Violin

I was running and listening to my iPod. With the combination of the mental-cloud-busting endorphins and the music and surroundings, there are times I find myself reflecting, day dreaming, but overall just feeling good. 

A song came on that was written by Ray LaMontange, a folky rock singer, but the version I was listening to was covered by the Zac Brown Band, a country group. The violin is so melodic and engaging in this song, I ran along and lost myself in it, bowing my arms in my mind. 

My daughter plays the violin so we have a little sized violin in the house, and I am tempted to pick it up. But that darn instrument takes a lot of practice and finesse. I started playing the guitar and I am slowly learning to sound like something decent. I've held back when that desire to pick up the violin overcomes me, because you can only try so many new things before you become the jack of all trades and the master of none. 

I realized then and there that I don't need to be that music to fully enjoy it. I don't need to play it and learn it. I love it for what it is and that is all I need. Why do I have to have the idea to take my appreciation to next level? The beauty of that instrument is there to give me joy and it does. And that is its reason for being, for me. No more.

The song:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ospPO9DKABc

Reflective run

I live in a historic southern city with a big federally landmarked military park. I have never been there since I got here, though they have had races, events there and tons of parents I know go running or walking there. 

There's a relatively short race coming up and if I want to train, I can only run so far through my neighborhood, so I ventured over there. It's beautiful and huge with monuments and cannons every few feet. I opted for the 3 mile run, and aimed to work up to the longer ones. Well, despite attempting to remember the map in my head, I took the wrong road and ended up covering nearly 10 miles. The runners high can only get you so far, then you start wondering "when is this three miles going to end?"

The park has some serious terrain, hills and turns all over, so this turned out to be a run/walk for me and I'm pretty beat! 

So with life's mishaps, I ask myself, "what is this trying to teach me?" 

Physically, I was tired, my glucose ran out and I was tapping into my glycogen reserves. I could use a drink and a carb. I was also uncertain about when I was going to see the starting house again. I surmised that my lesson was empathy. As I acknowledged my hunger, thirst, fatigue and uncertainty, I passed the monument of a fallen leader, a troop surrender, a brotherhood of soldiers. What must they have been feeling? I chose to run there that day and give my body an intentional and manageable stress, but the whole reason for the park to exist is because these soldiers were put through so much more, worse and longer circumstances, and uncertainty. I am not feeling guilt for my symptoms, but I believe there was no better way to come to a place of empathy with something from decades ago but to acknowledge just a piece of that they went through, unexpectedly, but ironically in this setting. 

Here's to a scenic, reflective, and exhasting run through empathy!

Beautiful sky

This southern sky is just beautiful. So many times I've felt compelled to take pictures of it- the dusk, the night, early morning, the middle of a Sunny day, an impending storm, I've even recorded the sunrise straight out my window. So I'm going to put some photos here to pay tribute to this beautiful sky. The colors are REAL.

A double rainbow- halo around sun from ice crystals reflected in the sky

Tornado in MS 2014

My first night here- stunning, though blurry

The sky goes on for miles...

A beautiful southern sky song: 

http://youtu.be/GqrWbOCe2Jg

Track memories

When I was in high school I ran track. It started as something to do in the spring season that could help both the soccer and basketball that I played at other times of the year. But it turned into the sport I excelled at and eventually held state ranking in. I was a sprinter and ran the 100m and 300m hurdles, the 400m (hell race, so he put me in the 4x400 relay too) and the high jump. But hurdles were my thing and I focused most on them. 

When you have meets, several high schools come to each meet and you see the same competitors multiple times a year. The way it panned out was I came in first several times, but whenever these two sisters from a school 40 minutes away were there, the old McCloud would come in first, and I'd be second. Every time. I never could quite catch her. The younger sister McCloud got better and would be threatening my standing a few times too. In fact by my senior year, younger McCloud came in second at the state open, I was fourth and the older sister was fifth. I guess that one time, I was able to beat my nemesis, but of course, the sister took her place ahead of me. 

So my dad, who like me loves spreadsheets, sent me all these track scores from back then, and I get to wondering what those girls are doing now. The had a smooth poise about them, the ran with a mature focus, there was no gritty rivalry because they were better than that. I remember once, after really IDing her as my "person" who I couldn't beat, I cycled through thinking of her as that damn wavy haired bitch to, surrendering my feistiness and thinking, she's just good. She's consistent and clean and just good. I'm pretty good, but she's better. So I told her so. After one race that she beat me, I told her afterwards that she ran a good race and she's a good runner. After nonverbal acknowledgement of this girl for so long, I never heard her speak, didn't know if she was a bitch or not, but she stopped and genuinely told me I did well too and I was awesome. You really have no idea what people think of you until you say something. Who knows, maybe me tailing a hair behind her all the time kept her pushing herself. I always wanted to reach her, she always wanted to escape my pursuit. 

Of course later, it wasn't just her, her darn sister was hot on my trail. If it wasn't one it was the other, trading off around me. 

So I looked them up because you can google anything. The older one went to Dartmouth and has a PhD in behavioral pharmacology from Johns Hopkins and works there now. Friggin slacker. I found that the younger one went to  Barnard at Columbia University and is the Director of Worldwide Training for Subway restaurants at their headquarters in Connecticut. She married the love of her life and had a daughter in 2008. I knew they'd make something of themselves, they just seemed to have that focused maturity about them. Their parents did a good job. 

But I went back to google the younger one and I found an obituary. Young McCloud passed away a year and a half ago, at the age of 29 from breast cancer. I was shocked, dismayed and downright sad. She was diagnosed at 26. That is crazy unheard of young. She went through some rough treatment and was clear for maybe two years then it came back and took her life in 6 weeks when her daughter was 4. 

I remembered her as the attractive, vibrant young runner. And now she's dead. When I was 17 and running along side these girls, all of us adorning our school tank and shorts, spiked shoes, toting our blocks, stretching on hurdles, punching our chest out over the finish lines, we were competitive, determined and thought only of the next race. And after coming back to our bench out of breath, we reflected on the race just passed - we were lit up, pissed off, humbled, proud... and either way, so very alive. We held an assumption that went without ever saying or being conscious of- that all these young people around us would be alive later on. We'd all grow up, do something, have some job, maybe have kids, maybe meet a mate, but we'd be alive for goodness sake. And after one simple google mission, I've knifed the scene in my head and decapitated that assumption. 

