Rules Are Made To Be Broken

 

When Taggart was 8 and we were on our annual summer sojourn to Michigan, he piped up from the backseat: “Mom, I know one of the really bad swear words.” To which I’m thinking, “Oh great, here we go . . . and which really bad one is it???”

I calmly respond, “Oh really, sweetie? What’s it start with?” ever aware that we’ve got little, little four-year-old sister ears, listening with silent attentiveness.

Him: “Well, I don’t really wanna say . . . But it’s the swear word for fish poop.”

Me (totally lost and unsure of where this is going): “Huhhhh? Fish poop?  I don’t think I even know that one Taggart. Fish poop.  Nope. You got me. I have no idea.  You’re gonna have to give me a letter.  Or just spell it.  DON”T SAY IT (little ears). Just spell it.”

Him: “O.K. Mom . . .” And with a deep breath he spells “B-A-S-S . . . T-U-R-D”.

Bass Turd.

I don’t even get it at first. Have to say it slow to myself and then I’m like, Oh My Goodness!  And so quick am I to make sure his spelling is right, I chime in: “No, no, honey, don’t you mean B-A-S-T. . . “ And then I stop myself. Just in time. What am I thinking?? I’m not going there if he’s not there yet! Parenting 202. Duh!

BASS TURD = FISH POOP = VERY BAD SWEAR WORD

“Why yes, Taggart, you are right.  And I’m so sorry you learned that bad word.  It is one of the REALLY bad ones, that fish poop. Let’s just keep it on the down-low O.K.? No need to be talking fish poop to your friends or cousins.  We’ll just tell dad you know that one and for now, we’ll leave it at that.”

Ahhh, those were the days. When fish poop and bad words were the extent of pushing the envelope and testing the boundaries.  Now, at the ripe old age of twelve, Taggart is testing us in lots of other ways, with puberty relentlessly knocking and a flimsy little moustache to announce its inevitable onset (a moustache, mind you, that he is VERY proud of and flaunts with aplomb!), I’m a little intimidated by this new territory.  I KNOW it’s coming, it’s normal, and many other good people have survived it, that I should embrace his growth and development with enthusiasm and delight . . . but this Fifty Shades of Puberty we are in the midst of feels very precarious and unfamiliar; the jury’s still out on how it’s going to go (and whether or not I'll survive!) . . .

Part of me thinks, “Uhmmm, can we just go back to 'fish poop' please???”  And how lucky am I, with another soon-to-be-eight-year-old right at my very fingertips, to get to revisit bad words and black and white, right vs. wrong thinking?  As if on cue, when I went in to wake Sage up this morning, she reported, “Mom, Taggart came in earlier and said to me ‘Turn your DAMN alarm off!’ He shouldn’t say that, right??” And when I quickly agree but add “Neither should you”, she cheekily responds with another of her current favorite “Taggart” sayings:

“Yeah, well rules are made to be broken Mom!”

Thank you Taggart. And because she has heard him say this time and time again as his world view is changing and he is capable of seeing more grey and less black and white, she thinks it’s fair game for her too. Where he is embarking on the “self-aware” stage of development, having already marched through the “conformist” stage, Sage is still smack dab in the middle of  “conformity”, no matter what glib lines she hands me.

On the brink of 8, she should be an expert on black and white thinking and rule-following.  And mostly, she is. Her teachers say she always raises her hand in class, follows "The Golden Rule", and uses good manners; she (almost) always eats her vegetables before her dessert; and, she almost never says bad words.  And by bad in this family we mean: FART, CRAP, STUPID, IDIOT, I HATE YOU AND SHUT-UP. And of course, that BASS TURD and DAMN. All bad, very bad, and if uttered, trouble with a capital “T” (mostly just a verbal reprimand but once, and only once, Sage’s big brother Taggart had a wee taste of a bar of soap for the “F” word, and by that I DO NOT mean “F-A-R-T”. . . ).

