days, I can only move forward when I first recreate the past.

Sweet Tea

2010-07-25T22:28:00.000-05:00
In the midst of a summer heat wave, a few friends and I went to a Saturday night baseball game. It was hot. It was stinkin’ hot. Hair frizzed, program books soaked up sweat and even the flag couldn’t find the energy to fly. I don’t know who we played, how we played or if we won but I remember the heat leeching onto my skin. I recall my mind wandering to the upcoming season of ice hockey and crisp autumn days of football.

I heard the food vendor before I saw him. “Sweet tea,” he cried. “Sweet tea. Who wants some sweet tea?” In plastic cups filled with melting ice, he carried the entire southern culture in his hands. He sold to men wearing sleeveless t-shirts and to women wearing loose cotton frocks and cowboy boots. He sold to men and women carrying gun permits and holding the fear of God. He sold to a multi-generational crowd who grew up on sweet tea and church suppers; sweet tea and family reunions; sweet tea and green beans slow cooked, with just a touch of bacon grease, all day long.

The strains of the national anthem played over the noise of cicadas and the crowd rose in unison. Baseball caps and cowboy hats were removed and without athletic skill, we formed a team bigger than pageant hair and longer than a southern drawl. On that sweltering summer night, in a diverse crowd eating corn dogs and fried pies, we united around country, baseball and our prized sweet tea.

Broken Promises

2010-07-11T22:28:00.000-05:00
I went to the pool today and watched both time and neighbors lazily move under the azure sky until puffy white clouds dotted the horizon. The star attraction was a little girl with wheat colored pigtails wearing a pink bathing suit with pink tulle. She topped off her outfit with bright aqua sunglasses and a shy grin. Her nerve grew bigger than herself and she proclaimed her readiness to splash into the deep end of the pool as long as her mother held her hand and jumped in unison. Holding hands, mother and daughter stood poised above the sparkling water and leapt into the clear depths. Mid-air, the mother let go.

The little girl cried herself into exhaustion screaming, “You let go. You let go. You promised you would hold my hand.” The mother shared her logical rationale. She told her daughter that she was a big girl and could jump by herself the next time. I didn’t see the little girl get any bigger. She was the same little girl experiencing the big pain of a broken promise.

In our hearts, we are all little pink tulle princesses but in the mirror, we are indeed bigger and we typically don’t cry in public. We’ve experienced a lifetime of promises made and broken; friends who have come and gone; love lost and found. The biggest difference between us and the little girl is choice. We can choose to live in the brokenness shutting ourselves off from others or we can choose to live with hope linking arms with others before leaping into the vast unknown. When we choose hope, we again interlock fingers with those we trust won’t let go. We hold hands with like minded people who keep getting up for more even if our tulle splits and we land with a resounding splat.

A friend recently gave me a booklet entitled Eat Your Peas. It contains several promises stating in different ways that she would never let me down. She never has –- she never will. I believe her and two big princesses choose to brush off our tulle and use the strength of combined hope to leap into a world where fairy tales come true for those who believe.

Life's Closet

2010-07-04T16:09:00.000-05:00
Some closets are masterfully designed works of art displaying clothes by color, drawers for jewelry and an array of wooden hangers softly lit by the glow of chandeliers. I know this to be true because I’ve seen them pictured in magazines. I wonder if these people carefully put their secrets in shoeboxes and gingerly take them out on rare reflective occasions before sliding them back into place. Or do they lock treasured moments in cases and then throw away the key? Do they believe that time can be stored in places and spaces and revealed during whims of fancy?

I don’t know about other people and their closets. I only know that my closet will never be featured except perhaps in the before shots of a professional organizer. Life crashes on my shoulders when I go into my space. Lit by a single bulb hiding baking soda and foot deodorant, my closet contains pieces of life crammed in bulging dresser drawers, clothes sorted by size, and disaster preparedness items.

Life is captured in worn moments: a dress at a wedding; a suit at a funeral; faded Levis during a past marriage. Dreams are contained in the poster filled with cherubs wrapped around letters spelling Love. Beauty shines in the eyes of wild rain forest animals on a calendar. A mountain cabin on a creek in a 2006 Thomas Kincaid calendar symbolizes my family’s farm in the country. Bike gloves, weights and heart monitors await a sudden urge to exercise. A picture of Central Park crystallizes the fulfillment of a dream to visit New York City. A suit hangs ready for my sister to try on when she comes to town for an interview. I am mirrored in a Grandmother’s golden gift similar to the one resting in her aqua room lined with placemats of the Smoky Mountains.

Standing on dirty carpet, I reach for one box in my closet and everything falls down. Memories and time simply cannot be contained and blur together in an onslaught of emotion. Under a deluge of time’s mementos, I feel the textures of my life. Some fabrics sparkle and my laughter is reflected in the shine of sequins. Scratchy wool brings tears to my eyes as I remember times that are best forgotten. I stroke the softness of fleece and think about a recent trip to my mother’s home.

My closet isn’t so big but it’s not too little to fit life within. It will never be featured in a photo spread but it’s my closet, encasing me in warmth, filled with my life, my past, my present and my dreams for the future. Memories and moments tumble into my heart and arms as I rise on contented tiptoes with outstretched hands and fingers.

Kindness

2010-06-27T11:36:00.000-05:00
The biggest acts of kindness can be found in the smallest of gestures. It doesn’t take much to reach through aged layers of disbelief and rejection to find the portion of a heart steadfastly beating in faint pulses of hope. Kindness does not require massive wealth or singular brilliance; unique purview or impressive skill.

These acts of gentle outreach start with simple thoughts focused on others. Thoughts that take shape in fragrant flowers or a strong hug or arriving as a note filled with supportive words. Thoughts personified as time spent with another in silence or chatter and spaces filled with smiles expanding around warm, sparkling eyes into crinkles of skin.

Some people are fragile as hand blown Venetian glass butterflies displayed to the world on shelf edges. The slightest breath of the wind could instantly shatter their beauty. Other people are resilient as mountain trees bending with sudden storms and changing colors with the seasons. A few people are diaphanous as dew announcing their presence in the faintest wisp of time before melting into the landscape of life.

In every forest, there lives butterflies, saplings, sturdy trees, and rain falling as tears on all. In every life, there hides secret hurts, unfulfilled dreams and distinctive talents. In every one, there lies the power to extend kindness to others as rest with the touch of a hand; shelter under protective branches; or lifesaving droplets falling without discrimination on the world.

A Valentine for Father's Day

2010-06-20T20:13:00.000-05:00
It’s Father’s Day and I find myself thinking about a Valentine’s gift from decades past. I was 13 and had been awkwardly writing rhymes and prose for at least five years, and my father gave me my first book of "serious" poetry. Pictures of sunset beaches, glacier lakes and mountain creeks were scenic backdrops against flowing words from Shakespeare, Longfellow and Tennyson. Both the poems and the stunning nature photography represented a magical future, ancient past and expressive present as well as a father’s tender heart.

Today, the Valentine’s book still automatically falls open to my first favorite poem and the accompanying idyllic and tranquil picture. I remember staring for hours at the sun dappled pasture on a gentle hill covered with honeysuckle. A single tree cast a long shadow on lushly minted grounds and arose majestically meeting the dark forest edge in the distance. The setting sun beckoned the chestnut horses into the shadows stilling their tails as their noses burrowed into lush clover. The poet's words lived in my heartbeats along with rhythms from the smallest pony and I imagined the words that one day, I would write.

My father has given me many things over time but the gifts most treasured, I found that day reading what remains a favored poem and looking at nature’s gifts to mankind. My father's nurturing love gave me belief in self, independence in spirit, and philosophy in life.

On this Father’s Day, I give back to him, and to each of you, the poem he first gave me.

I THINK I COULD TURN AND LIVE WITH ANIMALS

I think I could turn and live with animals, they
are so placid and self-contained:
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine
about their condition;
They do not lie awake
in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick
discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied-not one is demented with
the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor his kind that lived
thousands of years ago;
Not one is respectable or industrious over the
whole earth.

Walt Whitman

Authentic Style

2010-06-13T22:29:00.000-05:00
A friend and I recently visited a clothes boutique filled with all things beautiful. While we discovered some items that we didn’t understand where to wear and other items that we couldn’t figure out how to wear, the clearest discovery was that we didn’t have a clue as to what to wear. It wasn’t that we were frozen in decades past armed with shoulder pads and mall hair. It wasn’t that our bodies had altered dramatically over time and we needed a new wardrobe, filled with new sizes, aimed to display trim waists and firm calves. Perhaps it was simply that we didn’t know what image to present to the world.

Other than weddings, funerals or other rare and random occasions, I have only seen my mother in jeans and t-shirts. She is balanced with herself and her clothes reflect her confidence that comfortable Levis will take her anywhere she wants to be and are good enough for anyone with whom she would spend her time. I would like to mirror my mother and wear jeans every day, but I would pair them with crisp white shirts and shiny silver bling. Of course, I can’t wear this desired uniform into the business world. Working women with impressive signature styles perfectly tailored for the workplace race to meetings on stiletto heels lugging designer bags filled with dermatological and manicure appointments. Other working women who are free spirits from the ‘60s exist and reconnect to peace emblems on shirts and earrings.

Men have style as well. My grandfather wore overalls every day. They were patched and faded with innumerable zippers and pockets carrying treasures. They defined him and his life on a country farm. Everyone seems to have found definition and I could shop for others more readily than for myself.