I ache for her husband because I'm a wife of a cancer survivor. I ache for her daughter because I have my own little piece of magic packaged up in a girl I bore. I ache for her mom because when I told my own mom this story her first response was, "oh, her poor mother."  And her father, for 

when I mentioned this to mine, he felt an unheard of sense of guilt for his fingers over a decade and a half befor that typed her name on those spreadsheets, noting the unfairness. Aside from that I feel for her and her family as a human. I don't really google these random people from the past, so what drew me to seek these sisters is a curious thing, but as I was reading "It's Always Something" Gilda Radner's autobiography, I learned of another woman who has died too young, too unexpectedly, and I know that although there is abundant tragedy, I still have my husband. We shouldn't feel guilty for that, I should be greatful and joyful. Because if I ever lost my husband, the last thing I'd want is for every other wife to be depressed they were still with the mate they loved. We should honor what we have because others aren't so fortunate. Here's to Greatfulness. And god bless the selfish, short-sighted teenagers who are thinking about the next meet, party or test - it can be a beautiful time!

Maya Angelou

"I am a woman phenomenally. Phenomenal woman that's me."

I remember the first poem I ever read by her- she exuded a boldness as well as an acceptance that could nudge along any seeking soul. From the books in my younger years to interviews in my mature self, she reminded us all that we were phenomenal and capable of greater love. 

RIP Dr Maya Angelou!

I remember her for all the snippets of moments. I didn't even know her but she allowed me to better know myself. I remember one time listening to her at a down-trodden time in my life and she made me realize where I stood to improve and how I could move forward with grace.

I remember reading I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and since then, I've held this picture of her outside sitting by the fence. No, I did not share the same experiences that she did in the book, but I've sat at a fence and thought about my life too. I've shared the same sentiments, the same intangible feelings she has. 

It's almost as if I regard her as a friend. As if she were a part of me. But actually she helped me to understand my life better; I understood the world better because of little certain things she said and for that her influence is without measure to me

Her poems gave confidence to the timid girl they gave intent to the bold. Her thoughts on motherhood were words that were beyond a writer or a poet. They were heart sounds. 

And her views on faith...Are those that, to this day, I can only admire and hope that one day I can find that type of relationship with God.

So why am I teary for somebody who I didn't even know? I guess because I fear that she possesses another nugget of wisdom, or has some other thing to say that would be a help or an eye-opener in my life, except now, I will never know it.

So I guess I'm crying for myself. Isn't it always about onesself? Things she said helped me to navigate life better. And now I'm sad because I'm lost for understanding the potential understanding because she's not there to deliver it to me.

After saying this shouldn't I realize that she only touched in me whatever I had in me already?

It's as if you go to a lake and while looking at the water you have an epiphany. And suddenly you live a better life after that. Years later you come to find out the lake has been drained and the wooded area has been burned. You're sad for the memory and location of an important moment and an integral moment. You're also sad for the potential of more moments and deeper understanding that the lake could have given you. As she said, you may forget what they did but you'll never forget the way they made you feel.

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

I also realized that she was able to rewrite her own stories, so to speak, enough that she no longer blamed those who had done her wrong. She wrote her final book in her eighties honoring her mother, all about her mother. One could say she had a crappy mother- she was abandoned, hit, exposed to inappropriate surroundings for a child, but Maya didn't begrudge her so-so mother. She acknowledged her mothers shortcomings as part of her, but honored her strong points as the prominent story. She didn't regurgitate her own injustices, but danced in her fortunes. 

Maya stood tall. God bless her.

My Dog

My dog is almost 15 years old. In dog years, as they say, she's 105. She certainly has slowed down and declined in the past two years, but steadily over the past 5. She is probably 75% blind and has the same amount of hearing left. We've moved her half way across the country, and she took about as long to adjust as our children, and in her own way she is comfortable and acclimated. 

She has always been a bit neurotic and holds onto her aversions like a true stubborn Italian- but you can tell it's not stubborn pride that is the root of her behavior but pavlov's fear- petrified from the initial incident that cause the aversion. One is her fear of bathrooms. All bathrooms. She won't put a paw in a bathroom- no ball, no food, no loved owner can lure her in. This is because of her dislike of getting a bath. The word bath does it too. When I plan to bathe her, I speak in Spanish, or cryptic phrases while avoiding eye contact with her. I close all the doors first, get the stuff ready, hours before, because she'll know there is strange activity going on in the bathroom and sense something is up. I have to one up her mind games. I'll carry about my day for a couple hours, the she gets the sneak attack- I'll be casually singing to myself, or munching popcorn and swoop down to pick her up, bring her up the stairs and plop her in the bathroom closing us both in. 

All of this being said, my dog will now, after having moved into this new house, saunter into any bathroom. Sometimes when hubby or I are getting ready in the morning, in she'll come and lay down on the bath mat like it's totally normal. After years of being petrified of tiles and toilets, she's past it. Is it that she can't see what she's doing, or with two faculties half gone, doesn't discriminate much any more, is she too old to care? 

One time, another house ago, we moved in and after a week or so, I decided I didn't want the dog bowls to be visible any more. They were unsightly and  I wanted them hidden. So I established the place for her food bowls to be near a laundry room, still part of the kitchen flooring, but around a corner. She refused to eat. I thought, "sucks for you" and "she'll get over it eventually" I'd hear her feet in the middle of the night, hungry, but equally traumatized by the corner she'd have to turn to get to her food. She'd finally muster enough courage to make it to the bowl, grab some nuggets in her mouth and run back to the known landscape of the kitchen. There she'd drop the food and eat it from the floor where she stopped. Some nights she'd get through most of it, some not. And on and on it went like this. I didn't want to give in. We had the bowls in the kitchen in the last house and I didn't like it- slobbery food bowls, spilling water... But I must say, in the end she won. Her neurosis won out over my stubbornness. Because what I was trying to avoid was happening, since she'd bring her mouthful back to the kitchen, she was getting her slobber on the floor anyway! And the whole ordeal- walking a couple feet to the corner, retreating under the table. Then a couple inches further, retreating. The a foot further then retreating. Then she'd give up, come into my bedroom for 10 minutes, and later try it all over agin. I couldn't fall asleep listening to this go on. The consequence of what I had to listen to and observe from me standing my ground became more aggregating than just giving in. I didn't get it. I thought it was rediculous. I even compromised and moved the bowl out of the laundry areas to the corner of the hallway, now visible from the kitchen. But nope. Still traumatizing. So I gave in and put the darn bowls right smack in the kitchen where she could not have a panic attack every night and we moved on. Morale of the story: If someone's irrational, don't fight or try to change them.