As challenging as parenting can be and no matter what stage we find our kids in, witnessing, honoring, and helping them navigate their developmental stages is one of our hardest and best jobs as parents. As I watch my kids dance – clumsy and graceful - through their developmental stages, and as I dance/stumble/trip through my own, I have come to the conclusion that life and development – mine, yours, my kids – is a complicated balance of circles and boxes, rules and permission slips, mazes and labyrinths, sun and moon and neatly framed family photos over the mantle . . .

It seems we go from the circle of the womb to childhood's playpen and kindergarten rules; to our teenage and early adulthood years where we question most everything (often in a circular manner much to our own and our parents’ frustration!), until we settle on some semblance of order and create our own homemade boxes in which to begin our grown-up lives.

Then, we often outgrow those, wander through a few more mazes, perhaps find solace and answers in a labyrinth that takes us to the center and back out of ourselves, where we might settle squarely again in the middle of our lives – with house, spouse, kids, pets, schools.  Or not. Or perhaps, we feel we are spinning away on one of the gerbil wheels, circular running, running, running but getting nowhere. Or not.

These stages – and our movement or lack thereof – are completely and wholly our own. And challenging assumptions and asking questions  – about where we are in life, how we are doing, if we are happy - is key to understanding who we have been and who we are. Listening for and honoring the answers helps us become more of who we are meant to be. And breaking some of the rules – AND KNOWING WHICH ONES TO BREAK - is simply part of the process.

Pushing against some boundaries – our parents’, our teachers’, society’s, our own – helps us better define who we are and who we want to be.  If we don’t push a little, we don’t know what greater good we might be capable of.

Teaching my kids the art of questioning and the art of letting go (of archaic rules or ways of being that no longer serve them) is part of my job.  It’s risky business for sure but if we don’t teach our kids to take healthy risks, we are doing them a disservice. If we don’t teach them to question what doesn’t make sense to them, we are teaching them to not trust themselves. And teaching our kids to trust themselves is one of the most important gifts we can give them.

If there are any “rules” I want my kids to tattoo on their sweet hearts, it is the following “Rules For Being Human” written by Dr. Cherie Carter-Scott.

The Rules For being Human

1. You will receive a body. You may like it or hate it, but it's the only thing you are sure to keep for the rest of your life.
2. You will learn lessons. You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called "Life on Planet Earth". Every person or incident is the Universal Teacher.
3. There are no mistakes, only lessons. Growth is a process of experimentation. "Failures" are as much a part of the process as "success."
4. A lesson is repeated until learned. It is presented to you in various forms until you learn it -- then you can go on to the next lesson.
5. If you don't learn easy lessons, they get harder. External problems are a precise reflection of your internal state. When you clear inner obstructions, your outside world changes. Pain is how the universe gets your attention.
6. You will know you've learned a lesson when your actions change. Wisdom is practice. A little of something is better than a lot of nothing.
7. "There" is no better than "here". When your "there" becomes a "here" you will simply obtain another "there" that again looks better than "here."
8. Others are only mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something about another unless it reflects something you love or hate in yourself.
9. Your life is up to you. Life provides the canvas; you do the painting. Take charge of your life -- or someone else will.
10. You always get what you want. Your subconscious rightfully determines what energies, experiences, and people you attract -- therefore, the only foolproof way to know what you want is to see what you have. There are no victims, only students.
11. There is no right or wrong, but there are consequences. Moralizing doesn't help. Judgments only hold the patterns in place. Just do your best.
12. Your answers lie inside you. Children need guidance from others; as we mature, we trust our hearts, where the Laws of Spirit are written. You know more than you have heard or read or been told. All you need to do is to look, listen, and trust.
13. You will forget all this.
14. You can remember any time you wish.

We all have within us this potential, to remember who we are and that we have everything inside of us to become our best selves. To be fully human. For sure, we will stumble, we will fall. We will make mistakes. That's part of the process, part of the plan.