As my friend and I strolled through the Farmer’s Market, bought early Christmas presents and enjoyed a long lunch, I reflected on her style. She wears a gentle and kind heart on her sleeve. She clothes herself with love of family and friends and nurtures both with goodness. She adorns herself with strength and compassion. She layers her body with a zest for life that emanates from within and frames her soul.

As for me, I accessorize with distincively styled friends who are authentic in nature and genuine. I put on pajamas or faded jeans when I come home and decide to worry about what to wear to work on some other day. Style and image are important; however, I believe that what I wear during work time is so much less critical than who I choose to see in my free time.

Lost and Found

2010-06-06T22:40:00.000-05:00
Lately, it seems that I’ve spent a great deal of undefined time looking for my life’s definition. So many years, looking down, searching for the perfect path in order to take the right step somewhere--anywhere. While longing to feel the earth ooze between my toes after a storm, I wandered instead on safe, dry ground. I recovered from events seen and unseen. I yearned for pieces of the past and dreams of the future to merge together and form a puzzle without missing parts. Most of all, I wondered what I’ve accomplished during these vast spans of time searching for place and space and people to walk alongside me on these trails.

The phone rings and I stop musing long enough to talk to a good friend. I glance at a card, sent by another friend, which made me laugh. I stumble over a beach bag given to celebrate an upcoming trip with three remarkable women. A text arrives from an inquiring friend who has been out of town. A necklace lies on the counter to return to another amazing friend who spontaneously loaned it to compliment the new outfit she helped me put together. I catch up on a full in box of emails sent from friends who shared input on an essay I wrote. I make quick calls to my sister and mother to share a tip of possible interest.

Apparently, while I was busy looking for my life; I lived it. I must have distributed pieces of my soul along the trail and opened my heart in the journey. Along the way, I did lose people and memories and time. I lost harsh edges and the ones living life as blood sport. I lost that which I never had and those who never really knew me.

In the softness, I found the beauty in those who picked up my pieces and created a new puzzle. I found the authenticity in those who give gifts beyond jewelry and knick knacks and trips. I found the grace in those who give time and heart and love. I found friends. I found family. I found myself.

Golden Cross

2010-05-23T19:25:00.000-05:00
Children hold onto security by grasping dirty blankets or fuzzy stuffed rabbits. They drag these possessions through life in the mud and rain; winter and summer. By the time they enter first grade, they leave behind these symbols of place and grasp their fathers’ or mothers’ hands. They learn to slowly let go and enter a new world where security is gone, comfort is unknown and friends have yet to be made.

Over time, confidence enters their young life and they grow into adulthood reaching to find old comfort in bank accounts, circles of friends or bands of gold.

I look for security in that which cannot be seen; in arms that cannot hold. I look into the sky and into my heart to find a presence that provides all the security I have ever needed. And yet, I still rub on the gold cross my grandparents gave me and slip the chain around my neck on days that I need to feel secure. On days that I can’t be seen with my old blanket or rabbit.

I’m hopeful – ever hopeful – that one day, I will no longer need a physical reminder of the love of God and His faithful security.

Furry Lizards

2010-05-16T19:31:00.000-05:00
This week, I went to the beach for the first time in almost three years. Upon my return back home and unpacking, I settled into my favorite chair and pondered. From this vantage point, I remembered sitting in the same spot following the same trip. That time, I stayed awake into the early morning hours worrying that I might have a concussion following the car accident that happened on the way home.

During those long hours, I spotted movement under the couch. It looked like a lizard with mouse fur. Or perhaps it was a mouse with lizard stripes. I remembered watching this creature thinking that surely I had sustained grave injuries. Finally, I realized it was a lizard that had traveled back in my luggage and was scampering loose in the house picking up traces of dirt and untold debris.

Sometimes people are lizards passing themselves as mice--running through life in disguise from themselves and others. Using their sharp tongues to hurt and inflict pain. Crawling in the dirt as their reptilian minds plot against the innocent. Lying in wait and lying to others as they create fiction from fact. Using life’s tragedies and circumstances to profit and accomplish hidden motives.

And sometimes things are as they appear. There are people with smiles that reach their eyes and compassion shining on their skin. I know of people extending a hand of service because they care. Daily stories of volunteers showing up at a stranger’s door to help flood recovery. Money given with a joyful heart. Regardless of circumstance, clothes and appearance, people lifting joyful hands to heavens.

Sitting in my chair, I think about the changes over the past few years. Surgery, recovery, friends lost, friends found, and a different job. Perhaps the biggest difference; I more easily recognize lizards-- regardless of disguise.

Trust

2010-04-25T15:51:00.000-05:00
In the hours before the storm, I am most alive. Trees bow to sudden wind gusts, branches snap and bright green leaves spin in contrast against a darkened sky. I stand on a carpet of soft pink cherry blossoms and feel the wind whip hair across my face pulling buried emotions to the surface. Clouds sprinkle the first water drops down an already wet face. The winds sweep aside dead branches and exposes life while thunder sends animals scurrying deeper into the woods. White caps slam into solid creek rock as I watch lightning race across the sky.

I trust this dance and want to be among the ones who feel peace in spring storms. I trust those who live in the moment and aren’t afraid to share emotions. I trust those who experience love until it hurts. I trust the tears of those who laugh hardest. I connect to those who live a life bent that once was broken. I am comfortable with those who carry their scars on healed wrists and extended hands. I understand those who plunge into internal pools and splatter life on bystanders. I trust what I see, what I feel and in these people of the rain.

I don’t trust sunny days filled with people displaying even sunnier dispositions. I wonder what is lurking behind cheery faces and if their names are called Stepford. I wonder about polite half smiles and limp handshakes. I wonder what they hide and if they hide from themselves. I wonder if they apply false illusions with practiced hands to cover up smudges of secret lives.

And yet, I wonder most of all about myself standing still in the storm feeling my mask wash away.

Listening

2010-04-18T23:23:00.000-05:00
In the silence between words, life is spoken. I hear it in the echoes of family and whispers of lost love. I see it in the quivering of moist lips and bright eyes. I feel it in the touch of a gentle hand and skinned knees. I remember it in the taste of chicken soup and the softness of a first kiss. I smell it in Vicks Vapor Rub and spring honeysuckle.

And yet, sometimes the loudest voices belong within. Innumerable voices with unfriendly names. In these conversations, I stand alone and so I battle and conquer; succeed and fail. In a perpetual effort to live in peace, I struggle.

When stillness reigns, I am able hear. I step back and do not form opinions or create persuasive arguments. I do not interrupt or negate ideas. I do not impose. I do not fight. I simply listen to the ones in front of me. Their voices tempered with the tenor of their past, their demons, and their victories.

For in the silence between words, life is spoken. I hear it in tones and pauses. I see it in faces before me and in the hunch of overburdened shoulders. I feel it in the tremor of hands I reach out to touch and in tears I wipe away. I hear it in laughter and in the comfortable stillness of those who know each other best. I feel it in the stickiness of cotton candy hands reaching into mine and in the beat of a fragile heart.

Life is spoken. It’s up to me to listen.

Flying

2010-04-11T22:27:00.000-05:00
Dreams must move from our hearts to our heads before taking shapes as recognizable as scarlet red kites outlined against a cobalt blue sky. Watching and running and chasing after dreams, we watch them plummet in jeopardy as the strings clutched tightly in strong hands knot and the lines tangle. Fragile and delicate, dreams must be nurtured along life’s pathways until daily miracles lift them into the heavens. Unexpected gusts will cause them to spin out of control. They will be buffeted in tumultuous air, pummeled by storms, and float gracefully within gentle breezes.

Such are the flights of dreams. We cannot factor all of the conditions. We cannot account for precise times or the best places for launch. We cannot choose the precise journey they take. I’m not certain we even choose our dreams. They choose us coming first as whispered voices in a sleepless night. Beckoning and calling until insistently they demand our attention; our time; our lives.

We remain tethered to them as we learn to fly and gather strength to cut the weights tying these dreams to the earth. We cull the cast of characters trying to direct the lines. We learn to let go.

Dreams will soar into an undefined future until they are specks against a solid horizon. Ultimately they will land in a remarkable place after a remarkable journey. They will shine without doubt. They will soar without fear. But first, we have to unclench our trembling hands and fly instead in their grasp.

Words

2010-04-04T22:42:00.000-05:00
Words hold a unique magic. Once whispered they hang heavy in the air as early morning fog draped above river banks and reach into recessed caves hiding in ancient bluffs. Some words hover longer and kiss the hearts of tender young saplings and budding spring flowers. Other words meander into shadowy corners and expose crystal dew kissed morning glories. They float as gossamers in the air and land on life’s fragility until they become distant memories. Words have power and soar into the sun dissipating long after impact is felt on the heart.

Words are as fleeting as nature’s images and share the seasons shaping who we are, changing what we become and even altering who we were destined to be. Words can hold shape in sticks and stones and we hold their magic. We place their power on our lips and share love. We offer comfort and healing and bring warmth to friends. We hurl words heated by summer storms and watch them burn into unsuspecting hearts. We freeze the blood of the innocent with words chiseled from blue white glacier fields formed during past heartaches.

Our words have movement and touch the one before impacting the many. They can land as sparkling fairy dust on ocean waters. They can erase pain or create suffering. Words are not simply spoken. They are felt as the sharp sting of thorns or as the soft fuzz on baby birds. They are felt in hearts and minds. They are felt as tears falling down weathered cheeks. Words are personified as lonely faces in a crowd.