But what is the kicker for me now is one night I'm half sleeping, and I hear her nails click clicking through my bedroom, and turn down the little hallway to our master bathroom. Then click click into the bathroom, further in and stop. Then I hear a lapping of water. That geriatric, half blind, half deaf dog of mine was drinking out of the toilet! Well I'll be damned. I have no explanation for it (there was in fact plenty of water in her bowl) but that her inhibitions and mental indigestion were gone momentarily and she was taking something for herself for once in life. The dog that needs to look back over her shoulder and check for approval befor taking a shit. She's obedient to the point where it threatens my sense of feminine self worth. She was thirsty and figured she'd try something new. When I recounted this story to my mom, she was inspired, and decided she too was going to drink from the proverbial toilet now that she is older. Well, here's to you pup! And here's to drinking from the toilet- I am truly proud of you, and I'm honored on behalf of all woman kind!

Weather you know it or not

The news is bias, as we all know, and it's actually not that informative. In NY I'd hear who was shot in the bronx, who tried to jump off the tapan zee bridge and what's happening in lybia. 

Now I hear who's still flooded in Jackson, who murdered their girlfield in the trailer park and what's happening in Ukraine. 

It's locally depressing and wordly detached. We don't get much about the day to day in other parts of our own country- and I realize now the south has, and always did have, some crazy fickle weather. 

We get ice storms that are impairing but beautiful.

We get lots of flooding when the rain is relentless. This was a park like front yard of my son's classmates house. Now with 4 feet of water, a flowing river took over their yard. I dropped my son off for a play date and after 2 hours of pummeling rain, I saw this. I told the mother, "you have a river in your yard." She said, "yeah, it happens every time there's a lot of rain. We we have that hump there so it never reaches the house." Ok. If you're ok with it, I guess I'll be. 

This is our back yard. The volume is much more profound in person when your used to just grass being there.

And we get tornados. Random, unpredictable- it's like practicing medicine, they tell you that conditions are favorable for the possibility of the development of a tornado. We are not diagnosing one, but we're not ruling one out. 

There was one small but destructive tornado since I've been here, about 30 miles away. The emergency broadcast system interrupts the radio stations indicating the location of these favorable conditions, or the location and speed of powerful thunderstorms. They add a scroll to the tv, all the while I tell my kids, don't worry. I actually like the thunder, I find it amazing!

The country

I don't know what image gets conjured up when you think of the rural south, the one stop towns. When someone tells me they live "out in the country" I often picture a dinky house on a dirt plot with some dusty farm next door, far out from anything. I never like to be too far out from stuff- grocery, stores, friends, etc. But there is a simple beauty to the country. 

I went in a field trip with my boy and his kindergarten class to a petrified Forest "in the country" and this involved about a 25 mile ride after getting off the interstate on a two lane country road. 

Houses, rolling hills, horses, farms... there were so many opportunities to stop and take a picture, just because of the simple, God given beauty. I didn't because 5 miles off the highway, my gas light went on and I had no idea how far it would take me on this country road or if there was a gas station ahead. I passed probably three cars on the whole journey, if that. 

As I took in the beauty, one undeveloped mile after another, I said screw the petrified Forest, and put a gas station into my iPhone. 

I came upon a wide farm and passed a huge green farming tractor riding along the shoulder. The guy in the cab was talking on his smart phone. What an amusing scene- the basics of historical food production coupled with the top of technology, all in rural Mississippi. 

It was quiet, the air was clean, the sky was blue and freckled with puffy clouds, the horses seemed happier. 

These horses itched their backs on the ground, hoisted themselves up flicked their manes, looked at me with an air of displeasure. These were some animated horses. 

The wildflowers are quite lovely and everywhere- purple, fushia, yellow.

This is my kids picking some flowers. And believe it it not, this is right next to my house.

Us New Yorkers and northerners have to get out of the congestion, the poor air quality and embrace the country sometimes. Even a ride up the Taconic north of peekskill, or removed Connecticut like north of New Milford, Litchfield and on will do it. Especially in the fall...

And yes I did get gas when the back road intersected a bigger back road. I also found that the ride was better than the petrified Forest. A number marked one big hard piece of tree after another. I liked the gift shop and flaming was cool. 

Had I sped along at 75 cause I could and not taken in what was around me I would have missed a big part of the gift of that day. Sure a picnic with my son on my birthday is priceless (with 40 kindergarteners around) but you miss so much when life is taken as an event, and not the whole of the adventure. 

Human

This quote, since I first heard it, changed the way I thought about people, things and life, and has resonated with me for years.

"I am a human being. Nothing human can be alien to me."

Terence 

A16 year old stabbed some people in a school in Pennsylvania the other day and while the story played silently on the tv at the gym I was at, one girl said they were reporting he had bad acne and was taking an acne medication and it can cause psychosis. 

A few moments of silence passed, and debunking the group-think that could have ensued from the tone and manner in which the comment was proposed, another girl said, "I was wondering what excuse they were going to come up with for this one."

I laughed, knowing that's how it goes. 

But then the quote floated back to my mind and I remarked, "that means that if you trace back enough, every one of us has some factors that can be identified that would cause us to stab, shoot or go all Michael Douglas in Falling Down on people." 

I could be viewed as questionable for saying that, or stripped down insightful.

We've all got the ingredients to do the abhorrent, we as humans have the potential or capacity to do all things human- good and bad. Voluntary or involuntary. Psychologically, physically. 

How can that quote not foster empathy for others?? 

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-eREiQhBDIk

Black Boy

I am reading Black Boy by Richard wright. Coming off black history month and living just about an hour from where Wright was born in Mississippi, I was moved to read this biography. And it is captivating, as any good bio is- shocking, deviating from what is considered a "normal" upbringing, filled with injustice, poverty, illness, prejudice- this is well written, introspective but simple. 

After I read this passage below, I had to read it over several times, it's dense with both reflection and foreshadowing and tells of the conflicting sentiments of one who empathizes with another's pain but burns with his own. I found no good way to chop it down to post it on social media so I put it here. It took my awe and I felt I needed to share.

"At the age of twelve I had an attitude toward life that was to endure, that was to make me seek those areas of living that would keep it alive, that was to make me skeptical of everything while seeking everything, tolerant of all and yet critical. The spirit I had caught gave me insight into the suffering of others, made me gravitate toward those whose feelings were like my own, made me sit for hours while others told me of their lives, made me strangely tender and cruel, violent and peaceful.

It made me want to drive coldly to the heart of every question and lay it open to the core of suffering I knew I would find there. It made me love burrowing into psychology, into realistic and naturalistic fiction and art, into those whirlpools of politics that had the power to claim the whole of men's souls. It directed my loyalties to the side of men in rebellion; it made me love talk that sought answers to questions that could help nobody, that could only keep alive in me that enthralling sense of wonder and awe in the face of the drama of human feeling which is hidden by the external drama of life."

Black Boy, by Richard Wright

Dirty South

Imagine yourself in a church of a religion you are not, in a part of town you don't frequent. You feel conspicuous, and utterly out of place. You don't know the songs, the mantras, the gestures... Your worried about your car. Are you supposed to park there?

