Mommer and Me

  This time of year is very emotional for many people and I am no different.  (In fact, to be perfectly honest, I teared up at a Folgers commercial on Thursday.)  There are people in my life who are grieving this Christmas season for loved ones lost recently and for those lost long ago.  Holiday traditions that are different now by necessity not choice can be difficult to establish and maintain when the heart longs for past traditions.
   Yesterday, while baking cookies with my kids, I missed my grandmother, Mommer,  so much that my heart physically hurt.  She has been gone a lot more than a decade now, but in the moments of the batter flying, I could hear her singing very clearly and I missed her profusely. I remembered the days in her kitchen decorating sugar cookies and making a mess; her happy face accented with flour smudges.  My Mommer was more than a grandmother to me, she was the constant in my chaotic and often drama filled childhood.  She taught me to rollerskate and iron shirts. She taught me how to move through tough situations with a song in my head. She taught me to snap green beans and mow grass.  She taught me how to hold my head high when people said terrible things about my family and I. She gave me the best parenting advice I have ever received when my kids were babies.  She loved me unconditionally and specially even though I was one of thirteen grandkids.  She loved each of us that way.  Throughout the years, I have often woke up thinking, I have to ask Mommer about this only to remember when I was fully awake that I could only do that in my dreams.
  Last night, as I was cleaning up my own cookie mess in my own kitchen, I worked to reframe my missing her and also to come to grips with the enormity of the struggle for those working to reframe larger and more recent losses.  I wish my reframe would have ended in some profound miracle salve for the heart that I could hand out in little boxes with big bows. But it didn't.
   Here is the everyday miracle that I finally landed on.  The everyday miracle is that I was blessed to have Mommer in my life. She made me a better person, mother and friend. I see her influence in my life everyday. I got to hold her hand and now I hold that memory tight. 

  Sending a little box with a big bow to those who need it this Christmas season.  Trying to live as a blessing in the lives of those around me. Everyday miracles in cookie batter and chocolate chips.
 

The smell of thankful

  I am one of those people; those people with sensitive sniffers.  Smell to me is a base sense, connected to memories, people and emotions. In fact, I am so weird about it, I try to live in a bubble of Happy, the perfume.  Ask those around me. They can bear witness to my perfume bubble.
  I remember scents more than faces or words.  I smelled a slightly off apricot last summer and was transported to a summer when I was young and my great aunt thought I should drink apricot brandy to calm my stomach pains. I remember the smell of my hospital rooms when I had my kids, the smell of the floor wax on the first day of school, and the smell of my first boyfriend's cologne in middle school mixed with the smell of sweat from those around us at the school dance. (Wait, maybe that was the smell of his sweat but bear with me.)
   So lately, in the rush that is everyday,  I have not smelled anything exceptional.  I have rushed through each day doing the best I can,  being the best I can and collapsing in bed each night, never once having breathed deeply.

 Until yesterday.
   Yesterday I smelled thankful in big deep gulps of scent with my daughter walking hand in hand through the conservatory at Long Wood Gardens.  We walked into the orchid room and the smell was  sweet and heavy but the moment was light and lovely.
  "Oh, hello sniffer!" my brain thought.  "Are you cataloging this moment?  Are you memorizing the tones of orchid? The look on your daughter's face as she takes that picture? The peace that comes on the waves of fragrance?  Connect these moments.  Be connected to these moments." My brain and my nose are very good friends.

  Thankful may smell different to everyone and that is how it should be.  Thankful can also smell differently at different times- the smell of a baby's head, rain in the spring, that first shovel full of dirt turned over in the garden, your child's cereal breath in the morning, cinnamon on a cold day, and the list goes on and on. ( I, for example, love when my husband has been working outside and comes in smelling of campfire smoke and hard work.)

  Thankful to me this week smelled like orchids, ripe and rich and blooming in December.  Ripe and rich and very special- blooming like it was their job for my daughter and I as we strolled through their midst; deep in conversation about life, love, and education.

A plethora of thankful in intricate blooms of tropical color forever linked in my mind. An everyday miracle thankfully linked in my heart.

 

Greyhound Man

Greyhound man.

Good weather or bad,
You and your lanky, obviously well loved dogs,
Make the trek through my little corner of the world (Past the window, past the parking lot, down the lane- with  your baggie of....) every working day.