Together we float on the gossamer until words shine on our hearts exposing the truth. Until we feel their power as a desert survivor tasting the lifesaving first droplet of water, we float in these silken threads. We remain delicately intertwined, until we find the courage to learn a new vocabulary in whispers. We test it within, transforming our hearts, until we find the spirit to share this new language. It is then; we discover that our magic gives us the strength to stand alone. We use the power to watch the fog lift and bask in glittering fields.

Spring Secrets

2010-03-28T20:27:00.000-05:00
It’s spring in Tennessee, and it’s supposed to be hot this week. Really hot. Warm winds bringing in the kind of weather mixing with sun causing everyone to wear the big, stupid grins of youth. The emboldened smiles that kids have after sucking down mints and spraying perfume to hide the mix of stale cigarettes and beer. This season puts on most faces the grins of the young and foolish who believe no one can smell their secret as they become caricatures of abandoned innocence.

My dirty secret is that I don’t like spring. For a nature girl, I should be into budding leaves and flowering plants. I should be eager to walk in the woods, through creeks and see life ablaze in rainbows after spring storms. I am. However, spring is also awash with past failures and a list of projects.

No matter what clothes I try on from the previous year, I still weigh the same. I thought I would have lost at least a few pounds by now. And it’s time for spring cleaning. What’s that all about? Some idiot told a tale and said it’s supposed to be cleansing and invigorating. Your spirit is refreshed as you stare down spiders and organize drawers. Like a colon detox perhaps. What’s invigorating about dust and mold and mildew? Do I really need a closet filled with perfect wicker baskets lined with matching floral prints to feel better about myself? And I don’t recall anyone I know actually beating rugs outside. That doesn’t seem too helpful for those with allergies or without arm strength.

Of course, it is time for the spring marathon. A friend, whose house is on the route, offered her place on race day so we could sit outside and watch the runners. Oh yes. Sign me up. I’ll bring my chair and a bucket of fried chicken to watch all the fit people, the ones who actually worked out over the winter, run by.

Perhaps it’s just me. I like winter’s hibernation. Call me in another month when full size leaves form a canopy overhead and the hummingbirds return to their favorite bright red feeders. Call me when I can jump in the pool at the bottom of the waterfall without getting frostbite. Or just tell me that after all, the rest of my life is supposed to start today. Remind me that hope is eternal and love comes when you least expect it. Fill my mind with age old clichés and touch my heart with the softness of butterfly wings and purple pansies. Whisper in my ear the dreams kept alive by the light of fireflies. Help me remember the smell of newly cut grass and the feel of clean, white sheets on a warm night. Let me recall the sound of the owl in the middle of the woods and the noise of a flock of geese rising above a still pond at dawn.

Hmmmm…..it’s working. I just remembered another pair of jeans I haven’t tried on. Surely they’ll fit and be great to wear on marathon day. You’ll know me by my big, stupid grin - even though it will still be spring and I’ll be eating fruit.

Litter

2010-03-21T21:59:00.000-05:00
This weekend, I traveled with a friend to celebrate spring in the country. Bright yellow daffodils nestled in newly minted grass and waved their welcome in the warm air. Wild violets peaked out with soft heads and faced a brilliant blue sky. Low grasses in the fields made our hike and conversation easy as we trekked to the river. With eyes glued on the protective bluff and budding leaves, I might have missed the trash, but my feet found their way onto beer cans, glass bottles and a discarded tin sardine lid. A faded red plow sat abandoned in the distance.

Not caring about their lives and strewing torn wreckage on the landscape of my life, they littered. Litter left for others to pick up, fix and relocate. The garbage of their fractured lives interfering with mine. We stooped down and met their presence in the dirt and picked up these traces of their carelessness. We touched their thoughtlessness. We cleaned up their mess.

Still others leave behind that which cannot be seen and it remains as ugly. Handprints frozen on the heart long after an angry slap on the face. Souls permanently bruised by harsh words. Memories imprinted as brain trauma from brutal attacks. There is little escape for that which is trapped within for human fragilities are not easily handled.

As the sun sets and we look back across the fields of our lives, what will be left behind?

Hockey Therapy

2010-03-14T22:12:00.000-05:00
I don’t know exactly when I became a hockey fan, but I did. Over the course of winter’s solstice, while others cocooned in the warmth of their homes feeling love’s embrace, I gorged on nachos and beer. I watched grown men pummel each other to the ice. As the crowd roared in approval, I rose with them and felt a primitive rush of adrenalin. I like the sound of clashing long sticks and secretly yearn for the satisfying smack of players when they hit the boards.

No, I’m not having anger issues. I’m a seeker of harmony and peace. I believe in hopes and dreams and leaving legacies. I want to touch the lives of others and in turn touch their hearts. I am certain that life has purpose and we find each other on the same path because of destiny. I believe in pure love and soul mates. That the touch of the wind on a fall day brings grace falling like leaves in shattered lives. I believe the warmth of the sun on iced snow thaws hearts. That the real beauty of the seasons is embodied in those who plunge from black sand foundations into aquamarine waters without checking depth.

And yet, I still want to smash the faces of those who hurt others. I want to kick the butts of those who take away smiles and leave bruised hearts. I want to be on the ice and get in fist fights and defend the honor of those whose lives have been derailed by the soulless. I want to crack ribs over injustices and split lips over malicious gossip. I want to throw water on cruel power hoarders and watch them sizzle to the ground like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz.

I’m a southern girl. Born and bred to smile sweetly and keep rage in the kitchen while crushing pecans for a pie. Staring into my iron skillet watching the hot grease splatter while cooking fried chicken, I ponder life and the people in it. Don’t mess with southern girls. We may snap and get in your face and tell you to go find a puck.

But until then, I go to hockey games, secretly putting new names on the jerseys of the fighters, and recite the Serenity Prayer.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

The Good Fight

2010-03-07T21:46:00.000-06:00
Like ocean tides, Evil relentlessly surges into my life. Pushing. Pulling. Burying me under waves of roaring pressure until I can’t breathe. Filling my lungs with bitter salt until I suffocate.

I walk along the shore and waves crash into me. I swim against the currents and tire. I swim with the currents, lulled by gentle breezes, and almost pay the ultimate price when venturing too far.

So I stop. I quit fighting and simply watch the clams burrow into the sand leaving tiny air bubbles. I imagine these small sea creatures drawing their soft bodies inside hard shells protecting themselves against predators. I feel warm breezes caress my face lifting tendrils of hair into rain soaked air. I watch the sun dip into the water kissing the sky with glorious colors of ripe mangos and warm corrals. It is then I realize how to fight and not become prey to the ocean.

I stand strong in the sand until gravity sucks my feet under. I am rooted in the grains that have been transported from times and places unseen. I stand in the particles that flow together forming beaches and dunes. I am planted firmly in the earth amidst the presence of those who have gone before and shared their wisdom. I gain strength by looking into my heart and feeling their love. I find solace by searching comforting memories until I see their faces and feel their hands holding mine.

I am anchored. I will not fall when evil washes ashore.

Choices

2010-02-28T18:51:00.000-06:00
Every day we make choices. Many are important, some are not, and all create a winding path through life on which we journey. We can spend too much time on the hard ones and too little time on the ones envisioned as easy. We watch and think and act. We rejoice and regret and reconsider. We allow winds of change to swirl among the seasons of time passing through and by each of us.

We stand amidst some choices falling gentle and pure as snowflakes. Tranquilized by beauty, it goes unnoticed that drifts obstruct the view, ice forms underfoot, and we are lost. Fearing a repeat event, we next stay inside, paralyzed before warm fireplaces, never venturing out again. We cling to other choices like trees, rooted in strength, hanging tight to unfurled leaves waving strong against a vivid sky. We celebrate other choices and revel in the explosive glory crimsoned in autumn colors. And then there are the choices seeded in ancient seasons. Budding in spring and tenderly pushing through vestiges of winter’s snow, their results bloom and surprise.

We can choose more than what to wear, when to eat and whether or not to exercise. We can alter and shape destinies. With our thoughts and actions building upon days and forming years, friends, and families, we create a life built upon our choices. We create a life that one day will be left as a legacy and remembered in captured moments.

So let us choose to be kinder today than yesterday and offer help to the hopeless. Let us choose to love those who live in the past and show them how to live in the present. Let us choose to laugh at ourselves, share of ourselves, and care for others. Let us choose who we want to be and how to become that person.

Let us choose wisely.

Battlefields

2010-02-21T15:22:00.000-06:00
Even as an ardent Star Trek fan, I never followed the immortal words “to go where no man has gone before.” When faced with danger, adversity, or the vast unknown, I am more prone to scream, “Beam me up, Scotty.” Beam me up NOW.

Do some of us have damaged DNA chains? Are we missing key brain functions that indicate it’s natural to hurtle down mountains on waxed skis or throw your body in a bobsled and rush over 90mph to the finish line? I represent an entire segment of the population that has never sported an athletic injury. Just last week, I demonstrated my prowess in a restaurant stumbling over an uneven floor. My pride and I smashed on concrete. I’m still pampering the twisted knee and ankle and putting heating pads on shin bruises. Hand over the pain killers and call it a day.

Even if it’s not challenging physical confrontation, I rarely stop long enough to ponder flee or fight. Fleeing is my natural instinct and I’m too busy running away from that which I cannot see to determine how to face it. Is there skill to reaching deep in the soul to find the strength to move forward? To face the future. To be all we can be. And how do you find your future when you’re trying to find yourself? How do you chase dreams when you’re still chasing demons? But such is my destiny – my challenge. To stop running and stare down the universe. To put a face on its complexities. To contain fear and push aside pride and walk with humility. My victories will not be on skating rinks or at the bottom of mountains. My victories will be found in quests to find my path and kindred spirits. To live in love. To search among the clutter and pick up hope and leave its legacy for the next traveler.