You just follow along as much as you can, try to blend in and hope that you'll observe enough to "get it".

That's how I feel. I just moved from New York to the Deep South. The two places are pretty opposite. 

I am paranoid that my kids seem rude, with their sarcasm that has become casual in our family and their lack of proper formalities that the southern folks have had banged into their heads. Ma'am means, "what did you say?" and a formal "Mrs/Miss" and "Yes" and most times it's just like a verbal period at the end of a sentence. I wonder how they view me if I don't say it? Do I just say it all the time and feel like a jack cuz it's not natural for me? 

The people here run the gamut- from the uppity southern lady with the finer things who has big rings and a guarded, exclusive neighborhood, to the guy who lives in a shed that he made and burns mattresses in his front yard. (Yes I've seen both)

And as foreign as it is to a New Yorker born in the 80s, people here are prejudice- from both sides I'm told. Whites outwardly segregation-minded, and blacks verbally disrespectful to whites. 

The library is proud to be desegregated since the mid 70s, as their main web page states, and the Cracker Barrel has a framed disclaimer in the lobby, and as a foot note on all the menus, about how they accept and allow all people in their restaurant. 

This blows me away.

Now, I haven't witnessed or felt any of this first hand, but it is a unanimous account from the residents here. 

And as I overheard in a coffee shop, many people just don't want to change. This is what they know, this is what they like, and this is how it should stay. 

And, let me tell you, as a dietitian, it is very difficult to eat healthy in this town. I got a flyer from a place called  Bumpers that serves, for $4, a meal called: grilled cheese sandwich and chilli pie. A chili pie, from the ad, looks like Fritos with chilli and cheese on top. For only $4! I went into the wrong grocery store one day, and it is amazing how cheap you can eat, and how crappy the food is. This ghetto supermarket had wrinkled fruits and vegetables- weather because they don't turn over enough, or because that's all the clientele is able to pay for, I don't know. And kool aid, boxes of grits, and sugar cereal. And every store has pork chittlins. I still don't know what that is, but I don't like the looks of it. One man who provided a service at my houses said, "if it ain't fried, it ain't good."  He is on a diet now, per his doctor, and he suggested if you want to eat healthy, you gone have to cook it yourself.  

There are signs, I swear in any southern town noting that Bubba will will buy your junk, or sell you fire logs, or clean your pipes.

Everyone loves camouflage. (I actually do too) And man do they have a thick accent.

This all isn't meant to be negative, just honest. But the beauty of the south is that's there is no traffic, mild winters, very nice people, and a LOW cost of living. Bell peppers were 0.69/pound and that wasn't even on sale. Gas is a buck less than NY, and cigarettes, if you choose to hasten your death, are HALF the price. A $9 pack up north is $4 here. Maybe it's Bloomberg. 

They love beer and foot ball and everyone from Bubba in the shed with fire wood or Greg and Betty Sue in the housing association regulated neighborhood have an American made pick up truck. 

And I'm stuck here with no tv for the Super Bowl, what an atrocity!! I don't know what to do- there is a Rent-to-Own on every block so I thought about rentin' me a tele-vision for one day, but I don't know... 

But I got beer.

The nice things about the south are REAL nice, and the unfamiliar parts are REAL foreign. All in all it's ok.

I live in a beautiful home with a garbage disposal in the sink, in a beautiful neighborhood with neighbors who will probably be stopping by with their loafs. My house is one open floor with a big master closet. The weather is nice. The catfish is wonderful and there is Blue Bell ice cream.

It's ok.

Y'all.

Rudy and women

I tend to be flatly wired, or more closely, plugged into the ground wire- I'm steady and experience little emotional fluctuations in terms of sadness and joy. So I decided to use a prompt to bring out some of my emotions so my kids could see what a human, like their own mama, can experience.

I rented Rudy.

I remember being a youth and my parents rented this movie- by looking at the cover, I had little desire to watch it then, but it turned out to be memorable enough to follow me almost two decades later. I remember crying at this movie to an extent I felt my own inane emotions betrayed me. That movie reels you in and squeezes you out like a wet towel. 

So I put it in and Gabby nestled against me through the whole film, Marco fidgeted, in and out, on and on. 

I provided some bits of narration to ensure they understood the reasons behind some things. They get the feelings the actors feel, and understand the literal action, but not always the motives, or little, but important lines.

Gabby was cheering Rudy on and giving words of encouragement as of half way through the movie, well before a climax. She didn't fuss or want to get up, and as Marco was rolling over us and seeing how far off the couch he could jump, Gabby and I were with Rudy.

Once again, I cried. I cheered and gathered in my girl who felt the emotion as naturally as any heart wielding human can. 

Afterward, she said she was embarrassed about crying, and told me of another time she cried watching a movie while other kids didn't. It was the Lion King- well, geez, that one will get you for sure! I told her she has a  beautiful heart that can feel for others and nothing should ever change about that. We bonded in Rudy's name- she wanted to meet Rudy.

But the finest part came later.

After we all got ready for bed, washed up, read books, tucked in, Gabby comes to me in the kitchen as I was getting a cup of tea and says she was scared before of my reaction, but she was now brave. She proceeded to confess a minor infraction to me- something that had been a contentious subject in the past. She hid it from me since she got back from school, but now, on her own accord, she confessed her actions and mental dialog around it. It was kind of priceless... and it was Rudy!! She said Rudy made her brave! I bet part of it was a emotional bonding during Rudy which fostered a safer place for confessions, but either way...

Rudy prevailed again.

Women are fantastic creatures and I should really embrace all the expanses of our compassionate capabilities. Crying has a purpose sometimes, I suppose!

(I wonder what I confessed to my mom after I watched this as a youth? Lol :)

Making Stories

I might be moving.

And it's a blog unto itself to explore all the ideas that that brings up. But I recently asked a friend of mine if she ever moved around when she was younger and the conversation led to us sharing a story about our grandmas' and Snapple drinks.
I thought about how our stories define us when we are young and don't really know who we are yet. We meet someone new and tell them where we grew up, what nationality we are, what are parents do for a living. These things make up the superficial picture of us to a stranger. Well, I am arming my kids with lots of material to tell their strangers. One was born in the hard fast north and the other was born in the deep Cajun south. We moved once and now we're moving again - they will tell their strangers all about it and integrate all the pictures I'll be taking with the scant memories they'll have at these young ages. Hopefully they will say it made them stronger or more outgoing, or more fearless.

I might be giving them stories.

And when we pack our bags and say good by to this house that they started school in and get on the plane, I'll say, "Alright kids, let's make a story."

