The Window In

I Did It!

2008-06-21T23:56:00.002-05:00

Wow! The week is over and it went so much faster than I had expected. It’s amazing how fast your days fly by when you spend 2-3 hours a day floating in the pool. Which is exactly what I did. It was a whole lot of nothing and I enjoyed every moment of it.

I brought paints and canvas just in case. I brought a couple of books, just in case. I brought various work related projects just in case. But not once did I find myself saying, “Gee, I have 4 more hours till (fill in the blank), what should I do?” Nope, not once. The answer was always obvious. “The sun is still shining, I think I’ll spend another hour floating in the pool.” Really, I’m not kidding. That is all I did. Well, that, and eat, and sleep.

And what do I have to show for it? What have I accomplished? What project have I marked off my list? What new knowledge have I squeezed into my middle aged & muddled brain? Nothing. Nadda. Zero. Squat.

Vacation.

Accomplished.

Each Night the Same, Only Different

2008-06-19T11:38:00.002-05:00

All this week we've celebrated cocktail hour with a scotch on the rocks for me and a gin & tonic for Sam. And then we cook dinner, a fabulous, amazing sumptuous dinner, and we eat by the pool. Here is just one example:

And then night falls and we sit by the glow of the pool and drink wine and talk and listen to music (lots of Brandi Carlile) and talk some more, and finish the wine, and listen to more Brandi Carlile.

It looks kind of like this:

And one night, after a particularly good bottle of wine, we decided to go night swimming. And it looked.... um, well, never mind.

Elliott the Cat

2008-06-17T21:29:00.002-05:00

This is Elliott the Cat. Not to be confused with Terry’s son, Elliott the Boy, who also lives here on occasion. I’ve known Elliott the Cat for a long time, maybe 10 years now. Really? Is Elliott that old? Well, I am not sure about that, but for this post, let’s make it so.

Despite knowing Elliott all these years, I am only just this weekend really getting to know what a little character he is.

First off, Elliott is the tiniest adult cat I’ve ever met. Even Olive, Val’s cat across the street back home is bigger than Elliott. Elliott is sporting a Lion Cut this summer which makes him look even smaller, but mightier of course, what with the fluffy tail and regal cheek fur.

The thing I love about cats is that they are so easy to humanize. Not so dogs. I am crazy about Boulder, but it’s hard to describe her overall personality, other than you basic happy go lucky. But cats are a different story. They have complex personalities, just like humans. And Elliott is no exception.

If Elliott were human, he would be a gay man. A very slight, and delicate gay man, with exquisite taste in brandy and a penchant for investment grade clothing. He would right this moment be wearing a silk smoking jacket with an ascot tie. He is really just that elegant. He lifts his paws with the grace of a ballet dancer and his movements are airy and fluid. Although he is slight of build, he sports the kind of portly little belly that comes with age. And from certain angles I can see the old man in him, the old man in undershirt just getting ready to shave.

Like most cats, Elliott feigns indifference at various parts of the day. At these times I am sure he is put off by our casual dress and awkward gait. But I’ve noticed he is consistently in the same room as we are and he frequently comes by for a chin scratching. And at night when we are in bed, he snuggles in with us, keeping our feet warm throughout the night. These are slips I am sure he prefer we not make public as they would surely tarnish his finely honed image.

Elliott, your secret is safe with us.

Cool Things In the Kitchen

2008-06-15T15:34:00.004-05:00

Terry is a wonderful and amazing cook and his kitchen is a reflection of that. Sam and I love good food, and we even love to prepare it, but we don’t have near the skills or the tools that Terry has. So, we have been looking forward to using the kitchen and have been hoping some of Terry’s talent might magically give us a boost while we are here.

Already there are a few things I plan to do as soon as I get home, including putting my olive oil in a container like this with its own little spigot. And I MUST find a little spigot like this for my balsamic vinegar. You just feel like a more sophisticated cook when these grace your stove top.

I also want a sunny yellow pot like this one. The color alone makes me happy. We used it to boil water for corn on the cob and I swear it was the best corn we have ever had. Kind of strange to get the best ever corn on the cob in Florida rather than in Kansas or Missouri or Nebraska, but I am not kidding you about this.

Other to die for foods we’ve had in the last 36 hours: heirloom tomatoes just harvested from the garden with oil & vinegar, salt & pepper, and a slice of fresh mozzarella. Creamy sweet potatoes and fresh grapefruit. We also discovered something in the pantry called Mona’s Granola, which is hands down the best granola I’ve ever had. I am topping it with whole milk which feels so decadent to me I can barely stand it.

The Trouble With Not Having Enough To Do

2008-06-14T21:26:00.000-05:00

We’re here and it feels like home.

The first thing Sam did Friday after unpacking was to get in the pool. I sat on the side with my feet in the water and fought back anxiety. What would I do for an entire week? I realized how much I am not used to having this sort of free time. Eight long days stretched out in front of me. What would I ever do to keep myself occupied? I’d brought books and magazines, I even brought a sketch pad and paints, and of course I had my computer, but still? Valuable time was going to be slipping away, time in which I could be GETTING THINGS DONE! VERY IMPORTANT THINGS! THAT NEEDED DONE! RIGHT AWAY!

Ohhh, I needed this vacation more than I’d thought. And it wasn’t going to be easy.

After we’d explored the house and the pool and the yard and read all the notes Sandy and Terry had left, we decided to go buy groceries and wine. I love shopping in a new grocery store. Everything is different. The brands are different. The produce is different. The bakery is different. You never know what you might find.

We loaded up on fresh fruit and veggies and bread and steaks. We bought wine and mixers and then we brought it all home and cooked in the outdoor kitchen. We grilled steaks and asparagus, and had baked sweet potatoes and salad and we ate it all outdoors next to the pool, while listening to music from my I-pod.

Heaven! Heaven I tell you! And then we laid on the lounge chairs next to the pool and listened to more music and talked and watched the sky and listened to the critters in the trees until finally we were sleepy.

We crawled into bed with the ceiling fan on high and we slept. And I mean we slept. For more than 12 hours we slept. We had to get up before 11 in order to meet Mike, the regular house sitter who came by to answer questions and show us some of the “tricks” with the house. But as soon as he left, we went back to bed! Can you believe it? We slept until nearly 3 pm. And it wasn’t that heavy, headachy sleep you have when you are sleeping too much. Nope, this was cozy, restful sleep. And we woke up refreshed. Ready to start the day. Of course the day was nearly over. But we have 7 more days so who cares?!

I will admit that my sleep was not entirely blissful. I spent a few hours in the early morning worrying and dreaming about never, ever being able to find a good tenant with which to share our building. I turned the problem over and over in my sleepy but anxious brain, beating myself up for not being up and out of bed GETTING THINGS DONE that would help the situation. See what I mean about this vacation not being easy? Apparently I’ll have to drag my brain kicking and screaming towards this relaxation thing.

A Lesson in the Risks of Valet Parking

2008-06-13T21:08:00.000-05:00

Our alarm goes off at 6:00am, just like it does every morning, but this morning is different. Instead of snoozing till 7:00, we have to get up so that Katherine can drive us to the airport.

Boulder is at the end of the bed and I reach down and pull her up against me so I can bury my face in her fur one last time. The only thing I regret about our vacation is the fact that I will be away from Boulder for so long. Who would have ever thought I would become so attached to this crazy dog!

As we are loading the Murano, my suitcase malfunctions and we can’t get the handle to slide back down inside the case. Thank goodness this happens in our driveway instead of at the airport. So much for my careful packing – I stuff everything into the new suitcase and we are off.

On the airplane, Sam and I try to remember the last time we took a week long vacation together. We realize we haven’t done it since our honeymoon in October 2000. We’ve taken lots of long weekends, even some Wednesday through Sunday trips, but nothing longer. The realization makes us giddy!

We land in Jacksonville without incident and catch the shuttle to Jax Park where Terry and Sandy have left their car valet parked for us. The lady behind the desk takes our credit card, gives us our key, and sends us on our way. But the key belongs to a Buick, and Sandy & Terry drive a Mercedes. Hmmm.

We go back in and explain to the woman behind the desk that our car is a Mercedes. She looks at the key and matches it to the small tan envelope it came from, “Nope,” she declares, “this is a Buick. This is your number, 0-696, so this is your car. It’s not a Mercedes.”

If the situation had been reversed, I like to think Sam and I might have turned to each other and said, “Well then, that clears it up! Sandy & Terry must have traded in the Buick for this Mercedes and simply forgot to mention it to us. What a nice surprise! We will be on our merry way!”

I am not sure how Jax Park would have worked that out with the true owner of the Mercedes, but the lady behind the counter seemed to exude an air of certainty that I am sure would have convinced the owner that he did indeed drive a Buick.

But since we were being asked to take this Buick instead of the Mercedes, we were not so easily convinced. We stayed firm, no easy task with this woman, until she finally took us seriously and began looking around the small office, trying to figure out what to do.

She disappeared into the back, and then would reappear at the desk again, opening and closing small envelopes.

Every so often she would ask us, “Ford?”

We: “No.”

She: “Chrysler?”

We: “No, Mercedes”

She: “Oh.”

30 second pause.

She: “Buick?”

We: “No.”

She: “Honda?”

We” “Mercedes!”

She: “Oh, right, just checking.”

Was she testing us? Or just not very bright? I think it was the latter, but it was hard to tell.

At one point, after being in the back for several minutes, she walked out, looked right at Sam and asked, “May I help you?” I am not kidding! I couldn’t help myself, I rolled my eyes and let out a frustrated sigh to which she responded, “Well, I didn’t know!”

Indeed, she did not. And then I knew it was the latter.

After some time passed, she asked us if we wanted to help. We followed her into the back room, and there we saw rows of shelves, filled with long wooden trays, each stuffed with 30 or more tiny, tan envelopes. We had to open each envelope to check for a Mercedes key inside. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

I thought it would take us hours, but the 3rd tray I searched held a key to a Mercedes, and upon further inspection, I was able to see that the car had been brought in on June 11th, the day Sandy & Terry left. And, the number was 0-670, just one ticket off from the 0-696 ticket we had originally been given. It seemed like a fair match. They brought the car around and Hallelujah, it was indeed Sandy & Terry’s car!

We talked them into refunding the $19 valet charge for our trouble, and we were off. Our vacation had begun!

Anatomy of a Vacation

2008-06-13T17:59:00.000-05:00

Sam and I are on vacation. A real vacation. The sort of vacation that is long enough, and hopefully relaxing enough, to really, or almost nearly, forget about the crazy, hectic, jam packed days that make up the rest of our life.

Not that we want to forget, we love that part of our life and are choosing to live it. But for heaven’s sake – these last 2 years have been insane!!! So when our friends Terry & Sandy mentioned back in January that they would be spending 2 weeks in Italy in June, Sam and I mentioned that we would be available to take care of heir house while they were away. Our offer was completely selfless of course.

We enjoy the heck out of Terry and Sandy – but their house – well there is just something downright spiritual about it. The first time we visited them after they moved from Kansas City to St. Augustine, Florida, we nearly cancelled the trip the day before we left. We were stressed and frazzled and had been traveling a lot the past 2 months, and the last thing we were looking forward to was another weekend of travel. But we got on the plane anyway, and something happened as soon as we walked through the front doors of their house. We relaxed. I mean we really relaxed. We slept better than we’d slept in years. We both slept the entire night without waking, something that never happens for either of us. And then we kept on sleeping. And when we finally awoke, we were rested. Rested. Sigh….

We’ve been back since and it’s the same thing. We sleep. We eat. We sleep. We talk. We sleep. We eat. We talk. And we leave deeply relaxed.

So you can see why we selflessly offered, ahem, I mean, asked, ok we practically begged, to stay at their house while they were away. Being good friends, and gracious to boot, they readily agreed.

I took home some sea shells from the beach that weekend to remind me of what I had to look forward to. I kept them in a little arrangement on the shelf in my bathroom and each morning while I was getting ready I would remind myself that I was going to get to spend a week in Florida at Terry & Sandy’s house. Ahhhh. I could almost hear the waves crashing against the beach, and behind that, the soft tinkle of the fountain outside the window of the room in which we slept.

We decided to leave on Friday, June 13th, which was also my birthday. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate turning 42. For the next 9 days we will be “living” in Terry & Sandy’s house, enjoying this little corner of paradise and an escape from much of what constitutes our “real life”. If I am not too busy sleeping and eating, I plan to chronicle our plans to do absolutely nothing. I am sure it will be fascinating reading!

Just This Moment

2008-04-10T22:05:00.001-05:00

Tonight was a big night. A really big night. I sit on the board of a local neighborhood association. And for the last 5 months we have been wrestling with a board member who fancies himself a revolutionary. He’s an interesting guy. For about the first 30 seconds. And then it gets old. And then I want to shove a stake through my left eye.

We have been trying for the last several months to figure out how to get him off the board. We finally came up with a plan. We sought legal counsel. We held countless meetings. Tonight we held a vote of the membership to decide our revolutionary’s fate. We were all nervous. Our secretary spoke. I spoke. Others spoke. It went well.

The votes were counted. 61 in favor of voting him off the island. 3 in favor of keeping him. The 3 votes included his own. Only 2 friends in the whole mess.

He was as stand up as anyone I’ve ever seen. He accepted his defeat graciously. He said he was taking the vote to heart. He said he appreciated seeing democracy at work.

Jeff, who hosted us in his space, said it felt so much like family to him. He was nearly breathless when he said it. “Its like a great big family. We fight. We argue. But we still love each other in the end.” Jeff set the tone for the entire evening. God love him.

When we realized we’d won, there were hugs all around. I even hugged the revolutionary. And he hugged me back. Then we all went out for drinks. And bar food. I was drunk with happiness and box wine and deep fried olives.

On the way home, I thought about the fact that despite all the trouble in my life, this entire evening had been filled with moments that were extremely perfect. They were gilt edged and dripping in honey. Just this moment. And the next one after that. Tonight, nothing else mattered.

On the Rocks

2008-04-07T23:11:00.003-05:00

She: What do you like to drink?
Me: Scotch
She: Really?
Me: Really.
She: Why Scotch?
Me: Because at the end of the day, I need something just as hard, just as biting. I need to shutter.
She: Shutter is right. I don’t know how you can stand it.
Me: The Scotch is easy. But not the days.

The 3 Day San Diego Breast Cancer Walk

2007-11-18T11:31:00.000-06:00

After 8 weeks of training, we finally hit the pavement in San Diego and started ticking off the miles. These weren’t training miles. Nope, these were the real thing.

Those 3 days were perhaps the most amazing, magical 3 days I’ve experienced. A microcosm of all that is good and right in the world. Three days of enthusiasm, of inspiration, of encouragement, of determination, of caring, of service, of support, and of laughter. And did I mention pink? There was lots and lots of pink. I have really never experienced anything quite like it before, but despite the crazy beauty of the event itself, I know one thing for sure. I am never, ever, ever, NOT EVER, walking 60 miles again. No sir. Not me. ☺

Still, the experience was amazing, in no small part due to the incredible cast of volunteers. There were nearly 5000 walkers and more than 550 volunteers, supporters and staff. I would love to see the operations manual for this event, because as near as I could tell, it ran flawlessly.

We arrived very early Friday morning at the Del Mar Fairgrounds, where we were met by volunteers dressed in their pajamas and fuzzy slippers. Apparently they had just rolled out of bed in order to help us load our luggage onto the trucks that would carry it to our campsite, some 20 miles south.

We made our way to the Opening Ceremonies where we quickly found our friends Steve, Jenne’ and Momme’. It was easy to find Jenne' as she is the national spokesperson for the 3 Day. If you can find the stage, you can almost always find Jenne’. In fact, Jenne’ is who first told us about the 3 Day and we initially signed up in support of her. As we began training and fundraising, it became so much bigger than that, but seeing her up on stage was a very cool reminder of how our journey started.

And then we were off. All 5000 of us padded our way through the streets and sidewalks of Del Mar. We climbed the hills of Torrey Pines State Park, wound our way down to La Jolla Cove and finally, 20 miles and 11 hours later, Sam and I arrived at camp which was in Mission Bay Park, right on the water.

Along the way we were cheered by countless numbers of supporters.
Office buildings hung giant banners along the route and hundreds of office employees came out to clap and cheer for us. Shops and restaurants put out bowls of candy, snacks, Kleenex, sunscreen, lip balm, balloons and buttons. Individuals dressed themselves, their children and their animals in pink and stood outside their homes waving and clapping for us. At the top of one particularly steep hill a couple spritzed us with water bottles, and at the top of another hill, a resident had thrown a hose over the fence so we could splash our faces. Still others put stereo speakers in their windows or boom boxes in their driveways to play music as we passed by.

And then there were the walker stalkers. These were dedicated individuals who followed us along the route to entertain us. They would stop in one spot, let us pass, and then drive several miles ahead of us, stop and do it all again. One guy sang to us through speakers in the back of his truck. Another handed out smiley face pins with his 4 year old daughter.

And this hilarious older gentleman wore a sign around his neck that proclaimed “I’m a Breast Man!”

Everybody loved the San Jose bicycle police as they flirted and popped wheelies for us.

But my favorites were these two women who dressed as cows, drove a black and white spotted PT Cruiser and road around telling us to “Moooo-ve it!”

There were 3 Day volunteers who dressed in crazy costumes and drove up and down the route honking and cheering. They drove sweep vans, which were vans you could take to the next pit stop if you were hurt or just too tired, and each van was decorated in a different theme, including this one which was covered in bras.

And every 2-3 miles there were pit stops with a medic tent, port-a-potties, snacks, Gatorade and water. Each of the pit stops had a theme and all of the volunteers dressed accordingly.

Needless to say, we were thoroughly encouraged and entertained, and the show of support from the community was particularly touching. Still, the miles were long and hard, and both Sam and I limped into camp that first night, certain we wouldn’t be able to do another 20 miles the next day. Despite our training, we both developed shin splints and muscle cramps, but thankfully no blisters that first day.

We set up our tent, organized our gear, ate dinner (Oh my God did it taste amazing even though it was just pasta and sauce). We showered in semi truck trailers and the showers were some of the best I’ve ever had! The water was hot, hot, hot, the water pressure ferocious and the trailers themselves were filled with steam, almost like a sauna.

Everyone watches for the last walker to come into camp, so we can cheer them. When that person arrives, everyone goes crazy with excitement! The last walker has the honor of raising the flag over camp, which signifies that everyone is home and safe.

And then - lights out at 9:00 pm. Sam and I slept like rocks, despite the sleeping bag and tent. I think I could have slept anywhere as tired as I was. I got up in the night to go to the bathroom (the worst part about camping) and it was really cool to look to my right and see the ocean and to my left and see a sea of pink tents.

People began getting up at 4:30 and 5:00 the next morning. Sam and I slept in (!) till 5:30am. Then it was breakfast, stretching and we were back on the trail. Day 2 wasn’t significantly harder than Day 1, but it was long. Our route took us through Ocean Beach and Sunset Cliffs. At one point, we looked down an alley and saw walkers going the opposite direction at the other end. We realized if we cut through it would be a huge shortcut. It was tempting, so tempting, but we talked ourselves out of it.

That night we went to the camp show which included a karaoke contest, a lost and found fashion show and believe it or not, a dance party. I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes, but as Jenne’ so aptly put it, “Nothing says I’ve just walked 40 miles like doing the electric slide.” The stage and dance floor were crowded with people dancing their hearts out. Of course I’m convinced they all took sweep vans back to camp right after mile 6. Ha!

Sam and I visited the Remembrance Tents that night as well. There were 14 white tents that sat on a slight rise at the edge of camp, each illuminated from the inside creating a beautiful glow. 13 of the tents represented each city where a 3 Day walk had been held this year. The 14th tent was larger and inside was a smaller white tent, also illuminated from the inside. The large tent was lined with photos of women who had participated in a 3 Day walk whose lives had been lost to breast cancer, some only weeks earlier. There was a long table with journals to write in, and there were markers so that you could write the name of your loved one on the smaller white tent. It was beautiful and sad and put our sore muscles and aching feet into sharp relief.
Day 3 started with everyone taking down their tents. It was sad to see camp come down even though it meant I would soon be sleeping in a real bed.

Day 3 was a killer for me. My feet were hurting terribly after just 2 miles and I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to finish. We saw a lot of walking wounded that day, people with bandaged knees, ankles and shins. People with entire sections of their shoes cut away to deal with blisters. Both Sam and I had shin splints, muscle cramps, blisters and sore, sore feet.

Our route took us past the Mission Bay Golf Course, Fiesta Island, Old Town San Diego, Mission Hills Park, and Balboa Park. The route was especially pretty, but still it was a struggle for me to maintain a positive attitude. I wanted to quit. I WANTED TO SIT DOWN! I asked everyone around me, “How are you doing? How do you feel?” They all said the same thing. “We hurt. We are tired. We want to quit.” But they didn’t. Everyone kept walking. One foot in front of the other. I did the same.

Left. Right. Left… ouch! Right. Every 15 seconds my brain asked me if I wouldn’t like to quit, if I wouldn’t like to end this insanity. Left. Right. Left. Right. I kept telling myself to walk normally, because as soon as I gave into the pain, I would begin to hobble which caused other parts of my body to clench up and hurt. Left. Right. Walk naturally. Good. Keep going. Left. Right. Ouch!

Finally, finally, it was over. When I saw the gate to Petco Park, which signaled the end, I burst into tears. Thank God we’d made it. The walkers who had finished before us had formed a long tunnel for us to walk through in celebration of completing the walk. They high-fived us and hugged us and cheered us. It was so cool.

Once everyone had arrived we walked together, arms linked, and wearing our white “completion” t-shirts, into the closing ceremonies. The staff and volunteers and supporters lined our path and it felt a bit like “This is your life” to see them all together at one time.

Once we were in, the survivors, all wearing pink t-shirts, walked in together. Everyone took off a shoe and raised it in the air to honor them. These steps were for you.

Closing ceremonies, and then it was over. There were hugs and tears as we all said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. I knew for certain as we climbed into our cab that we were leaving something remarkable, something much bigger than the two of us.

I thought of the women whose photos were on the walls of the Remembrance Tent. I thought of Rhonda, Katherine’s Mom. I thought of Katherine. I thought of my own grandmother. I thought of the women whose stories I learned from all of you, whose names are scrolling on my 3-Day webpage. And I knew my blisters would heal, my feet would stop hurting, and my muscles would relax. But until there is a cure for breast cancer, moms and daughters and sisters and grandmothers will not have the same luxury of quick recovery as I do.

Thank you for your exceedingly generous support and encouragement. Because of you, Sam and I were able to present a combined contribution of nearly $28,000. Because of you, we are that much closer to finding a cure.