Fighting the unknown; facing an uncertain future – these are my battlefields. I will stop running and look in the mirror for strength, look above for guidance, and look to others for support. And then, at some point, I will have to take action. I will have to move if only to clumsily put one foot in front of the other and simply walk. When the transporter is broken and Mr. Scott says in his thick brogue, “There’s only enough power for one. We only have time for one, Captain.” Maybe then I will have found the strength to reply, “Take Mr. Spock.”

Olympians

2010-02-14T16:05:00.000-06:00
Athletes soar in the air, float in space, perform other seemingly miraculous feats, and we gaze in wonder at their accomplishments. We cry with the winners and losers and mourn over young loss. Their greatness, their sacrifice, their moments in this time in these Olympics moves us.

The inspiration of the elite champions captures our collective heart and awakens lost dreams. We believe that we too can overcome, rise above, and conquer. With fresh eyes, we gaze in mirrors and reflect on our images and days. With bold hearts, we embrace life and take faltering steps toward almost forgotten goals.

As we move forward, only then do we see winners in ourselves and others. We feed the poor so they can rise above poverty. We help the sick so they can recapture life. We touch hands so no one is alone. We love without looking back or looking ahead. We live without regret. We lift each other to soar above obstacles and flow through time with only dreams as safety nets. We move in unison as ice dancers in beautiful harmony. We breathe the same air and nurture the same hopes for peace.

We see strength in the mother who rises at a similar hour to the athlete practicing on an isolated practice field so she can find private time before feeding and dressing her children. We see greatness in the father who works all weekend so he can leave the office early and attend his son’s baseball game. We see victory in the addict who overcame unknown pain and suffering and sits next to us at the coffee shop. We see tenacity in the older woman working still to put food on her family’s table –the family who moved in with her when they lost their jobs.

As we go through another 16 Olympic days, we will rise to our feet with wonder, cry when flags are raised and laugh when youthful and heroic exuberance excels. As we go through life, we will feel the Olympic passion burning bright and fueling everyday winners who give their best, sacrifice in secret, work hard, live freely, and love deeply. As we share our unique talents, pursue dreams and help others find theirs; we will find our greatness and capture a lifetime of gold.

While our bodies may not soar as high as ski jumpers, our spirits do. Our strength is found in the shoulders that others lean on and our achievements are measured in the pieces of our hearts which have been given away.

We are all Olympians.

Butterfly Net

2010-02-07T16:22:00.000-06:00
Sometimes I wonder about unfulfilled dreams floating in the air as elusive as butterflies never caught in a net. I look back at life on scarred feet, running through soft green carpets and amidst sharp rocks, chasing an unseen future.

I want to live in the space between the past and the future. It is a present space defined in joy. It’s a place where anticipation belongs in an undefined dimension and regret belongs in another reality. It is a place where feelings soft as an old broken-in goose down comforter cocoons me in warmth. I would live in this space listening in silence to the tick of the clock reminding me that time does exist and I live within its boundaries.

I wouldn’t want to travel anywhere, but instead visit the places in my heart. It is there I clearly see the dreams as bright as endangered orange monarchs, dotted with irregular black spots, which somehow flew magically into my net. It is there I see the colors of my life flying on cobalt blue wings captured in a lifetime of dreams that I no longer have to chase. In this space, I would no longer search for unfilled destinies. In this moment, I would share and enjoy the beauty lying in my net.

Winter

2010-01-31T20:30:00.000-06:00
The white blanket folded over the earth until the night became day in bright luminescence. Trees dripped 10 karat ice crystals and adorned long branches in slender tendrils of sparkling beads which almost touched the snow covered ground. The glittering light reached into dark recesses of the woods until the world magically glowed with tranquility.

Under the frozen scene, life coursed. Swirling pools of mountain water teeming with fish continued to flow down ancient paths. Some animals burrowed deeper into the earth seeking warmth while others continued sleeping in oblivious hibernation.

Fall explodes in color but the snowy winter landscape exposes the brilliant hues of new beginnings. Without prejudice, all is buried. The sky is colored in softness, and the world stops and revels as snowflakes burst onto the frigid wonderland. On the surface, time stands still and for a few moments, a few hours, a day and a night; we are at peace.

Forced into rest, we lie under billowing goose down comforters and look for ourselves in frozen reflections. In our self contained snow globe, hearts beat in wonder that all things are possible when we too are blanketed in virgin white.

Freedom

2010-01-24T21:42:00.000-06:00
In the “land of the free and the home of the brave,” I wonder how many are truly free and how they journeyed. Freedom may sound free but comes with a cost and is paid in commodities uncommonly traded. Can we ever gain freedom from the past and hold its’ joy fragile as a wounded baby bird in tender hands. Endurance stories of family histories shared through generations of slavery are often repeated in quests for freedom, but what of familial histories holding fast to unspoken tales of alcoholism, drug addictions and suicides. Who shares individual chapters about suffrage through loss and chaos? Who hears the voices of inner demons who don’t allow the grace of forgiveness to be heartfelt? What screams are being heard behind the facades of smiling faces?

Perhaps we are the brave because we are born to conquer - accepting challenges as they fall in torrents of spring rain. When horizons become black and the wind unleashes an uncommon fury lashing out and damaging tender saplings, we stand strong. When thunder rolls across the sky and lightning chases the clouds until it cracks a smoldering hole in the earth, we defiantly stand. We slog through the mud with our troubles for companions until we smell only the putrid odors of decay and lose our way through dank, dark passageways. Sudden storms create flash floods propelling us into other entaglements slamming our bodies underwater and filling our lungs with muck. And still we swim; clinging to life, dreaming with hope, looking for handholds to find a moment’s rest, catching our breath, gaining strength, treading water until we find rescue.

The journey to freedom is sometimes on the outside punching through and pummeling obstacles. More often, the journey to freedom is found in the inner passageways through our past, our memories, and our regrets. But we fight; we carry on. We bravely face each day putting one foot in front of the other. These turmoils don’t define us as much as refine us. Shaping our presence and forging new paths to a future never imagined.

We are sustained by that which is not seen -the promise that the truth will set us free -the hope that we will overcome. And when conditions are right, we can see the past as morning mist – present around us but no longer touching. We effortlessly float on clouds of recovery and strength in freedom’s essence –uncontained and undenied of our unique destiny. We do not simply reside in the land of the free and the brave. We are the free and the brave.

Friends

2010-01-17T22:26:00.000-06:00
On a day which stretched further than ocean waters into the horizon, my friends waited and encircled me in compassion. On a day which held more complexities than the world’s unsolved mysteries, my friends offered an escape route into their arms. On a day which held crushing exhaustion, my friends pampered me with kindness.

When determination wavered and vulnerability shone brighter than the moon on a cloudless night, my friends helped me refocus on truth. They were a collective umbrella over my head during the storm. They held invisible safety lines when I descended the cliff. They protected me as mother cubs to their young.

Different days. Different friends. Different journeys converging on the same path. On this day, it is good to rest. For on the quest to become and overcome; to find our way in the world, if we stop and look into the eyes of our friends, we gain the strength to see and believe that we are already there.

Strength

2010-01-10T21:32:00.000-06:00
Winds of change buffet the earth sometimes blowing as hot, suffocating breaths of air smothering life and crushing naive lungs in a vise. Winds can channel frigid arctic air through our skin causing the blood to run cold and changing warm hearts to ice. Hurricane force gales strip defenses bare until nothing remains but exposed and splintered skeletal bone. Other days, however, they come as warm beach breezes caressing our cheeks until rosy glows of hope emerge and our eyes sparkle with anticipation.

We walk against the wind and get nowhere or the wind can be at our back urging us onward. The wind is ever present except in the eye of the hurricane. All is still and nature holds a collective breath until it comes back slamming us forward into unplanned paths. Pushing. Destroying. Wreaking havoc on dreams.

And yet, we stand rooted in the earth solid as the massive redwoods, which have already stood the tests of time and people, in Muir Woods National Monument. These giant pillars of strength tower above the fray and allow the winds to ripple through their branches. Leaves are changed in the fall, shaken off in the winter, bud in the spring, turn green and hang tight in the summer; and yet, the trees bear witness and simply grow. Evidence of past damage can be found on the bark and in the life rings; and yet, these giants grow taller and reach higher every year.

These weathered Muir Redwoods appear as if they touch the heavens. Perhaps they do; and if we reach up and lift our eyes above, we too can find the strength to remain standing tall.

Perspective

2010-01-03T21:30:00.000-06:00
The car was parked under the wrong tree. Missiles of brown splattered like tobacco spit on the metal surface and I had to rush before becoming the next victim. The wind whipped my hair out of place and mocked my painstaking attempts of care. As I brushed errant locks out of my eyes, I noticed him standing across the street blowing his breath on cold fingers in a useless attempt to get warm. An old truck pulled up beside him and stopped.

I couldn’t determine if I needed safety and if so, which door beckoned at the gate of the converted school building. I looked back at the man and the car and suddenly I was forced to shade my eyes from the sun’s bright floodlights. It was only then that I stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of the street. The oak tree was covered in shimmering lights and danced under morning sunbeams. Snow dusted each branch on top of layers of glazed ice. I imagined marches of confederate soldiers, KKK members and Vietnam War protestors gathering under its’ protective branches. Against the vivid blue sky and beyond the magical shimmer of the solid white tree, the city’s skyline of metal and glass formed a technological backdrop to this solitary giant standing firm in the midst of new urban warfare.