Domestic abuse and human expansion

I went to a domestic abuse vigil to support a friend of mine. And it was sensitive and triumphant and a simple beauty. I sat and observed and took in the night.
There were probably 20 total people there and one could assume that most of them have had a personal experience with domestic abuse, or like me they were supporting one who had. There was an older man sitting there who raised his hand and spoke at some point during the night and he offered up his lack of understanding about the whole situation and cycle. He didn't understand how you could love someone who hurts you, how you could stay with them - the whole thing really blew his mind. He told briefly of the solid, wholesome foundation of his nuclear family, and of his adoring relationship with his wife. This is what he knew and he admittedly did not understand the speakers, the survivors or the turmoil and grief.
I was surprised to hear a man come to a domestic abuse vigil to say that he didn't get how all this even went on and how these women could find themselves in this situation. Yet, I was silently grateful for his openness to admit his naiveté and in this forum. It's like going to a rally against cancer to say you don't get how people get cancer. After taking in his questions and responses, I regarded him as brave to have the conversations, and to attend the vigil. He engaged in something he didn't understand and when you put yourself beyond your comfort zone, it enhances you. And engaging yourself in something you don't understand expands humanity.
We tend to stay with what we know, and only by being thrown into an experience is how we experience it. But I think more of us should attend targeted groups and focused rallies. If I know nothing about Alaska, I should watch the show about law enforcement in Alaska. And if I care nothing for weddings, I should attend a bridal show. That is how I will expand myself. That is how I become more human - not by indulging in that which I already relish.
Kudos to the older man who can't grasp domestic abuse! He showed up, naïve and simple and all and he expanded himself.

Connection

I've heard life is all about connection. That as humans, we are meant to connect with each other - we talk, we are social and we hash things out collectively. The human experience is about connection.

So I was in an early mass this weekend with my two young kids and being catholic, that means we are sequestered to silence for 1 hour of our Sunday. No matter how long we've been going, it is just difficult for them to not move much and not talk much, and me to deal with the latters. Kids have grown up saying what they think and asking many questions, and mine are innately mystified by whispering. My son was telling me a very perceptive observation about how the colors of the hanging decor at the alter had changed and he went on and on - are we in a different church? why aren't they blue? that man is different....and all I could do was keep shushing him and gave the quickest placating answer in hopes that he would just stop talking. And of course, my girl was talking to herself this whole time. And I realized that they were the only little kids in there at this early mass. The later mass is the "family mass." So for 40 minutes or so I shushed them intermittently, redirected them from standing on the kneeling pads, kneeling on the pew and sitting on me. All I saw were peoples backs and their heads turned from me. From behind me, I felt people looking at me. I dared not look to the side of me because simply everyone is facing forward, standing still and silent. I felt mildly conspicuous but that is such a common feeling in church with kids that it's par for the course. But there is an underlying shunned feeling when everyone is turned from you like that.

Then we were prompted to shake hands and offer a sign of peace to your neighbor. At that brief moment - all the bodies in front and to the side of me turned to each other and me - they looked at me with bright eyes, most of them remembering their own kids in church - The grandmas are probably thinking, "oh let them be, they're kids." While really thinking, "I wish I had those days back, they were so sweet and cute and innocent, now my son is doing X and my daughter just said Y... oh let them kick my pew and poke at my coat, its ok!" So I met eyes with everyone in front, across, to the side and behind us. They were all warm and shook my hand, some shook my kids' hands and of course i got to scoop up my babies and give them a piece of peace that only a mother can. And I felt the weight fall off - after that moment of connection, there was warmth, acceptance and fondness. I no longer minded as much that they couldn't seem to stop asking random questions, have to pee every 20 minutes or didn't get the whisper concept. We all met eyes and hands and by the looks on the stranger's faces, it felt ok. It was that connection that made it better. How can you feel that someone cares about you when they have their back to you and their eyes away?

So, yes, I guess, it is all about connection.

New Friends

There is something to be said for new friends. Like old money and new money, there are old friends and new friends. And I have enjoyed cultivating the relationships of new friends - not because of a commonality of background, history or upbringing - but because of a mutual respect for our differences and humor in our similarities. They are the ones who really take you as you are and are not subject to the baggage of your past or the meddleings that made you who you are. These things are good and necessary, but not necessary to relive in an active conversation. You are a result of how you processed your life and what you present to new friends is the finished computer program. You can tell them how you tried a sequence and failed, how you tried another and won, but what you are is what you are and they can like you just for that. No obligation, no perpetuation, no pre-conception. Come as you are.
And you have a clean slate to be the best quality friend that you can. Sometimes the dynamics of old friendships diminish your capacity to care. Sometimes you find yourself typecast. With a new friend, you can be better or deeper, or simpler or surface floating. Whatever it is you need and want, you present yourself as such and it works with a new friend. If you need more, and you make yourself vulnerable with a new friend, you can throw out the line and they'll probably catch it because of the mutual respect no one had the chance to ruin. No one let anyone down. And when you find a new friend, at a more mature age and place in your life, it is entirely possible that no one will.

Limits

What started as an out-patient procedure in the hospital ended with a dog.

As Tom was lying in the room for a brief recovery, the Filipino nurse told us about her dog. Our interest in her story led her to tell us about the other Filipino nurse's dog. Her husband was having asthma symptoms even though this dog, a Shih Tzu is not supposed to aggrevate allergies. Short story is that she wanted to find the dog another home. Out goes one Filipino and five minutes later, in came the other. Number 2 told us about her dog, Thunder, and that he was wonderful - playful, but calm, he ate without issues, peed without issues, pooped without issues and he, like this breed, doean't shed. He loves to take a bath!

Thunder likes other dogs, likes people and likes kids.

Tom just loves dogs, and I love things that cuddle near me, don't make a mess and don't bother my kids. So all in all, we decided we'd like to give Thunder a try. We asked Fili number 2 to call us.

The next day, another nurse from the unit at the hospital issued the customary call to the patient to see how Tom was doing. I said, "Oh, he's fine. But there was this one nurse..." and proceeded to describe her Filipino-ness in a politically correct way and this other nurse, nurse number 3 was going to look into it. 

Later that day, Tom sealed the deal with the number 2's son. We brewed over names since we didn't like "Thunder" and decided upon Issey for Issey Miaki, the Japanese fashion designer. I love his men's cologne and it is one that I bought for Tom a while ago and I love when he wears it. Apparently, Steve Jobs asked Mr.Miaki to make him a black mock turtleneck that he liked and Miaki made him hundreds! Hence the signature style of the Apple icon! We were set on Issey for the name.