When we scrape our knees, we will say “Damn!” or “Bass Turd!”

And then we'll get up, dust ourselves off, and we’ll keep dancing.

Tap away my friend.

Bras Are Overrated

 

My husband’s boss came by one morning this week to meet with him and we were commiserating about our respective 11 and 12 year old boys and how their focus on school has been way-laid by other more pressing concerns: mainly, GIRLS.  And how in their distracted, pre-pubescent fog, their formerly high “all A” grades have plummeted to, well, the B range in a few areas.  My smart husband is quick to defend. “Hey! I got some B’s in school. B’s aren’t bad you all!!” he says with his sweet Southern accent and a chuckle.

And though his boss and I both whole-heartedly agree, we also both readily admit we were two of “those” girls: the  ‘all-A’s or bust”, overachievin’, Type A kind (I know, ugh!). And though my sharp husband needs no reminding, I assert my recovering perfectionist status, yet again. “I’m not saying I need Taggart to get all A’s,” I explain.  “But I do expect him to work to his potential. Because he is bright and very capable. So, nope. I’m not accepting his B in French.  If he earns a B, that’s one thing.  But if he’s not working and not applying himself and not turning things in ON TIME for goodness sake, then his B is not acceptable to me!”

Jeff says to his boss, “Yeah, she still hasn’t gotten over a B she got in grad school!”  To which I hotly reply, “I NEVER got less than an A in grad school, thank you very much!  But I did get one B+ in my freshmen art class: Printmaking.  And I’m still bitter.  The teacher told me my art work looked like the kind of thing someone might hang over their couch in their living room.  And I’m like, totally perplexed.  I’m thinking, isn’t that the biggest compliment to an artist?? That a piece you created might mean enough to someone else that they’d like to hang it in their house???”

Needless to say, that first semester of freshman year, that class, that teacher . . . gave me fits, saw more than an ocean of tears, and rattled my perfectionism at its very hinges.  It didn’t help that I was homesick as could be, my boyfriend was still at said home in his senior year of high school breaking all kinds of records in football and track and sending me the sweetest love notes (some of which I still have!), and I was in the throws of an eating disorder that regularly told me I was always too much for others to handle yet never enough to keep them around . . . it was a tough time indeed.

All A’s? They were the least of my concerns (because honestly, in my life and with my perfectionistic bent, that was a foregone conclusion).  Except when that art teacher gave me the B+.  And then, I was pissed.  I marched down to the art building to work out some of my frustration and anger, to try to make sense of what it was that I was or wasn’t doing that was not up to this teacher’s standards.  I started to work (harder) on one of my screen prints, enjoying the peace of no one else being there and losing myself in the solitude of the work, the paints’ colors and smells, and in my creation which I was trying to make looser and more acceptable to said teacher.  “HOW can I please her?” I wondered.  “Make her like me. Make her like my artwork . . . “ Usually, I’m really good at this “Pleasing Others” game, but right now I’m pretty pissed and pissed isn’t usually a pleasing kind of attitude so I’m not so sure exactly how all of this is going to work out . . . (That, and I don’t know enough yet to ask about pleasing myself – but that comes in due time.  Indeed, it comes. Another story. Another time. But Hallelujah, Praise the Lord, it does come.)

So there I am, lost in my solitude and mental yoga, and who walks in but the teacher’s pet: Jody . . . honestly, probably the last person I want to see right now.  A totally outside-of-the-lines artist with shoulder length hair he lets run any which way the wind blows, dirty khaki shorts and a stained t-shirt, he’s very creative and well-liked by the teacher  (and I’m pretty sure he never got a B, but hey, who’s counting??). He’s a nice guy. Easy. Down-to-earth. I like him fine. We might not connect on a soul-deep level but he’s a good classmate. Fair and honest.  Helpful. And I do think his artwork is good . . . But, I don’t get what exactly the teacher sees there that isn’t in mine.  Aren’t we both creating something from nothing and aren’t I trying as hard, maybe even harder, than him? What ARE the standards for grading art? Who made ‘em up? I think grading art is wrong and these rules are stupid and I don’t like this class or this major or this college.  So there!