Thank you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.

Crash

2007-08-28T23:55:00.000-05:00

sweet smoke
full moon
Dave Matthews,
heal my wounds

Sometimes, music is required

2007-08-11T13:33:00.000-05:00

This past Thursday I attended a funeral. Judy Eubank, the mother of one of my best friends, died unexpectedly.

I’ve known Judy for nearly as long as I’ve known her daughter, my dear friend Carrie. Carrie and I first met when we were both fresh out of college and new in our careers. Carrie was job hunting and was referred to me for an informational interview. Instead of talking about job opportunities, we gossiped about our respective employers and when our allotted appointment time ran out, we agreed to meet for lunch to continue our conversation. We became fast friends, developing a bond that has only deepened over the past 15 years.

I met Judy only a short time after meeting Carrie. Carrie was still living at home and I was instantly intrigued and enamored with the strong relationship she and her mother shared.

Over the years I came to know Judy in three distinct ways. She was first and foremost the matriarch of the Eubank family. At bridal showers, weddings, baby showers and holidays, she presided over the gatherings with the pride and confidence of a mother lion. One of my favorite memories is of sitting along side Judy and Carrie at Broadway Church on Sundays. Judy was a strong and independent woman, and to be included in her family brood, as I often was, was to feel safe and loved.

I knew her most recently as her banker. Judy called me several years ago to talk about her car, which was in need of replacing. I was both flattered and terrified when she called. That she was willing to trust me to help her through a financial difficulty was something I took very seriously. We worked out a rather creative arrangement and she moved her banking relationship to my bank. Over the ensuing years, she called to let me know each and every time interest rates rose. She also called regularly to ask questions about the minutest details of her account. To say she was high maintenance would not be an overstatement. But I never stopped feeling flattered that she trusted me to answer her questions.

I knew her most intimately through Carrie’s eyes. Judy, as a mother, was a strong force of a woman who loved her children with a fierce intensity. She was a mountain stream – beautiful and powerful, shaping and molding with her intensity all those within her embrace. As the youngest of 3 children and the only one who remained in Kansas City, Carrie has spent most of her adult years negotiating that fine line along which she is both an accomplished adult with a family of her own, and yet still and always her mother’s baby girl. Carrie has for the last 20 years, spent equal amounts of time trying to become closer to and stand independent from Judy. It is the dance mothers and daughters have danced throughout the ages and I’ve watched from Carrie’s side, mesmerized, and a little bit envious.

Judy died in her sleep, without warning to those who loved her. She’d spent the previous two days enjoying having her entire family in town for a reunion she'd organized. Always the matriarch, even unto death.

The funeral was bittersweet. The suddenness of her death meant that her friends and family were fresh with grief and shock. Photos of Judy throughout her life lined the back wall of the church. She was stunning as a young woman. A photo of her as a teenager sitting on a railing next to a sign that read, “Do not sit on railing,” was surely a sign of the independent path she would forge as an adult.

The service was filled with Judy’s favorite things. She loved simple pleasures: music, poetry, fresh flowers, a cool glass of water with a twist of fresh lemon. We listened to poetry that Judy had written over the years, and to classical music, a country song, and a beautiful, sad guitar piece that Tommy, Judy’s musician son performed.

I sat in my old pew at Broadway Church, and felt as if it had only been last week since I’d last sat there. (In truth it’s been more than 10 years). The space felt as warm and inviting and safe as ever. Paul and Marcia – co-ministers of the church – had aged, but their message was the same. “You belong. You are safe.” Its no wonder Judy loved this place as she did. And I loved it too, thanks to her and to Carrie.

I sat together with Carrie’s other best girlfriends. Each of us understood that this was big, very big. Judy's passing was a seismic event. There was just no other way of understanding it. We wept as Judy’s best friend read a letter that Carrie had written to her mom. Tommy’s band mates sat a few rows ahead of us. I watched as these big guys cried openly while Tommy’s song “Glassy Headlights” played.

I had a clear view of Carrie as she sat in the front row, flanked by her siblings Tommy and Mindy, her husband and her children. She was grieving, but throughout the service she was first a mom, holding her kids on her lap, comforting them, just like Judy would have done.

Mindy’s husband Scott took little Jackson to the bathroom and Tommy stretched his arm across the space between them and gestured, “Come here, come closer.” Mindy did, and perhaps the biggest flood of tears for me came as I watched Tommy wrap his arm around his sister’s shoulder and hold her tightly. Judy’s fierce love lived on.

As I looked around I was struck by the fact that for the most part, we had mostly first known each other as kids, or young adults. And now here we sat, with kids of our own, with grey in our hair, some of us with extra pounds around our waist, with mortgages and car loans, obligations and responsibilities, and we were burying our parents. Our parents! How did this happen? When did we become this grown up? Did we ever really believe the baton would be passed? That the role of family matriarch or patriarch, would fall to us?

I watched Carrie’s children, Sophie and Mikey, and remembered my own grandparents’ funerals. Had my parents wondered how it had come to this? How they could be burying their own parents?

Following the service, we gathered on the front steps of the church as Judy’s seven grandchildren – ranging in age from 6 months to 9 years – each let go of a single balloon in memory of their grandma Nani. Simple. And beautiful. As Judy would have wanted it. The seven balloons rose up in unison, free of earthly tethers, floating away into the crisp blue sky, undaunted by the blazing sun. I watched until they disappeared.

After everyone else had gone, I stood on the front steps talking with Carrie and her girlfriends until I was baked through from the heat. When we finally said our goodbyes, I decided to go home, even though I should have gone back to work.

At home, I peeled off my sticky clothes and stood under the cool spray of the shower. I redressed, went downstairs, poured myself a glass of water, with ice cubes, and lemon. I sliced a fresh tomato and ate it with a little vinegar, salt and pepper. Simple pleasures. Simply enjoyed.

Thank you Judy, for reminding me that in the end it is about how much you have loved, and that the greatest joy can be found in the simplest things.

You will be missed.

When spirits speak,
few words are needed.
Sometimes, music is required.

Judy Eubank
1942 - 2007

The Secret

2007-07-04T11:03:00.000-05:00

As usual, Val has said something that got me thinking. She has that way about her. Last week Sam and I made a spontaneous trek across 63rd to share a bottle of wine with our favorite neighbors and we starting talking about the best selling book “The Secret.” Val believes in the power of setting intentions. I do too, but there is a place somewhere in there where I think it feels silly.

If I say I want a red Porsche, will it cause one to miraculously appear in my drive way? I don’t think so. On the other hand, if I say I want a red Porsche, and I really do, and I remind myself everyday that I want it, doesn’t it make sense that I will start organizing my life in a way that will allow me to acquire one? Well, I think it does.

Val told us that a year or so ago she set the intention that she would be earning $40M a year from her rental properties. Now she is. She laughed, “I think I have to set the goal higher!” That makes sense to me. Val & Vern buy houses in the hood, renovate them beautifully, and lease them out to Section 8 and other tenants. They really care about their houses, their tenants, and their neighbors. Slumlords they are not. Val says she can tell a real difference in some of the blocks where they’ve purchased properties in that the neighbors seem to feel a sense of pride at having a truly well maintained property on their block. She says she’s noticed that other neighbors have begun taking better care of their properties. And because Val has never met a stranger, she’s gotten neighbors talking to each other, where before they were not.

But anyway, I digress. Val wanted to make enough to live on from her rental properties. Though I don’t know the details, I imagine that with each house Val and Vern buy, they think through the income and expense potential to decided if it will get them closer to their $40,000 a year goal. If it doesn’t fit the plan, they don’t buy the house. That’s intention in action.

I get that, yet for most of my life I have been loathe to set goals or intentions for myself. That’s not to say I haven’t gone through the motions a hundred or so times. For most of my life, I’ve had employers urging me to set goals around things I didn’t really care about. I did it, but those goals didn’t motivate me, instead they felt like a weight hanging around my shoulders. Ugh.

But there have been other goals I have cared about. When I was younger (in my 20s and early 30s) I used to make long lists of things I wanted to accomplish in my life. I would organize them into categories: trips to take, friends to spend time with, classes to take, languages to learn, weight to attain, money to earn, debts to pay, etc. Each list was several pages long. I still have those lists and they are fun to re-read, but I am not sure they actually caused me to do anything differently.

In more recent years I’ve drafted a narrative that describes the values I hold most dear in my life. I holed away in a hotel room for a day and a half to do it, and put my entire heart and soul into the effort, but I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head what I came up with. Sigh.

I guess if I’m really honest with myself, I would have to say that part of the problem with goals is that I hate setting myself up for failure. In order for it to seem a worthy goal, I end up setting the bar very high. Lose 20 pounds before Christmas – and keep it off. Now there’s a new one, and also one I’ve yet to achieve, despite having set it year after year after year. I don’t even bother putting it on my list anymore. I want to weigh less, but I also realize I don’t want it badly enough to make the daily sacrifices needed to make it happen. There is a difference between wanting the end result of a goal and being willing to do the hard work of getting there.

Which brings me back to my problem with “The Secret” which contends that all that is needed is the desire and intent. If you set your heart upon your desire then magically the hard work disappears and what you imagined will appear. If that were true, I would have been a size 4 for the last 20 years.

Well, all this thinking about goals and intentions is really the result of Val’s suggestion that we start a neighborly tradition of meeting on or around July 4th each year and setting our intentions for the year – just to see what happens.

Both Sam and I sat down and wrote out our goals this morning (and I am happy to report that no where on my list is “lose weight”) We will share them with Val & Vern later today and then Val will keep them in a safe place until this time next year when we will do it again.

I have to say that the act of having this “assignment” from Val, who both Sam and I love dearly, makes it more meaningful, and as a result I am taking it more seriously than I have in a long time.

I am not going to share my goals here, but they will be in a safe place at Val’s house, and next year on the 4th of July, I’ll let you know how we did.

At the speed of busyness, the world becomes a blur

2007-07-01T10:56:00.000-05:00

My friend Jack has been telling me for a couple of years that only about 20% of what we do really needs to get done. The other 80% is just busywork. The problem is knowing which 20% is the part that matters.

Jack's advice has not quite been believable until recently. My busyness is important. All 100% of it. Perhaps 10% could be left undone, but that extra 10% is what sets me apart, gives me my edge. I've never been afraid of hard work or long hours.

10% I can accept, even if I do find a way to justify it, but 80%? That would mean MOST of what I spend my time being busy with is really unnecessary. What would it mean if that were true?

I was interviewed by a reporter recently and he asked what motivates me. I answered without hesitation. Fear. For most of my life fear has chased me out of bed each morning and sent me scrambling to stay ahead of the growing wave of "things to do". Like a surfer, I've ridden that wave of busyness, exhilarated by its power and immenseness and all the while terrified that it will buckle and come crashing down upon my head.

There seems always far more to do than could ever be done. My fear of not keeping up, and my satisfaction at being able to check something off my list, provides the motivation for my daily churn.

My constant busyness allows for no experience of rest, save for the total exhaustion I feel at the end of each day. There is little room for spontaneity or reflection and even less for miracle or delight.

And as the speed of my busyness intensifies, the world around me begins to blur. Lives that move at a slower pace than mine begin to lose focus. Lives not scheduled on my calendar, their very existence begins to fade.

What would it mean if all this were just busywork? What would it mean indeed?

We Need to Talk

2007-06-25T22:10:00.000-05:00

"We need to talk."

When I was single and dating, those were words I never wanted to hear. Generally they preceeded other conversation which included phrases like "It's not you, it's me" "I just need to figure some things out" "I need time alone" and my perennial favorite "I feel like you are one of my very best friends..."

Now that I am married "we need to talk" takes on a different tone, though no less ominous. These days it's more likely to signal a financial crisis conversation than anything else.

Today I heard the words from a customer. In writing. I've had a bad feeling for a couple of weeks, but nothing concrete to tie it to. When you've been doing this (lending money) for as long as I have, you start to develop a six sense about such things.

I read the email. A chill ran down my spine. I am pretty sure what's coming is a combination of both the dating and the marriage scenarios.

Damn it. This is the part of my job I really hate.

Farming

2007-06-22T22:36:00.000-05:00

I've been farming lately, or at least I like to think of it that way. I know the more accurate term is gardening. I'm not growing cash crops. I'm not driving a tractor, or a bailer, or a combine. It's just me and my spade and the tiny containers of hopeful shoots and buds - their fate depending completely on my ability to connect them to the life giving earth. They wilt and moan and generally hang their heads with hopelessness as they wait for me to decide where they will go. Days pass. Their heads droop further. Finally I decide. I'm not good at preparing their nest. I don't have the patience. A turn of the spade and they've been dropped into their hole. A good watering. This I have patience for. I count to 20 or 30, or 75 if it's a tree. And then they are on their own. I check in everyday. I watch their progress, trying to figure out what to do if they don't take. Usually they grow. And it amazes me that I can do this.

On Retreat

2007-06-22T21:52:00.000-05:00

Not long ago I spent 4 days with my dear friend Lynn in Salt Lake City. Spending time with Lynn is like being on retreat. We have long, deep, authentic conversations. We eat wonderful food and drink delicious wine. We hike in the mornings, soaking up the spectacular mountain views, and spend the afternoons pampering ourselves with massage or yoga or naps. We find lots of reasons to have dessert. We read magazines, share books, go to bed early and start the day again with steaming cups of coffee and tea in the morning light. We both hate to talk on the phone. And neither of us has much time to write. We might not have another meaningful conversation for 12 months, but when Lynn picks me up from the SLC airport next June, we'll start up exactly where we left off. And that is the beauty of our friendship.

Our yoga instructor read this poem by David Whyte at the beginning of class. I've read it every day since I've come home, and so I'll share it with you too.

SELF-PORTRAIT
~David Whyte

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned,
if you can know despair or see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes,
saying this is where I stand.
I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living,
falling toward
the center of your longing.
I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

Two Figures

2007-05-16T22:29:00.000-05:00

I’ve been strangely calm these last couple of weeks, like all the craziness of the weeks before have drained my reserves for drama. A water pipe is broken under the building, could cost $10M or more. Really? Too bad. We lose a good client at work. Bad timing. So sorry. I gain several extra pounds over night, and it turns out not to be water weight. Bummer. It all rolls off me like water off a duck’s back. My heartbeat stays slow. No sweaty palms, or racing mind.

Actually that’s not true. An e-mail last week sent me spinning. And that’s when I realized I’d not had that anxious feeling in such a long while.

It makes a difference. The anxiety is cumulative. And so is the calm. Every anxious day increases the chances that I won’t sleep that night. Which in turn increases the chances for more anxiety the next day. Every calm day, increases the chances for more calm days. And so on. And so forth. Forever and ever. Amen.

Sam and I bought a ceramic sculpture at the Brookside Art Fair. Two figures, male and female, looking out over a turbulent ocean. A tiny dingy at the edge of the tide. A white egret perched on its bow. Peace in the midst of struggle. Companionship in the eye of the storm.

Passage of Time

2007-04-19T21:06:00.000-05:00

Not so much 40 as now nearly 41.
When did age become so important,
and the date of my birth call forth such intensity?

Today I mourned the death of a man whose phone calls I avoided.
Yet his absence has torn a hole too large to fill.

Twice I’ve called out to his spirit.
In the car, alone, where no one can hear.
"Are you ok?" I’ve asked, to no reply.

I told his daughters he was ornery and they smiled.
I meant that he was abrupt and arrogant.
Or maybe he just knew what he wanted.

Either way he is gone.
"A stinker," his wife said. "Such a stinker."

Not so much alive now, as merely dead and done.
Why did age become so important,
and the date of his death call forth such mourning?

Pushed ...

2007-04-05T23:31:00.000-05:00

"The walls came down, it was a fucking disaster."

I said I was sorry.
I am not.

Leaving...

2007-04-03T21:53:00.000-05:00

Linda is leaving. Moving to Oklahoma City. Soon. Like, by the end of April. And my life as I know it will be forever changed.

Linda works with me and is my number one reason for getting through the day. Every day. Truly, she has saved my butt on so many occasions. She is the yin to my yang. She remembers where I forget, is calm where I am anxious, and quick when I am slow. She received flowers last week, again, from one of the customers we work together to take care of. Our customers love her. And I love her. And how I will ever replace her, I just don't know.

I've been awfully lucky to have had the opportunity to work with her these last 2 1/2 years. She's set the bar incredibly high for anyone who dares follow in her footsteps.

I'll miss you Linda.

Twister (or Lucid Dreaming)

2007-03-27T22:43:00.000-05:00

Sam and I have different appetites for risk. When we first met he was Captain Cautious, always on the lookout for potential dangers. I, on the other hand, loved adventure and exploration. I loved intensity. Sam loved calm.

Sam worried that Katherine, at age 10, might stick her fingers in a wall outlet next to her bed while she slept. Meanwhile, I was rafting white water and jumping from airplanes.

I teased Sam about his caution. He was aghast at my fearlessness. We were on opposite ends of the “risk taker” spectrum, or so it seemed.

About 6 months into our dating, I came across a magazine article on America’s appetite for risk. The article included a “find your risk quotient” self-quiz. I love taking these types of tests, and I was also eager to validate my superior “risk quotient.”

The first two questions were easy.

Q: If given the opportunity to skydive, would you?
A: Absolutely.

Q: Would you travel to a foreign country alone?
A: Of course.

And then they threw a curve.

Q: Would you use your life savings to start a business?
A: Huh? Um, well, I’d rather not.

Q: When you walk into a crowded room filled with people you don’t know, what is your first instinct?
A: Easy. My instinct is to run and hide in the bathroom.

Q: Would you rush into a burning building to save a stranger?
A: Definitely.

Q: Would you bet a month’s wages at a casino?
A: No way. (not even a day’s wage)

There were 50 or so questions, covering all types of risk, including many (like business and social risk) I had not previously considered. My score was solidly average. Hmmm.

I asked Sam to take the quiz. He also scored a solid average. In fact, our scores turned out to be exactly the same, but as we read through the questions we realized our answers were opposites in nearly every instance.

I embraced physical risk and situational risk, but stayed as far away as possible from social and financial risk. Sam kept a safe distance from physical and situational risk, but was hard pressed to see the risk in the social and financial situations presented. I’m a banker and he’s an entrepreneur. It made sense but it was also fascinating.

Over the years, we’ve adjusted to each other’s sense of risk, but not without some grumbling. More often than not I try to drag Sam along on one of my mini-adventures. The more he resists, the more stubborn I become. Generally he tolerates me and on more than one occasion he has saved my butt.

So the dream I had just before waking Saturday morning in Napa was particularly telling and entertaining. It went something like this…

We are driving down a 2-lane road somewhere in rural America. The skies are dark and menacing as a storm brews. We come to a fork in the road. It is clearly the road less traveled, which means it holds great allure for me.

“Let’s go down this road,” I suggest.

“I’d rather not,” Sam answers dryly.

“Why not!” I demand.

“Because there are tornadoes forming down that road.”

“There are not! Where?”

“Right there,” Sam points.

Sure enough, right there in front of us, but certainly a safe distance away, is a white tornado snaking toward the ground.

“Oh my God!! That is so cool. Let’s try to get closer! Go down that road!” I insist excitedly.

“I would really rather not,” Sam says deliberately and through clenched teeth.

“Come on! Go! Go! Let’s go check it out. It’s not that big of a deal. Hurry!” I am beside myself with eagerness.

Sam turns down the road and the tornado is straight ahead a couple of miles. As I watch, dumbstruck, several more tornadoes begin to drop from the clouds. I suddenly realize there are at least 7 tornadoes on the horizon and they are beginning to encircle us.

“Um, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.” I venture.

Without saying a word, but with a distinct look of “I’ve known this all along, and I can’t believe it took you this long to figure it out” Sam pulls hard on the steering wheel, whipping the car back around in the opposite direction. He floors it and I can hear the tornadoes close behind us.

“Oh man! I can’t believe all these tornadoes came out of nowhere! Good grief. Drive as fast as you can – ok?” I instruct him.

“I am!” he answers through a still clenched jaw.

We race down the road, just a mile or so ahead of the tornadoes, which seem to be in hot pursuit.

And then the dream morphs into something else.

I love that I had this dream. It was so perfectly lucid, it's hard to believe I was asleep.

With Friends Like These...

2007-03-24T14:38:00.000-05:00

Relief! And thank God for it! I finally started feeling better last night. Sam and I went to dinner in Napa (my first meal out since we left Kansas City) and as we were ordering dessert, I realized I had gone nearly an hour and a half without pain. Yahoo! I am so full of antibiotics that my skin actually smells like the pills, but I don’t care. I am just so happy to be pain free.

This morning I woke up feeling fine and we have celebrated by spending the entire morning lying in bed watching the Food Network on the flat screen tv at the end of our bed. This is a special treat for Sam. Because I am an ornery and cheap curmudgeon, even when I am feeling well, I have drawn the line at spending $100 a month for cable so we can watch mindless drivel in the free time we don’t have. But on vacation, well that’s a different story! This morning we learned how to cook all kinds of tasty dishes just as soon as we get home. My favorite show of all was “Ham on the Street.” This guy was hilarious and proved that you can make a grilled cheese & jelly sandwich with any kind of bread, cheese and jelly and have it turn our deliciously. I think I’ll try it.

Anyway, I don’t have much time to post but I did want to thank a couple of friends for their supportive and loving comments over the last several days.

First – an email from my best buds Julie & Aaron upon learning that I was in such a bad state.

“Wish we could be there with you. Of course we’d be drinking wine. But we would be holding your hand with our free hand.”

And then a phone conversation Sam had with his friend Jeff Mott who, learning about my state of health, and also knowing about the “deal” Sam and I had made, quipped,

“Oh that is just awful, especially for you Sam. Do you think you’ll be able to get a rain check?”

Really, with friends like these, who needs enemies? Hee! Hee! Seriously, thanks guys, for making me laugh.

Well, I am off to enjoy wine country.

Living Large in San Francisco

2007-03-24T00:40:00.000-05:00

I am so miserable. I have spent the last 2 days of our vacation lying in bed in the very pretty room of our swank hotel just off Union Square in San Francisco. There is plenty to do just outside my window and the weather has been beautiful. But I am afraid to venture more than 10 feet from the room, and even when I ‘ve been willing to risk it, I haven’t had the energy to walk more than a block or so.

Late Tuesday afternoon, I realized I was getting a bladder infection. This is the third one I’ve had; the last was nearly 15 years ago. It’s not hard to know you have a bladder infection. For those who have yet to experience this little bit of hell on earth, imagine a hundred fire ants crawling around inside your bladder, producing a constant and intense urge to pee, coupled with a burning pain that lasts several long seconds every time you try to go.