Looking back at the man in the street for an instant, we both turned our attention back to the majestic, towering tree. We stood transfixed in the startling beauty of the morning sun which touched each grain of wood lighting every crystal sending shimmering glitter into the darkest of shadows. The stranger then shielded his eyes and looked back toward me. I followed his gaze to a holly bush protected behind a black iron fence. Patches of green pierced the white blanket and bright red berries nestled safely within the virgin snow. Slipping my hand between the metal bars, I touched the cold snow and smiled.

“Have a good morning,” I cried. He waved back and I carried the crystal scene in my heart and soul throughout the appointment. Back onto the street, I noticed my car was converted from silver to brown, but it did not matter. I looked back at the enchanted oak tree and smiled all the way to the car wash.

Light

2009-12-28T00:06:00.000-06:00
The sky grew dark and ominous as the sun sank towards the horizon. A stiff, arctic wind slammed the clouds into each other until the blackened sky threatened to dip into the earth and release a mixture of rain, sleet and snow on holiday travelers. Trees swayed in the distance and the cold of unlit fireplaces and unwelcome change descended into my soul. Christmas was officially over and family members were left farther behind with each passing mile.

And then the sunset appeared within dark and foreboding clouds, rimmed with fire, hanging heavy in the sky. Suddenly embers of red and orange scorched the grey until gradually, the clouds grew salmon and turned pink and lit the sky in cotton candy puffs. Soft pastels gave way to strips of baby boy blue upon which ribbons of melted gold streaked across the changing sky. Finally, darkness descended but I had been reminded that it was a forever Season of Light.

Hundreds of small lights twinkled on the solid white and unadorned Christmas tree at my father’s house. More lights netted shrubs, formed wreaths, reindeer and snowmen, and hung as icicles on houses. Yet, the real light was reflected in the glow of my father’s face when he sat at the head of the holiday dinner table surrounded by his children, spouses, and grandchildren. It was found in the sparkling eyes of the young awaiting Santa. It was felt in the warm embraces of family and friends. And it was renewed by looking up towards the heavens instead of looking down.

May 2010 bring all of us renewed hope, love, peace and joy. And if we grow weary and strength grows dim, let us look for the light with the open eyes of our hearts and allow it to guide our ways.

More

2009-12-20T23:25:00.000-06:00
In this supersize, upsize, upscale world in which we are immersed, holiday gift buying has morphed into quests for the biggest and best. And yet during this Season, I have already experienced that the best gifts come from the biggest hearts and in the shape of cobalt blue irises and time.

The rotund earthen planter was hand crafted and stood about 12 inches tall. A cool beige background formed the backdrop for a variety of flowing irises atop forest green stems and leaves. Soft, irregular scalloped curves formed the rim and I recalled in an instant the shopping trip with my mother where I first saw it, wanted it, and watched her carry it out the door. In fairness, she did ask if I planned on purchasing the extraordinary planter. But I declined so she became the owner.

My mother and I have an established tradition of annual visits in the heat of the summer with at least one day devoted to shopping favorite antique stores. I don’t know when this tradition began but I know that summer is not complete without the trip and our time together. Time is a chameleon with extraordinary power. He changes all things and heals people. He can stand still or fly. Time is counted in the tick of a family’s heirloom grandfather clock, displayed as digital numerals, or measured in grains of sand falling through the hourglass. But for all of Time’s miraculous powers and measurements, I never knew He had shape and could be wrapped for Christmas until I uncovered it under festive wrapping and shiny bows and spotted the vibrant cobalt blue irises gracing the beige surface.

As I stared again at the coveted planter, I knew I would always remember the time with my mother each summer; days filled with old traditions and new experiences and endless conversation. I would remember a selfless gift. I would remember a mother’s love.

I think of all the worry being spent on purchasing the latest gadget or spending the right amount of money and then again, I look at the planter. The simple shape and earthen texture grounds me in my knowledge that more is better and bigger when it comes in the shape of giving more time; sharing more love; and making more memories.

Marshmallows

2009-12-13T21:22:00.000-06:00
Earlier this week, I found myself staring into a bonfire roasting marshmallows. I don’t know when fancy metal skewers came along with two prongs perfectly formed for roasts and long enough to keep one out of harm's way. When I was a little girl, I would search the woods for a short stick. My father would take his pocketknife and whittle the end until the fine point would pierce not just one marshmallow but five or six. My marshmallows were never lightly toasted to a golden tan but blackened and charred and my beet red face almost singed from sticking my head too close to the fire. Even then, I would not be called patient.

I thought after 30 – 40 years without roasting marshmallows, I was ready for perfection. Standing patiently, I watched the sparks fly into the night sky and danced the metal skewer in and out of the flames. In the one second that I looked up to see a shower of sparks mingle with a falling star, my marshmallows burst into flames. I blew hard and again held the black, charred objects of my youth.

Someone stood ready with graham crackers and a chocolate bar to help me recall the gooey goodness of s’mores. I didn’t remember how to make them but after my first bite, I remembered the taste. I remembered childhood campfires and sing-a-longs. I remembered canoe rides and a young girl’s first kiss. Girl Scout badges, swimming lessons, rock and leaf collections swirled in my mind. The exuberance of youth, mixed with family love and security, warmed my heart along with the fire.

This Holiday Season may we open our eyes to the wonder of the moment and roast marshmallows until they burst into flames.

The Big Tree

2009-12-06T16:57:00.000-06:00
Last night I co-hosted a small holiday dinner party with a friend. Both of us abhor planning and schedules and commitments away from work and during the process, we mixed up the date, farmed out invitation distribution and food coordination, and delayed all responsibility until the big day.

My friend stopped on the way over and picked up cleaning supplies that I couldn’t locate. Then in southern girl style, we watched the SEC football championship while cleaning, cooking, and ironing. One hour before we expected our guests, we decided to purchase a Christmas tree. Some twenty-two minutes later, the tree was on top of the car, and we rushed home so I could take a shower. Of course, there was no time to decorate a 12 foot tree. It was the biggest, fattest, tallest tree to ever grace my home. In fact, it was the first tree in many years to usher in the Season.

Over the course of the next four hours, we lived and laughed under the branches of the big tree. Without adornment, it stood watch over our festivities. I never once thought that it should be decorated. In fact, I never once thought about anything that night that should be different. I enjoyed the evening with friends, who ventured out to share a common love, brought together by common interests and common bonds. I enjoyed the present time without thinking back about picking up a tree earlier so it could twinkle in the background or cleaning days ahead of time so we could relax that afternoon. Last night was as it was supposed to be with the right people coming together at the right time gazing in wonder at the big tree.

This morning when I got up, I confess that I did move the tree into a different corner. Beyond that, I sit in wonder in its presence. Only here for a small window of time, I almost hear it whispering, “Live in the day, have peace in this blessed moment, and remember why I am here.”

Kneeling down to pour water into the tree stand, I think that I just might not decorate it. Even the most beautiful angels, stars, and birds would change the tree. I close my eyes and inhaling the strong evergreen scent, I think of family and friends. I don’t need to plan on what my house and my tree should look like tomorrow. In this day and in this heart, I have all that I need without adding shiny adornment to the plain and simple truths of the Season.

Norman Rockwell

2009-11-29T11:34:00.000-06:00
Norman Rockwell has always attended my family’s Thanksgiving dinner. With a look of disdain on his wrinkled old face, he was the uninvited guest watching us. I watched back. Over the years he saw a family without two parents at the table, siblings who spent the holiday elsewhere, and on occasion, a family divided at two or even three tables. There was even a time when the sacrilege of turkey slices appeared instead of an entire turkey, golden brown and baked to perfection.

I once went to Stockbridge, Massachusetts, the home of Norman Rockwell, and gazed at each of his Life magazine photo covers in the museum. They represented his image of America and families at their best. I went to his home and wondered what transpired at his holiday table. I don’t recall any Life photos of his Thanksgiving gatherings with family and friends. Maybe he was too busy appearing at my table criticizing my family for not meeting his expectations.

And, he surely would have been disappointed with me this year. I spent Thanksgiving with the friends who are my family while my blood family, whom I deeply missed, scattered around different tables sharing their joy with each other. Yet, they were with me. My grandmother was in the dressing made with the exact same recipe and served with pride. The turkey was bought for me because I love dark meat, just like my father. I remembered my sister when we held hands to give thanks; a tradition she started some years ago. My friend thought of her loved ones when she shared her family’s tradition and asked us to go around the table and mention something for which we gave thanks. And my other friend, who also brought his sister to the feast, was excited about the opened cans of cranberry sauce, chilled, sliced and placed in a spot of honor, just like at his favorite holiday meals, next to the turkey.

Fresh cranberries simply don’t matter to some of us. I love the cans too. And it was this year that I finally realized that Norman Rockwell probably wouldn’t have cans of cranberry sauce in his photos. He would draw real cranberries, glazed and heated with sugar and oranges until someone thought they were wonderful. Yet, that someone wasn’t me. I was a can girl.

So this year, I saw Norman at the table. Oh yes, he was a distant cousin, the black sheep of the Rockwell family clan but he was our guest. Norman was dazed and confused by my friend hitting him with that can of cranberry sauce when all the love exploded, but he was welcome at our table. And what Norman saw was what I saw – a gathering of friends and family who chose to come together for a holiday meal, celebrated with memories and love.

Holidays are what we make them, what we remember, and how much of ourselves we share. All of my holidays, and this holiday, are worthy of putting on a magazine cover. Maybe it is a collage on the cover of Psychology Today but I’m proud that it’s my family and friends with extra room to spare for Cousin Norman.

