Simply the Best

Here are ten things that are good for the soul.

1. Waking up next to your husband.
2. Going to church and taking communion.
3. Doing a headstand for a few minutes.
4. Playing the piano.
5. Toasted german bread with liverwurst and soft boiled eggs.
6. A strong Starbucks.
7. Getting a package in the mail, surprise from a friend three time zones away.
8. The intrigue of a good book.
9. Hearing your children laugh.
10. The grace of another day.

When You Feel Defeated

This week-end, I drove to Ohio to visit my grandmother in her new home, a care facility where she was admitted against her very strong will. At 98 years old, and with a broken leg, she just couldn't reasonably care for herself independently anymore. This was the best, although certainly not the easiest, solution for her safety. On my way there -- through the Township Roads, that wove me so far off the Interstate that I was concerned I might never be found again -- I received very few radio stations. To my good fortune, NPR came through loud and strong and I was able to listen to the winners of a recent essay contest. During one essay, I heard a beautiful phrase, that I will quote to the best of memory. "My biggest dilemmas in life have been answered in moments, not in words."

I enjoyed a thoughtful and caring visit with my grandmother, in which she bossed me six ways til Sunday. I tucked her in and left Saturday evening more fatigued than my busiest days managing a household of seven people. This I know is true: she's getting even with me. That little voice in her head, saying, "Well Nettie, if you're going to make me stay here, I'm going to make you work for it." And indeed, she did.

I stopped in again before leaving town on Sunday morning and found my grandma in bright spirits. She was sitting in her arm chair, putting her make-up on. Preparing for Coffee Club with her friends at 10:00. After applying her lip stick and brushing her hair, she looked up at me, with such innocence and asked, "Nettie, do I look garish?"

"Of course not, Grandma. You look like the lady you are," I replied.

We talked for awhile. About this. About that. I put my hand on her leg, told her I had to leave. And in that moment, without any words, everything changed. She laid her head back against the chair and lifted her feet slightly off the foot stool. She seemed so small, swallowed by the enormity of it all. The realization she was staying. That I was leaving. And home -- for both of us -- was somewhere far away.

She closed her eyes, and pulled her arms across her chest, and just began talking to me, so quietly: her back hurts, she's lonely, she doesn't get the rest she needs, she wants to go home, the bed isn't comfortable, her leg is sore, could I get her a Tylenol before I go? And then, everything changed again -- in the moment not with words. She put her feet back on the foot stool, readied herself, and turned her wedding bands on her fingers. My grandmother, the widow of almost 30 years, still wearing her wedding bands. "I just need to give myself a good talking to."

And in that moment, she taught me, how you behave when you feel defeated. You put on your lipstick, you comb your hair, you indulge a moment of despair, and you let it pass. You cling to the things that fortify you: a husband, a wedding band, a memory. And you are firm with yourself.

It was hard to leave, but it always is. Leaving is one of those things in life that doesn't get easier the more you practice it. As I was winding my way back to the Interstate, on roads that have long since been forgotten by the Department of Highway Safety, Richard Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" forced its way through the speakers of my Subaru. There is so much determination, so much intention, so much spirit in the opening of this Act of opera. It's impetuous, it's stubborn, and it's willful. Forget the ways in which it has been used in political history: it is undeniably beautiful, majestic, and complicated music. And I couldn't help but envision my grandmother, head down, shoulder forward, charging down the carpeted hallways of her nursing home, whipping the wheels of her chair, all 4"8' of her, marking her 10:00 arrival at Coffee Club. Singing her battle cry, just like a Valkyrie would.

And so I learned, when you are feeling defeated, be indomitable.

Ok, grandma. I will. Thank you for the moment.

Soundtrack and Scenery

The soundtrack and scenery of motherhood is always in our ears, it's all we can see. It will never cease. This morning, I looked around and saw two growing boys. Baseball bats have replaced pacifiers. Equipment bags have replaced the diaper carry-all. Gatorade bottles have replaced sippy cups. And in that never-ending soundtrack, the click-clack of cleats on pavement have replaced the hum of stroller wheels across the park.

The house smells like Irish Spring body wash instead of baby powder. The washing machine churns with endless varieties of sports uniforms instead of onesies. The pitter-patter of tiny feet on tile replaced by the thump of two wrestling boys. Sports Center replaces Baby Einstein. And time marches on.

It can change. All of it can change, except for one thing. Just this one. May it always be, that after every ball hit, after every pitch thrown, after every out made, after every serve returned, after every ace spiked, after every base stolen, after every "A" earned, after every award achieved, after every good deed done, may my boys always look for me. May their eyes continue to search for me in the crowd, where I will always be, so that we can say, in our silent soundtrack that no one else can hear, and so that we can show through our silent exchange that no one else can see,

"Mama, did you see that?"