As soon as I recognized my symptoms I headed for CVS to buy some AZO Standard. These little red pills have, in the past, done wonders to stop the pain until I could get started on antibiotics. I popped a couple and felt pretty good for the rest of the evening.

Wednesday morning, Sam and I got up early to catch our plane. I didn’t feel great, but assumed my morning dose of AZO would help. I was wrong. I spent the next 4 hours in the air, in misery. There was a lot of turbulence, which meant the pilot kept the “fasten seat belts” sign on for long stretches of time. A woman a few rows ahead of me got up to use the restroom and the kind (not!) stewardess used the woman’s daring dash to remind us over the loud speaker to please respect the pilot’s opinion and stay in our seats. (I know Sam just posted about his enduring love for Southwest. For the record, I was feeling all kinds of things on that flight and none of them could be classified as love!)

Anyway, although I certainly respected the pilot’s opinion, I was pretty sure that staying in my seat was going to result in much embarrassment so I screwed up my courage and made a run for it. The stewardess who had used the loudspeaker to demand respect got up from her jump seat as I neared the restroom door. For the love of God, could this woman not see that I was in a serious hurry? She started to tell me that the pilot… blah, blah, blah…but I slid around her and into the bathroom, tossing a sharp, “If I could have waited, I would have!” over my shoulder.

The problem with a bladder infection is that it tricks you into thinking that if you could just reach a restroom you will be ok. But, oh no, that is simply not true. Instead you are met with this unbelievably ridiculous amount of pain, and typically, very little urine. You feel better for about 60 seconds before the entire thing starts over again.

I climbed over my seat-mate several times before deciding I might as well just stand in the back next to the bathroom door. This was not a popular decision with Stewardess Ratchet, but she tolerated me.

Four long, miserable hours later we made it to San Francisco. We hired a cab to take us to a Walgreen’s near our hotel, where my doctor had called in an antibiotic prescription. I was nearly in tears by the time I reached the pharmacist. I ripped open the package and swallowed a pill, then begged to use their non-public restroom. I think I scared the young Asian boy who was waiting on me as he knocked over a display stand of pamphlets in an effort to get me into the restroom.

I spent the rest of Wednesday in bed, and in the bathroom, while Sam attended the advertising conference that brought us here. The only bright spot in the day was the NY strip steak with French fries I had sent up to my room for dinner. It was staggeringly expensive, but I was feeling so sorry for myself that I could hardly muster up the energy to care. And I’ll tell you, that was one damn fine steak! And the French fries? Those who know me know I like a little food on my salt. Those fries were so hot and salty and crispy! Mmmmm..

Thursday I expected to feel better, and for the first hour I did. But as the morning passed I felt worse and worse. I tried to venture out, but found I had no energy. I took a walk around the block and then came back and recovered with a 2-hour nap. The entire time those fire ants were gnawing away at my bladder. At times, the pain was so intense that I could feel the pulse of my heart in my bladder.

I read all the magazines I had and even turned on the TV for a bit, (my disdain for television programming was quickly reconfirmed).
I napped and watched the clock, waiting for Sam to come back to the room between meetings. I started writing this post, but the pain was so intense that the only way I could get comfortable was to lie flat on my back. Finally, I took an ativan and went to bed, hoping I would wake up feeling better.

This morning I awoke to more of the same. I called my Dr. in Kansas City. He is not working today and the nurse suggested I go to an urgent care facility.

I checked the internet and found an Urgent Care office just 2 blocks from our hotel. The office opened at 9am and I was there waiting when they unlocked the doors. You know, I have never had this feeling before when visiting a doctor, but this was the coolest doctors office I have ever visited. The office was painted ocean blue with black trim and all of the furniture was retro stainless steel. The staff wore fashionable clothes instead of scrubs, even the docs had traded their white coats for regular, trendy wear.

I was seen within 10 minutes of arriving by Dr. Jessie Davis, who took a urine sample and then loaded me up with drugs. I got an injection of antibiotic (because it works faster) and another prescription of antibiotics to start taking as soon as I could get it filled. He also gave me Norco to knock me out for the flight home in case I still wasn’t better. And a prescription for Diflucan. I had the sense he would give me whatever I asked for (this is California after all) and I briefly thought about all the other drugs I would like to have, but stayed focused on the problem at hand.

Dr. Davis said I should be feeling better by tonight and sent me on my way. I was so happy that relief was on its way I practically skipped down the street to the pharmacy.

Which brings us to the present. Three hours have passed since a healthy dose of drug was injected into my hindquarter, and I don’t yet feel one bit better. In fact, I hurt as bad as I did last night. But I am hopeful. Apparently the particular strain of bacteria that I am growing is resistant to the first drug I took. Dr. Davis thinks this one should do the trick, but I realize that the bacteria could be resistant to this variety of antibiotic as well.

Sam will be back from his meetings within the hour and then we are driving to Wine Country for a couple of days. I really hope I am feeling well enough to enjoy it. And I hope there are lots of places to use the restroom along the way.

A Thousand Birds...

2007-03-20T00:07:00.000-05:00

When I was 26 and newly divorced, I moved from my grown-up “married” house in Brookside, to a tiny apartment in the upstairs of a house at 48th & Holly. It was like living in a tree house. The rooms were small and the ceiling in the bathroom was so low I had to duck my head to step in to the shower. But I could lie in bed and look out my window and see nothing but trees. The branches tickled my window in the evenings and the rustling of the leaves soothed me to sleep on many lonely, anxious nights.

I have many memories of that apartment, but the one that stands before all the others was the way those tiny rooms allowed me to fall in love with music. I had always loved music, but my exposure was limited and my tastes ran mostly to top 40 hits.

I had a lot of time alone in the year after I moved and I began spending my Saturday afternoons at Penny Lane Records in Westport. I bought a “serious” CD player, tuner and speakers and spent any extra money I had on books and music. I lived alone and spent hours lying in bed reading and listening to music.

Because my apartment was so small, I could hear my music from any room. I turned it on as soon as woke up and fell asleep listening. There were times when I felt I might die from the intensity of emotion the music stirred up in me. The songs I loved, played like a soundtrack to that part of my life.

I eventually moved and bought a home not far from the tree house. It too was small, an airplane bungalow, and I could listen to my favorite songs from any room in the house. And again, I (mostly) lived alone so the music that played was always my favorite music.

I remember meeting a guy I liked and after several dates and an evening of feeling particularly connected, I invited him home to listen to my music. I am sure he had something else in mind, but I remember sitting on the floor, my CDs surrounding me, as I played one favorite song after another. I was sharing one of the most intimate parts of myself.

My music collection grew, as did my sense of connection to life through the songs I loved.

Then I met, and fell in love with, Sam and Katherine. And everything changed. I spent a lot of time with them in their house up north. It was a big house, a ranch with rooms the size of tennis courts, or so it seemed. Sam had a stereo, but you couldn’t hear the music in other rooms of the house, and if you wanted to, you had to turn the volume way up. Which was ok when I was listening to the Cowboy Junkies or Lisa Loeb, but not so ok when Katherine was listening to Britney Spears or Sam was listening to classic rock.

Then we moved into my house and although the acoustics were right again, I realized I couldn’t start their morning with Marilyn Manson, just because I was in the mood for it. And I found that after 6 years of listening to the music I loved most, it was very hard to listen to music that didn’t move me, even when it was the music that Sam or Katherine loved.

Gradually, I stopped listening. And the music that had been such an important part of that part of my life grew dusty and old. I still pulled out my old CDs from time to time, but when I listened, it was different. That sense of knowing - that sense of the song being so connected to my life, that sense that the song was my life and my life was that song – that feeling was gone.

Several months ago I saw the Leonard Cohen Movie "I'm Your Man" and I was reminded of how powerful a force music could be in my life. A friend gave me a copy of Cohen’s “10 New Songs” and another friend gave me a copy of Antony’s “You are a Bird Now” and I listened in my car to nothing else for weeks.

The music had a powerful effect on me, but it wasn’t until tonight that I remembered the brute physical force of connecting with a song. I had forgotten that feeling of being crushed and exploded into a million pieces all at the same time – all because of a piece of music.

But tonight I found a band called ShearWater. And I listened to this song, and this one, and this one. And I felt my chest rip open and a thousand white birds flew out.

You scratch my back and I'll... well, you know.

2007-03-13T23:17:00.000-05:00

So, a couple of months ago Sam and I made this deal. If he gives me this thing I want, then I'll give him this thing he wants. (wink, wink) I set the bar pretty high in terms of what I wanted and I'll be damned if he didn't go and pull it off! Guess I'm not going to have much free time this month. :-)

The Color of Money... the Same as Lost Dreams

2007-03-12T22:42:00.000-05:00

Sam’s words hit me hard. An expense I wasn’t expecting. A big one. That’s all it took and within minutes I was trembling with anxiety and the old argument, the one we’ve had 100 times since we’ve been married, the one about money, was in full swing. I said all the same things I always say and paused long enough for him to say all the same things he always says and for the 100th time we found ourselves spent and exhausted and frustrated and once again at an impasse.

We played our assigned parts and followed the script we’d carefully worked out for this particular argument, except at some point, after we’d moved from the kitchen to the living room and refilled our glasses, and thrown our early rounds of punches, Sam said something off script.

“What did you mean by that?” I asked, caught off guard by his comment. He didn’t know what he’d meant. I didn’t either, but we both realized it was significant, and the room regained some oxygen.

Not ready to let the argument go so easily, I held on with my teeth and shook my head, but the fight had already gone out of Sam and it just wasn't fun to argue by myself. So we switched gears and starting talking about this random comment he’d made. And we dug and talked and questioned and dug some more, and suddenly there were tears. The sort of tears that come when something deep, deep down is brought to the surface. The sort of tears that remind you of when you were a kid. The sort of tears that are primal and kind of scary because you know you are experiencing something sacred.

And we realized, through those tears, that although our stories are very different, we'd both made a similar sacrifice. Our sacrifices had been made grudgingly, and we’d been harboring anger and regret ever since. Neither of us felt safe talking about it, and it had felt too selfish to imagine the opportunities we’d lost. And in nearly nine years of being together, this was a conversation we had never had.

It was late and we’d already drunk a lot of wine so we went to bed and I woke the next morning with a feeling of trepidation. Had it been too much? Had we gone too far? Sometimes it’s better to leave things well enough alone.

As soon as we were both awake we starting talking again. And my worry soon faded. We talked and we talked and we talked. I understood him in a way I had never before. And for the first time he understood what I had been trying to say all these years. And we both realized it had really very little to do with money, although that’s what we’d always called it.

I love that after 8.5 years of being together we are still learning about one other. And I love that what we’re learning brings us closer together and reinforces what we’ve long believed, which is that we are twin souls. I especially love that we aren’t going to have to argue about money any more. We’ll still be subject to the same triggers I am sure, but now we’ll know what it’s really all about. And that’s a good thing.

All That Shimmers Is Gold

2007-03-01T23:03:00.000-06:00

I absolutely love Claire Kramer's photography.

The Walls Came Tumbling Down

2007-02-19T22:51:00.000-06:00

1811 Walnut will never be the same.

We picked up the keys this past Thursday and tomorrow demolition begins. We got a head start this evening though. We invited our families, our closest friends and all those people who have been working along side us to make this building dream of ours a reality to join us at the building. Then we gave them sledge hammers. Golden sledge hammers to be exact. And boys being boys (and girls being girls it turns out), walls came tumbling down. Well, they didn’t actually tumble, but there were a few gaping holes.

We had help from some little people as well. My niece and nephew Chloe’ and Garrett, and my friend Michelle’s son Tanner took turns at the wall with a golden hammer. They made surprising progress.

We billed it a demolition party but really we just wanted to give every one a chance to see the “before.” The after becomes so much more meaningful when you can see where it all began.

It was also a thank you. We have been so lucky to work with such an amazing team of people. A quick shout out to:

Suzie Aron –Nicholson Real Estate - our realtor
Elizabeth Rosin – Rosin Historic Preservation – our historic buildings consultant
Jay Tomlison, Brad Kingsley, Joe Jimenez – Helix – our architects
Brett Gordon & Tab White – McCown Gordon – our contractors
Mark Westerfelt – our owners rep
Bob Long – Economic Development Corp - our tax abatement consultant
Mike Marsh – CPA – our historic tax credits accountant
Kathy Hauser – Lathrop & Gage - our attorney
John Geiger – United Bank of Kansas – our banker
David Long – Heartland Business Capital – our other banker
Mark Lowe – Contract Furnishings - our furniture contractor
Kathy Luetkenhoelter – our bookkeeper & business manager

We could not have gotten this far without the talent and generosity of these amazing folks!

So it all begins tomorrow and if it goes as planned the shootin’ match should be over by June 1st. I am not holding my breath. I’ve yet to be involved in a construction project that finished on time although we’d like to be the first. Still, a lot will be happening at 1811 Walnut over the next 3 months. And soon, Meers Marketing will have a new home.

Hold onto your hats! We’re off!

Tree Spirits

2007-02-17T22:49:00.000-06:00

http://www.paulindigo.blogspot.com

On Being Forty

2007-02-15T23:26:00.001-06:00

I kind of like it.
I feel more relaxed, not as volatile. More centered and grounded.
I am more likely to say the right things at the right times, instead of blurting them out.
I am more likely to say nothing at all, and that is often a good thing.
I am less likely to care that other people disagree.
I am less likely to put up with drama.
I can get my emotions to work for me, instead of being overwhelmed by them.
I can do a lot more good in my 40s, than I could in my 20s.
I think I will.

Weekend Redux

2007-02-12T21:20:00.000-06:00

Sleeping in until 11:00am sure felt luxurious

Completed the FAFSA – finally!

A trip to Costco -I couldn’t be persuaded to wear shoes, so wore my slippers instead.

Ran into my artist friend Nicole Cawfield who told me she has a great job, but wishes she didn’t have to work every day. Her and me both!

Bought a $100,000 Bar at CVS and shared it with Sam, ‘cause he’s worth at least $50,000.

Researched candidate websites for Mayor and 4th District City Council. Now that I’ve been through city politics for our PIEA, I actually care who gets elected.

Coughing and sneezing and coughing and sneezing. Not sure how much longer I’ll have this, but Sam is on his 13th day of being sick. It’s been 5 days for me.

I want a grey kitten.

Made plans to visit Lynn Wylie for a long weekend in June. It can’t come soon enough!

This weekend felt like a 4-day weekend. Wonderful. It’s a shame it takes being sick to slow us down, but God has it felt good to step off the hamster wheel. Even with all the coughing.

Winter Colds

2007-02-11T22:16:00.000-06:00

Sam has been blowing his nose non-stop.
I’ve been coughing.
We are a mess, he and I.
We’ve watched some movies, read magazines and slept.
It’s good to have company when you are sick.

Lost in Translation

2007-02-11T16:43:00.000-06:00

Hello? Any one there? Oh hi! I didn’t know if I would find anyone here or not. It’s been so long since I’ve posted you know. Thanks for checking in - it’s very nice of you.

I feel like I should explain my long absence, and I wished it were a better story. I’ve been busy. Very, very busy. That’s a new one, right? First time you’ve heard it? Well, candidly, I get tired of hearing myself talk about how busy I’ve been. When I die the most true thing my friends and family will say about me was that I was always very busy. Good grief.

But it hasn’t only been that I’ve been busy. It’s also been that I’ve been feeling rather private of late. The ying and yang of blogging is that while it can feel incredibly cathartic to post something that a few will read and many more could potentially read, those few and potential many may not be the most ideal audience for my catharsis.

And so that little voice that lives inside my head, the one that usually nags and pesters me, has actually been looking out for me lately, although I wish he would adjust his attitude a bit.

“You are really going to write that? Well, I guess that makes you a f*#king idiot then.”

See what I mean? I have threatened to send that voice in my head to an Emily Post seminar to brush up on manners and graciousness but he reminds me that I should save my money for that day when I become homeless. I might need it then. He’s sly like that.

So anyway, for the last month or so, I’ve written dozens of posts in my head, but exactly none of them have made it past the editor. And that is probably just as well.

My friend Rita attended a writing seminar a couple of months ago and came back with a good tip. She reminded me of it again this week and so I am going to try it here. She suggested that rather than writing a whole long post or journal entry, I try writing in bullet points. I kind of like the idea and because I think Rita is the Boss, Applesauce, I am going to give it a whirl.

But not today. Tomorrow.

Let's Dish

2007-01-07T12:11:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I spent the early part of my afternoon at Let’s Dish, the place where you assemble meals to take home to your freezer. My friends Susan and Jennifer got me a Let’s Dish gift certificate for my birthday this summer and the three of us went to try it out in August. Since then I’ve been hooked and yesterday was my fourth return visit.

Let’s Dish exists especially for people like me. People who say they like to cook, who perhaps even boast an extensive collection of cookbooks and recipes, who appreciate a home cooked meal and who feel even more strongly about spending family time around the kitchen table, but who, when asked at the end of a long workday, “what’s for dinner?” consistently respond with something like “whatever cereal you can find in the cupboard.”

That’s me.

So Let’s Dish appealed to me from the beginning. Instead of pointing my family to the half empty box of Raisin Bran Crunch, I could open the freezer door, pull out one of the yummy sounding meals I had prepared, pop it in the microwave to defrost, then on to the stove or oven to cook and voila a “home cooked” meal was magically ready to serve.

The whole process is only slightly more complicated that warming up a tv dinner, but to anyone who ends up sitting at the dinner table, it appears that I actually cooked something! Yet there is no trying to figure out what to make, no scrounging through the cabinet for the right spices and no trips to the grocery store for missing ingredients. Who couldn’t love that!

What has surprised me is how much I love the actual experience of “dishing.” For all the benefits of easy meal preparation at home, the actual assembly of the meals, or the “dishing” as they like to call it, is where it’s all at for me.

The experience starts with registration online. You choose either 4, 8 or 12 meals from a list of about 16 and select a date and time to “dish” that best fits your schedule. When you arrive at the store, you are given a list of your menu choices along with an incredibly cute apron and bandana to wear as you prepare your meals.

There are 8 salad bar type stations, each with 2 menu items and exact instructions for “assembling.” If the recipe calls for 1 Tbsp of oil, you’ll find a 1 Tbsp measuring spoon next to a bottle of oil. If it calls for ½ cup of chopped red peppers, you’ll find a ½ cup long handled measuring scoop lying in a container of freshly chopped red peppers. You have permission to vary the recipes to your own tastes, so its perfectly ok to add a little extra garlic powder or to skip the onions altogether. Everything gets mixed inside freezer bags and foil pans and when finished, your bag or pan gets a sticker with a description of the meal and simple instructions for preparing it.

The company suggests that “dishing” is a great activity to share with friends and I’ve seen couples, friends, and mom/daughter pairs there each time I’ve visited. But I like going alone best. I find myself deep in the “zone” almost as soon as I’ve started assembling. There is something about it that really appeals to the way my brain works. Some people get a runner’s high - I get a “dishing” high!

The mood of the place is always relaxed and happy. People are having fun. And they know they are cutting by ¾ the time they would spend making the same meal at home. Who wouldn’t smile about that? And when you’re finished – there are refreshments and desserts you can nibble on while you look at next month’s menu.

So this month this is what we are having for family dinner at our house…

Potato Crusted Tilapia Filets
Barbequed Boneless Short Ribs
Lemon Herb Chicken & Parmesan Green Beans
Herbed Steaks with Blue Cheese Butter
Cheesy Spinach and Black Bean Enchiladas
Mediterranean Shrimp & Pasta

And it will be no trouble at all!

New Year, Same Restaurant

2007-01-04T22:05:00.000-06:00

Kin Lin’s for the 3rd time this week.
Green beans, tofu, mushrooms and red pepper oil.
Three diet Dr. Peppers to share.
A box to take home.
Always someone we know.
I love the comfort of routine.

The Most Expensive Earrings I've Ever Owned...

2007-01-03T23:41:00.000-06:00

I bought after seeing Francie wear them. She told me she was done listening to me ooh and ahh over hers and she sent me straight down to Embellishments in Parkville to buy a pair. You pretty much do what Francie says. I didn't think twice about it. I went.

I'll miss you sweetie. This world won't be the same without you.

What I wanted to say...

2006-12-30T23:19:00.000-06:00

I want to help you, but I’m not sure I’m the right person to do what you want to do. I develop very good relationships, but I don’t want to persuade everyone I meet. I’m not wired like that. And I don’t really like to be around people who are wired like that.

You’ve known me for a long time now. You pretty much know what I am made of. At some point you are going to have to decide if you are satisfied with what you’ve got. You are going to have to accept me as I am or move on. There may be things I want to work on, for myself, but the days of my responding to your every whim are over. I know you will say this is good, but the first time I turn a blind eye to your frustration, you will realize you didn’t mean it.

You’ve known there are those you can’t change, but I’ve been putty in your hands. Was that the right decision? I allowed you to have that power over me. And I don’t think I am any worse off for it, but I’ve grown tired. We’ve all grown tired.

Maybe this is where it gets good. Maybe this is where the rubber meets the road. Will I stand strong? Yes I think so. I think I will. It’s something about having turned 40.

Born in the Wrong Decade

2006-12-03T20:53:00.000-06:00

I was born in 1966 which means I was just a little girl throughout the 70s. Somehow I've always felt I was born 10 years too late - that I was meant to come of age in the late 60s and early 70s. Well, I got my chance this past weekend as Missouri Bank celebrated the holidays with its' "Lost in the 70s" party. Sam and I found our inner hippies and spent the evening being especially mellow. I've posted more photos from the party here.

(By the way, Sam won 1st place for best hair. )

Snow Fox

2006-11-30T21:39:00.000-06:00

Unbelievably, the weather folks got this one right. The snow is coming down hard and fast and it’s accumulating quickly. It’s the perfect kind of snow - light and fluffy – the kind of snow you normally only see in the movies.

I saw another fox tonight on my way home from work. I had never seen a fox in my life until 6 weeks ago, and now I’ve seen two. This little guy was bounding through the snow crossing the very wide median of Ward Parkway. I was stopped at the light and so got to watch him for quite awhile. It was dark already, but the street lights illuminated his bobbing tail, and he left a line of tracks in the snow to mark his path. Beautiful!

A lot of living to do before I die

2006-11-28T23:15:00.000-06:00

Visiting with my 82 year old neighbor Charlana yesterday…

Me:
How’s Bob?

Charlana:
Not well. He’s not coming home – he’s going to die in that nursing home. (tears up) I’m sorry. I get emotional about it.

Me:
Oh Charlana - don't apologize. I would be emotional too if I were in your shoes. It’s ok.

Charlana:
They think I am a mean old woman down there at the nursing home.