And Jody, totally unaware of my internal tsunami, says, “Hey Meg, what’s up?”  Now, he doesn’t know that only dear, dear friends or people that have known me a REALLY long time get to call me Meg.  But I’ll let that pass.  He doesn’t know me.  Not really. We’ve talked.  He’s from Nashville.  He’s likeable, like any nice Southern boy might be.  And at this point, he’s all I really know of Nashville. All I need to know. It’s presently beside the point.

So we started to chat.  And maybe I felt safe enough to share with someone who wasn’t in my circle or maybe I just needed to get something off my chest or maybe it was the paint fumes and chemical solvents we used to clean our screens . . . I DON’T KNOW.  But I ended up telling him I was upset that the teacher told me my prints looked like something someone might want to hang in their living room and that though I would normally think this was a compliment, she meant it like it definitely was NOT a good thing. And I was confused. And hurt. And I am used to succeeding and delivering what people want to see or hear.  And, I was used to getting A’s because I work really hard and I AM WORKING REALLY HARD, and she gave me a B+, so I’m upset.  In fact, Jody, I’m not liking anything. And I don’t feel like I fit in here.  In this major. At this school. I miss home.  I miss my boyfriend.  And none of this is what I imagined it to be.  Take that, teacher’s pet from Nashville, TN!

And you want to know what he said to me – this smart boy; this better-artist-than me-boy; this boy from a Nashville I didn’t yet know and didn’t want to know because I knew he was from there but that just wasn’t enough to pique my interest??  He said, “You know what you need to do Meg?  You need to stop wearing a bra for awhile.  You are too constricted.  Too tightly wound up.  Trying to control everything.  You need to just let go and relax.”  See how that feels and check back with me in two weeks, his matter-of-fact attitude seemed to say.

And you know what? Nothin’ else was working so . . . I did just that.

I went bra-less for like two weeks that freshman year of college and I really tried to embrace that experience, to be mindful and see how that felt.  During that throwing-caution/breasts-to-the-wind time, I also loosened up with my art and created a silk screen made of splashes and handprints and splatters on the screen; there was nary a straight line or a right angle to be found on that print (O.K., well maybe just a couple. . . )! I titled it after my favorite Nietzsche quote from my freshman philosophy class, perhaps the most important thing I learned all year:  

“One has to have chaos within to give birth to a dancing star."

Going bra-less felt a little chaotic (and I have no idea how others might have experienced this or if they even noticed – but hey! Their noticing or not was not what that little experiment was about; I took that lesson to heart).  Deciding maybe majoring in fine arts and Denison wasn’t for me felt a little chaotic. That whole freshman year – with my out-of-control eating and homesickness and loneliness – felt a little (A LOT) chaotic.

But having that year and those hard, trying experiences led me to my next right thing. They lead me to my NEXT DANCING STAR. My college hopscotching took me from small Denison, to huge Michigan State, and landed me at just-the-right-size Vanderbilt University.  And where, may you ask, is Vanderbilt University?  Well, for those of you who may not know: NASHVILLE, TN. That town I didn’t know or really give much thought to?  Well it, and Vanderbilt, became part of my story – a BIG part of my story - a chapters-and-chapters part of the book that is my life.  Now, 25 years, three degrees, a husband and two kids later, Nashville is as much a part of me as my beloved northern Michigan. Who would’ve known??

And that Jody.

He might have been onto a couple things. He was right about my control issues; that perfectionist recovery wagon is just the right size, most days. He was indeed a good artist, a natural artist whose works are hopefully hanging over no one’s living room couch. anywhere. ever. 

And Nashville.

