Cosmic 2x4's

Spring is here! Truly. It’s warm, the grass is green, and the trees and flowers are in full bloom. Possibilities seem endless. So much to do. I have to remind myself to hop off fast forward and sit and soak in the beauty and promise that seems to lie endlessly before me.

House projects – inside and out. I want everything to look beautiful. Me – inside and out. Exercising regularly again, eating for energy (a whole new concept for me). Traveling to see friends and loved ones. A trip to New Orleans next week. A camping trip to the Smokies in June. My beloved Higgins Lake in July.

Life is good. We are still nurturing and loving Holly – whose terminal illness is a reminder of the cycle of life. Can’t get too caught up in Spring without the realization that life is cyclical, a helix of seasons we move through, return to, sometimes wiser, sometimes back around for a similar lesson.

God provides lots of cosmic 2x4’s. Whether or not we get it and take each whack or wake-up as a possibility for growth, well that’s a whole other question. So, I’m trying to embrace Holly’s story and appreciate the fullness she brings to our life. Though her life is in its winter she will always represent for me the invincibility of Spring.

She is here to teach me to appreciate all of life. She gave me Jeff and her love and loyalty for the last nine years. My job now is to ease her transition while facing my own fears of death. It’s a big ole’ cosmic 2x4. I’m trying to stay open. To embrace each day with its inherent hope. Another morning with Holly. My kids are awake and happy (relatively speaking!). The sun is shining and the outdoors is beckoning.

I am more aware than ever of our connectedness and the beauty of life in each of its stages. From my children to my generation to my mom’s generation to Holly, I see a rainbow of life in all of its stages. Each color and place beautiful on its own but all together creating something magnificent and larger than its individual parts. Such is life. The seemingly simple of our every, ordinary days and the immensity of life in all its seasons and colors.

To embracing those seasons and colors. Living today to its fullest. Learning our lessons. Growing – deeper, higher, stronger.

Give me rich soil, warm sun, cleansing rain. I’ll give you a perfect rose. Yes. Spring is here.

Blessings

In a bit of a slump today and can’t put words to it. Just a low-energy malaise that makes it hard to find my get-up-and-go. With Sage and Taggart, I need my get-up-and-go and can’t just curl up and take a nap or check-out for an hour. I couldn’t even escape for a walk, which almost always helps me when I’m feeling blah.

The good news today is that I have SO much to be thankful for. And on days when I’m feeling ho-hum, counting my blessings (and sometimes even just counting) helps center me and give me a more balanced space from which to navigate my doldrums.
Today I am thankful for:
1. The afternoon sunshine – bless you Mother Nature. I so needed its bright warmth.
2. Cinnamon Buns coffee creamer – almost as good as a cinnamon roll!
3. Irises in bloom – remind me of my grandmother. Soft, fragile, beautiful.
4. Rainer Maria Rilke – reading a paragraph of his writing fuels me for a day.
5. Taggart – he wanted to do a picnic when we got home from school so he spread out a blanket in the backyard and we made PBJ’s and played frisbee.
6. Sage – her “Mama? . . . I love you” melts my heart every time.
7. Jeff – I thought about him a lot today because I was running around doing birthday prep for tomorrow. Wanting to make his day special reminded me of the many reasons I cherish him.
8. My mom – she just knows me so well and loves with no conditions. She really is the best.
9. Chocolate – I’ve been really good about not eating sweets lately (and not minding) but today I raided the kids’ Easter candy. Four mini Special dark chocolate candy bars met their match!
10. And last but not least is HOLLY. She is so loving and loyal and just a glutton for attention. On six meds now but she’s hanging in there and every day we continue to have her in our lives is a great gift.


So, so many gifts. And I am so grateful. I am blessed beyond measure. And even when I’m tired, I can find the energy in all my good. I’d almost like to say I think I’ll go take a walk. But, that would be stretching it. Both kids down, snug in my bed, I’m not going anywhere. But I will go to bed early, sleep with all this goodness in the forefront of my mind, and wake up to a new day tomorrow. Full of sunshine, a birthday to celebrate, and good coffee to look forward to, I’m already feeling better. In fact, I think I’ll call it a night!

Parental Potholes

How does the “stuff” from our childhood affect how we parent our kids today? I asked myself this once and got more than I bargained for in response. Here is what I wrote when Taggart was one-and-a-half.

That feeling of loneliness, my fear of death, my needs for reassurance and affection . . .

I pour love onto Taggart, smother him with kisses, try to ingrain the smell of his baby skin onto my memory. Working out my fears – both from childhood and of old age – on the little guy. No wonder he’s high-strung. I try to protect him from having any of my childhood fears and I so try to listen to him and honor his requests when they’re do-able. Is that spoiling him? Maybe. Maybe not.

But I remember a time when a simple request I made was not honored – and I’m not sure if it was my dad’s need for control or his addiction to cigarettes and coffee that made him decide to not grant my request – but it sent me into a rage I’ve not forgotten. I was never angrier or more bitter than I was that afternoon. I felt abandoned by my father. Bereft. Could not believe my dad would have me feel that way. And I don’t want Taggart to know that kind of bitterness at my expense. Have it tarnish him or stick like thick tar to his heart.

Here’s the rub – the challenge to this whole parenting thing: you’re trying to make right any of your own perceived lack in childhood, meet your own emotional needs – perhaps left over from childhood, and re-create the things you loved most about what your parents did right. The dilemma – the catch to all this: we’ll still do wrong somewhere, some way. Sure they’ll come out on the other end somehow usually more whole than not. But there may be scars or even open wounds we never intended and couldn’t fathom having imposed. And, we won’t know for years – if it all - what it was we might have done that could leave our children so open, vulnerable, or wounded.