Me:
Why?

Charlana:
They asked me if I wanted to move in with him, live there with him in that death row place, you know? I told them No I Did Not Want To Move There. I told them I needed my space. I told them I had a lot of living to do before I died. I do! I have a lot of things I plan to do before I die – a lot of living still to do.

Me:
I think that is cool Charlana. You have to take care of yourself too.

Charlana:
I love Bob. He is my husband. I mean – it’s not like wild, hot passionate love or anything like that. It used to be, but that went out the window a long time ago. I wish I could still have that, but we’re old now.

(note – Charlana is without a doubt the spunkiest and sexiest 82 year old I have EVER seen)

Charlana:
But he is my husband, the father of my children. I married Bob because he had all the qualities I wanted to pass on to my children. I knew I needed someone to balance out my headstrong nature. He is a good man. (she tears up again)

Me:
Why did Bob have to go back to the nursing home? I thought he was better?

Charlana:
He fell and broke his other hip. He didn’t even tell me about it at first, and when he did tell me he fell, I just said “oh – inside or out?”. I didn’t realize. But later, it got worse, and he couldn’t walk and I couldn’t lift him, so he just laid down on the floor.

Me:
Did you call an ambulance? I didn’t see it come. Sam and I could have come over and helped.

Charlana:
I didn’t call the ambulance for a couple of days.

Me:
A couple of days?

Charlana:
I know. They were really upset with me at the hospital. Bob knew. He knew that once he went he wasn’t coming back home. He knew, and I knew. We weren’t in any hurry. He just slept on the floor for a couple of days. They made a big deal about it at the hospital. They thought I was so mean. I wanted to tell them it was nothing - just like camping.

Me:
Is he upset about being there? In the nursing home?

Charlana:
He wants to come home. Every time I visit he thinks I am there to take him home. It’s pretty hard. And then one of the nurses will suggest I just move in with him. She doesn’t understand. I’ve got a lot of living to do before I die. A lot of living to do.

Two Muses

2006-11-26T22:12:00.000-06:00

What a day. I’ve spent the last 8 hours in my pajamas with my computer on my lap running numbers, playing with projections and writing a proposal for the redevelopment plan for the building Sam and I are buying. And I’m still not done. I love this kind of work, it doesn’t really even feel like work, but man does it take a chunk of time. I’ve worked with real estate developers (as a lender) for years and thought I had a fair understanding of how the world of real estate development worked, but instead I find myself feeling as if I am drinking from a fire hose of knowledge and trying to fit it all together feels like playing a 1000 piece puzzle.

I finally took a break to see “Shut Up & Sing” – the new documentary about the Dixie Chicks and their slam at President Bush on the eve of the Iraq war. It was a great film, and I for one will be buying the new “Taking the Long Way” CD in support of the band’s courage and willingness to stand their ground in the face of strong opposition from their country music fan base. Natalie is one very strong woman and damn I admire her fiestiness.

I am sitting in the Westport Coffee Shop now, waiting for movie #2 to begin, and thinking about how my two muses have both been whispering in my ear today. One is soothing me with numbers and spreadsheets as I work through the puzzle of our building. I know that must seem weird, but I really can so easily lose myself in numbers. The other is urging me to hit the road. Sam and Katherine are out of town for the next two days and I am overcome with the desire to move to India, study in an Ashram and grow my own food. Of course I would want to be back home before they return tomorrow night, so I guess it’s out of the question for now. How shall I reconcile these two halves?

The Church of David Stringer

2006-11-20T22:15:00.001-06:00

Friday night I went for the third time to see David Stringer perform Kirtan at Maya Yoga Studio in the Crossroads. The first time I saw Stringer perform, several years ago, I didn’t know what to expect. I’d seen a flyer advertising the performance and was intrigued enough to attend. I couldn’t find anyone to go with me who didn’t think it sounded weird, so I went alone.

The dark room was filled with people sitting cross-legged on blankets and pillows. Twinkling Christmas lights dotted the exposed beams of the old warehouse space giving it a magical feeling. The performers, 4 or 5 of them, sat on blankets at the front of the room with various instruments – guitars, a tamboura, hand drums, finger cymbals, shakers and David’s harmonium – arranged around them.

The next hour and a half was spent chanting Sanskrit mantras to beautiful melodies in a form of call and response. David Stringer and his musicians called out the melodies (the mantras were projected overhead) and we, the audience, responded in kind.

I had expected to watch the performance, and was instead pleasantly surprised to find myself a part of the performance. The distinction between the performers and the audience quickly dissolved and instead we all became musicians, offering up the most beautiful music together.

I only vaguely understood the meaning of the mantras we chanted, but the intensity and purity of the energy in the room was palpable and I found myself deeply moved by the experience. Spontaneously I found myself lifting my face and palms upward in deference to the great mystery and wonder of life. My palms tingled with electricity. I felt intoxicatingly joyful and at the same time, profoundly at peace.

Incidentally, I get the creeps when I see people do this “lifting their hands to the Lord” thing at church. (I’ve often imagined the pandemonium that would ensue if I could drop a small mouse in someone’s outstretched palm - but I digress.) Yet here I was doing essentially the same thing – and feeling good about it. I remember thinking this was as close to the feeling of what I thought “church” should feel like for me as anything I had experienced.

So, on Friday, I attended the “Church of David Stringer” again, for the 3rd time in as many years. I’ve gotten to know a few other faithfuls and even know a few “hymns” by heart now. I also made an offering this time, but it turns out I got a CD in return, so it didn’t really count.

If I could go every Sunday, I would.

Warmer Days

2006-11-16T23:11:00.000-06:00

I found this photo taken this summer when we cleaned our garage. All this stuff actually fit back inside AND there was room left over to park both cars. Winter is not even officially here and I am already tired of the cold - and longing for the days of garage cleaning weather. I remember when my friend Vicki left Kansas City in search of warmer climates. She landed first in Phoenix and then in Laguna Beach, CA and hasn't had to bundle up since. Lucky girl.

I'm Weird - A Meme...

2006-11-15T23:34:00.000-06:00

Ok, I was tagged by Jenne' and even though Dan says this is such a junior high girl thing - I once was a junior high girl and have never forgotten the feeling. (Do you want to be my friend? cirle one: yes no) See what I mean?

Anyway, here are the rules:

List 5 weird things about yourself or your pets. Tag 5 friends and list them. Then, those people need to write on their blogs about 5 weird things, and state the rules, and tag 5 more people. Don't forget to let the people you tag know by posting a comment on their blog!

I am addicted to lip balm. I own close to a hundred different lip balms (my favorite is Burt’s Bees) which I keep strategically placed through out my house and office and tucked into the pockets of all my clothes and purses. I can’t go more than about 10 minutes with out a fresh coat and I wake up during the night to re-apply.

I become obsessed with certain foods and will eat them over and over again, sometimes several times a day for months. My more notable food obsessions have included tomato soup, cheerios, cream of wheat, cream of rice, blueberries & granola, tater tots, Dairy Queen Dilly Bars, red beans & rice, edamame, banana Laffy Taffy, banana Power Bars, strawberry smoothies, mango smoothies, Granny Smith apples and granola bars. I am currently really into wild rice cakes topped with sunflower butter.

Overhead lights in parking garages and street lights in parking lots seem to turn on or off frequently when I pass beneath them. It’s almost like I put off some sort of energy field that trips the electronic eye for these sort of light sensitive lamps.

I don’t watch TV and haven’t had cable since I was 18 years old and still living at home.

I am afraid of wind. A strong, whistling wind sends my anxiety level sky high.

Ok - I am tagging Rita , PlazaJen, Scotti, Vicki & Katherine.

I Dream of Miko

2006-11-12T13:07:00.000-06:00

I dreamed of Miko the other night. I was so surprised to see him and knew instantly that I was dreaming because I knew he had died. I was standing at the side of my bed and I looked down to see that he had walked up between me and the bed to rub against my legs. I reached down with both hands to give him a good squeeze. His fur felt wonderful and he gave me a good purr. That’s all I remember.

I really miss that little guy.

It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Loses an Eye

2006-11-11T09:23:00.000-06:00

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted, but tonight seems the perfect night to catch up. It’s incredibly cold and rainy and gusty outside, but here I lie, all bundled up with my comforter and my heating pad feeling as toasty as can be. I love this kind of weather because it makes me feel so happy to be inside. The only thing that could make this better were if the fake fireplace in our bedroom actually worked and I could lie here listening to the snap – crackle- pop of a real wood fire.

Well, I guess there might be one other thing that would make this evening better – it might be nice if I could move my torso more than a few inches in any direction with out suffering the incredible aching pain that is the result of crashing my go-kart into another go-kart earlier today.

A small group of us played hooky from work this afternoon and went to a go-kart race track. It was loads of fun and I laughed so hard that I was nearly in tears on the ride out there. Once at the race track we chose our helmets, reviewed the safety rules, and then took to the tracks. We were on the oval track which meant it was all about speed. I gunned it on the straight aways, braked slightly going into the curves and then gunned it again coming out of the curve. It was a little scary, but since I like to drive fast anyway, it was perfect.

I’d taken about 15 laps around the course and was laser focused on speed when a kart in front of me spun out and ended in a dead stop just on the other side of the curve. I didn’t see the kart until it was too late and I crashed right into it.

The impact threw me up and over to my right and I came down HARD against my right ribs on the engine which sat just to the side of the drivers seat (just like in the picture). It hurt like hell – felt like someone had thrown a bowling ball at my side ribs – and it completely knocked the wind out of me. I had that terribly feeling where for several seconds I couldn’t breath at all. The last time I had the wind knocked out of me was when I was a Freshman in high school and my brother socked me in the stomach because I called him stupid. (I think that was the last time I said that!)

I tried to sit up, to pull my self back behind the wheel of the kart, but I literally couldn’t move. There was no breath left in me and my entire right side was throbbing in pain. I felt tears begin to well up in my eyes, but I wanted to be ok! I was having too much fun to let it end this way.

The guy who worked at the track was perfect. As soon as he established that I was more or less ok, he told me I was tough and to get back out there. That was all I needed. I gave my coworkers who were watching from the side a big thumbs up and then took off again, albeit a bit more cautiously. All went well until a kart in front of me again spun out and I had to hit my brakes to keep from hitting him. Unfortunately, my braking caused another kart to ram me hard from behind – this time wrenching my back. I thought to myself as I finished my final few laps that this was a contact sport not for the faint of heart.

Now, several hours later, my ribs and back are in serious pain. It hurts to stand up and sit down, it hurts to get in and out of the car, it hurts to get in and out of bed, and it hurts to twist in any direction. Luckily, it doesn't hurt to breath, though a deep breath is uncomfortable.

Later….

And with those last words I fell promptly asleep. I woke up later to find my lap top sleeping peacefully on my lap. Kind of funny.

Well, it’s morning now and its safe to say it was a rather long night. Steve & Jenne’ reminded me to ice it rather than use the heating pad (which was what I wanted to do) and so I got up several times during the night and went down to the freezer to retrieve or return the ice pack Steve made for me. I spooked myself going downstairs because all the security lights had come on around the outside of the house and I was sure someone was lurking outside the windows watching me. That is the first time I have ever felt afraid in this house, and because I generally never worry about intruders, think it must have been the result of the pain and the heavy doses of ibuprofen I was taking.

Anyway, I laid on my back with the ice pack against my side and back ribs and hugged the heating pad to my stomach to keep from getting too cold. It was hard to sleep when I wasn’t icing because I just couldn’t find a comfortable position.

This morning I checked the internet again to see if I might have broken ribs, but my symptoms seem to clearly indicate bruised ribs and perhaps strained oblique muscles. Either way, there is nothing to do other than take it easy and wait several weeks for the pain to pass. Good grief!

Well, it seems there should be a moral to this story and I guess I have two take-aways.

(1) Kenny – one of the guys I was racing with - did not drive his kart aggressively the way the rest of us did. He took some “ribbing” about it (nice – huh?) and simply explained that he was having fun but didn’t want to hurt himself. In hindsight, his attitude seems especially wise.

(2) I think this proves my point about needing to focus more on strengthening my core muscles with less focus on my arms, shoulders, etc. After nearly 9 months with my trainer, my upper body is in great shape, but I think I would have sustained less of an injury if my core muscles were stronger. I know this was an extreme blow, I probably would have gotten hurt no matter what, but I don’t think it would have been this bad if I were stronger.

Well – I am going to use this as an excuse to spend some extra time in bed this morning. Sam has been in New York City all week and comes home tonight. Hooray!

Firefox

2006-10-19T21:45:00.000-05:00

Tonight after work, I decided to run by Wild Oats on my way home. The sun was just setting as I drove west on Shawnee Mission Parkway and the sky was rich with pinks and purples and blues. Traffic was surprisingly light and I was in no hurry. It was the perfect moment for something magical to happen – and it did.

About 20 feet ahead of me I saw a red fox trot out into the road. I tapped my brakes along with the white car to my right. We were the only cars on the road and we both slowed to a crawl to watch this beautiful creature cross in front of us. The fox saw us shortly after we saw her, and she froze for just an instant, her face turned toward us and her body in perfect profile. She was stunningly striking. She picked up her pace and dashed across our lanes and into an empty wooded lot on the north side of the road. I watched her fluffy tail bob as she disappeared into the woods. I felt so lucky to have seen her.

As I rolled to a stop at the next light, I noticed the white car had slowed down to wait for me. As I pulled along side, I found the driver, a slight balding man in his mid-forties, grinning at me in happy wonder and amazement. “Wow!” he mouthed to me, his eyes sparkling. I gave him a thumbs up and shook my head, my own smile stretching from ear to ear.

I am not sure which made me happier – seeing that beautiful red fox or being able to share the experience with a complete stranger who was just as tickled by it as I was. Either way it was a strawberry moment. And I thank God for those.

Missing Miko

2006-10-13T22:03:00.000-05:00

I’ve wanted to write about Miko, my sweet, loving and loyal feline friend, but I haven’t had the words to do it. Miko died on August 23rd. We put him to sleep after learning he was having kidney failure. It happened very quickly, the way these things often do. One day he was his normal, happy self and the next (or so it seemed), he was gone.

I’ve lost many pets in my lifetime and I understand what the loss feels like. This time though, I’ve been surprised at how much I miss that fat cat. He was such a wonderful companion to me.

I remember the day I first brought Miko home. He was just 6 weeks old, a tiny puff of black fur, with clear blue eyes. I chose him from a litter of 6 because his eyes were so bright. He was a momma’s boy from the very beginning. So sweet, so anxious to please, so committed to being good.

I had another cat at the time – Sammi – who was a feline derelict if there ever was one. Sammi had enough confidence (but not arrogance) for 10 cats and she was bratty on top of that. If she were human, I would have had to send her to a home for troubled girls. She would have worn dark mascara and leather and a studded choker and she would have smoked unfiltered cigarettes. And if cats could do such a thing, I would have come home one day just after her 14th birthday to find that she had tattooed the name of her dumb ass boyfriend on her beautiful, perfect shoulder.

In fact Sammi did have a boyfriend, but he wasn’t a dumb ass. Using the little bit of brains she had, Sammi wisely fell in love with Miko just as soon as he was old enough to return her affection. And who could blame her? Miko was a very nice young male cat. Sammi threw herself at Miko (hussy that she was), but he respected her and never did take advantage of her. Actually, the fact that Miko had been neutered and Sammi had not yet been spade might have had something to do with it, but I prefer to think that Miko was just being a gentleman.

Sammi did everything she could to corrupt Miko. Once, while dashing through my legs and out the open door (even though she knew outdoors was off limits), I swear I heard her call out to Miko, “Come on Miko, all the cool cats are doing this. We won’t get caught. Come ONNNNN.” But Miko stood dutifully at the door – looking wistfully after his friend. He just didn’t have it in him to break the rules. He never did. Sammi tried hard to turn him to the dark side, but Miko remained perfectly behaved, and grew sweeter every day.

When I met Sam and Katherine, Miko adopted them immediately. He took to Sam like he had taken to no one else, allowing Sam to rock him and hold him like a baby. (By that time he was nearly as big as one!) And he developed a very special affection for Katherine. I remember telling Katherine when she was 10 that Miko had always wanted his “very own little girl.” And I believe it was true. He followed her everywhere and allowed her to play with him however she wanted.

In the evenings, Miko would sit on the arm of Sam’s chair as he worked on his computer. He would join me in bed once Sam was finished and slept next to my head most of the night, his front paw resting on my shoulder. And each morning he would go in to wake up Katherine just as her alarm went off. He would spend the rest of the morning following her about as she got ready for school and would be waiting patiently for her when she returned from school.

Miko loved a party and was thrilled when we had company. He would have been a terrible ‘watch cat” because he never met a stranger and quickly perched himself upon the leg of anyone who dared to take a seat in our house. He was at the top of his game when we had a large gathering of friends at our house. He would go from person to person acknowledging them and giving them a nuzzle and a rub.

And Miko loved to play! We had toys all around the house for him and we frequently marveled at how he never seemed to lose his kitten like curiosity.

As Miko grew older he developed a bit of a weight problem. Well, actually quite a bit of a weight problem. Miko turned into one fat cat! He had a waddle that hung practically to the floor and we had a good time teasing him about it. We tried putting him on a diet, but he got so stressed out about not having his dish full of food that we eventually gave up and decided to let him be fat and happy.

Miko was a lover, one of the most affectionate cats I’ve ever known. He didn’t have a mean or arrogant bone in his body and he loved us with an intensity that I wish everyone could have the opportunity to experience.

Katherine and I stayed with Miko as the vet put him to sleep. We wanted to be the last ones he saw as he went to sleep. It was hard, so very sad, but felt the very right thing to do.

Since then, all three of us have spied him walking through the house. I guess we are just so used to him being there that any shadow makes us think of him. I am sitting in my meditation room right now, alone in the house as Sam and Katherine are at a movie. If Miko were still alive, he would be curled up right next to me. And if I got up to go to the bathroom, I would find that he had taken the warm spot of my seat in the short time I was gone.

I miss Miko terribly. I miss his sweetness, his purity, his loyalty, his funny ways, the warmth of his paw on my arm as I slept, and yes, maybe even the fur that constantly had to be vacuumed from the carpet and furniture. But I am grateful for the 10 years we spent together. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

I love you Miko. I hope there are lots of catnip, yarn and dripping water wherever you are. You are a good kitty - a very good kitty.

When Time Stands Still

2006-09-28T23:24:00.000-05:00

Everything is moving so fast right now. My days are jam packed from the moment I wake up till the moment I fall, exhausted, into bed. I wish I could turn my phone, my e-mail and my calendar – OFF!

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about that old question “When you’re lying on your death bed, will you be glad you spent all that time ________ (fill in the blank “at work”, “answering e-mail”, etc.) It’s an easy “no” of course, and so I am trying to make better decisions about how I spend my time.

Time spent with Sam and Katherine, time with friends, time spent encouraging and helping others, time spent reading and writing (no arithmetic, thank you), time spent sleeping and snuggling – that’s all the good stuff.

The bad stuff? It’s not even worth listing, but it’s the stuff that fills most my day. I have the best intentions. I’ll slow down, breathe deeply, savor the moment. But then my e-mail inbox count climbs steadily and I can see I have 12 voicemails waiting to be picked up, and my favorite customer calls and needs a favor, quick, or more likely, my least favorite customer calls and insists I drop everything, quick. And before I know it, I’m caught up in a whirlwind of multi-tasking and moving at the speed of light and everything around me becomes a blur.

It’s during those times that I’m most likely to miss the little or big things that people around me do to help make my life easier. Or if I do notice, I don’t take time to allow the full impact of their care and kindness to sink in.

Two completely unexpected things happened this week that nearly brought me to me knees in gratitude in the midst of my rushing about. And I want to share it here, not only to say thank you, but also so that I can savor the full impact of their kindness by writing about it.

First – I taught a workshop yesterday and arrived at work from an out of town trip only a few hours before the workshop was to begin. I was frantically gathering all handouts and notes and props I needed when Tanya showed up to offer me three wildly colored markers. She remembered that I had used them and had had fun with them in a previous workshop and had taken it upon herself to remind me that I might want to use them again this time. In addition, she wasn’t sure if I had the poster size financial statements I teach from, so she took it upon herself to order an extra set for me – JUST IN CASE.

Then, today, Linda, my trusted assistant who makes ALL things possible and keeps me on the straight and narrow, snuck into my office while I was in a meeting and totally cleaned and organized my desk. I returned to find that the explosion of paper and files that had littered my workspace had been neatly arranged into ordered and prioritized stacks. Just seeing those neat little piles added an extra year to my life.

I was so touched by these acts generosity.
Thank you Linda. Thank you Tanya.
In that moment, your kindness made time stand still.

Piss & Vinegar (or Giving a Black Mood its Due)

2006-09-18T22:27:00.000-05:00

I reached way down low and pulled myself up out of the funk I was in on Sunday. Whew. I am feeling much better now, thank you.

I came perilously close to “snapping out of it” prematurely on Sunday morning. The three of us were sitting at the table eating a late breakfast when Sam turned his laptop around so Katherine could read my post.

As she began, Sam, being ornery, leaned down so he was staring at her over the top of the computer. He fixed his eyes on her and began to hum a tune.

“Dad, please be quiet!” she scolded.

Sam changed tactics and began whistling. Katherine looked up in exasperation.

“Dad! This is a deep, dark, depressing post. I would appreciate it if you would neither hum nor whistle. Now please be QUIET!”

(Now that’s my girl! Giving a black mood its due!) Sam went silent but continued to stare.

Katherine finished, looked at me and said “That’s good”, then without missing a beat looked at Sam and zinged him with “and what IS your PROBLEM?”

Maybe you had to be there, but she said it with such piss and vinegar that I nearly fell off my chair from laughing so hard. It was all I could do to regain my “black mood” composure.

That girl – she’s a pistol alright. Woe to anyone who gets in her way. And that makes me mighty proud!

Sometimes I get this way.

2006-09-17T11:08:00.000-05:00

Hiroshima.
Dresden.
World Trade Center Towers.
Everything melting.

Child soldiers. Stolen from their families.
Forced to murder their parents so they have nothing to return to.

I’ve never understood why people watch horror films.
Watch the news. Read the papers. The horror of real life is enough.

I listened to the Blue Angels practicing over downtown.
I heard the sounds of war.

The phone rang and rang and rang, and I could not pick up.
Too much that could not be spoken. The silence was more true.
Let’s not fill what little time we have left with lies.

Yes. No.

Little girls playing princess. Am I pretty? Yes - you are.
Little boys sneak down stairs, carrying guns.
Pow! Pow! Pow! Ha! Ha! You’re dead.