"Yes baby, I did. And I am so proud."

Self-Evident

When I look around me, I see nothing but riches. And I hold these truths to be self-evident. There is nothing in the world more gratifying than to love and be loved in return. To bear witness to the love you have nourished as it spins into lightness and comfort, like sugar into a cotton candy stick. To be cared for, and cared about, by people who actively welcome you into their hearts, into their spirits, into their family, and call you mother.

To be adored by the ones who call you mama. To be understood by the people who call you daughter. To be mirrored by the one who calls you sister. To be honored by the lives of the ones you call brother.

And to look into the mirror and see reflected, the deeply satisfying place you call home. The place you share with the mate of your soul, wherever he may be.

And there is nothing -- almost nothing -- in the world that can't be soothed by an afternoon of baseball.

It's self-evident. You just have to look.

Thresholds

May 2 is a noteworthy day in my life. It is a day that changed my life forever six years ago: one in which new doors opened and old doors closed. It is nothing short of a threshold.

When I reflect on everything that has happened between May 2 then and now, I stammer for words. There were moments early on -- facing truths that pulverized me like waves too strong to stand in, but yet I kept trying. The undertow getting the best of me, dragging me away from the places at which I started. Sometimes pulling me under when I least expected it. The rush of seawater into my lungs that would leave me coughing for years. The sand disappearing under my feet as the tide washed away, leaving me searching for truth, slipping for balance.

There have been moments of guarded silence and moments of raucous hope. These have been years in which love and fear almost tore me apart -- but didn't. There’s been tiny single-mom apartments and a large family home stuffed full of seven loving souls. There’s a big yard, and first day of school pictures, and potty-training, and sweet 16 parties, and karate classes, and soccer games, and pre-school field trips, and new cars. Countless nights on the deck or by the firepit, drinking wine while my husband smoked a cigar. There’s been long talks with my big kids, the purchase of prom dresses, growing a garden, shoveling snow, building fires in the hearth, family dinners, loads of laundry, emotional battles waged, positions defended, victories, losses, stalemates, white flags, and change. Jobs and projects and income and interviews and background checks and new beginnings.

My family divided as our future multiplied.

Until finally, I landed on my yoga mat yesterday and during our final shivasnaa, the instructor read this passage, and I have to believe he was talking directly to me, although he never could have known, but surely he always has. "How long are you going to hold on to past hurts? For how long will you stand cloaked in your self-righteous suffering when you have the strength to let go? All you have to do is open your hands and lay down your most cherished fears.”

And with that. I did.

Running with Scissors

I remember learning that the root of the word "decision" is "to cut". I checked myself on www.dictionary.com this evening, and my memory is correct. The root is Latin, evolved to Middle French, and then Middle English meaning literally: a cutting off.

Maybe that's why decisions are so hard to make. Maybe that's why it is sometimes so hard to live with our decisions. There is, quite literally, an amputation involved in every decision we make.

I often find it difficult to appreciate the spoils of my decisions, because I spend so much time lamenting the casualities. What a special kind of warfare.

When we were married, my husband recommended that we be always like the blades on a pair of scissors -- forever connected at the center and cutting anything that comes between us. Careful to never harm each other. I suppose I can accept the decisions I make as long I have the balancing strength of both of our tandem blades.

To Pieces

When we were little, I remember my dad saying, "I love you to pieces." I didn't really get it at the time. For some reason, it always reminded me of potato sticks (remember that silly snack that came in a can? Messy to beat the band. I could never really get a full mouthful of those things. They just made your hands greasy and litter the front of your shirt with salty debris and potato detritus). Anyway, I can't explain the mental connection between being loved to pieces and potato sticks. Maybe, quite simply, I just found them both to be messy propositions.

Lately, I've been thinking about what holds us together. Isn't it the same thing that breaks us to pieces? Think about it. If we walked around each day, fully aware of all the love that we hold in our hearts, surely we would shatter to pieces. There would just be, no feasible way, that we could function as human beings, if we were cognizant, at all times, of all the emotion glueing us together. The weight of the wonder would surely make us crumble. We would love to pieces.

Maybe we put it at a safe distance. A space that we can tolerate in our ordinary lives. But moments come, when the distance between us and that safe space collide, and the same force that is holding us together is the very force that breaks us apart. All that emotion, brewing, brimming, stirring, and stifled rushes in to raise us and raze us.

Paradoxically, the days when I am standing on the shoulders of giants, are usually the days that bring me to my knees.