Thankfulness

2009-11-22T13:42:00.000-06:00
This time of year, it’s easy to slip on a cloak of thankfulness and wrap it tightly around our shoulders warding off cold from others. For a while, we forget their empty faces as the temperatures dip lower and the hint of snow and holiday excitement lingers in the air. Dinners, parties, football, hockey, shopping, catching up and slowing down consume the days, and calendars are full before the first turkey is placed on the platter.

We recite the list, which is honest and true, and are thankful for good health, families and friends, hot food and cold drinks. We are thankful for jobs, clothing and shelter. We are thankful for having so much when in reality, we need so little.

As the days pass, we head to homeless shelters and drop money in buckets outside grocery stores. We adopt angels, buy toys and pick up an extra coat to give to the poor. We do make a difference in the lives of others in meaningful ways, but some people remain who may not know the joy of thankfulness. These are the emotionally needy who have hearts of ice and may not be found where we first look. These with the broken spirits and minds may walk by our side each day.

And so this Holiday Season may we find the strength to share our cloaks of thankfulness and wrap love and provisions around the needy - whether living in shelters or at the office or in the house next door.

Time

2009-11-15T20:29:00.000-06:00
Time is fleeting like the first winter snowfall landing softly on the cold, hard ground blanketing the world in white. Under a clear sky and fading moon, tree branches hang heavy coated in ice and time stands still before the first footprints mar the pristine wilderness.

Time can be seen in the growth spurt of children over a summer’s vacation spent playing kickball or Simon Says. Time rushes by for the bride anticipating her walk down the aisle or can drag for the uninspired mired in a daily grind of monotony. It can be put to good use or wasted. It is a most precious gift. It has healing qualities and can change everything while changing nothing.

We all have the same amount of time in the day. Some sleep through much of it while others work through most of it. Yet, we live in the space of these seconds that tick into minutes and into hours. And as the hours become days which grow into years, we suddenly have accumulated enough of it to fill a lifetime.

Only then do we appreciate and learn the complex essence of time -it’s full and rich when measured in love, laughter, family and friends.

Open Happiness

2009-11-08T13:35:00.000-06:00
Even as a small child, I wandered the woods. Searching throughout the seasons for my place in the world and expecting to find it written amidst the dogwood leaves. Scuffing dead branches and twigs on the trail and creating paths where none ventured, I sought refuge among the peace of the trees. Changing weather was a constant friend. If it stormed, I would be among the first to run outside to feel the wind whipping through my hair and stomp in fresh puddles until the splatter and rain commingled and drenched my body. When the leaves fell, my sister and I would rake them into big piles and then jump with abandon scattering our day’s work as fall’s pungent aroma permeated our skin. Winter’s first snow found us sledding down a neighbor’s hill, carving ice angels and building snow men with carrot noses and stick arms.

It was a simple time. My only concern was timing the hot chocolate so I could place a steaming mug in the mailbox to provide warmth to the mailman. In the heat of summer, I had to be in proximity of the front yard so when I heard the musical tones signaling the ice cream truck, I would run, pony tails flying and dimes in hand, to trade my allowance for an ice cream sandwich.

I thought of these images when I read the words Open Happiness next to the coca-cola bottle printed on the cocktail napkin. How nice to have a can of coke to take a sip and recapture youth. Or pour its dark color in a glass and find my past in clear bubbles. Its liquid refreshment quenching the thirst of those who yearn for the adult versions of happiness – the intangibles such as joy, peace and contentment.

I retreat to the woods to find happiness and experience the changing seasons but sometimes can’t feel the breeze’s soft embrace because I am running away from people encroaching in my space instead of running to a beautiful place. I let them into my life so I run to let them go. The soft ice angels of my childhood have morphed into hard cold ice that drips through the veins and in the reptilian eyes of those who disbelieve that mailbox warmth and ice cream trucks belong in the present as much as the past.

I seem to go more often to the woods to escape these toxic people consuming me with their manipulations. But, I still take change for a simple treat in the summer. I put my boots on tight in the winter and marvel at the first snow falling on the lake and bright red cardinal perched majestically on a pure white frosty branch. I raise my face to the heavens when it rains and feel the wetness sting my cheeks and run down my hair. I reach out my hand to catch the first falling leaf of autumn. I am free to experience the wonders of the wild and let my heart travel with childlike wonder in the ancient directions intended before my time.

Maybe the coke people have it right. Happiness is simple. Open it up. It doesn’t really matter if the woods are my retreat or my journey. It doesn’t matter why I go, who I leave behind or what I take. It just matters that the same legs that took me to the ice cream truck are still forging a path. It simply matters that I go and open my heart when I arrive.

Pebble

2009-10-31T14:01:00.000-05:00
Against the steel grey backdrop of sky, it’s raining leaves. The wind buffets the trees sending blazes of vibrant reds, deep oranges and brilliant yellow colors dancing at my feet on the wooded path. A few trees, rising tall above the spring-fed creek, hold tight to summer’s last vestiges of lime green and emerald, and I stand protected within this living canvas.

I retreated to a safe place where the only dangers are seen in the startled gaze of a deer or heard in the rattle of a snake. It’s a place where I know the shapes of poison oak, ivy and sumac lurking in the shadows. It’s a place where I know the depth of the caves and the height of the ridge. I know where the river’s currents will pull you under and where its peace will help you rise above.

I retreated from a concrete land where unseen dangers swept between the skyscrapers and swirled around me. I could feel their cold fingers clawing at my throat. In the abyss, they waited for me to fail and to fall. Evil lived in sight of the sun, mocked my steps and taunted my emotions.

And so, I came to stand amidst fall’s foliage. I stand until I root in the earth like the towering trees. I look until I find my space and in my vision; a small stone. It washed onto the creek bank after years of torrential rains and powerful currents tossed it against other rocks and boulders. After journeys from unknown places and pummeled and smoothed by time, it rests at my feet.

As I leave, it rains again. Mixed with the leaves are heaven’s tears showering grace and mercy. I hold fast to my pebble as the city’s skyline comes into view.

Water

2009-10-25T20:31:00.000-05:00
I am the mist that permeates the air and softly dampens life. I am the sparkling dew that drenches the forest in the early morning hours. For a shining moment, I am the briefest of rain showers quenching the parched earth and emerging in beautiful colors through the sun and rainbow. As threatening weather descends, I am the sudden storm cell moving quickly and lashing out against nature’s elements sending damaging, flooding rains onto already soaked spaces.

I am the salt water tides rhythmically creating and eroding banks. I bring life in still pools and then take it suddenly leaving surprised victims gasping for air. I am peace and violence. I am unique and commonplace.

I am the lazy, slow river lumbering leisurely downstream carving paths into banks of cool clay creating resting spaces where none exist. Once renewed, I forge ahead in torrents spilling into tree lines and cascading over rocks until the noise deafens and I plunge over the cliff in glorious streams of energy. My power crushes all who slip in my way and my pulverizing force hits the cove below stirring the underwater scene.

And yet, I want to be the small droplet of water falling onto a smooth lake creating ripples and making a difference as I am absorbed.

Dreams

2009-10-17T22:58:00.000-05:00
Dreams begin as vague ideas that emerge in the breath of the air floating ethereally until they catch the wind and form fingers reaching across space to caress your cheek like a lover. Then, they tug at your heart and catch in your throat. Dreams crystallize as tears streaming from eyes too long focused on sights present to see shapes of future possibilities. They forge paths and give energy to once tired footsteps. Slowly, they gain presence and stand beside you, lie with you and become your heartbeat.

And when dreams come true, it can happen in an instant. One simple moment as time stands still and then soars on newly formed wings lifting everyone along in a blur of excitement and joy. It becomes a tangible gift and the struggle to arrive in this place is quickly forgotten but those who travelled with us are not.

And only then do the other dreams placed in our hearts from the beginning become most evident. Dreams that are found in the joy of sharing with friends and family and experienced in the celebration of collective happiness. Dreams echoed in laughter and felt in warm embraces. Love, life and health – these are the real dreams we’ve had all along. How lucky we are to open their gifts and fly.

Forward Movement

2009-10-10T21:52:00.000-05:00
On most days, we live confronted by a myriad of roads. Roads marked by opportunities and intersections of decisions. Our journey takes us down slow lanes where we leisurely enjoy the view or places us in heavy congestion where we can’t breathe for the pollution and are eager to race home and wash away the day’s grime. Sometimes we ride merrily in the HOV lane with others who offer company on our trip. We choose where to go, what to take and whom to bring with us.

And then there are other days when the roads become one and the view ahead looks the same as the view behind. Choices become narrowed into a single tight dirt lane without signage. Crinkled coffee stained maps are blown out the window, fancy GPS systems don’t work and we shift into other gears. And yet with years of baggage and cherished keepsakes loaded in the trunk, we get up and get by and ultimately move on. Not because we’re brave or brilliantly make the right decision. Not because we perfected a new method of weighing pros and cons and evaluating possible outcomes. We simply move forward because we can’t turn around. We move on because that is the only choice.

And even when on this crumbling single lane hanging to the side of a mountain cliff, there is still room in the car for others. We’re guided by hope and together search for lost dreams on life’s remarkable journey regardless of the road and the destination.

Standing Still

2009-10-04T15:29:00.000-05:00
In the early morning hours, dew blankets the grass and drenches the forest with crystal balls. Fall is emerging in this sparkling wonderland and I gaze into its mysteries to find myself. A dense fog hangs heavy above the river, merges with the clouds and threads ribbons of wetness into the trees. A towering ridge of rock and woods shelters life on the earth floor below and carries the secrets of all who stand in the shadow into deeply hidden dark caves.