When Gabby got home from school, I took her with me and picked up the pup about 25 minutes away. We found Thunder in an apartment with his family of two parents and three young boys who loved him. Thunder was living with nurse number 2's son in law to preserve the husband's lungs. The family was lovely and we gathered up Thunder's things and headed to the car.

I asked the son how Thunder is in a car and the guy laughed and said he is "all over the place". Ok, fine. So I decided to put him in the hatch area of our SUV. I used to have a small dog, a terrier, who would sit in our front seat and lie down still the whole ride. It was the calmest that terrier ever was. With this Thunder bolt, I didn't get the same.

I opened the hatch and put him in the trunk area, and in the blink of an eye, he hopped over the row of seats and was in the back seat with Gabby. I grumbled and went around and got in the car. This dog jumped all over my car, in every seat- he took my son's bear for a chew toy, he dug into a bag of stuff I had to return at Walmart, he dug at my seats. I let him do all this because it was better to remain focused on driving than yelling at a dog and crashing. I tried to take the bear because I didn't know how diligent of a chewer this thing was and I didn't want him to ruin Marco's toy. That was a mistake - he followed the toy to me in the driver's seat, which fell by my feet. Last thing I needed was this dog to jump down there, then I'm sure to crash! I screamed at it then and dug up the bear. The damn thing nipped my wrist and scratched me, albeit mistakenly, but I felt like doing a U-turn off the highway and dropping its furry, butt-exposing ass off. I think he thought I was playing - we were not on the same page, Thunder and I.

All I can say is that he didn't pee or poop in the car because that would have really topped this off. He did settle down next to Gabby and sit on and off for a chunk of the ride.

The rest of our time together got better in terms of Thunder's performance, but my kids became the problem. Marco was deathly afraid of this dog. and the faster he ran away, the more Thunder pursued him. Thunder loves to play and he loves to run after kids apparently. We picked him up on Friday, and on Saturday, Marco spent half the day sitting on my kitchen counter to be away from the pup.

When Thunder settled in on Friday, he layed on the floor, ate well and did his business properly outside. That night, he slept on his little bed on the floor of our bedroom. I heard him licking himself a time or two, but he stayed put and was quiet.

In all this, our current dog, Adelaide tried to disappear from the situation and avoid Thunder's existence as much as possible. A very similar reaction to our last addition, the terrier. Adelaide could care less about our kids so I think all this affectionate attention from Thunder was scaring them. I think Adelaide is scared of the kids whereas Thunder was fond of them and they were scared of him! Either way, Adelaide was not in favor of this situation and she kept mum about it. But when Thunder would smell Adelaide's rear you could see her upper whiskered lip doing an Elvis impersonation in disgust of that intrusion.

The night was fine, I didn't sleep too well because I was paranoid about the dog and what it would do if anything. But come Saturday morning, my mind began to loosen. Thunder peed on the floor out of anxiousness of the new situation, probably. I cleaned it up. Tom cleaned up another couple anxiety attacks. But the major problem was Marco running and screaming every five minutes because the dog was looking at him. It's funny because Thunder was grey and white and his whole face was dark grey and you couldn't see his eyes or even see if he had eyes. (I felt a disconnect without some good eye contact from Thunder blunder.)

And weather this dog caused them anxiety, or it was just an exciting, distracting situation, my daughter who had been potty trained for over 2 years peed on her self. This was totally surprising and she had no explanation for it except that she had to go and it came out. Less unusual would be my son peeing himself. And of course, right before bed, Marco pees in his pants on his floor. If I could explain all this I would, but I have no words for all the pee I cleaned up that day except that I don't want to add another bladder to the mix that isn't quite flawlessly functioning.

Each annoyance that came along had me wondering if I should call and give the dog back. The day was a blur of sleepy annoyance, and my son, who is the sweetest thing I have ever met was making me annoyed and aggravated. When I wanted to strangle little Marco for being driven to irrational tearful shaking over a 12 pound fur ball, I knew he had to go. (The dog.) My breaking point was when the normal shenanigans of Marco and Gabriella were underway - her taking something of his and teasing him with it - followed by the dog running after them and everyone screaming all for multiple reasons. I snatched the offending something, yelled at my kids, sent them to their rooms and picked up the phone.

And that was the end of that Thunderstorm. Thunder was a lovely dog, however. He was pretty cute, kind and mild-mannered. I was folding laundry and he sat about 2 feet from me and just hung out. That was exactly what I wanted from a dog. Just a friend who gives no advise, no criticism and pass the time by my side in quiet acceptance. Issey Thunder, as we called him, fit the bill. But my decision to send him back was based on the allotment of patience and tolerance that I have in me. And all of it needs to be directed to my kids. No animal, cute, kind or mild will usurp any gentle kindness I have to give. It should all be for my kids. Sorry Thunder.

Also, I had finally gotten to a place of less tension with my kids a little older - I can keep fragile trinkets around, I can clean the house better and they can be occupied without my constant attention. There is enough to maintain as far as cleaning rooms and people that I started to feel tense again at the thought of one more thing to do. This dog needed to be bathed often and brushed more often. We are not high-maintenence kind of people and this dog required some pampering. Not a ton, but enough.

That same Saturday, after finishing their lunch, Marco and Gabby ran up to their rooms, and closed the doors with Thunder on their heels. They proceeded to busy themselves there to keep away from the new dog. Tom and I sat to finish the rest of our lunch on a Saturday in virtual quiet. He said, "I like that dog!" Nothing as of late could keep my kids in line so simply - they sat promptly at the table for breakfast with  no screwing around. (The perceived threat sat calmly beneath either one of their chairs). They stayed in their rooms to play... quietly. and the ironic thing was that this dog was in reality, no threat to them at all! It was a potential source of enjoyment. But fear of the unknown kept them in their chairs while eating and kept them in their rooms playing quietly.

Tom and I explained several times that if they walked slowly, Thunder wouldn't pay them any attention, but if they ran around, he got excited. That strategy hadn't sunk in, but of course, after the phone call was made, Marco confronts the "threat" on the stairs. He said, "Excuse me Thunder can you get out of my way. I am going to go past you. I am walking slooowwlly." And that he did and Thunder watched him and stood still. 

We could have flexed to fit this Thunder into our lives, but I felt like my limit had been hit and it wasn't worth it for me to ride the limit line for a dog. I ride the limit line several times a year, but it is for people - my kids. And that is worth it and it will be ridden as many times as I need to ride it because that is my job, my devotion, my responsibility. I could have loved Thunder, but if I did, it would be harder to take him off my plate, so I sent him home on day 2 to Nurse #2 because he could have been pretty easy to love, but also pretty easy to resent. This was my lesson in both knowing my limitations and exercising my assertiveness.