I wouldn’t have it this way. And I hope I at least give Taggart the right tools and enough unconditional love so that he’ll be able to sew together the broken heart pieces or, he’ll be strong enough to seek out what he needs and repair any parental potholes I might have created.

The thing for me: I don’t ever want to lose him to some cynical, sarcastic period where we find no connection. That’ll kill me. I want his love, his approval, and his unconditional adoration for always. But alas, we return full circle to my stuff and it’s so boggy and cumbersome. I need to trust myself and him enough that I give him space and in so doing allow myself the space to breathe and let go. Of expectations of parental perfection, six-year-old little girl fears, and an eighty-year-old woman’s imagined regrets. Trust, love, let go. For today, we will live in the moment and let that be our guide. Set our compass to “whole heart” and follow its lead. There – in that space – we’ll have everything we need.

A Golden Hope

I got a pair of sexy, gold high-heeled shoes to wear to my son’s school’s auction later this month and I am a bit obsessed with my new purchase. I have tried them on for Taggart (“Yeah, they’re o.k. . . .”), Sage (“I wear them!”), and Jeff (“They don’t look very comfortable . . .”) and have even tried them on for myself more than a few times – just to see if I still like them. And here’s the thing: I really do. In fact, I think they’re magic.

But truth be told, they are not really me. Not my typical choice of shoe. The gold threw my husband off. And, he has reiterated the uncomfortable thing. But hey, don’t all girls know sometimes we forgo comfort for beauty or sexy or just plain tired of the ordinary. And boy, am I tired of the ordinary.

Or just tired of sad being part of my ordinary. I’ve cried for the last two days about our Golden Retriever Holly. She had a cancerous tumor removed from her neck six weeks ago and the tumor is back – bigger than before. It affects her ability to eat and breathe. I cannot bear to feel the growing hard mass. I stay as far away from it as possible as I pet her - which is all the time. Trying to fit in a pat or caress for every time I pushed her away in the last nine years. I can’t push her away now. Not even when I need to. I know she knows how much I love her. That she holds no grudges or regrets. Still, I want her to know just how special she is to us. So special, she’s what brought Jeff and I together nine years ago on McCabe Golf Course.

And that’s the really hard thing about all this – she’s the reason Jeff and I came together. She is as much a part of us as we are a part of one another. She helps define us. And I can’t imagine us without her. She is a member of our family and I crumble when I think she may not be with us much longer. There to greet us when we come home in the afternoon, snapping her teeth playfully so we’ll feed her dinner. Wagging her tail hard against the wood floor each morning when we come out to the front room and tell her good morning. Ecstatic to go on a walk as she carries part of her leash in her mouth around the entire block.

I try to do my best to stay in the moment with all this but sometimes distraction is necessary just to get through the day. And I think that’s where the shoes come in. New, sexy, gold high-heeled shoes let me dream about a night in the not-so-distant future where I get to play dress-up, go out with my husband, and have fun. We’ll have drinks, enjoy our friends, dance (as best I can in those high heels!), and forgot about our house, kids, cats, and dog if only for a night. By night’s end, I’ll be tired and happy and ready to kick those heels off. I’ll be ready to return home – to hopefully greet Holly at the door and kiss my sleeping kids goodnight.

I believe in miracles. I believe in fairy tales. I believe in happy endings. Let me just grab my new shoes and tap those high heels three times . . . I told you they were magic. And, I believe.

An Old Red Truck

Our next-door-neighbors have a friend with an old red truck. Tattooed with a couple well-placed political bumper stickers, a dashboard chock full of “important” paperwork, and an assortment of tools and treasure in the back, it has obviously been well-loved in its many years of service. And though it still runs, it is apparent some parts are working better than others. For instance, the parking brake must have gone on strike because I’ve noticed pieces of wood or bricks wedged in front of the tires when it’s parked on an incline. It’s so old, it doesn’t even require the yearly emissions test. That old and still runnin’.

The best part about this old red truck is not simply the character and personality with which it sputters. The best part about this old red truck is its driver. Because, if I glanced at him quickly enough, I might mistake him for my father. Long-hair, a full beard, glasses and a down-to-Earth presence, I made it a point to talk to him; I had to. It was as if my father’s spirit was beckoning me to be generous and accepting of this individual I didn’t even know. Now, I know this man is not my father. But I do like to think that his appearance (and appearances) might be a way for my dad to connect with me. To nudge my memory in his direction and to hold it more fully in my awareness.

This man – whose name I learned is Phillip - is anti-government and believes in self-sufficiency. His dream is to live “off-the-grid” and to be as self-reliant as possible. His mother was a Native American. My dad was anti-government; believed in self-sufficiency; loved Native American spirituality; and, lived “off-the-grid” at the time of his death.

Needless to say, Phillip has become a pretty big symbol to me. I’m happy to see his old red truck amble by. A couple weeks ago, I saw Phillip while I was working in the front yard and he stopped and we chatted. Afterward, I went in the house and while looking for something, ran across a small photo album my dad carried in his car. In fact, that’s where we found it after his death. And in this album, my dad kept his favorite pictures. Pictures of my brother and me, his tipi, garden, windmills, a tractor, and . . . an old picture taken in 1974 of he and my brother standing in front of an old red truck. My dad’s old red truck.

This morning, I noticed Phillip’s sweet truck in the neighbor’s drive-way. I went outside, we got to talking, and I asked if I could show him a picture. I had already told him he reminded me of my father but I wanted him to see what I was seeing. I ran and got the small photo album and showed him my dad and his truck. Phillip laughed and said, “My gosh, that could be me!” And I was thinking, “Yes, you could be him. You’re not. But, in a lot of ways, you could be . . .”