He gave me a glimpse of Nashville before I’d call it my own: comfortable, easy-going, authentic, him and the town. But when I did claim it, it became more; so much more. It became the place where my grown-up life would begin and unfold. It became HOME.  And it held, at its center, on McCabe Golf Course, the nicest Southern boy from Tennessee that I’d eventually marry and share my life with.

As fate would have it, I saw Jody here once, a couple years after I moved to Nashville and my star had begun to dance. At a bar in the Village on a crowded Saturday night.  There I was, with my posse, all dressed up for a night on the town – tight striped top, black skirt, blonde bob, and full make-up – all ready to go!  And as I made my way through the packed bar, I felt someone grab my arm. I turned and looked and though it took a second to register, I realized, hey, it’s Jody!  He looked at me in disbelief, eyes wide.  “What are you doing here?” he asked.  “How are you? You look great!”

“I live here,” I said with a smile. “I’m getting my Masters degree in Counseling at Vanderbilt. I’m really happy. It’s all good.” My shoulders back, my head held high, friends beckoning me to join them, I hugged Jody and went to my people.

I didn’t say it, but I think he might have known.  He was right about the whole bra thing.

Sometimes, bras ARE overrated; and sometimes . . . they’re NOT.

That night, I’m glad I chose the push-up bra.

P.S. When I found my old art print to include in this post, Sage said, "Mom, I love that! Did you make it?  Can I hang it in my room?"  Well, thank God, someone likes it : )  Take that, mean ol' art teacher from Denison.  See, someone DOES want to hang it on their wall, thank you very much!!  That it's my very own daughter, absolutely perfect. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Marriage Is A Verb

Photo by Libby Mundy, c. 2015.

Some folks out there might argue marriage is a noun. Some might even describe it as a place. A castle. A cabin. A double-wide. A stage. A nest. A haven.  A dungeon. A cell.  An outhouse.  A walk in Central Park. Shoot, I don’t know. But when you really think about almost all of these places, they are still and not ALIVE (OK not the park, the park is alive, but stay with me here).  It seems to me that what really matters most is what you do in these noun-places –  love/hate, dance/sing, hug/kiss, pinch/pull, cook/clean, create/be. Be it in the castle or the double-wide, a lot goes on inside those four walls . . . And marriages – relationships – they are a lot like that.

They can become stagnant places where we grow old and crunchy; they can be icy cold and austere white; they can be deathly quiet and earthly still.  Or not. They can also be places of great vibrancy and beauty.  Of all the colors of the rainbow. Of love lived out loud. Maybe inside whatever walls your marriage is unfolding there is: laughing and loving and dancing and playing and learning and seeking and being and heartbreaks-to-wholeness. I hope that for you.

What I’ve learned about marriage – from my own almost teenage one to my grandparents’ sixty-eight year epic; from watching others that have flourished and fizzled and sputtered and sizzled; to some that have died or should be dead, is this: there is nothing about marriage that isn’t active.  Every marriage I know – healthy or not - is in motion; there are always AT LEAST two moving parts.  And there isn’t a marriage I know that doesn’t take work (and a lot of it—big breath).  And if we’re really serious about this marriage thing, the part about it working, well it comes down to finding ways – amidst our armor and fears and best intentions - to whole-ly and truly BE with another.

Because, really, when you think about it, marriage is a verb.

Marriage is:

                                         Loving
                                     And working
                                         And fighting
                                      And fixing.
                                                         

                                            Liking
                                       And not liking
                                  And choosing
                                       And accepting.
                                             

                                    Believing
                                     And affirming
                                       And creating
                                          And being known.
                                                   

                                          Learning
                                       And teaching
                                    And asking
                                And biting your tongue.
                                              

                                      Balancing
                                       And s t r e t c h i n g
                                       And listening
                               And breathing deeply.
                                            
                                        Keeping
                                           And catching
                                     And lifting
                                      And O-P-E-N-I-N-G.
                                              

                                     Trusting
                                           And praying
                                     And forgiving
                                         And letting go.
                                              

                                         Living
                                          And laughing
                                            And reminding
                                               And remembering.
                                                       

                                              Growing
                                       And embracing
                                 And D-a-N-c-I-n-G!
                                  And holding hands.
                                                                                                                                                              
                                   Marriage is
                                       BECOMING
                                           All the days of our lives.