I was happy to hear that Thunder's family may not have had a easy night without Thunder  - they said the three boys cried and were upset all night without Thunder. So maybe it was not our time to take on a dog, and it was not their time to let one go.

The Fondness of Yellow

I saw my baby get on the school bus this week. I can describe it as a tame trauma for me. Almost like someone ripped her from my heart and threw her on a big vehicle without any seat belts. I spent more than 3 years in paranoia about buckling her properly in a 5-point harness, then felt scared and strange when I switched her to an over-40-pound seat that sits loosely in the car using only the car's shoulder/lap belt. Now my baby is bouncing around in a bus with no protection.

The seat belt is a metaphor for my ties with her and my level of need in her life. She needs me infinitely but it is not because of her fragile inability to survive as it was in her first year. Putting her on a bus is my first step in letting go and when I am proud of her, I am proud of myself.

In reality, the teachers and staff at her elementary school give them lots of support and reassurance and they are there every step the kids take. All the little kindergartners were scared and nervous and confused. Gabby had a lot of fun at school, which makes me think they aren't doing that much work at the moment, but I am happy for her!

When she gets off that bus, I am now the one who is twiddling my thumbs with anxious excitement to see my beloved. I am the one checking the clock to see when she will come rambling up the street. I look like she did when she was a baby and I returned to her after hours of being apart. I like the color yellow. It symbolizes her growth, her independence, my constant reshuffling of my emotions as a parent, and it symbolizes her return to me.

Barbie's lesson in work ethic

Throughout the summer, I took my kids to the library once a week. Each time, we would take out a couple books from the school's suggested summer reading list and by the middle of August at 3-5 books per week, we made it through the whole list and had a great time. If we liked some of the books, we kept them for a couple weeks and if we didn't (or I didn't) I would return them after a week.

In addition to the books, I let each kid take out one movie from the library. Gabby would 95% of the time pick a barbie princess movie which 80% of the time would be scratched and skip at some point during the course of the movie. It became an expected reality and when the TV would freeze with barbie in mid speech, I would hear a choir from the two of them saying,  "Mommy! it's skipping again!" and I would take that opportunity to remind them of the importance of taking care of your things and being careful with DVDs.

Gabby seemed to take this scratch/skip scenario as a natural phenomenon and week after week she still would pick another barbie movie even if I warned her it may skip. One time, Tom cleaned one off with disc cleaners and tried everything and it still skipped. One disc was even literally cracked!

So as Gabby started school this year, I told her she was being such a brave big girl to go to her new school. She was admittedly nervous about getting on the bus and I had a fear that I would be one of those mothers pushing a crying kid onto the bus, so I told her if she got on the bus, then I would buy her a barbie movie. (I actually already bought the movie, intending to instantly gratify her if she rode the bus. It was a pure bribe)
The first day when she got off the bus, she reminded me of my movie offer and I cracked it open and loaded it up. She looked at it and said, "I can kiss it right? because it has no germs?" I told her she could kiss it and it was ours and hadn't been touched by every other 2-7 year old child in our town. She also looked at it like it was a shiny diamond ring and said, "Oohh, its not scratched!" and I took that as my teaching opportunity and said that when we work hard we can afford to buy a movie and keep it all to ourselves and take care of it so it will never get scratched.

But that is one of those lessons that can only be absorbed after months of borrowing scratched, cracked and germy barbie princess movies from the town library. After that, the clean, non-grubby, unmarked disc of a brand new movie can teach you the value of good work ethic. I guess barbie is a bit deeper than I thought!

My Pretty Purple Flower

Recently, we did an American Cancer Society walk and they gave survivors a big goody bag with gifts from local businesses. In addition to the big gift bag, we were given a flower. There were a couple options of flowers to choose from - they put about two plants (two sections form a big flat) into a clear plastic bowl and covered it with purple cellophane. I chose a small purple flower because of the purple theme of the event and I put it outside when we got home. I was forgetting about it and left it in that disposable bowl for too long and it was looking like mold was growing on the sides and the flower wasn't so happy. I wanted to do something with it, but I wanted to know what it was before deciding what to do. When I picked it up at the walk, it came with no description card, but after searching through some 'small purple flower' categories online, I have concluded it is something called ageratum or floss flower.

It is an annual who blooms from spring all th way to fall. It doesn't care if you water it, if its in the blazing sunshine or just a bit, it doesn't need to be pruned, and it doesn't care if its in a pot or in the ground. It is the happiest, most resilient little pretty plant I have made friends with. I planted it into a fresh clay pot and it is as happy as a clam.

It is such an appropriate plant for a cancer survivor. It will deal with anything, sub optimal conditions even, if it feels like crap, it still smiles. It is just happy to be alive.

The American Way

I was able to get through college without it. I was able to make it through my concentrated, unpaid internship with out it. I even worked a job that was an hour away with a 5 am shift start time...with out it. All my professional jobs out of school - long commutes, management - still didn't rely on it. But now, after all that, I have succumbed. I think it took my job with an hour commute while having two kids under the age of 3 while maintaining some work out schedule that did it. Coffee. I have succumbed and joined the over 50% of Americans that drink coffee daily. But I am surely shy of the 3.1 cups per day that is average of these coffee drinkers. Geez, if i did that I would have heart palpitations and be sweating and shaking. I am not one of those that can drink caffeine liberally but I have come to be quite tolerant and reliant upon my one cup of tea and one small cup of coffee in the morning. And coffee consumption appears to be beneficial for some of my systems in terms of disease risk, so c'est la vie for me.

A Lesson from a Rapper

I like to listen to upbeat music when I am working out - so I indulge in the often stereotypical, degradative lyrics of rap and hip hop music. When thinking about insightful song lyrics, rap and hip hop are not usually the genre that comes to mind. But I was listening to a new song by Mr. Puff, who goes by P. Diddy, but whose actual name is Sean Combs. He says, What am I 'posed to do when the club lights come on / Its easy to be Puff, its harder to be Sean  And the song goes on to be personally triumphant with Puffy man claiming in an interview that it's about "trying to find your way back to that person who your grandmother or father wanted you to be".  "Coming Home" has been named a redemptive ballad with personal lyrics that parallel struggles in his life including being a less than exemplary father, fearing commitment, and otherwise making mistakes, and faring losses.
I tell this background to make these lines relevant, but the crux of this post stems from the lines above that I plucked from the song about how its easier to do our "job", to put our face on and do what comes easily, or to do what is expected of us in a role - isn't that easier? Easier to do than to step out of our comfort zone, step up to a challenge even if were not ready, unprepared, or even unenthusiastic about it. The big job that this describes is being a parent. It is estimated that half of pregnancies in the US are unplanned. So it is safe to say, many of us are not ready. And I can safely assume from other statistics that many are unenthusiastic. I could go on and on about how that is wrong and upsetting, but the point of my reflection on this song is that yes, it is easier to do our job, leave our home and perform in the confines of our job description and then check out and leave. But when you are a parent, the "club lights" are always on. And it is more important to be our own Seans than to be a Puff. It was hard for me to instantly turn into a Sean, with no practice. I could go on as Puff forever. But the hardest things are often the most important and the challenging things often render growth. Puffing is easy once you become a parent because parenting is hard - I guess the goal is to be your best self in all roles, but the Sean should not be neglected or abandoned at the cost of the Puff.
Kudos to Sean for bringing his Sean to his Puff in this song (which is upbeat and enjoyable :) and I hope for his sake he continues coming home to the person he, judging by his many many accomplishments, is beyond capable of being. For the reward of being a parent is beyond any paycheck, public notoriety, or ego boost. It is the ultimate reward devoid of material boasting, it is the ultimate immortalization of everything good that you can give.