Breathe in… Breathe out…

Your right shoulder, my left shoulder.
We’ll lie side by side, bare skin touching.
Our shoulders will heal. Or they won’t.
Either way, we’ll be together.

Don’t go away.

Revelations

2006-09-12T22:36:00.000-05:00

Katherine and I saw the Alvin Ailey Dance Company perform Revelations last week. I've seen it a half dozen times and can't imagine ever growing tired of it. It was expecially wonderful to take Katherine to see it for her first time. It's nourishment for the spirit.

Remembering...

2006-09-11T23:04:00.001-05:00

I couldn’t help noticing how vivid and blue the sky was as I drove down Ward Parkway this morning. “Just like it was in New York 5 years ago,” I thought. Five years ago. Such a long time, and yet in so many ways it feels like just yesterday.

That morning, 5 years ago, was ordinary in every way. I drove Katherine’s car pool and dropped the girls off at their school just before 8am. I normally listened to NPR in the car, but that morning, for some reason I did not. I arrived at work and was checking e-mail before our 8:30 loan committee meeting when a message from Julie Ladage flashed across my screen. “There is a report that an airplane has flown into the World Trade Center.” I immediately thought of a small 2-4 passenger plane bouncing off the side of the tower and crashing at its feet. It was news for sure, and tragic, but I wondered why Julie had bothered to send the message.

A few moments later I turned around to see most of the loan committee huddled around the TV set in the board room. Knowing they must be following the report of the ill-fated plane, I went to see what had happened.

The room was deathly silent as I walked in, and the look on their faces told me in an instant what the television did not. Something very terrible, something much worse than what I had first imagined, had happened.

I sat with my co-workers, our eyes riveted to the television screen. After many minutes, we turned it off and tried to hold our meeting. We were distracted, antsy. Someone rushed in and told us that one of the towers had just collapsed. I still remember how Grant flew for the television set to turn it on. I’ve replayed that scene in my mind so many times. The look on his face – the disbelief, the incredulousness.

Reports that numerous attacks were taking place across the country began to filter in. I believed them and realized that my life was changing, had already changed, forever. I had no idea what to expect, but my brain switched into automatic and I began planning for the worst.

I called my Mom and we made a plan for our families to meet at our house at the lake. It was remote, away from any military targets. “We can fish there if we need to,” I remember Mom saying. I asked my Mom to go pick up my Grandma and I called my closest friends and urged them to make similar plans to escape with their families in the event things got much worse.

I called Sam and we called Katherine’s school to find out what was happening there.
“The students are watching the news on tv,” we were told, “Their teachers are with them.”
“Do you have a bomb shelter?” I asked. “We do,” the woman answered.

I called my brother’s wife Krista and learned Kelly was in Canada. I told Krista about the plan to meet at the lake if things got worse. I told her to bring her parents. I wondered how many people we should invite to the lake house.

I called the body shop where my car was being worked on and told them I was coming to pick it up. I didn’t care if the work was complete. My car was the most reliable of our vehicles and I wanted reliable transportation in case we had to flee the city. Sam and I both filled our cars with gas.

Next I drove to the grocery store and bought 20 jugs of water, 100 power bars and a dozen cans of beans. I remember the clerk giving me a strange look as she rang up my order. Surely she knew what I was doing, but we didn’t discuss it.

By the time I was finished it was nearly 11am and I decided to go back to the bank. I was too afraid to listen to the news in the car by myself, afraid of what I might hear. As I pulled into the parking garage, I felt something give way inside my chest and I put my head on the steering and for the first time began to cry. I remember thinking that as bad as what was happening was, it was only the beginning. I remember thinking that things could only get worse, much worse, before they got better. I remember trying to imagine what would come in the ensuing weeks and months. I hoped I was strong enough and smart enough to endure it.

I went back into the bank, took out a bunch of cash from our account and then sat at my desk. I took off my glasses and decided to never hide behind them again. I put them in my top desk drawer. They’ve been there ever since.

I stared at my computer screen and waited, combing the internet for news. Sam closed his office and sent everyone home. Scotti called from Australia. I was so relieved to hear her voice.

That night, Sam, Katherine and I sat in the living room and watched President Bush as he addressed the nation. I remember taking some comfort in his remarks, something I never felt again after that night.

We’d hung a new painting over our fireplace mantle the night before, a painting Sam and I bought each other as an anniversary gift. I’d admired that painting of two wolves with mysterious eyes for years. But as I looked up at it after the events of the morning, I saw scary eyes, evil eyes. I wanted to take it down, or at least cover it up, but Sam encouraged me to wait, to see how I felt the next day. (It took me over a year to love that painting again)

September 11th turned into September 12th and 13th and that Friday we had a party out on our deck. I asked every one to bring a candle and we lit them and someone said a prayer. We were all grieving, but if felt so good to have that many people together on my deck. If I could have convinced them to spend the night, I would have. The next week we had a Chiefs party. More than half the people who came didn’t even care about the game. We were all just hungry for companionship, and to get away from the news and from our own thoughts for a few moments.

A lot happened over the next 6 months. Joel Book moved in with us. We began the war in Afghanistan. There was the anthrax scare. “Let’s Roll” became our battle cry.

I spent many, many nights sitting at the kitchen table talking with Sam, trying to make sense of it all. I read everything I could about the people who died that day. I cried nearly every night. I imagined myself trapped in flames. I imagined myself jumping from a window. I imagined myself determining to overtake hijackers. I imagined my death. I felt split open and shattered into a million pieces. I felt more alive than I’d ever felt before.

Six months later, on the 6 month anniversary of the attacks, I flew to New York City to spend 2 nights and 3 days volunteering at St. Paul’s Chapel, which stood at the foot of the World Trade Centers and served as a place of respite for the thousands of people who were working to clean up the rubble.

It was a healing experience for me. It was a turning point. This next post is what I wrote about it.

Six Months After 9/11

2006-09-11T23:03:00.000-05:00

Many of you know I spent several days last week (March 8-11) volunteering at St. Paul’s Chapel near Ground Zero. Thanks to each of you who called or e-mailed before I left or since I’ve been home. I thought it would be easiest to share my experience with you in this way.

I became inspired to go to New York to volunteer at Ground Zero after reading the web journal of another woman who had volunteered for several months at St. Paul’s. (www.hopeinthewilderness.com) After many phone calls and e-mails – I was accepted on the volunteer list. There is no shortage of volunteers – I called at the beginning of February and the first open shifts were the nights of March 8th & 9th.

St. Paul’s Chapel has been around since 1736, and is a NYC historical landmark. George Washington prayed his inaugural prayer there in 1789. Miraculously, the chapel sustained no damage on September 11th and has since become a respite center for fireman, police, EMS, construction and other relief workers. It's been in operation twenty-four hours a day since September 11th serving hot meals and providing a place to rest your head, spend quiet time, or connect with one of the many volunteers and counselors on hand.

I was anxious about flying into New York and about going to Ground Zero. Like many, I’ve had a difficult time dealing with the horror and sadness of September 11th and wasn't sure how I would feel about being there. On the other hand, I’ve had so many positive experiences as the result of that terrible day. Now I look at things differently. I thank God for my many blessings. My eyes are wider. My vision feels clearer.

I went to pay tribute to the city of New York, to the 2,700+ victims of the attack and to the hundreds of workers who have participated in the clean up of the site. I was also hoping to find some closure with regard to my own emotional experience of September 11th.

I arrived at Ground Zero Friday evening to begin the first of two 12-hour night shifts at St. Paul’s. The Ground Zero pit was intensely lit with stadium lighting. After 6 months of clean up, it looked only like a huge construction site. I did see the cross formed by the steel girders. It was lit from below and stood at one side of the site. The buildings all around the pit were badly damaged. One in particular looked as if its skin had simply melted off and slid down the side of the building.

St. Paul’s is directly adjacent to the pit. The iron fence in front of the chapel was covered with memorials. Photos, letters, condolences, and expressions of regret covered every square foot of the 8 ft. high fence. It was absolutely impossible to absorb all that was in front of you. My initial impression was of deep sadness that so many of the memorials were faded. I wanted them to be just as bright and vivid as the lives they memorialized.

Inside the chapel I felt an immediate sense of calm. It was dimly lit and peaceful. Cards and banners from school children around the country and the world covered the walls. I saw cards from children in Prairie Village and a large banner from Xavier School in Leavenworth. Tables were set up around the perimeter of the chapel providing clothing, gear, medical supplies, toiletries, candy & snacks. Hot meals, coffee, tea, bottled water and sodas were always available. Cots and mattresses were laid out upstairs in the balcony so that workers could nap during their breaks. Volunteer chiropractors, podiatrists and massage therapists were there to provide healing and relief. Volunteers (20 per 12 hour shift) sort and stock the supply tables, prepare and serve the food and provide a supportive ear to the workers who come there.

During our orientation, Dennis, our volunteer coordinator, told us that our mission was to provide comfort and respite to the workers. I quickly saw that the greatest need was to simply sit, talk and listen with the workers as they came in during their breaks. I sometimes felt awkward approaching them, but in every instance, found someone who was anxious to talk – and seemed to welcome an attentive listener.

Through my conversation I learned of many losses. Close family, friends, and associates were lost that day. Others lost their homes and their belongings. Many talked of dealing with nightmares or of still feeling afraid at the sound of an airplane overhead. Most said they still startled easily.

It is an honor for these firemen, police, and construction workers to participate in the recovery. Their workday lasts fourteen to sixteen hours, but to them, it's nothing. Nothing compared to the lives lost. Doing this is a catharsis for their pain.

In those few days, I saw many with hollowness in their eyes. Many of the workers have been at Ground Zero nearly every day since Sept 11th. They said it seemed like years rather than months they'd been working there. What affect will this have on them emotionally or physically? It did not seem to matter. The job has to be done. And they want to be the ones to do it.

This disaster produced millions of tons of debris. In the early days after the incident, many wondered how it would be cleared? One of the firemen said the debris had towered as high as eighty feet in the air and now six months later there laid a hole eighty feet deep.

Over 2700 are missing or dead. The recovery of these victims is painstakingly slow. The construction equipment scoops up the debris and places it gently at the feet of waiting firemen and EMS workers who sift through it searching for anything recognizable. The pile is loaded on a truck and barged across the harbor to be sifted again at the local landfill. This process is tedious, but highly efficient. Its purpose is simple. Find anything that can be identified for those loved ones who are waiting for answers. Body parts are still being found. Just this week, several whole bodies were recovered. It is gruesome work, but the identification of a body can provide much needed closure to the mourning families.

As morning came, everyone’s spirits seemed to lift a little. Even though my shift ended at 8 am – I stayed much later on both days. I didn’t want to leave. The morning sunlight – and the fresh shift of workers and volunteers left me feeling happy and hopeful. I can’t really say enough about the way that morning sunlight felt as it streamed through the stained glass of the chapel. It gave the whole place a magical feeling. When we finally left, there were hugs all around and I felt very sad that I would likely never see any of these amazing people again.

In hindsight – I must say that even though I went to New York prepared to do whatever was necessary to support the workers; it felt as though the workers were still there to support us! They greeted us with smiles, hugs and words of wisdom. It was a great honor to meet the men and women who are representing the true spirit of our country!

On Monday, March 11th, I returned home. Monday was the 6-month anniversary. I decided not to go to any of the ceremonies that morning, and my flight left before the beams of light commemorating the towers were lit. Still, I am glad I was in New York on that day.

Since I've been home, I've felt again much of the pain and sadness I experienced after September 11th. I'm quick to tears when someone asks me about my experience. I guess this is just the result of seeing first hand the enormity of what happened. This time however, my sadness is mixed with a sense of awe and respect for the incredible people I met and for the underlying goodness and resiliency of the human spirit.

I experienced the full-scale aspect of this catastrophe in a very small way. My involvement in this event is tiny. Yet it is the small acts of each individual that add up. This microcosm of volunteers and workers along with each individual’s act of kindness proves that Good is greater than Evil.

Just today I learned that St. Paul’s 24-hour relief effort will end after Easter. I feel so honored to have had this opportunity. I saw a quote while I was at St. Paul’s that I think does justice to my experience.

“History laid its arms around me and in response God has graced me with an opportunity to serve.”

A Knot on my Noggin

2006-09-05T21:40:00.000-05:00

Today was a hard day. It started hard and it’s ending hard – and there were lots of hard parts in between. I spent my day juggling relationships with difficult people, trying not to react to ridiculous over the top e-mail, searching for the right words to soothe the frayed nerves of one coworker, and attempting to tame the ego of another. By the time I made it home I was exhausted, and more than a little cranky.

Sam, Katherine and I sat in the den and shared stories of our day. My stories, as it turned out, were really pretty funny. Thank God my travails could be served up for a good laugh

And then I got carried away. In an effort to ramp up dramatic effect and thereby improve the funny quotient of my story, I began banging my forehead against our wooden drafting table to demonstrate my frustration. It smarted a bit at the time, but not nearly as bad as it smarts now. I now have a self inflicted lump on my forehead and a pounding headache to go with it.

What in the world could I have been thinking? Or was I?

Happy Anniversary

2006-09-02T05:54:00.000-05:00

Today is the day Sam and I celebrate our 6th wedding anniversary. Although I know I had a life before I met Sam, it is becoming harder and harder to remember what it was like. It seems I’ve always lived this way.

I am ridiculously happy with this man. I feel guilty sometimes for being so happy with Sam. Does one person deserve this bounty of happiness, this depth of connection, this certainty of love? I don’t know. But I’ll drink from the fire hose for as long as it's flowing.

Sam and I have yet to run out of things to talk about. He continues to charm and disarm me with his silly songs and rhymes. I still feel giddy when I see his name flash on my cell phone, or catch sight of his car ahead of me on the traffic way on the way home from work at the end of the day.

There is no one on the face of this earth with whom I would rather spend time, wake up to or fall asleep with. Sam is wisest person I know, and on top of that, he has the kindest, gentlest spirit I know. It’s a captivating combination.

I am crazy in love with this guy. Who wouldn’t be? I consider myself pretty darn lucky to have been in the right place at the right time that fateful day in October 1998 when we first spent time together.

So here’s to you sweetie! Thank you for this wonderful life we are making together.

Happy Anniversary!
I love you.

Everybody Knows

2006-08-30T23:25:00.000-05:00

I went to see the Leonard Cohen movie this evening, by myself, at the Tivoli. I left work right at 5:00 (something I never do and did tonight only with a dose of guilt) and made it to the theater in time for the 5:15 showing. The previews were already rolling as I made my way to my seat. I sat down in the anonymity of darkness and prepared to lose myself in the music and poetry of this singer/song writer.

And lose myself I did. I’d always liked Leonard Cohen, but admittedly knew very little about him or his career. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the movie, but had been intrigued enough by the feedback I’d heard at Sundance to make a point of seeing it. I wasn’t disappointed.

The movie is based around a 2005 musical tribute to the 76 year old Cohen by talents including U2, Rufus Wainwright, Linda Thompson, Nick Cave, Beth Orton and Antony. The movie alternates between brilliant guest performances of Cohen’s hauntingly worded songs, and stories, told by Cohen, that provide the backdrop against which the songs were originally written and recorded.

I was completely captivated by the quirky genius of the musicians who performed in tribute to Leonard Cohen. And with the opportunity to really listen to and absorb the poetry of Cohen’s lyrics, I felt as if my chest had been cracked open and my heart laid bare. The emotion of the music created an ache in me that was at once bone crushing and exhilarating. At several points during the film I realized I’d been holding my breath for what was surely several minutes. I completely gave myself over to the experience, and as the final credits began to roll, I found myself in stunned and silent awe.

As I left the theater, I locked eyes with a woman 15 years older than me. “Oh my God.” she breathed in amazement. “I know,” I answered. And there was nothing more for either of us to say.

Hump Day is Cornflower Blue

2006-08-22T23:10:00.000-05:00

Do your months have colors? Just curious. I realized today that every time I think of a month of the year, I see that month in its associated color. I've always thought of months in this way. Days of the week have colors too.

January is Burgundy
February is Orange
March is Rust
April is Soft Petal Pink
May is Hot Pink
June is Rich Plum
July is Deep, Dark Purple or Navy Blue
August is Ocean Green
September is Clear Sky Blue or Pine Green
October is Black
November is Rich Brown
December is White or Silver

Monday is Dark Crimson Red
Tuesday is Yellow
Wednesday is Cornflower Blue
Thursday is Straw
Friday is Deep Royal Blue
Saturday is Golden Maple
Sunday is Black Red

(with credit to the Crayola Crayon Company)

Heard While Meditating

2006-08-21T22:45:00.000-05:00

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

How am I going to respond to H.’s e-mail? That’s going to be a mess. He’s not going to be very happy with me.

Don’t think about that stuff. You are worrying!

Oh yeah….

Breath in… Breath out… Breath in... Breath out...

My back hurts, I would love to slump over, but then the energy won’t flow smoothly through my chakras.

Chakras, Smockras, my back is sore!

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I am not sure how this could be helping me…

I am bored.

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I can’t forget to send those invoices for the PIEA.

I need to find out when Jennifer’s birthday is, I know it is close.

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I should be outside working in the yard. Here we build this beautiful deck and then we let the yard go to hell!

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I’m anxious to go over and visit Val & Vern, see how they are doing, I miss them.

We need to stop eating out so much. It’s too expensive.

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I want to go to a yoga retreat.

It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve been to yoga.

I wish I had more time.

I wonder how long I’ve got left. Should I sneak a peak at the clock?

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I need to figure out how to bring in more new deposits at work.

We really should have Miko’s teeth cleaned.

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I wished my ipod worked better in my car.

I hope we have enough money to make this building work.

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

What if we don’t have enough money to make the building work?

Breath in…

What if we struggle every month to make the payment?

Breath out…

I hope Sam doesn’t die young of a heart attack or something.

Breath…

What would I do?

Breath…

God, please, please, please don’t let this happen.

Breath…

I hope Jenne’ likes the earrings I picked out for her.

Are we doing enough to help Jenne’ and Steve.

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I wish I could decide on the artwork for my tattoo. There are two or three I love.

Can I pet Miko while I am meditating? Is that ok?

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

This is harder than you would think. It’s not very relaxing.

All I am doing is pushing thoughts away, how do you ever get past that part of it?

I need to write to Scotti.

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I want to spend a weekend at Shantivanam.

I want to go visit Lynn in Salt Lake City, maybe I can also go to that spa while I am there. Do I have time? Do we have enough money?

Breath in… Breath out…. Breath in… Breath out…

I wish I didn’t have to go to work today.

I can’t believe Katherine is a senior! How can that be?

Breath in… Breath out… Breath in… Breath out…

I’m going to have blueberries for breakfast once I’m done here. Yummy!

That was a great episode of West Wing last night.

Breath in… Breath out…

Whew, times up!

Life Happens Between the Pictures

2006-08-12T23:23:00.000-05:00

Sam and I were inspired last night after looking through the many, many photo albums Steve and Jenne' have filled. They take pictures of everything, everywhere, all the time. It's incredible, and it's fun.

It got us to thinking. We're so used to photographing the special days in our life, the birthdays, the holidays, the school events. What if instead we photographed the mundane, the routine, the ordinary, the very things that make up the majority of the moments we experience day to day?

So we decided to document our day today, Saturday, August 12th, as a day in our life in pictures. It's probably not surprising that what started as an ordinary Saturday, ended up feeling extraordinary once we turned the attention of our camera lens on it.

Thank God for weekends, we love to sleep in.

I get up a little before Sam so I can spend a few minutes meditating.

Sam sleeps till the last possible moment.

Miko complains that his bowl is nearly empty.

We work out every Saturday morning at Fitness Together.

Back home to shower and get ready for the rest of the day.

Sam checks his e-mail while he waits for me to get ready.

I'm ready, but make Sam wait while I make a post to this blog.

We're off!

First stop, Rose Nails in Corinth so I can use the Pedicure Gift Certificate I received as a birthday gift. Ran into Jennifer Mann and Molly Proffer while I was there.

We decide to go to lunch at the new Harvey House Diner in Union Station.

Mmmmmm. Banana Cream Pie. It was good!

We decide to spend a couple of hours exploring Union Station. We see Fighter Pilots on the Imax Extreme Screen. Sam is in heaven!

Next stop Costco. Ughh! We spy a cool entertainment center that hides a flat screen tv, but we maintain discpline and leave with only the things we went in to buy. Whew!

Time to wash my new car. It's a bit of an adventure since the guys at the car wash don't know how to drive it.

It's been a great afternoon, but as we return home we are reminded that we probably should have spent some time trimming the yard. Oh well.

We're home just in time for Sam to watch the Chiefs game!

Checking the mail. It's a good day -no bills!

Getting ready for bed.

My favorite part of the day, reading in bed before I go to sleep.

Casa Bonita - Just As I'd Remembered

2006-08-12T10:24:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, Sam came to Colorado to visit me while I was teaching at Bank School. I took a shuttle from Boulder to Denver to meet him at the airport so we could spend more time together. He arrived just in time for lunch and since Sam is generally game for about anything, I suggested we visit a place I’d not been to in 30+ years – Casa Bonita.

It’s amazing how many people know about this restaurant. In fact, I am not sure I’ve met many folks from Kansas City who haven’t at least heard of it. I have such fantastical memories of my visits there, I wasn’t sure if they were real or imagined, and I wanted to find out.

I think I was 8 years old the first time my parents took me. I remember a pink palace with a giant fountain in front. It is impressive enough from the outside, but once you walk in, that’s where the real magic begins.

Pass through the front doors and you've walked into an old Mexican village through which roped lines snake toward the point where you will place your order. There are only two real choices on the menu, an all-you-can-eat Mexican platter or Fried Chicken. I remember having both as a kid, but wanting an authentic "Mexican Village" experience, Sam and I opted for the all-you-can-eat Mexican platter.

The food line is suspiciously efficient, but you don’t go to Casa Bonita for the food. Sam and I took our trays and followed our server down a path, through a cave to a table near the waterfall. I was thrilled because I knew we would have front row seats to watch the cliff divers. Cliff divers? Yes indeed! And this is the very thing most people seem to remember about Casa Bonita. When I ask if they’ve ever heard of the place, the near unanimous reply is “You mean the place with the cliff divers”? Yep. That very place.

The food was ok, about the same quality as a frozen Mexican food dinner, (I actually happen to like frozen Mexican dinners) with one exception -the sopaipillas. My entire adult life I've been frustrated by the fact that most Mexican restaurants serve their sopaipillas fried crispy and suffocating in cinnamon and powdered sugar. I remember as a child eating soft, puffy sopaipillas, sans sugar or cinnamon, but with a light drizzle of honey. I didn’t realize until our server brought a basket of these heavenly delights that Casa Bonita was the place where those memories were born.