In times of need, some people run to safe places and safe people to find the chicken soup comfort of the ill. Others choose to escape and retreat into themselves burying pain and confusion as surely as placing feelings on steel shovels and scooping holes into the heart. A few rush headlong into a whirlwind of activities in efforts to lose time.

I combine tactics and run into these waiting arms of the woods. Nature comes alive and sings her songs to my soul. And even though there are family and friends who have never stood in this place with me, they are here. Some traveled the same path in years past and I look at the dirt and feel their footprints under mine. Others are with me in the wind caressing my damp skin with love. I touch the cold stone of the massive boulder and know their strength. I watch leaves rain on the air and hear their voices in the colorful shower. Massive oaks and sycamores protect me as I rest, fragile and small as a wild violet, under their powerful branches.

I stand in the presence of beauty and love. I stand long enough to gather strength for necessary footsteps into the trails of my life. I simply stand still long enough.

Listening

2009-09-27T14:43:00.000-05:00
We think ventures into the woods are on our own accord; but in reality, we are propelled deeper down forest paths moving in sync with the rhythms of the earth urging everyone to listen to the call of the wild. Our awakening senses hear the animals rustling dry leaves and the melodious music of birds. We hear the force of a mountain stream splashing over rocks and tumbling onward into undiscovered places. The wind ripples the small lake and washes it ashore in waves mirroring distant ocean tides.

At first blinded by nature’s splendor, we stumble forward until out of breath, we stop. In that moment, we become connected in this place - connected to who we are, who we long to be and who we always were. And we realize that more than what we see and hear the echoes of what is left behind is no longer with us. We become attuned to what is not heard. The noise of people is vanquished -traffic racing ahead, sirens blasting in the distance. We don’t hear the sounds of stress in rapid heartbeats and panicked breathing.

In the deep stillness of the woods, we feel the harmony of nature carving its existence from the strengths of the past and adapting to each day. We are brought here to listen first to ourselves. Our voices lost among the noise of others and in the obstacles of the day. Our thoughts shattered by remnants of the past. We are brought to this place so our hearts can again beat in time with the ancient patterns of the earth. So we can build upon the past, dream anew and move forward with abandonment to our own undiscovered places.

Rested, with eyes and spirit again open, our lives are illuminated against the dark cover of the green canopy like the last summer flowers radiantly blooming and casting beauty beyond the shadows.

Fairy Tales at the Symphony

2009-09-20T21:54:00.000-05:00
The room darkened as strains of music slowly drifted into corners of empty silence. Rich velvet reds blurred with white marble and gleaming wood as the symphony players, sitting under highly polished chrome fixtures holding their highly polished instruments, became the only view. The crowd shuffled in their seats and an occasional cough echoed throughout the large hall. Applause greeted the conductor as he strode onto his platform and with a sweeping gesture, he waved his magic wand and music from the ages sprang to life.

For a few moments, I sat mesmerized. Then I noticed a couple sitting in the choir seats overlooking the musicians. They appeared to breathe as one and occupy the same chair. Their happy glow left their dewy skin and landed on everyone around them. Soon the music formed a backdrop for the story I wove about their love. But, was it real? And what do any of us know about anyone? Even walking 1000 miles in the shoes of another doesn’t allow entry into private thoughts or let us know why the heart beats to certain arrangements.

I recalled another couple, sitting near these same seats, with two teenagers attending the symphony last Fall. The mother was dressed in glitter and the sparkles cast the only light on her skin. Her husband sat one seat over and the teenagers, hunched down in two other seats, sat even further down the row. She held her head high during the performance but nearing intermission; she appeared to rest heavily from the weight of many burdens. Yet, after the intermission, they sat together, four in a row, looking like the perfect family. Did they make up after an argument or did they simply take advantage of more comfortable space for a short while?

I wondered who was the happiest. Which couple had the real love that would last a lifetime? Did it belong to the ones sitting so closely together or did it belong to the ones sitting apart? Are outward signs of love evidence of deep love? Will it last longer than the love that remains hidden unveiled only to the intended? And then I wondered why I was wondering about others. I returned my attention to the beautiful music knowing that it was enough that I was happy and could see love in everyone.

The Real Piano Lesson

2009-09-13T14:04:00.000-05:00
Lately, it feels like I’ve spent so much time worrying about the future and remembering the past that I have forgotten how to live in the present. The events and the beauty of each day rush beyond me and leave me behind on a path on which I have no footprints.

And so I sit to take stock and create change. I sit on a hard piano bench staring at my old nemesis. As a small child, I carved my name in the wood grain but that did not make me a musician. Taking lessons for more years than my sister made me no better and no amount of lessons would make either of us better than my gifted and talented mother. I hear the cadence of their melodies and close my eyes.

The sun is streaming through the windows and I feel the warmth penetrating deep into my heart and hands. A slight morning breeze has been gently pushing aside the clouds exposing a brilliant blue sky. The branches rustle outside as a startled bird flies out of the still blooming pink crepe myrtle. Neighbors are talking and the sound of children’s laughter punctuates their murmured conversations. From the kitchen, water gurgles in the copper fountain breaking the silence in the otherwise still house. I feel the heartbeat in my throat pulsating in time to harmonies now coursing through my blood.

Opening my eyes, I stretch my fingers onto the dusty ivory keys. For a moment, I stop to feel the smooth texture and lightly brush a chord. I don’t worry about not playing as well as my sister or mother, and I don’t worry about not being asked to play in some future Christmas Cantata of a church I don’t even attend. For the first time in over two years, I simply play and what I hear is the music of my life - the simple joy of living - resounding from each note.

Family Reunion

2009-09-08T00:59:00.000-05:00
Family reunions are as much a part of the South as fried food, football and faith. Food holds court and the head of the table is filled with a wide variety of fried chicken while the end is heavy laden with rich desserts made with creamy whole milk and real butter. Somewhere in the middle, variations of long cooked green beans, cheesy potato casseroles and sweet corn, all made with bacon grease or fat back, reign and compete for unspoken prizes as women gather sharing recipes and trade secrets.

Our family doesn’t hail from the cotillion south of party dresses and country clubs. We don’t gather on verandas sipping tea while holes are counted on the golf course. Our family hails from lands of rugged country where rocks jut forward defying crops to grow and where springs are hidden to the outsiders. It’s a land where the humidity sticks to you like old family names unchanged over countless decades. It’s a place where stories involve hunting and fishing holes. And we belong to a time where I can still feel the rush of the cold creek on hot summer days and smell the freshly cut hay.

I journey in among a clan of city cousins now accustomed to concrete pavements and skyscrapers. With calendars filled with appointments, obligations and stress, we arrive tired and looking to find what we can hardly remember against the backdrop of barns and pastures. The clan of country cousins arrives tired from hard outdoor living without regard to schedules that go beyond the seasons to plant and harvest.

Old family photographs line the tables and are thumb tacked to the walls of the old church attended by families past but ever present. We may come from different parts but we look alike -blue eyes that hold the promise of easier days and curly hair of blond or brown. Standing for obligatory pictures and posing again in an attempt to create more flattering ones, we tell tales that span the afternoon and generations past. Over the years, the stories have grown taller and our waists thicker but still we come back. We come back because we find that what we are looking for is in each other and our own connection to the past and the future is woven with the same DNA threads.

Country cousins and city cousins– we’re all the same. We fill the room with love and laughter. We share stories of birth and death and discuss both the hard and the good times. Our smiles are broad, the hugs are solid and teachers of the past still whisper in the air the southern mantra “God, Country, and Family.”

Best Friends

2009-08-30T20:15:00.000-05:00
The apartment is still and quiet except for the explosion of color assaulting my senses. Vibrant reds and purples leap from pictures covering each square inch of pumpkin wall. In this small loft, the sound of chaos pulsates off the kitchen counter long covered with remnants of forgotten meals. Clothes litter the floor and ceramic roosters stare down at the scene from green apple perches and stand as sentinels against any who dare attempt to organize the disarray.

Her personality fills any leftover space and permeates her home with kindness and generosity. His personality, even during this time of recovery, remains thoughtful and caring. The sound of their breathing rises and falls meeting each new challenge and mixes in the air to form best friends.

If fair weather friends exist for some, then for me, these are the friends of typhoons, hurricanes and yet unnamed disasters. We have weathered job trials, divorce and trauma. At times we have suffered indignities, loss and each other. Both have been a constant in my life when I could not see the sun setting at night – when I could only feel the descending darkness. Their laughter has been steady when I fell out of kayaks and slipped down mountain trails.

In this place, where the three of us reunite for a short weekend, the time feels long and expands back into the decades. Among the bedlam, there is room for shared memories and love. There is room for hopeful futures and dreams. There is room for more baggage than can fit in a suitcase and more security than can be seen. Miles separate us but the distance between friends is measured in heartbeats and bound by the notion that the human spirit may journey alone but finds completeness with others.

Peaceful Storm

2009-08-23T17:14:00.000-05:00
The wind shifts and blows tendrils of grey clouds into each other until the sky morphs into one mass of billowing shades of light steel and black. Trees frenetically sway and leaves swirl and spin in rhythmic dances into the waiting arms of the ground below. I hear dead twigs rustling and snapping as sudden wind gusts shower acorns the color of faded olives onto the wooded path.