If the gut works...

As a dietitian, we have a mantra "if the gut works, use it". This is particular to a patient who may have been intubated (breathing tube in the mouth), or had been in the hospital without food for a few days - when re-initiating feeding these patients, it is always best to use our natural digestive system. If the mouth is out of commission, put a tube in the nose or stomach and use that gut! Use the gut rather than feed through the veins, to put it simply.
However, this mantra is paramount in other situations besides nutrition in the critically ill. We get a gut feeling about things and it should be listened to without needing explanation. I toured a facility that offers a very flexible summer camp - the facility also functions as a reputable preschool in the area - and I have gotten nothing but good reviews about it from other parents and educators.
I sat in on a class there and viewed the whole place. The class was managed well, nicely sized and stimulating for the kids. But for some reason when I went out side where the kids would be playing in the summer, something didn't sit right. Most places will have some sort of water, mostly a sprinkler on site. This school had a sprinkler and they had a pool that was very shallow and covered. I think that did it for me. I envisioned pure fun for the kids and they have clearly been executing this summer camp for years with out a hitch that I knew of, but it wasn't going to slide for me. I guess I am not comfortable with a complete stranger having that comfort level with my girl's body - changing in swim suits - I didn't ask about the procedure of that, male or female, and I don't know if the staff is new or temporary over the summer, but I am guessing some staff may be. So - less stringent with selecting staff, less clothing on little vulnerable people, more kids to keep safe and that chaos to hide behind.... it didn't sit right, and that was the end of that.

We tend to rationalize things - I could go through a slew of reasons why I am being hypersensitive or paranoid and give the strangers the benefit of the doubt. But I believe sometimes, our initial "gut" reaction does not need any explanation, and will be best put to use without any explanation. It is pure, God-given intuition that far too often gets pushed aside.
If the gut works, use it!

Holidays

It's funny how things that were once exciting turn into obligations – things that we once looked forward to, we now just want to “get through”. I don’t know how this creeps up on you, but I believe the evolution springs from complications – the fact that things get more complicated and with this, events feel like a chore more than a holiday. I guess the Jehovah’s Witness spare themselves a lot of frustration by not honoring all these holidays and occasions. But they say that it's beneficial for mental well being to have things to look forward to, and for me that is what these occasions are, birthdays, major and minor holidays, and other get togethers. I look forward to them with childlike excitement, the problem is that I am not the child anymore, and I am the one who has to cook, travel, decorate, choose the side of the family that gets our presence this time, and all this logistical junk puts a damper on the child-like part. Now it’s a subdued adult-like excitement mixed with hope for child-like occasions mixed with the God given forgetfulness of that which sucked last time. Kind of like child birth – boy that is something, but somehow, as traumatic as it is, it doesn’t seem to deter you from having another one. And as traumatic as the elusive fourth trimester is, still this, doesn’t deter you from getting excited about the next one. So thank you God for the forgiving memory bank that we possess, that carries us through the next occasion, the next less than fulfilling holiday and the next beautifully painful birth.

Quiet Love

I find that it is mostly the quiet moments in my children that blow me away. An oxymoron possibly, but a consistent realization for me. My Gabby may be silent for a moment of concentration coloring an elephant and I capture the profile of her face, the quiet curves of her lips and I am mesmerized. When a peaceful furrow takes over my son's brow as he diligently puts together a puzzle, I am in awe.
I think the awe is there all the time, but it can't rise to the surface all the time because life is occurring and the constant barrage of needs and wants infiltrate my minutes. But its when that tide ceases, for the brief moments that it does, that proud, humble, fascinated love abounds from my for my little creatures.
Once again, the beauty of a sleeping child is without words, but so understandable!
I love you two little things - all the time, but so tangible so when I am watching you be little people.

Purple Balloons

Be proud  - I told my kids about cancer :)
I used a walk for the American Cancer Society that we are doing this friday as a topic starter and the car ride as the setting and I think it went well. After my short talk was done, I asked her what she got from what I just said to her, and she told me "purple balloons". Well, this response was reminiscent of the Mary conversation but I was sure that something else had to have sunk in. So after prompting "anything else?" I got these series of answers:
"raise money"
"to help people feel better"
"for medicine"
And when I asked her for what disease we were doing that all for, she did blank out - kind of like the Freudian blank out of adults, but quite unintentional and consistent with any new word thrown at a 5 year old.
But hey, purple balloons to raise money to make people feel better...I think that covers it simply well!

Beauty is its own excuse for being

Sometimes I wonder what the point of this blog is. When blogging, some people realize they are good writers and write a book - some people have an intriguing subject and gain alot of followers..... and probably write a book too. Some people use it to make an income - with advertising and self-promotion. Well, I fall into none and neither of these categories because I have no followers besides my sweetest mother :) (Just kidding, there is my sweetest husband a couple friends) and I make no money from it and I don't want to write a book because I don't know what to write about and it will take too long. My blog is not subject specific - I don't write about cancer only, kids only, nutrition only, or doctor's-wife-life only, or food only... These are the most effective blogs - but you know what? I don't want to. Life is varied and my brain flows with life and it is varied as well. This is not my job, this is my hobby and I write because I like to - I find humor in life and I reflect on life and that is what I write about. And because of this, it may be that the only people who are interested in this blog of my speaking fingers is people who know me...
and that is ok!

There is a poem called Rhodora by Ralph Waldo Emerson. And anytime I think about something that has no purpose but to exist for its own sake of existing, I think of this poem. Why do I buy flowers for my home? Because they are pretty. What is the purpose of these things? No purpose but for me to walk by them and say, "they are pretty." This blog serves little purpose but to be a blog - to entertain a few and to make me mindful. Enjoy!

Rhodora

In May winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.


Ralph Waldo Emerson