Sam and I ate our lunch while we watched “The Sheriff”, “Bad Guy Black Bart” and “Chiquita the Angry Gorilla” joust about on top of the cliffs, threatening to throw each other into the water. Finally the real cliff diver came out and performed a couple of neat dives.

After lunch, we explored the rest of the “village”, including Black Bart’s Hideout, the Gold & Silver Mines, the Governer’s Mansion, the Old Jail and the numerous nooks, crannies and caverns. Along the way we saw flame jugglers, strolling Mariachis, and Mexican dancers. There was a puppet show for kids, a fortune teller, magicians and an old fashioned skeet ball arcade.

Even for a 40 year old, this place was pretty cool. But I was beside myself with excitement for the fun I remembered having here as an 8 year old. Casa Bonita was every bit as magical as I'd remembered. And judging from the decor, not much had changed since 1974. Thank God.

Getting the Hell Out of Dodge

2006-08-07T22:07:00.000-05:00

Sam says he’d like to get the hell out of Dodge tonight. He says I can come with him, and the Roo too. Cool.

There is nothing as compelling to me as my “get the hell out of Dodge” fantasies. It’s taken me a long time to win Sam over to my way of thinking, but tonight, its official. He’s in. And if we both weren’t so tired, we’d be out! (the door that is) There is just something so liberating in the notion that you really could turn your back and leave it all behind.

In my 20’s I dreamed of trading my Honda CRX for an SUV. I planned to load up the back with camping gear and books and blank journals. Not just a few books, but hundreds of books. And lots of blank journals too. I’d make my way into southern Utah and spend months and months driving and camping and reading and writing. I’d find the perfect spot, park and camp and hike for a few days, read a book or two, fill a bunch of pages in my journal, then move on and do the whole thing over again.

In my 30’s I dreamed of sailing away to a tiny island. I would live in a thatched hut with mosquito netting covering my bed and spend a few hours each day working with the owner of the only café on the island, serving umbrella drinks to locals and tourists. I would still have my books and journals, and maybe some paints and brushes as well and I would spend most of my days reclined in a canvas chair beneath the shade of a palm tree gazing at the crystal blue waters. In this dream there is always a fat, furry black & white cat that rubs around my ankles as I sit reading.

Today, I dream of going to an Ashram to study yoga and meditation. I see Buddhist prayer flags outside my door, their fluttering the only sound that interrupts the silence. Still my books and journals are there, and maybe some sculpting clay as well. I spend my days stretching and strengthening my body and stilling my mind. My muscles get long and strong, my breathing deep, and my mind, so very peaceful.

I couple of months ago, we had an employee at work who left for lunch and didn’t come back. We were worried about her and had even called the police. She finally called another employee late in the afternoon. She was moving to Texas, and was already on the road with all her stuff.

There was a lot talk about how insensitive she had been to not say anything to us, to make us worry about her that way. And I agreed with everything that was said. But deep in my heart I knew what she was doing and I sent her a mental high five. She’d gotten the hell out of Dodge.

Gourmet Freezer Treats

2006-08-05T10:47:00.000-05:00

I’ve been fighting a cold all week and finally Thursday, during the night, it hit me full force. I dragged myself into work on Friday morning, feeling only slightly better than death warmed over, but the Boss called me Typhoid Mary and quickly sent me back home before I infected the rest of the troops. Thank God. I probably would have tried to tough it out, which would have been just plain stupid.

I spent an absolutely glorious day at home, sitting in bed with my laptop, a tall glass of orange juice and a box of Kleenex. The floor next to my bed was transformed from hardwood to something akin to white shag for all the wadded Kleenex that covered it. Gross, I know, but I’m sick, so give me a break. I did think briefly about pulling the trash can over next to the bed, but decided it simply required too much effort.

I’m serious when I say the day was glorious. I love working from home. Everything changes. I am so much more focused, so much more productive, and so much more relaxed. Even with the constant coughing, sneezing and nose blowing, I enjoyed myself, and by the end of the day I had accomplished more than I could have ever accomplished had I been in the office.

Sometime after lunch my friend Jenne’ stopped by. She was looking uber cool with her freshly shaved head and her bangle earrings and I briefly entertained the idea of shaving my own head, but then decided I should do a better job of shaving my legs before I started on my head.

Anyway, Jenne’s chemo kills her appetite (which in my world wouldn’t be such a bad thing) so I was excited to offer her my latest food obsession, frozen pear flavored apple sauce, just in case it would be THE thing to re-ignite her appetite. I was certain these tasty little treats would do the trick.

After becoming addicted to the pear sorbet at Karma Cuisine in Boulder, I had to find a similar fix here in Kansas City. I bought individual serving cups of pear flavored apple sauce (think lunchbox treats) and put them in the freezer. They’re not nearly as good as the real thing, but I’ve become addicted to them nonetheless. They are cold, sweet, refreshing and I just realized, lyphoma green! How could she resist? I pictured the two of us fighting over the last 6 pack carton at the Brookside Market, but quickly pushed the image from my mind as I went to retrieve a cup for each of us.

I warned her the cups would be frozen hard for the first 5 minutes or so, but they would start to soften up as she worked on them. Five minutes into it, I was a third of the way through mine, but Jenne’ still hadn’t made a dent in hers.

“My arm is tired,” she complained. “This is too much work!”

Jenne’ was clearly being a wuss, but I encouraged her to keep at it. After all, mine had already softened into a frosty slush.

Five minutes later I had finished mine, but Jenne’ was still poking her spoon around the top of the cup.

“I give up,” she finally declared. “I am exhausted from all this effort! It’s too damn much work! And I can’t even taste it once its on my spoon!”

Pansy ass wuss behavior for sure, but at least I wasn’t going to have to arm wrestle her for the pear sauce inventory at the grocery store. Plus, I was going to get to finish her cup, and I think I read some where that the calories don’t actually count if you weren’t the one to open the container.

We keep the laser guided thermometer gun my Dad gave Sam for Christmas in the living room next to the chair just for situations like this, so I used it to take her temperature. I discovered she was only registering about 86 degrees, which is clearly not warm enough to properly defrost a 4 oz. cup of pear sauce so I decided to give her a break. Since my body temperature is generally just slightly cooler than the surface of the sun, I have superior defrosting capabilities. Of course.

Jenne’ left to go to her doctors appointment and I finished her pear sauce cup and then went back upstairs to wade through the discarded Kleenex to get back into bed.

Never has a sick day at home been so grand!

I'll Leave My Heart in Boulder

2006-07-27T21:58:00.000-05:00

I’ve been in Boulder for the last 10 days. Ten long, absolutely heavenly days. Unfortunately, my stay will soon be over and almost as soon as I get home I’ll begin thinking about next year’s visit. It’s safe to say these two weeks are some of the richest, most relaxing days of my year.

I first started coming here in the summer of 2001 to attend the Graduate School of Banking. I studied hard and graduated from the three year program with some degree of merit. Enough anyway that they invited me back to teach one of the third year courses, a bank management simulation. I jumped at the opportunity and so this 2 week stay at the end of July has become a regular part of my summer.

Sam asked me, while we sat waiting for my plane, what I loved most about Boulder. My answers spilled out effortlessly, tumbling, one after another.

I love the mountains,
I love the bohemian people,
I love the climate,
I love that you can walk anywhere you want to go,
I love the big beautiful campus that sprawls across the center of town,
I love my students,
I love teaching,
I love the rich exchange of ideas,
I love the break from the craziness of work,
I love the massage I get from Jessica each year,
I love taking daily yoga classes at The Tree House and Om Time Yoga,
I love walking along Boulder Creek,
I love the coffee houses and the independent bookstore on Pearl,
I love Wahoo Tacos and the pear lemon sorbet at Karma Cuisine,
I love waking up early and having eggs and bacon for breakfast every morning,
I love that this is a Dr. Pepper town and you can get the diet version nearly every where you go,
I love working only 6 hours a day,
I love attending live music performances and poetry slams at night,
I love that I have time every day to read as well as take a nap,
and I love - oh my God how I love - the light.

The light in Boulder is simply amazing. I suppose this kind of light happens in other parts of the country, but I’ve never seen anything quite like the light in Boulder. It ‘s the sort of light that warms and intensifies everything it touches. Sometimes I feel like my heart will break from the pure brilliance of color here. It’s something you just don’t experience in the hazy summer heat of Kansas City.

All this will come to a close tomorrow as I head for the airport. I’ll be happy to see Sam and Katherine and Miko and Steve and Jenne’ and Nena, and I’ll be happy to sleep in my own bed again and to hear the buzzing of the cicadas. But if you catch me with a far off look on my face, you’ll know where I am.

Abnormal Brain Waves 1980 Part 4

2006-07-19T23:52:00.000-05:00

My cast was fun for the first few days when everyone wanted to sign it and friends offered to carry my books. But it didn’t take long for the novelty to wear off. Within weeks it was dirty and stinky and I had to shove a pencil down inside it to satisfy the itch that lived inside there day and night.

I wore the cast for 6 weeks and when it came off my arm was as good as new. No one talked about the accident anymore, it was old news. And besides, there were lot’s of other stories to occupy our interest.

For Halloween, someone (well, we all knew who it was, but pretended we didn’t) had drug an old outhouse to the front door of the school and tied a chain around and through it and then through the handles of the front door so that you couldn’t open the doors and you couldn’t budge the outhouse. The icing on the cake was that they hung a dead raccoon by its foot from the ceiling of the outhouse.

I didn’t actually see the raccoon, and I am glad I didn’t. It makes me sad to think of it hanging there. But I thought it was an exquisite act of rebellion and I was thrilled with the power we had to make the adults shake their heads and roll their eyes in disgust.

There was also a scandalous love triangle that had us all enthralled. Debra was a senior, Ritchie a junior, and Colleen was a sophomore. Debra and Ritchie had been dating for over a year, but Colleen had eyes for Ritchie and rumor had it that they had been seen together more than once. Colleen was popular and beautiful, with fine china doll features. She was always nice to me, but that didn’t keep me from disliking her. All in all, she was just too perfect.

To think about it now I realize this triangle had all the drama and heartbreak of a Shakespeare play. Ritchie went back and forth between the two girls several times. Debra would become despondent; some said she threatened to commit suicide. When Ritchie was with Colleen, Debra walked around with red swollen eyes everywhere she went. And when they were back together, her eyes were dry, but still had that scared, desperate look of a woman who knows she is on borrowed time.

Meanwhile, Colleen remained calm, cool and collected. When Debra and Ritchie were together, Colleen would smile sweetly and go on about her business. She seemed to carry herself with a knowing air of confidence, with a certainty that it was only a matter of time before Ritchie realized the error of his decision and left Debra for good. In the end, she was right.

It was against this backdrop of scandal that my own drama began to unfold. For several days, I had been feeling a persistent ache behind my eyes. Bright light made them hurt and I was having trouble focusing my vision. I’d told my parents about it, and they had been concerned, but we hadn’t gone to the doctor yet.

I was practicing basketball in the gym after school. Volleyball had just ended, and we had just started practicing basketball. We had the same coach for both sports and the girls remained the same as well, so really we just traded one ball for another.

At any rate, we’d been running drills for about half and hour when I started to feel myself get lightheaded. I shook it off and ran another drill. As I waited in line with the other girls for my next turn, I felt everything go white. I tried to say something to Diane, the girl standing next to me, but before I could open my mouth, I felt myself melting to the floor.

That fall is something I will remember my whole life. It was the most natural, relaxing thing in the world. Like my whole body had turned to butter and just melted to the floor. I must have hit the ground hard, but I didn’t feel any pain. I could hear what was going on around me, could sense the commotion, but I was in a far, far away place, as dreamy as any I had ever imagined.

I opened my eyes, but couldn’t see anything. Everything was black. I tried to speak, but no words came out. I didn’t mind. I would stay in that dreamy place for as long as I could. I heard Coach Gillespie say for someone to call the EMTs. My parents were EMTs so I knew they would be coming soon. I knew something was wrong, I could feel that the right side of my body was trembling, but I was so relaxed, so comfortable, that I didn’t care.

Angela’s mom showed up after a few minutes. She was an EMT too. I had always liked Angela’s mom. She was cool and hip and when Angela and I were kids she used to let us listen to her Mac Davis album over and over and over. Angela’s mom told me that I was going to be just fine and that my Mom & Dad would be there soon and that they were going to take me to the hospital in Larned. I tried to nod my head ok, but the movement was lost in the waves of bliss in which I was absorbed.

The trembling in my right side got stronger and I could feel my arm and leg twitching against the floor. The rhythm of the motion felt good, but I remember wondering why the right half of my body was so active when the rest of me felt drenched in molasses.

My parents came then and they put me in the back of our car and we drove to the hospital in Larned. I still couldn’t see, and didn’t want to talk, and my right side was still trembling, but I was less dreamy and I was aware of everything that was going on around me. As the dreaminess began to fade, my head began to hurt, an intense throbbing pain that felt like nothing I had ever experienced.

The doctor examined me and told my parents I likely had epilepsy. He thought I had probably just experienced a grand maul or a petite maul seizure. Of course, I had no idea what a grand maul or petite maul seizure meant, but I knew enough to know epilepsy was not a good thing to have.

I spent the next several days in the hospital. My vision returned, I was able to speak again, and the trembling stopped, but my head hurt so badly that I couldn’t bear to open my eyes. I was moved to the hospital in Great Bend, and then on to the hospital in Wichita as one doctor after the next tried to figure out what was wrong with me.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the doctors in Wichita didn’t think I had epilepsy. Instead, they suspected I had a brain tumor. My parents never let on that there was anything seriously wrong, and strangely, I didn’t think to ask. Despite the fact that I had the mother of all headaches, I was enjoying the attention and the adventure of my hospital stay. My room was filled with balloons and flowers and posters, and a tidy stack of cards from my friends and neighbors was delivered to my room each day. I mostly slept and watched TV, which was, for a teenager, more or less the pinnacle of life.

I figured out that if I laid perfectly still, or moved very slowly, I could keep my head ache in check, but if I tried to sit up, or move around, waves of nausea would wash over me, I would start to see colors, and the whole right side of my body would start shaking again.

I was sent for a CAT scan, and while waiting for the test, I noticed that several of the kids in the waiting room had their heads shaved. This alarmed me. I had long blonde hair and was not too keen on having it shaved off. My parents assured me that it was unlikely that I would have to have my head shaved, but it was then that I realized that these other kids were really sick, and that my little adventure might be more serious than I had realized.

Luckily, at about that time, I started to get better. The headaches began to subside and the “seizures” seemed to stop. But still, no one knew what was wrong with me.

I had an EEG test, where they hooked wires up to my scalp and flashed strobe lights in my face to measure the way my brain waves reacted. My results were abnormal, but not in any sort of normal way. My Dad said he had known this much all along.

I got to go back home and back to school, where I learned that I had been dropped from drivers ed class because I was deemed an unsafe driver, prone to seizures. Our drivers ed teacher was also the football coach, and to this day I remember him as arrogant and cocky, with a pervasive case of short man syndrome.

I had a couple more stays in the hospital as they tried to determine a diagnosis. They finally decided to call my condition a “migraine equivalent” brought on by trauma to the head. (my pick-up accident)

I was given a prescription for an anti-convulsant and an anti-depressant and told not to drink alcohol under any circumstances. I suffered a few more “attacks” but for the most part, I was fine.

Life went on.

Sunny replaced her pick-up. I got to finish drivers ed in the spring. The boy who was responsible for the raccoon and the outhouse set a smoke bomb off in his locker, just for fun. And Ritchie gave Colleen his class ring to wear on her perfect, slender, creamy white ring finger.

Just a Little Jerk of the Wheel 1980 Part 3

2006-07-14T22:39:00.000-05:00

Not long after homecoming, but before my “relationship” with Jamie had taken its final breath, I was in a car accident. Actually it was a pick-up accident.

It was early evening and I was out riding with my friend Sunny in her little yellow pick-up. She was a year older than me, a Sophomore, and she already had her learner’s permit. Having your learner’s permit meant you could drive to and from school or on any farm related errand. Since we lived in the country and everyone farmed, just about everything could be described as a farm related errand.

But we weren’t on a farm related errand, real or imagined. We were just out driving, for something to do. We were on a gravel road (all the country roads were gravel) and this particular road had a little bridge that went over a dried up stream bed. There was a hill just ahead of the bridge and if you drove pretty fast you could kind of jump the bridge with your car. It was fun and we did it several times, driving faster each time. We had just turned the pick-up around to do it again and were zipping down the road gaining speed.

For some completely unknown and insane reason, I decided to reach over and jerk the steering wheel. I guess I did it just to be ornery. I can safely say there was no thought what so ever that went in to that little jerk of the wheel. For years I told people I thought Sunny was about to go off the road and I jerked the wheel to save us. And for some strange reason, Sunny never questioned my story. But the truth was, I was just being stupid.

It’s not hard to imagine what happened next. The pick-up swerved from one side of the gravel to the other as Sunny tried to regain control. But we were going too fast and the little truck careened off the side of the rode and down into the ditch. Our front tires hit the bottom of the ditch with such force that it popped the bed straight up in the air and the truck flipped its back end over its front and then rolled side over side for what seemed like forever. The whole thing happened in slow motion, but it was probably over in just a matter of seconds.

When the little truck finally came to a stop, it was laying on its side, passenger side down. Sunny and I checked to see if we were each ok and then, because we could smell gas and had seen too many movies where wrecked cars promptly exploded, we scrambled to climb up out of the drivers side. I don’t remember if we got the door open or if we climbed through the window, although it seems we squeezed through the window, using the steering wheel for leverage. What I do remember is that I had to do it with only one arm because my left arm was in so much pain I couldn’t move it.

Free from the truck, we debated what to do. We were about a mile and a half north of town and about a mile south of Jamie’s farm. Never one to miss an opportunity for drama, I wanted to walk to Jamie’s house. (I was certain Jamie’s family would regret making me miss homecoming once they realized that I had just been in a terrible, potentially fatal accident!)

Sunny wasn’t so easily convinced. It was her pick-up that was totaled after all, and she was already worried about what her parents were going to do. She was anxious to get home.

We started walking and after only a few minutes some older kids drove by and picked us up. We drove back to see the pick-up on it’s side in the field and Sunny and I took turns relaying the details of our brush with death. It wasn’t long before my arm was hurting so much that I lost interest in telling the story, and Sunny was nearly frantic with the dread of telling her parents, so we headed back to town.

Sunny and I didn’t see each other again for a couple of days. I went to the emergency room in Larned that night to have my broken arm x-rayed and put in a cast. Sunny got to stay home from school the next day because her stomach was bruised and she was sore from bouncing around inside the pickup. And then it was the weekend.

Somehow without ever talking about it, Sunny and I settled on a shared version of what happened that night, although I suspect she knew as well as I did, that it wasn’t true. I hadn’t been trying to save us from going off the rode, I caused us to go off the road.

That little yellow pick-up sat in Sunny’s backyard for several months before they finally got rid of it. The windshield was shattered and the skin was bruised and dented and crunched all over. People would drive by and point and say things like “That’s the truck the Ellis girl and Nelson girl were driving the night they had that wreck. It’s a wonder they survived it. The Lord must have been lookin’ out for them.”

I think he might have been.

Dancing With the Devil 1980 Part 2

2006-07-08T15:53:00.000-05:00

I've been spending a lot of time inside the head of my 14 year old self, that summer of 1980. I don’t know why this period of my life has so occupied my thoughts lately, but it has. It’s something about turning 40 a few weeks ago I think. At any rate, I am going to keep writing about it for awhile...

So that magical summer ended and my life as a Freshman began. I felt so proud of myself for being in high school. The school was in the next town over, about 6 miles away, and I rode the bus to get there each morning. I had a really cool locker and changed classes every hour. And, there was a boy whose name was Jamie Thompson, a senior, who seemed to stop by my locker a lot.

Jamie was really handsome and played on the football team. His family lived in the country, near my town, and his sister, Desiree, was just a year older than me. I had known him my whole life. Jamie’s dad was a farmer, and his mom fixed people’s hair.

I remember when I was much younger, my mom had come home from having Jamie’s mom fix her hair, and she told me that she had just had the most amazing experience. Mrs. Thompson had a new hair brush that you could plug in to the wall and make it blow hot air. Instead of having her sit underneath a hair dryer, Mrs. Thompson brushed my mom’s hair dry. Mom said she had never felt anything so luxurious.

I was too young to date, so Jamie and I mostly hung out together by my locker before school started and over the lunch break. Homecoming was coming up and there was a big dance after the football game. This was to be my first official dance (other than the ones I went to on the tennis courts at 4-H camp), and I was nearly beside myself with excitement over the idea of going on an “almost real date” to the homecoming dance with Jamie.

A few weeks before homecoming he asked me. He asked in a normal way. Something like, “You know homecoming is coming up, and I thought we should do something together.” I nodded my head enthusiastically, relieved that he had made it official and I could start saying I had a date for the dance. But he didn’t stop there. Words kept coming out of his mouth. Strange words.

“You know my family goes to the such and such church.” (This was a church that was out in the country. I had been a few times with my cousins, who were regulars. It was less formal than the Methodist Church I attended. Instead of being formal, it was very, very intense. It was the sort of church where people raised their hands in the air while praying, and sometimes they started saying things in some sort of foreign language. Though I had never heard it said in so many words, I knew that a lot of people thought this church was kind of like a cult.)

“Yeah, I think I knew that,” I answered, not sure what this had to do with homecoming, but feeling a sort of uneasiness well up in the pit of my stomach.

“Well, we don’t believe in dancing, and so we can’t really go to the homecoming dance. I thought maybe you could come out to my house and we could just hang out there?”

I am sure there was a dead silence between us, but all I could hear was the roaring sound in my ears as my face turned beat red and the weight of what Jamie had just said began to sink in.

I’d been invited to homecoming by a boy I had a huge crush on. I had a date for homecoming. This was to be my first real dance. My first real date. Jamie was going to help win the football game, maybe even score a touchdown! I would cheer and holler from the bleachers, and high five my friends. And then I would go change into my outfit for the dance, and wait for Jamie to change out of his football uniform. And then we would hang out in the gym, listen to music, and drink punch and eat cookies and dance and laugh and joke around. And then when a slow song came on, we would slow dance together. And then he would take me home, and kiss me goodnight, and the whole evening was going to be perfect!

I realized Jamie was talking again. He was saying how his Mom was going to make us a special dinner and how he promised it would be fun. My eyes welled up with tears, but I forced them back down. I smiled at him reassuringly. Of course I would go with him I said. I didn’t care that much about some stupid dance anyway. He gave me a quick hug and then we had to get to our next class.