We never greet each other, except that one head nod, one time a few years ago, when it was snowing.

Today I thought about you all day though.
I noticed one of your greyhounds was gone.
Replaced with a smaller, albeit still cute, hound.

Your task was the same.
Your time was the same.
But your cadence was off.

I always loved the graceful dance
of the long legged ones on both sides of you.
I bet you did too.

But you will be okay,
Greyhound man.

In the background of your life,
There are people cheering you on.
Wishing you good will.
Thankful that you still walk,
Early and daily.
Even though your groove is different.

Milky Way

Life has been so busy lately but that's nothing new.
It is the asynchrony of it all that has left me unsettled. I have felt like Steve Martin in that famous scene from "The Jerk", trying so hard, so earnestly, but missing the beat.

But then Saturday happened.

Saturday we held hands under the Milky Way and looked up.

And for that moment, and in every moment since,

I have felt awe.

It's as if the universe whispered into my ear,
"look at this great tapestry- do not doubt the weaver."

Stars on a beautiful night, an everyday reminder of one grand miracle.

History

I sat in the small diner and ate my salad by myself before class started.  Two employees, both in their early 20's, were filling little containers of salad dressings about five feet from me.  They were working hard and talking nonstop.  At first, I couldn't figure out what they were talking about because the conversation seemed disjointed.  As I listened closer (yes, I am an eavesdropper), I realized they were studying for a bio test together as they worked.  The young woman stumbled on an answer and the man working along with her said, "Well, that ain't swag."

She stopped, put down her ladle and said," Are you stupid? Do you know what swag means?  Just because JZ says swag doesn't mean that you should use it!  I looked swag up and it means curtain. Choose your own words."

He looked at her and said, "Everyone uses "swag", relax."

"Everyone uses "swag".   Great.  Genius.  We are working on changing our history and you are going to say "swag" as a grown man and expect history to change."

She looked at me, shrugged her shoulders and said, "He doesn't get it." And walked back to the kitchen.

The man stood there, dumbfounded, holding his ladle and said, "She takes it all so seriously."

I looked down at my salad and cursed my nosiness that had led me into being a witness to such an uncomfortable situation. I could think of nothing witty to say to break the tension. Then the man walked back to the kitchen too.

I paid my bill and went to class.

I had two very divergent thoughts as I reflected on the encounter.

1. This woman felt the weight of her history each day and the responsibility to chose each word carefully to change perception and the future. (what an amazing individual, how many of us could carry that load?)

2.  What would the world be like if we all chose to be selective about the words we say?  If each word was written as part of the history?




There are persons of wisdom and deep thought hidden in life's tapestry. Luckie me, I expect to find them and I always do. Luckie me, they will all be included in my history.

Shiny Floors

Tomorrow is back to school day for many people. My little world seems to be vibrating with anxious waves of energy, what will tomorrow bring? What will tomorrow bring?

Here is what I know for sure:

Tomorrow will bring- 
kids with book bags and nervous grins
teachers with book bags and nervous grins
lots of problem solving opportunities.

But, there will also be....

a million rays of possibility
reflecting off the shiny floors.

And that makes me grateful that I get to do what I do.

First day miracles in fresh wax.  I can't wait!

Hummmm

I gave myself the gift of time.
A whole afternoon in fact.
To sit and rock and sit and rock and
listen.
I looked too,
 but I didn't do anything.
I didn't read or plan or worry or write.
I didn't think.

At first, it was hard, at first, I felt guilty.
At first, I couldn't quiet myself. My mind kept going back to my
"to dos".

Oh, but then.

 I saw a tiny hummingbird on the feeder and then another and another.
Three together sparring and sipping. I watched and then closed my eyes and listened.

I sat very still and listened for a long time.

Then I heard it:
The hums of their wings were unique.  Each bird's wings had a signature pitch.
And that recognition brought me great joy. I was flooded with gratefulness for this tiny tidbit.

I have thought about that moment everyday since. I am sure there are a million metaphors for life and good living embedded in that moment.
But, my lesson was this:
there are small and wondrous things all around, little nudges from the universe that life was meant to be beautiful. All I need to do is breathe and cherish and the joy comes rushing in.

Everyday miracles on a itsy bitsy wing~