I stand in the shelter of forest canopy awaiting the storm. Lightning cracks in the distance and thunder’s loud rumble begins chasing away the week’s worries. The wind sends sprinkles of rain into the woods and I feel like a desert survivor receiving the first drops of life saving water. Curtained by an umbrella of foliage, I feel the sound shift from the voices of my problems to the sound of rain falling heavy, deafening even the smallest of thoughts. Plants and trees absorb the water as it races through leaves forming pools at the edges of exposed tree roots. The creek rises and rushes into the waiting yellow river it feeds.

All week, I sought and fought to find the elusive refuge of peace. Today, I search in the home of my heart looking among sturdy trunks and fallen giants. Leaving the wood’s protection, I step into the deluge of rain, open and exposed, and the storm drenches my soul washing away remaining vestiges of weariness and stress.

I stand prisoner feeling the storm’s absorbing and consuming power. And, what I find is that no matter how hard or long I search to capture the essence of peace - peace must first capture me.

Bear

2009-08-17T00:33:00.000-05:00
When my stepfather prepared to vacation in the wilds of Alaska and possibly encounter bear, he packed a big gun. When I prepared to hike the backwoods of Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks, I packed a bear bell, bear spray and knife. We both encountered bears that summer and much like our preparation, our reactions were quite different.

My stepfather tells of the day he was fishing in the clear, cold Alaskan river famed for icy beauty and the salmon that apparently leap willingly to their death at the hands of fly fishing tourists. Standing in the swirling waters, wearing hip waders and all things Orvis, the men fished and swapped stories. Suddenly, breaking the calm of day, the bear crashed through the pristine woods. Within moments, the party of some twenty men vanished, save two. In one fluid motion, my stepfather grabbed his weapon and as he was moving into position to save his friend, the bear caught his eye. In an instant, the river stilled, the glint of steel came from blue eyes instead of cold barrel and the bear ran back into the pine woods as my stepfather calmly held his ground and his gun.

Many miles and cultures later in Montana, my friend and I traveled up a lonely, steep cliff. Nearing the top, my companion decided to sit out the remainder of the hike. I took the bear bell in one hand, the bear spray in the other, loosened the pocket containing the knife and headed on to my destination. At the top of the 6400 foot summit, the path opened onto a meadow blooming in a profusion of wildflowers. I was alone and the only sound was the wind whistling through the crevices of stone and rustling stray branches. Limber mountain grass swayed in natures’ dance and the sun assaulted my soul. Stepping forward to round the curve, I headed into my reward – a panoramic view of the valley below. I imagined the quilt of green and the sun’s reflection off the cool lake. I could sense the vastness of the horizon and the insignificance of my presence.

The growl was low. I stopped. Was it the wind? Paranoia? Hunger pains? I stepped forward. The growl was menacing and not imagined. My heart raced but no faster than my feet flying in retreat. I rang that bell and ran back down the path. For hundreds of feet down the mountain, I only heard the rings of the bell, my frantic heart beat and what were surely the sounds of my exploding lungs.

I thought of these different encounters as my stepfather again prepared for a return to Alaska with big gun in tow. A trip to the firing range and I held my first gun. My eyes automatically squeezed shut as the gun kicked back in my hands. I smelled gun powder and could almost hear the paper target flying in the air as bullets sprayed. Sweat ran down my face and escaped from my palms. I imagined bear.

Would I shoot - could I shoot? I simply didn’t want to run away. Bears emerge in colors beyond brown and in name beyond grizzly or black. For now, gaining confidence is my big gun and as I become more comfortable holding its power, I hope to at least stand my ground.

Mountain Pool

2009-08-09T20:51:00.000-05:00
Summer thunderstorms washed out large portions of the creek bank, uprooted massive sycamores and hurled red clay debris balls downstream. Exposed roots hid behind tangled grapevines and fallen limbs, and boulders plummeted from generations of rest. The spring fed creek was mountain cold and even though the path altered, it still fed the lazy Buffalo River in the distance.

Trees still green and alive lay over the old farm road, as if to say they were simply tired of the onslaught. The damage was devastating, the destruction overwhelming and the erosion to the bank under the house perched above was a slow start to catastrophe. This was a land where more life teemed in the creek and river than people above.

Yet, like a rainbow after a storm, the mountain pool emerged. It was clear to the yellow sand below, and a shaft of light danced off crushed brown rock penetrating emerald depths and spotlighting baby trout. Downed sycamores arched protective branches above and the pool mirrored the encircled forest. Standing in its midst, the frigid water penetrated my skin beyond bone and into my soul. I was the first to stand beneath the bluff in its icy depths and swim with the fish. As I surveyed the damage visible from all angles, I felt the baby trout nibble my legs. Turning my attention into the creek, I stood transfixed as fish swam all around me.

I imagined this place reflecting autumn colors and could picture leaves, golden and red, floating downstream. I could feel the harsh winter wind whipping around the curve of the bluff sending stray branches hurrying down the road, and I could see the spring pink honeysuckle give way to the summer sweet peas, wild violets, black eyed susans and Queen Anne ’s lace.

If peace had a color, it would be the color of this creek as the light moved and shadows emerged revealing more secrets. It was green and blue and brown and yellow. It was murky and clear. It was still and flowing, it was life and death, and it was controlled power and chaos. A leaf, foreshadowing the seasons ahead, landed on the water by my hand. It was then I realized that peace does have color and I was standing among its cadence. Peace was the green leaves, white bark and brown earth. Peace shimmered in sun rays filtering living particles of movement. Peace reflected off the red tin roof above. This house might fall into the creek one day, but it would not be this day. Bending over, I put my face onto the water and stared into the eyes of the fish below.

Family Trees

2009-08-02T18:43:00.000-05:00
This weekend, I traveled home to a place where the distance to arrive was measured not in miles but in memories. While my birth certificate does not say I was born in Appalachia, the welcoming embrace of the Great Smoky Mountains takes me back to a past not forgotten. In these mountains, I lived and lost; my family grew together and apart, and we are drawn back compelled by forces of love and nature to revisit this land and each other.

The sun peaks through the ancient forest’s lace work and shines down on an abundance of green leaves, moss and lichen. Summer rains have fed the myriad creeks and rivers until they violently churn against themselves spraying the river ferns and slamming white caps into boulders with a rising crescendo of sound and energy. I hear the soft breeze rustling through the leaves in the canopy while birds call to each other in harmony. A rock falls in the distance crashing against the banks before splashing into the river. The music of the woods is nature’s symphony.

My father, who has joined me for this latest trip, places his guiding arm around me for the photographer’s picture. I feel the comfort of the mountains as strong and sure as his hand. The click of the camera has captured a man and woman, a father and daughter, a daddy and little girl. We have changed with the mountains over the years. Time has worn its path down trails and streams and etched lines down our faces. But for an instant, we are the same as yesterday and today, and hold firm against tomorrow. Mountain and family, as connected as leaves on a tree, remain one.

Pralines

2009-07-25T18:11:00.000-05:00
The oppressive heat of the city weighed me down like the burdens of a preacher trying to save 10,000 lost souls. Rank odors filled each pore until I was cocooned in an invisible and putrid dumpster without escape. July in the French Quarter was acid hot and even the sky burned clouds of amber and black as if the city itself couldn’t contain the waves of embers and lazily offered them to the sky for relief.

We entered the cooking school and felt the cool air conditioning on sweat laden skin and smelled the same aromas that both slave and free man experienced over the generations. Sausage and seasonings assaulted the senses and invited the travelers to rest. The school was housed in an ancient building that time had not completely changed and we awaited the tastes that only come from using real butter, cream, milk and lard.

The chef, slipping into the dialect of the past, prepared her gumbo and Creole. I envisioned spirits rising with the dead encircling us with voodoo embraces until we were drugged and lifeless. Suddenly, the sweet smell of caramelizing sugar, pecans, butter and vanilla awoke my senses. The chef listened to the pot declaring the mixture ready and began rapidly spooning the praline mixture onto shiny aluminum foil. We were transfixed with anticipation watching the gooey mixture transform into pralines.

We were served. We took a collective bite. It was a moment when writers were without words, musicians couldn’t play tunes and artists stared at blank canvases. In that moment, time stood as still as the air. Troubles melted with the praline on my tongue and the heat of New Orleans magically slipped away with the haints.

New Friend

2009-07-19T12:02:00.000-05:00
Life is lived in the space of a moment. Moments captured in the early light flickering on the morning’s waning frost or marked as soft as the skin on an infant or in the wonder of a new mother whose first child tightly grasps her finger. Moments frozen in time and forever undimmed by age or memory. In these moments, marriage proposals are accepted and secret first kisses are shared.
Moments are also marked in a series of cataclysmic events punctuated by car accidents, job losses, illness or divorce. In the brevity of time, children are born, people die and life propels its inhabitants forward into the vast unknown or backwards into abysses of regret.
Yet, we are not just shaped by defining moments – we define moments by embracing the fleeting seconds that are not seen by the eye but felt in the heart. The seemingly inconsequential times that take up the bulk of a day with regularity and normalcy. Moments that have space and place as solid yet as fleeting as a stray autumn leaf floating on the breath of the wind - mundane and trivialized by some but felt by others. These are the moments in which life is lived.
A few days ago, I had lunch with someone, and as we ate, we discovered similar experiences, common pasts and shared opportunities. How did she go from acquaintance to new friend? Was it over shared burgers or the exchange of email and traded favors?
I believe it happened in that space of time, crossing the room, conquering fear. It happened when I took control of the moment and reached out to another person. I spoke as time and heart raced ahead on the swiftest of feet yet as conscious thought froze.
When unchartered territories confront us and destinies are shaped in ways unimagined, these are the moments we define. I am fortunate to have crossed paths with this acquaintance and seized the moment to invite her as friend.