I walked around for the rest of the day in a daze, the ringing in my ears didn’t let up. I hated his stupid church. And I hated his stupid parents for making him believe that there was something sinful about going to a homecoming dance. I hated Jamie for acting like this was all just normal – and wholesome - for God sakes! And most of all, I hated myself for the fact that I was going along with it all.

The night of Homecoming, I sat in the bleachers and cheered the Tigers to victory. Jamie played really well, but I don’t remember if he scored a touchdown. My friends were all talking about the dance, and whose house they were going to to get ready after the game. I felt miserable.

Later, Jamie picked me up at a friend’s and drove me out to his house in the country. We had an awkward dinner with his parents and then we all sat around the table (his Mom & Dad, his sister Desiree, and me) and played a “bored” game. My parents had said I could stay out till 11:00 pm that night, but I think by 10:00 we’d already eaten and finished two rounds of the game, and his parents were ready to go to bed, so Jamie took me home.

It was the most disappointing night imaginable.

Not long after that Jamie lost his class ring while working in a field. He borrowed my Dad’s metal detector to try to find it, but with no luck. I had been expecting that any day he was going to ask me to go steady with him, which meant that I would put a whole bunch of tape around the underside of his ring to make it small enough so that I could wear it. The very coolest girls in school were all wearing their boyfriend’s rings, and I had hoped that I might be able to join their ranks.

But with no ring to wear, and no prospect of having a date for any of the dances, I soon lost interest in Jamie. And he with me.

I went to lots of dances over the next 3½ years and I have to admit that most of them were not that special. But I’ve always regretted missing that first homecoming. And to this day, if I could go back and do it over again, I would. I would tell Jamie Thompson, thanks but no thanks. He could enjoy his family dinner and his “bored” game without me. I would go to the dance, and dance barefooted with my friends. I would drink punch and eat cookies, and laugh and joke around. I might have missed out on the slow dances, but then again, maybe not. And I am sure the evening would have been perfect.

The Buzz About Town

2006-07-03T23:11:00.000-05:00

The cicadas started up tonight. I find their song deeply reassuring and as soon as I heard their familiar buzz, I stopped, sat down, and savored the moment.

For me, summer isn’t really summer until the cicadas start to sing. It was also 97 degrees and humid today, so I guess we now have all the ingredients we need to make it official. Happy Summer!

I used to like baseball... 1980 Part 1

2006-07-02T00:02:00.000-05:00

The summer before my freshman year of high school, the summer of 1980, was the best summer of my life. I played softball in the dusty field that was at the center of town and my team was exceedingly good. I had never been particularly coordinated when it came to sports, but somehow things clicked for me that summer, and for that summer and that summer alone, I was good. In fact I was great.

I played first base, and my friend LeaIla pitched. Sunny played short stop. I don’t remember who else was on the team, but it didn’t matter. All the balls came to us, and we were unstoppable.

About half our games were away games, which meant we would pile onto the bus and drive 30 minutes to an hour to meet our opponents. I knew some of the girls on the other teams, because we played them in basketball and volleyball as well.

Bunny played for the Hanston team. Bunny was short for Bonita, which my Mom said meant “beautiful” in Spanish. Bunny was pretty and I remember thinking it was a good thing she was. How awful would it be to be ugly, AND to be stuck with a name like Bonita. There would be no end to the ribbing you would have to endure at school.

Gay played for Spearville, which was over an hour away. She was tall and had shortish brown hair and freckles and you could just tell she was really nice. I worried about her name too. Back then “gay” didn’t mean homosexual, at least not that we were aware of, yet I knew it was a decidedly risky name to bear. What if she wasn’t gay? What if she was sad and depressed instead? I had to wonder at the wisdom these girls’ parents had exhibited in naming them.

I had always liked my name. (I still do) There was a girl named Tammy in my grade, and I was briefly jealous of her name, and inquired of my parents how I could go about changing my name to Tammy. I don’t remember what they said, but the feeling soon passed, and I was mostly just grateful not to be a “Bunny” or a “Gay.”

When I wasn't playing with my own team, I was busy watching the other teams in our town play. There was a game played nearly every night at the baseball field in the center of my town. The field was on the far corner of the grade school play ground and there were bleachers set up on either side of home plate.

The field was just a few blocks from my house, which was at the north edge of town, and each night after dinner, I would ride my yellow 10 speed to the field to meet my friends and watch the games.

There were always a lot of people at the games, especially the men’s games. The adults sat in the bleachers, and the teenagers sat on the hoods of their cars. People would bring their ice chests full of pop and beer to drink while they watched. Some people even brought their dinner and ate it picnic style on the ground next to the bleachers. There was always a big orange thermos sweating on a table next to the bleachers with little Dixie cups next to it. The water was for anyone who wanted it and I remember it was the coldest, best water I had ever tasted.

I remember being so carefree and full of confidence that summer. I had a really dark tan, and an awesome perm that was curly underneath and straight on top, just like Jonni Millington’s. My curfew had been extended and I could stay out till 10 o’clock, even during the week. I rode my bike everywhere, and because many of my friends were already starting to drive, I took a few “forbidden” rides with teenagers – and act that was as thrilling as it was dangerous. I could catch and throw and hit the ball and my softball team was undefeated. The start of school seemed far, far away, but even the thought of it wasn’t so bad because I would be starting high school.

I felt like I had the whole world ahead of me. And I did.

Tuesday and counting...

2006-05-23T06:51:00.000-05:00

It's only Tuesday? Good grief. I need relief.

How far to Dodge?

Mother's Day

2006-05-15T23:24:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. It’s always an awkward day for me. I am a parent, but not a Mom. I have a child, but she does not have a Mother.

Katherine, my (step) daughter, is 17. We’ve been together since she turned 10. Before that she had her real Mom, Rhonda. But Rhonda died just a few months before Katherine’s 10th birthday, and after that, I married Katherine’s Dad. It’s a lot for a kid to absorb. It’s also a lot for an adult to absorb.

Katherine and I have a good relationship. We’ve had to work on it though. We didn’t “fall in love” the way her Dad and I did. Our love for one another was more intentional. We learned to love one another. We looked for reasons to love one another. And we found them.

That’s not to say I wasn’t crazy about her when we met. I was. I remember thinking she was one of the coolest kids I‘d ever known. But it’s a different sort of relationship you build when there are more than 23 years difference in your age and there is no physical chemistry to bond you when the going gets rough.

I used to worry myself sick over whether or not I had the “mothering” instinct. After having lived by myself for nearly 10 years, I was fairly set in my ways. And my ways didn’t include watching The Lion King for the 100th time or stopping by McDonalds for a burger and fries. I tried to enjoy it. I tried to be caught up in the “wonder” of her excitement. But I often failed.

Thankfully, Katherine is a very mature kid and she always has been. Since I’ve known her I’ve been blown away, oh at least a hundred times, by her insight and understanding.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that she is really a kid. Often I look at her and think she has raised herself. I think she might be a very old soul, inside a child’s body, who is just waiting for the body to grow so she can fully express her wisdom. And she patiently endures our “parenting” while she waits for her body to grow.

The other day she picked Sam and I up from the airport after having stayed home alone for several days. Sam was doing a fair amount of passenger seat driving when she finally told him, “You know Dad. I’ve been driving for nearly a year now without you in the car. And I did get here to the airport without any help or advice from you whatsoever. But don’t worry about it – because I think your worrying is cute.”

See what I mean?

And sometimes I think she is raising me as well. I’ve learned so much from her in the last 7 years and it has come mostly from just watching.

So I guess what I am trying to say is that in spite of my somewhat suspect mothering instinct, the job of “raising Katherine” has been remarkably easy. Which is a good thing of course. Because if it had been really hard, who knows how things might have ended up.

And so on Mother’s Day, I have a lot to be grateful for, and yet it is typically a very awkward and uncertain day for me.

It’s a day on which I want to tell the whole world, “Yes! I am a Mother! I have a child! A daughter! You should meet her! She is so great!” I want to rejoice in the fact that I have been blessed with this amazing kid in my life, that I have been given the chance to be a Mom to this amazing kid even though I have never given birth to any children of my own.

But it’s also a day where Katherine finds herself feeling profoundly motherless. She knows I love her. She appreciates the role I play in her life. But on this day more than any other, she feels the deep and profound loss of knowing that her real Mother is dead. And on Mother’s Day of course, she wants to honor her Mom. And that is not me.

She gives me a small gift, and a non Mother’s Day card. And I accept, but feel like an imposter.

For the other 364 days of the year, things will be fine. I know this from experience.

But on this day, we’ll do this dance with one another to get through the day. She harbors her sadness, sheltering it from me because she doesn’t want me to be hurt. And I harbor my sadness, sheltering it from her because I don’t want her to feel it as a burden, or worse yet an obligation.

And the day passes.

It's easy to do the right thing, when the right thing is easy to do.

2006-05-04T11:36:00.000-05:00

I had lunch with my brother last week. He and I are definitely related. Not only do we look alike, but we have many of the same mannerisms, we struggle with many of the same issues, and of course we share the same history. Our relationship has always been intense. I’ve always said there is no one on this earth who can, in an instant, make me laugh harder or hurt me more intensely than my brother. We know each other more than I think we like to admit.

There have been whole years where we have gone without speaking to one another. We share the same quick temper and when those tempers flared, angry words were exchanged, lines in the sand were drawn, and in the after math, it was just easier to let the days pass than to make amends.

There have been many more good times than bad, however. We’ve spent hours and hours in intense conversation, discussing and analyzing our most important relationships and trying to make sense of the often strange dynamic that exists within our family. And there have been many more hours spent exchanging new music, sharing book and movie recommendations, trying out new restaurants, and going to concerts together. For most of our lives, we’ve been a team.

Of all the things I love about my brother, one of the things I admire most is his emotional complexity. His inner life is rich and complex and often complicated, and that’s not something he shies away from. One thing we share in common is that we both live with a voice in our heads that questions or criticizes nearly every thing we do. It’s exhausting, but because we have each lived with it for so long, it feels natural. One of the by- products of living with this voice is a propensity to worry. We are masters when it comes to stewing about things. And when it comes to an anxious stomach or a sleepless night – we’ve got it nailed.

So when my brother told me over lunch last week that he’d been unable to sleep for the last several days, I instantly related.

“What’s going on?” I asked. My brother began relaying his story.

Several days earlier, he had returned from lunch to his office and decided to park on the street rather than in the employee parking lot. He’d found a tight spot and carefully eased his car into it. As he returned later that afternoon, he noticed a parking control cop with lights flashing near where his car was parked. As he neared, he realized the officer was parked right next to his car and appeared to be inspecting his rear bumper. A woman he vaguely recognized as a fellow employee hovered nearby.

“This your car?” the officer inquired of my brother.

“Yes.”

“You park it?” he went on.

“Yes, why?”

“Well, it seems you banged up the car behind you pretty good trying to squeeze into that spot. You remember hittin’ the car behind you while you was parkin’?”

“No,” my brother answered, becoming alarmed.

“Well your paint‘s all over this lady’s bumper, and as you can see, you crunched her up pretty good.”

As it turns out, my brother had just touched up the paint on his rear bumper the night before, and sure enough, the fresh paint was on the front bumper of the car behind him. He knew he had tapped her as he’d edged into the spot. In fact he’d backed up until he felt his bumper touch hers before he started pulling forward again. But he knew for certain he hadn’t “crunched” anything.

He looked hard at the car behind him, and then more closely at the lady hovering nearby and quickly realized this was not headed in a good direction. The car in question had clearly been in an accident, but not one he had caused. He suspected the driver was looking for someone with insurance to pay for an earlier fender bender.

Now here is an interesting thing about that voice that lives in our heads. It can be our own worst enemy, taunting and nagging us till we want to throw our selves in front of a moving bus just to get it to shut up. But let someone else criticize us, or even hint at the suggestion that we’re wrong, and that voice jumps to our defense with the power of a ninja.

“What? You’re not going to let them get away with that are you? Do you see what that woman is trying to do? She is trying to nail you! You are being screwed, my friend. S-C-R-E-W-E-D!”

Thankfully, we’ve both learned not to listen to everything the voice suggests, but sometimes it’s just easier than others to ignore. This, it turned out, was not one of the easy times.

My brother got angry. He got defensive. He lost his cool. And before he knew what hit him, he was sporting not one, but two tickets – one for hitting a parked car and the other for parking more than 12 inches from the curb. And he had his very own date with a judge to chat about it further.

My brother was furious. He was angry at the owner of the car, he was angry at the cop, and he was angry with himself. For the next several days he stewed about it, playing the interaction over and over in his mind. He thought about what he could have said and done differently. He thought about how badly he’d been wronged. And in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep because his mind was racing, he thought of revenge.

He knew his anger was wasted energy. He knew he was only torturing himself. Yet he couldn’t seem to let it go.

The day before our lunch, my brother saw the woman’s car parked on the street. Although he’d been looking for it, this was the first time he’d seen it. His fury rose. There was no one in sight. It was a perfect opportunity for revenge. He imagined the deep gash his key would make across her door. His heart raced. He pictured her frustration when she returned to her car to find all four tires flat. His palms began to sweat. He imagined the satisfaction he would feel at knowing he had been vindicated.

And then, in a moment that he described as feeling “other worldly”, he reached into his pocket, dug out some change and began feeding her parking meter. He emptied his pockets, and then went back to his car to get more. He fed the meter with every bit of change he could find, filling it beyond its limit.

My eyes brimmed with tears as I listened.

“I couldn’t imagine how that could help,” he told me. “I only knew I didn’t want to continue feeling the way I’d been feeling. I did it with faith that an act of generosity would be more powerful than an act of revenge. But in the moment, I really, truly, couldn’t believe it was anything other than ridiculous.”

I asked him how he felt now, 24 hours after having fed her meter. “I feel better,” he said. “I slept last night.”

This very rarely happens to me, but I was at a loss for words.

It’s easy to do the right thing when the right thing is easy to do. It’s much harder when you are feeling hurt and angry and your mind is itching for revenge. And it is nearly impossible when your faith feels empty because you can’t even imagine, let alone believe, that your actions could make a difference.

I believe my brother to be a giant of a person. And I couldn’t love him more.

Good Intentions

2006-04-26T22:18:00.000-05:00

It all started on a Saturday morning when Miko, our cat, leapt from the bed and made a mad dash for the hallway just outside our bedroom door. I was half asleep, the sun had not yet come up, and since Miko regularly tears through the house with little or no discernable provocation, I didn’t give it much thought.

The next time I woke an hour or more had passed. I’d forgotten all about Miko and this time was aware only that my stomach needed breakfast. I pulled a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and headed toward the stairs.

I found Miko lying there, several steps below the landing, his tail switching rhythmically as he stared intently at an upside down piece of white cardboard. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and began meowing, clearly wanting me to inspect his treasure. I picked up the white cardboard and turned it over to find a tiny, live mouse stuck to a thick layer of glue.

Sam had placed these glue traps around the house to catch spiders and bugs. It had never occurred to me we might catch a mouse. How long would it take a mouse to die in one of these traps? Would it starve to death? Or in this case, die of fright?

For most people, there would be no question about what to do next. Mice are rodents. They carry disease. They send people screaming onto the high safety of chairs and sofas.
I knew in an instant, knew in the core of my being, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt – what I would do next. I would save that little mouse. No matter what it took.

I carried the mouse down to the kitchen and assessed the situation. She was pretty well stuck to the glue on her entire right side. Only her front left leg was free and it swung widely in search of anything to grab hold of.

I looked for tools and found a pair of scissors as well as a knife, fork and spoon and a paper towel. Each would help me release the little mouse from the glue. I carried her out the back door and like a surgeon, set up my operating theater on top of the barbeque grill. I started with her tail, lifting first the tip and then sliding the paper towel beneath the freed portion to keep it from getting stuck again.

It didn’t take long before I realized it was too cold. It was only about 10 degrees outside and my fingers were already getting numb. Even if I could withstand the cold, I was sure the little mouse would die if I didn’t bring her back inside.

Sam would later refer to this as just one in a series of completely ludicrous choices made that morning, but we’ll get to that in a moment.

I moved my operation back inside, sat down at the kitchen table and resumed my work. I‘d gently lift a part of the mouse from the cardboard, use the scissors to snip the glue away, and then slide in a piece of paper towel. I kept lifting, snipping and sliding as I moved towards the mouse’s shoulders and head.

It was slow, tedious work. The glue was unforgiving and I was terrified I would cut the mouse as I tried to trim the glue away from her fur and from her legs, feet and tail. The little mouse was so scared, I could feel her heart racing inside her tiny, stuck body. I whispered soothing words to her. Assured her she was going to be ok. Promised her I wouldn’t hurt her. Encouraged her to hold on just a little longer. Praised her bravery.

My heart was swollen with compassion for this tiny, helpless little creature. I felt so powerful as I worked to save her. God-like even. I was sure if I could just save this little mouse, I would have started something. Surely there were more lives I could save. Human lives. Lives that were paralyzed by fear and suffering.

I kept working until all but her right shoulder and her head were free, and I realized I would have to decide where to release her. I couldn’t let her go outside. She would freeze to death. So I decided to let her go in the laundry room in the basement. It made sense to me, but later, as I tried to explain my rationale to Sam, he just looked at me as if I’d decided to turn lose thousands of cockroaches in our home.

I carried her down the stairs and settled us both onto the floor in front of the dryer. Miko paced outside the door, meowing, imploring me to let him in.

I thought about what would happen once she was free. I knew she would run away. But part of me hoped she would stay close for a moment, just to let me know she understood my good intentions, and was grateful to me for saving her. Perhaps we could exchange a meaningful look, this little mouse and me.

But she didn’t pause. The moment she was free, she stumbled away, dragging a leg and moving awkwardly. She headed straight for the door and slipped under it – directly into Miko’s waiting gaze.

I jumped from the floor and threw open the door, startling both cat and mouse. The mouse drug herself under the bookshelves as I scooped the cat into my arms and raced up the stairs with him.

Shit! Shit! Shit! This was not at all what I had planned. I held tight to Miko until I felt the mouse had had plenty of time to make her escape, and then I locked him in the guest bedroom. And then I sat down and cried. Small tears at first, but my sobs grew and soon I was struggling to catch my breath. I so desperately wanted to save that little mouse. I so desperately wanted to save the world.

Sam came in to see what was wrong. He was groggy with sleep, his hair messed. Why was I crying? What had happened? I explained it all to him, between sobs. He listened to me, first with disbelief, then anger.

“What were you thinking?” he implored. “What would you have done if that mouse had bitten you? Did you even think about that?” I hadn’t. Not really.

“And you let this mouse loose in our basement? In our BASEMENT?!!” Sam doesn’t get mad easily. It takes a lot to ignite his temper. But he was clearly pissed. I could tell he was biting his tongue, not wanting to tell me how completely, and utterly ridiculous he thought this was.

I felt helpless, and misunderstood. “What would you have done?” I asked.

“I would have thrown it in the trash outside, or maybe killed it, or something! For the love of God, it was a mouse Julie!”

I was trying to save a life. An innocent life. And I’d never felt as powerful as I had in freeing that little mouse. I’d felt invincible – ready to hop the first flight to Africa to end war and rid disease. I’d felt as clear about my purpose and as laser focused on the outcome as I could ever remember feeling.

Finally Sam softened. He knows this side of me and though he had a hard time seeing how it applied to a mouse, he was willing to try to accept it.

The rest of the day passed without event. I poked around downstairs, but found the little mouse nowhere and was sure she'd slipped back into the walls where she would be safe and could recover.

But the next afternoon she reappeared. I’d told Katherine about the mouse, hoping for understanding. And although she understood, she was none to pleased at the idea of a mouse in our house.

I wasn’t home, but it happened like this. Katherine walked into the living room to watch TV, and from the corner of her eye saw something scurry under a floor pillow. Miko was nearby and as she looked closely, she saw he was at full attention. She knew instantly what it was and at the exact moment her brain registered the information, her mouth and lungs began screaming. And screaming. And screaming.

Sam came running, and with a quick survey of the room, he too, knew what had happened.

Sam and Katherine both told me this story as soon as I returned home, but I waited several hours before I gathered enough courage to ask for the details.

“How do you think she got up the stairs and into the living room?” I asked.

“Miko probably carried it up in his mouth,” Sam answered.

I glared at my cat. I hated him.

“How did she look?”

“Bad. Pretty bad. It was still alive, but just barely. It was probably in shock. I think its legs were probably broken.”

I waited a full day before asking the next logical question.

“What did you do with her?” My heart was in my throat as I asked.

“I put it in a paper bag, and then shook it out of the bag into the wood pile. I thought that would be the best place for it. It really was in pretty bad shape.”

I breathed out relief. And I cried. And I hugged Sam.

“Thank you,” I sighed.

I spent the next several days thinking about that little mouse, and my desire to save her. It was entirely likely that in my efforts to save her, I had really just prolonged her suffering. What if I’d just killed her like Sam said? I couldn’t even imagine how, but if I had, I would've saved her from an additional 30 hours of suffering and torment.

My intentions had been so true, and yet I was afraid,… so wrong.

I thought of all the things we do as individuals to try to help make the world a better place. I thought of all the programs we put into place to correct social and economic imbalances. I thought of all the policies our country has adopted towards 3rd world countries, of all the times we’ve chosen sides, or backed some politician or foreign army, all the while thinking it was the right decision. And I thought of how wrong all of this so often turns out to be. Just like with my little mouse.

The End of the World

2006-04-24T21:36:00.000-05:00

Today was my first day back at the office. It was exhausting. I now know that I much prefer working from home. Unfortunately, I think I’ll have to have additional body parts removed in order to justify a bedroom office, so for now I guess I’ll stick with the original plan.

Anyway, Sam and I followed each other home from work tonight, like we do most nights. We never leave at a set time, yet as soon as one of us gets in the car we call the other and invariably discover we’re just a block apart on the Traffic Way. We’ll leave the office anywhere between 5:45pm to 7:30m, it’s never planned. But somehow we each reach our final point of exhaustion and decide to head home with in minutes of one another.

I pulled into the driveway just behind Sam this evening. I always make him stay on the phone with me until we’re in the driveway because I’m so happy to talk with him at the end of the day. Tonight, I watched him get out of the car and then, clicking off my phone, I turned to gather up my things. When I looked again – he was gone. I’d only turned away for a second, but he was no where to be seen.

It was amazingly quiet in that moment and the sky was deepening to the color of rain. For a split second I wondered if he’d been caught up in the rapture. He’s such a really good person – of course he would go.