                                                  (Amen.)

Marriage is not about finding the right person; it is about being the right person and building the right relationship. Marriage is SO much work. But it’s good work. It’s God work. It’s the work of a lifetime.

Make no mistake. Marriage is not for the weak of heart; for those who lack courage or wherewithal or honesty or humility or the ability to forgive or roll with the punches or . . . well, the point is, it takes a lot of the right stuff and just enough of the wrong stuff to get your problem-solving skills honed and your confidence in your union to optimal levels (and even then, it can still feel like a bit of a crap shoot!). Because those optimal levels, they are always changing, depending on the situation and exactly what life’s thrown at you. (And perhaps our hormone levels, just saying . . .)

For example, my patience threshold? Much, much lower than my dear, enduring husband’s . . . (parenting and marriage have had me doing some patience exercises that rival any upside down, inside out yoga poses I’ve attempted! And I’m certain my adoring husband would agree!!) The point is, marriage isn’t A WALK IN THE PARK (Central or otherwise).  But it is lovely. And it is frustrating. And it is the most real, beautiful activity we shall ever undertake, along with that parenting thing. It’s a place where we become more of who we are spiritually meant to be – in the thorns and in the blooms.  It’s a spiritual endeavor that has the seeds of wholeness at its core. And with the right actions (full circle back to our verbs!) – plowing, sowing, watering, weeding, fertilizing, harvesting, whatever we are called to do in the name of growth - we can bloom where we are planted. 

In our marriages and in our lives.

May your marriage, and your life, be exactly that kind of place, with those kinds of actions.

And good luck with the yoga - especially if you are attempting it in an outhouse!

Namaste.

Photo by Libby Mundy, c. 2015

The Best Things In Life

My dad's gifts were never expensive but they were almost always invaluable: a Whitman quote, a Rumi poem, a Gary Snyder book, a Peter Gabriel CD, simple silver and lapis jewelry, a breakfast of peanut butter toast and black coffee. My gift to him today - which would have been his 71st birthday - is to remember and honor him with a few minutes of quiet amidst my kids' fall break.  We are in the mountains of northern Georgia - a place of beauty, nature, and simplicity. And with an Indian name like Hiawassee, my dad would have felt right at home.  We have spent time in the woods, walking and talking, hiking to a waterfall, climbing to the top of the Brasstown Bald and seeing as far as the eye could see. We saw a red-tailed hawk - my dad's animal totem. Even before the kids asked if my dad would like this area, I felt his presence.

In one of the National Park gift shops we visited after a hike, I saw this magnet:

 

On my dad's (and my grandmother's!) birthday, I want to cherish the best "things" in life and to teach my children the importance of living fully and deeply.  I wrote the following poem after my dad's passing: it holds the many lessons I gleaned from him - in his life and in his death (and sometimes because of my utter frustration with him - being his perfectly imperfect daughter could prove challenging at times!).  It helps define how I try to live my life and days and guides me in sharing the lessons my dad taught me with my kids.  At its heart, this poem encourages us to dig deep so that we may know what is really important and to have the courage and conviction to follow our hearts - even in light of adversity.  (My dad knew this better than anyone - he who preached local, organic, solar, windmills, and electric cars 35 years ago!) 

Finding Purpose

Follow your heart.

Ask questions.

Listen deeply.

Open yourself.

Set goals.

Exceed expectations.

Determine your weaknesses & strengths.

Capitalize on them.

Be authentic.

Set boundaries.

Be flexible.

Know your limits.

Stretch beyond them.

Be creative.

Raise a child.

Praise a god.

Commit to something.

Accept others as they are.

Give with no motives.

Live in the moment.

Read voraciously.

Act thoughtfully.

Leave a legacy.

Cultivate community.

LOVE.

 

The Giving Tree

Slow Me Down, Lord

Ease the pounding in my heart

By quieting my mind.

Give me amidst the confusion of my day

The calmness of everlasting hills.

Break the tension of my mind

With the soft soothing music of thy singing and streams that live in my memory!

Help me to know they magical restoration of sleep!

Teach me the art of mini vacations,

Of slowing down to smell the flowers.

To breathe a prayer. To chat with a friend.

To pet a dog, to look at the sky.

Help me to take time to love people – appreciate them – compliment them!

To remember that today is the only day

I shall ever have to live in the eternal now.

Let me look upwards to the towering oaks

And remember that it grew great and strong

Because it grew slowly.

Remind me each day of the tale,

“The Tortoise and the Hare”

That I may know that the race is not always swift

And that there is more to life than increasing speed!

Slow me down Lord and let me

Begin living.

Amen!

This prayer – both timeless and articulate - was written 30 years ago by my grandmother, Virginia Belle Vesey Mundy.   Sixty years old when she penned this, she had already raised six sons and a daughter. The youngest, my Uncle Keith, was 17 at the time. Ironically, this was long before computers, e.mail, and cell phones were mainstream.  Yet the feelings she had then are exactly those I feel now, in 2014 at the ripe old age of 44.  Go figure.

And the beauty of her words, her eloquence!  I see and hear my dad there.  I see and hear me. Her liberal use of exclamation points! I love the mirror she provides, that we both appreciate so many of the same things in life.  Truly, the apple does not fall far from the tree.  No matter the distance, our connections endure.

My incredible grandmother turns 90 on October 6th and I am so, so proud to be one of her nineteen cherished grandchildren.  From the example she and my grandfather set for a long, enduring love – 68 years married (!) at the time of his passing – to the patience, unconditional love, and loyalty she extends to her beloved family and friends, we are all so blessed to have her in our lives.
The story of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein comes to mind, the tale of a tree that gives and gives and gives.  Even when she feels she has nothing else to give, my grandmother finds a way. Always to fit one more in, feed one more, make one more person feel special and loved.

Her memory still sharp, she loves to share stories from her childhood, my father’s, mine. She repeats these tales so we won’t forget. Writes down memories in her many cards and letters. Keeps the pictures we send her of our lives and kids for awhile, then puts them in a big binder or photo album, and sends them back – all filled up, our memories for our keeping because she no longer has a need for *STUFF*.  Nope – my grandma's downsizing wherever she can, getting rid of that which she no longer needs and she sends it off to its new rightful home; my grandmother is making sure that her *STUFF* will all have gotten to where she wanted it to go.

Like the pretty leather chair I complimented her on some time ago.  Her response: “Good! That’s yours. I’ll make sure you have it someday.” Now me, I don’t really like this kind of talk. Would rather avoid it at all costs. But my Grandma won’t let me. She brings the chair up frequently. And as pretty as that chair is, I like it right where it is: at my Grandma’s keeping her company while she reads one of her many paperback books, writes another keepsake note to one of nineteen adoring grandchildren, and patiently awaits her next much-anticipated visitor.  But to be fair to my grandmother, I will always love that chair – be it at her house or mine – and whenever I see it, I will remember her and all that we’ve shared and all that she has given to me, material and immaterial alike. I will be grateful, once again, for her generous spirit and the good in her that got passed down to me.

A while back, I wrote the following poem called “The Art of Giving Thanks”. In re-reading it, I realize, yet again, that there truly are “a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground”. Her prayer, my poem:  different words, similar message.  Slow down. Take life in.  Be thankful.

This week, as my family prepares to celebrate my Grandmother and her ninety lovely years, I am filled with gratitude for the woman she is, the seeds she has so lovingly sown and reaped, and the indelible mark she has made on my life.
(Thank you Grandma! You are, and will always be, our mighty oak.)