I don’t believe in the rapture and for saying that I am sure I’ll be left behind. In fact I don’t believe in a lot of things I was taught to believe as a kid. Most of the time it feels incredibly liberating. Occasionally it scares the hell out of me.

I found Sam inspecting our newly planted flowers at the front of the house and was relieved to know the end of the world hadn’t begun. I told him what I’d thought and we laughed about it and he said we could just call my Mom if we were ever unsure. If she answered the phone, we could rest assured that the other person was probably just taking an extra long time at the grocery store.

I wished I didn’t have to go back to work this week. I would much rather be here at home. But at least it’s not the end of the world.

This Alice in Wonderland Feeling

2006-04-17T00:12:00.000-05:00

It’s been 3 days since my surgery and I am recovering well. I’m sore of course and still easily tired, but it’s all manageable. There’s something new to occupy my mind tonight however. Surgical menopause.

It’s strange, but the entire time I was trying to decide whether or not to have a hysterectomy, I completely ignored the very strong possibility that I would end up with an oophorectomy. I know. I didn’t know what that meant either until just a few weeks ago. It refers to the surgical removal of your ovaries. It turns out this is a really big deal, because your ovaries produce your hormones and your hormones basically determine whether or not you will be able to get out of bed and face the world on any given day.

It’s not really that I ignored it. It’s just that I decided to focus on one issue at a time, and so I focused on the hysterectomy question first. I assumed I would face the surgical menopause question if and when it presented itself. It has presented itself and today it has my full attention.

My doctor said I would begin experiencing hot flashes by Sunday. I’ve yet to have one, but my emotions have swung all over the place and I’ve been having the strangest sense of proportion. Almost hallucinogenic. Off and on today I’ve felt much too big, and then much too small in relation to the things around me. I thought I might give it a few days without replacement hormones, just to see what it was like, but this first day alone has been enough to erase that notion. I feel like I’m walking around in an Alice in Wonderland body and am not thinking it is all that much fun.

Tonight I’ve been surfing the web trying to soak up as much as I can about the effects of and treatments for surgical menopause.. It’s overwhelming, but thank God for the internet. I’m not sure what women did before it. I just found a blog called “A Survivor’s Guide to Surgical Menopause” and the entire thing is done in pink. I’m not really into pink, but I nearly cried (for the 10th time today) after realizing that it contained the “let’s start at the beginning” information I’ve been looking for, along with 119 bookmarked articles on related topics. God love the women who put this site together.

Which brings me around to the idea that has held all my thoughts together today. When you face a medical crisis, no matter how surrounded you are by loved ones, you face it completely and profoundly alone. My Mom told me she wishes she could take my place, and I know she means it, but no one, no matter how much they love you, can at the end of the day, stand in your shoes, and occupy your skin. It’s just you and your body. It’s incredibly humbling and incredibly empowering - both at the same time.

I’ve rarely felt so alive. And what I’ve noticed over the last few days is that when you feel that alive, your connection with the people in your life knocks up a few notches. Everything seems clearer, more intense, more electric.

I’m not saying I want to walk around with this Alice in Wonderland sense of space or this revolving door of emotions. I don’t like it and will be anxious to get rid of those feelings. I’m talking about the feeling behind the feeling. The sense that this is all real, and alive and connected and therefore that it matters. And I think that is what the women who put the pink site together must have been feeling. Cut the shit. Let’s talk about what matters, let’s connect over what’s important to us. We’re profoundly alive, let’s do something real with that!

The Big Hole - Part Two

2006-04-13T23:19:00.000-05:00

Today was the day. Sam and I headed to St. Luke’s South for my appointed check in time a full 2 hours before my scheduled surgery. I thought it would be like visiting the doctor’s office and I would spend quite a bit of time waiting, but in fact I was busy right up to the moment I dropped off into the dreamy world of anesthesia. Everyone was unbelievably nice, and although it was clear that it was a full day for the staff, they treated me as if I were the only patient there.

I visited with the nurses, met the anesthesiologist, and talked with my doctor, each time confirming my name, date of birth and planned procedure. And I reminded my doctor that I wanted pictures – lots of pictures - of the offending cyst growing inside me. He thought that was funny, but promised he would have the camera ready.

My veins were a little uncooperative and I had to be stuck 3 times (2 of which hurt like hell) before they were finally able to make a connection. I was grateful once the IV began to flow because I knew the Versaid wouldn’t be far behind. I'd been remarkably calm about this impending surgery, but now that the time had arrived, my anxiety was growing. I watched as the clear liquid snaked through the tube towards my hand and within minutes I began to feel drowsy.

Drowsy. Isn’t that a wonderful word? How often do you really get to feel drowsy? I’m more accustomed to ‘beat’, ‘exhausted’ or ‘worn out’. But drowsy? Not so much. Drowsy feels more, well, sort of luxurious. Drowsy implies that deep, sound sleep is on its’ way and there is really nothing you can do but give in to it. And I did.

I don’t remember Sam kissing my forehead before I was wheeled away. I don’t remember the bright lights or the cool air of the operating room. I don’t remember the tube they placed in my throat to keep my airway open. I didn’t know that the surgery took nearly twice as long as it was supposed to. And I don’t remember Dr. Arroyo coming to tell me that he was unable to save my ovary, although he did tell me, and I cried when I heard the news.

I do remember waking up and seeing the nurse standing beside me. She told me about my ovary and since I was hearing it for the first time (or so I thought), I cried when she told me.

Because I only had one ovary anyway (story for another day), its’ loss meant that I’d just been thrown into surgical menopause. I use the word ‘thrown’ because when your body abruptly loses its ability to produce hormones, it’s a lot like slamming on the brakes of your car while driving 70 miles per hour. My doctor has already prescribed replacement hormones (air bags if you will), so we’ll see how it goes.

The good news is that after weeks of going back and forth in my mind over whether to have a hysterectomy in the event the ovary could not be saved, I'd finally decided just days before to tell the doctor not to do it. Despite his and others' inclination that I have my uterus removed, I decided it should stay. I didn’t want to create an unnecessary hole.

Dr. Arroyo was true to his word and took 16 photos. Sam showed them to me after my surgery and pointed out the cyst. It was completely obscuring my ovary and looked awkward and lumpy. It clearly didn’t belong there and although I hated that it had overpowered my ovary, it was clear it needed to go.

But next to the offending cyst was my uterus. It was pink and smooth and shiny and vibrant and healthy, and if I do say so – beautiful. Just beautiful. It was clear to me that it was happy living where it was and I was glad I’d not made a decision to disrupt that.

So I did come away with a hole today, but just a small one. And for that I’m grateful.

Let the braking begin.

"O"

2006-04-09T20:43:00.000-05:00

Last night Sam and I went to see the Cirque du Soleil production “O”. I couldn’t help but think that if God were watching, she would be so proud of the stunning beauty we as humans are capable of creating.

Just One Ear - I swear!

2006-04-07T15:24:00.000-05:00

I have this thing about pulling stray hairs from Sam’s ears. He hates it when I do this. He despises it. He abhors it. He detests it. I’m probably still not even close, but you get the picture. I can only chock it up to enduring marital bliss that he even consents to letting me examine his ears.

I think it usually happens in a weak moment. Will be snuggling together, all gushy and such, when out of the corner of my eye I’ll glimpse something wild and wiry growing from the edge of his ear. Sam has learned to recognize the look in my eye when I’ve spied a rebel hair and he instinctively recoils.

“Oh no you don’t,” he’ll protest. “You stay away from my ear. Just ignore it! I’m warning you!” He’s so cute when he does that. Adorable really. But I pay him no mind.

“Come here,” I order. “Let me have a look at that thing. Good God! It’s practically a tree growing there!”

“No way!” Sam will plead. “Leave it alone. It’s fine. I like it there!”

“Righhhht,” I humor him, “Now come here.”

Last week Sam tried a different tact. He let me look at one ear and even held relatively still while I yanked the wiry offender. But when I asked him to turn his head, he slammed his other ear against the chair and insisted, “I was born with only one ear! (pause for dramatic effect) Terrible birth defect! Tragic really. Just one ear. I swear!”

Honest to God he caught me so off guard with that one I nearly peed my pants. By the time I caught my breath, he’d squirmed out of reach.

I’ve learned there are certain places I just can’t get away with my plucking. Once I tried it in a theater and Sam gave me the dirtiest look I’ve ever received. I stopped cold, mid reach and haven’t tried since. Airplanes are another place where he seems to get a little cranky. It’s a shame because theaters and airplanes are two places where I can really get a good look at his ears with out ruining an otherwise potentially romantic moment. Unfortunately, this argument has had no effect on him.

Actually, I am composing this post on an airplane while Sam slumbers to my left. In the name of research (fact gathering if you will), I’ve given his right ear a good once over and have identified a prime candidate for plucking. It’s killing me, but since this is the first part of a weekend get away Sam planned for us, I am using my better judgment and restraining myself from committing a “pluck and run.”

There are other moments, however, where I’ve apparently worn him down enough that he figures it’s not worth the fight. “All right,” he’ll mutter. “Hurry up and get it over with.”

Invariably, it takes me two or three tries before I get a tight enough grip on the little rascal. (Tweezers, I believe, are for sissies.) Finally I get it and Sam stops holding his breath.

“Thank God that’s over,” he’ll sigh with relief.

It’s amazing the things we do for love.

Way Beyond the Sea

2006-04-04T22:46:00.000-05:00

April 1st was the two year anniversary of the death of my maternal Grandma and for several days she’s been on my mind. I was with my Grandma when she died. In fact I was with her continually for about 4 hours before she died, and I am so happy that I was. Her death was… well, beautiful.

My Grandma was born a twin, but her baby brother was stillborn. My great grandparents thought my Grandmother would die within the hour as well, so they put her in a tiny shoe box lined with paper and waited for her to take her last breath. She didn’t. Instead, she grew up to be a 5 foot 3 inch force of a woman with a heart the size of Dallas.

Grandma wasn’t afraid of dying. I asked her at least a half a dozen times before she died, and she always answered truthfully. “No dear, I don’t feel afraid. I love you and your brother and your Mom and Dad. But I am ready to go. I want to see Jesus and I want to see your Grandpa.” That always made me feel better. And because she wasn’t afraid of dying, I wasn’t afraid for her to die.

My Grandpa died a few years before my Grandma. About 3 weeks before he died, my Grandpa stopped using his walker. He refused to even try to walk with it, because he insisted it wasn’t his. He said he had been to a big party in Leoti, KS (where he’d first started farming) and that he had seen many of his old friends and family there. There’d been a big bonfire and lots of laughter, but during the course of the evening, someone had taken his walker from him. He wasn’t sure why or how, but he insisted that the walker that sat in his room, the one with his name written in permanent ink on the handle bars, was not his. And since it wasn’t his, he wouldn’t use it.

I loved that he had been to this bonfire party with his friends in Leoti. Of course, he’d never left his room. But I believed him about the party.

Only a week or so after that, my Grandpa stopped eating. We didn’t understand what was happening, so we desperately urged him on. “Please Grandpa,” we pleaded, “you have to eat something.” He would try a few bites, but he would get frustrated with us. “I’m not hungry,” he’d snap, “I don’t want it.” I was racked with guilt. I didn’t want my Grandpa to be frustrated with me in his final days, but I felt that not pushing him to eat meant we didn’t mind if he died. It was awful.

I was at work when my Grandpa took his last breath. My Dad and Mom called me from the nursing home and I drove the hour to Topeka to be with them. When I got there, his body had already turned cold and foreign. I’d tried to talk to him in the car on the way to Topeka. I felt his spirit might be floating around nearby. I didn’t really feel anything though.

It was different with Grandma. We learned she had cancer, and although the doctors never really told us she would die so soon, I guess we knew. We called hospice and this amazing woman came to talk with us. She explained that Grandma would probably stop eating at some point and that that would be a natural part of her dying process. She explained that some families tried to force their loved ones to eat, but that it would only serve to complicate the dying process. She assured us that Grandma’s body knew how to die naturally, and encouraged us to help make her comfortable in that natural process, rather than trying to fight it. I was nearly drowned with relief.

Grandma lived for another 3 weeks after we met with the hospice nurse. Our conversation with her changed everything for me. Instead of trying to fight the inevitable, I embraced it.

For a few days before she died my Grandma had a song in her head that she couldn’t shake. It went like this…

I’ve got a home in glory land that out shines the sun,
I’ve got a home in glory land that out shines the sun,
I’ve got a home in glory land that out shines the sun, way beyond the sea.
Do lord, oh do lord, oh do you remember me?
Do lord, oh do lord, oh do you remember me?
Do lord, oh do lord, oh do you remember me? Way beyond the sea.

It was a song I’d learned in Bible School as a child, and probably hadn’t thought of since. My Grandma asked my brother and I to sing it to her and we did and she sang along. I remember how she sang the “do lord” part in such a sweet little girl voice, and with so much hope and anticipation. My heart swelled.

The night Grandma died, I think we were all more or less ready. Her breathing was heavy and labored and her voice had deepened to something that sounded almost supernatural. But she was in good spirits and told each of us how much she loved us.

Grandma talked about seeing Grandpa at the end of her bed one night during a dream. She said he’d come to assure her that he was fine and so I asked Grandma that night to do the same for me. “When you get to heaven Grandma,” I said, “ you be sure to come back and visit me in a dream so I will know you are ok.” “I sure will honey,” she promised, smiling. “I sure will!”

I sat next to Grandma on her bed for an hour that night as she tried to doze. She never really slept, but she wasn’t really awake either. She talked and talked as if she were having a conversation with a group, but it was hard to make out her words. Her conversation was happy though, that much was clear. At one point she opened her eyes and looked at me in surprise. “Are you still here?” she asked. “Well, for heaven’s sake, you go over to my apartment and sit in my big chair and just relax and watch you some tv.” I told her I would rather be there with her, but I think she had already tuned back out again.

Just after 10:00 pm she told my Dad she wanted to go to the bathroom. Dad helped her out of bed and started to walk with her the few steps to the bathroom door. She looked hard at the clock overhead as if to see if it was time yet, and then in the next few steps, slumped into my Dad’s arms. I like to think those were her first few steps into her new life, and I am so touched that she took them while we were all there with her.

We laid her back on the bed and my Mom and I sat with her. I cradled Grandma’s head in my lap and we stroked her hair and spoke softly to her as her body shuddered gently its’ final gasps of life.

In just a few moments it was over. It’s amazing how quickly a body becomes just a body. But this time I felt my Grandma was close by. And I knew she was fine.

At the funeral, I thought my Grandma’s body looked almost as beautiful and radiant as if she were alive. I spent long moments just looking at her, and because she never liked to go anywhere without her Kleenex, I stuffed several tissues into the sleeve of her dress. I still felt she was nearby, and because my Grandma always took great care with her appearance, I knew she would be pleased by how beautiful she looked lying there.

In the two years since my Grandma died, I have felt even closer to her than when she was alive. I find myself talking to her, sending up a prayer or asking for her comfort. I always feel she is nearby.

I’ve dreamed about Grandma twice since she died. The first time was actually quite frightening. I dreamed I saw her walking alone on a dusty, dirty road miles from the nearest town. I was able to give her a ride, but I was terrified because I knew if I hadn’t come upon her, she would have never had the strength to walk the rest of the way to town.

The second dream was different. I walked into a small white room and she was sitting at a table. “There you are,” I said to her. “I’ve been wondering when I would see you.” She looked up and smiled a big warm smile. She didn’t say anything, but it was understood that she was there to fulfill her promise to visit me. We hugged and then I turned my back for an instant and when I turned again she was gone. I was disappointed, but not surprised. She had come back to let me know she was ok. Knowing Grandma, she wouldn’t have had much time to linger. She probably already had lots of people she was looking out for over on the other side.

In the two years since Grandma died, I have found myself thinking often about death. It feels different to me now. No longer scary. No longer tragic. And no longer far away. Sometimes in fact, the veil that separates this world from the world my Grandma lives in feels very, very thin.

I love you Grandma. And I hope you are enjoying your new home in glory land, way beyond the sea.

Hot Water

2006-04-01T08:34:00.000-06:00

I was making coffee at the office yesterday morning, and in order to save some time, I put my paper cup on the hot plate to let it fill before replacing it with the coffee pot. The coffee had just started to drip when Charley called to me from outside the room. "Is that a new employee?" he asked, pointing to an unfamiliar face. Charley works at a different location, so we spent a few moments catching up on recent hires before I went back to fetch my coffee.

Well, you can imagine what I found. In the brief time I had stepped away, I'd completely forgotten about my coffee and now it was pouring over the sides of my cup, flooding the hot plate, spilling over the coffee maker onto the counter and threatening its way to the floor.

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "What do I do?" Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I'd walked away from my time-saving, coffee-cup-filling trick. I knew from experience that picking up the cup meant my hands would be scalded with hot coffee. And even more so today, because the cup I'd used was an extra tall paper cup with no handles.

Charley heard my panic from outside the room and came running. "What's wrong?" he asked. "What happened?" Of course I didn't have to explain. We stood side by side in front of the "coffee fountain" hopping from side to side, trying to make a grab for the cup, backing away and trying again.

"Drop it in the sink!" (me) "I can't get a hold of it!" (Charley)
"Knock it over!" (me) "Then will have an even bigger mess."(Charley)

It was hopeless. Finally we just looked at each other and burst out laughing. We were clearly in hot water (that was for Jim) and didn't have a clue what to do.

"Oh shit!" Charley said. "No shit!" I giggled. We were cracking ourselves up, but meanwhile, the coffee continued to stream over the top of my cup. And the fact that we were just helplessly standing there watching it get worse, somehow made it all the funnier.

Finally, in a burst of inspiration, Charley dashed into the bathroom, grabbed a stack of paper towels and used them like hot pads to grab the cup. In the second it took the hot water to soak through the towels, he had already dropped the cup in the sink. He was my hero! We used the rest of the paper towels (at least a hundred) to clean up the mess, laughing the entire time.

"I can't believe I did that," I said, as I finally caught me breath. "Yeah, but I distracted you," Charley answered. And it was true. We really had been in it together. And it felt good. You know? It felt great!

The interesting thing about the coffee incident was that it was a distillation of a much bigger, much more serious problem, a problem I was at that very moment in the midst of dealing with.

The day before, I'd created a huge mess with The Boss. I'd stepped away to answer a question for another employee, but in answering the question, I set off a series of events that landed me in seriously deep hot water. Initially, I wasn't sure what to do or how to handle it, but I called out for help and my P3 buddies jumped in. Together we laughed and consoled, strategized and shared old war stories until finally I had enough inspiration to go work it out with The Boss. I had to walk into his office alone, but I knew they were waiting (in spirit) just outside the door, their hands full of paper towels to help protect me from the burn. I debriefed with them afterwards and it felt good. Yes - in spite of the stress I just been through, it felt great!

In Jack Hayhow's recent post about relationship and community, he talks about community as a feeling of fellowship with others, the kind that develops when you share common attitudes, interests and goals. And I will add, the kind you have when you trust one another. When you enjoy that kind of fellowship at work, showing up is more about a shared way of life, and less about the toil and the paycheck.

I'm grateful for the fellowship I share with Charley, my P3 Buddies, and so many of my co-workers. I'm lucky to have a job that doesn't usually feel like work. And I am pretty confident this is why.

Continuous Partial Attention

2006-03-29T21:08:00.000-06:00

I actually got something done at work today. It's been weeks since I've been able to devote more than 10 minutes attention to anything between the hours of 8 and 5. Something's got to give.

Hot on the Trail

2006-03-29T20:22:00.000-06:00

I really think if I could choose a new career right this instant, if I could snap my fingers, and poof, become something new – I would be…. (you’re holding your breath right now–right?)…. a private investigator! Yep – Julie Nelson Meers, PI.

I’d be in great shape (so I could chase people and jump over tall fences), I’d carry very simple white business cards and I’d drive a really cool, black sports car with tinted windows. Also, I would be a night owl, which would mean I could actually stay awake past 11pm in the evening. This would be critical to my success as a PI, because everyone knows that nothing worth spying on happens until after eleven o’clock at night.

I think I might be able to make a living at it (though I probably wouldn’t be able to live in Brookside) because I have it on good authority that it costs about $65 an hour to hire a PI. I also understand that I could require a $650 retainer fee up front before I even began. I know this because one of my friends just hired a PI named Ed to spy on her husband. Her husband is an unlucky son-of-a-bitch (among other things), because Ed claims to be a really good PI – one of the best in fact! We’ll see about that I guess.

I wonder if Ed would take on an apprentice? I think I was born with a good deal of natural talent in this area, but I’m sure there is much I could learn from a pro like Ed. For one thing I would need to learn how to use all those cool electronic gadgets. Last night, Ed shot a video of my friend’s husband making nice with the woman he’s “just friends” with. He shot the video inside a dark and smoky bar with strobe lights flashing all around. I’m sure he didn’t stand at the edge of the dance floor pointing his digital camera at the happy couple, so I am curious what he used. A video cigarette perhaps?

Mostly I just like the idea of being a PI. I like the idea of watching and listening and collecting random bits of information. But what I really love is the adrenaline rush of connecting it all together – of figuring it out. I also love the black sports car. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll realistically be able to stay up much past 11:00pm. Even on a good night.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

2006-03-27T22:41:00.000-06:00

We had a free day on Sunday, Sam and I. We didn’t have to go into the office and we didn’t have a hundred things to do around the house. It’s not often those days come around so we weren’t sure what to do with ourselves. We decided after not much deliberation to take a driving tour by the homes of the people I work with.

We live on a busy street and lots of people know which house is ours. But I’ve worked at the same company for the past 10 years and have never once wondered where anyone else lived. (See – it IS all about me!) I know in general of course –this person lives up north, this one in Leawood, and this one in Olathe, but I’ve never wondered about the specifics. A few weeks ago, after I realized my old house had been torn down, I started wondering about it. Where did my co-workers live? What did their houses look like?

We went to Culvers so Sam could have a ButterBurger (I had a diet Pepsi) and while we were there we looked up home addresses from our Christmas card list. We planned our route and started off. The first several were in Leawood, a couple more in Overland Park, a drive thru Mission Hills and a final pass through Westwood.

It was interesting, and more so than I expected. I found myself a little apprehensive as we stopped for a moment in front of each house. I felt like I was spying, or reading a private journal, and I couldn’t tear myself away. Sam would be inching the car forward and I would be pleading with him to give me just one more minute to take it all in. Some of the houses were more or less what I expected. Some were not. Each house reminded me that there was a full life being lived outside of the hours I spend with my co-workers.

I wished I could draw some profound wisdom from this experience. I think there is something there because in the 24 hours since the tour, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about it, and I even dreamed about it. I’m just not sure how to put it into words. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.

A Losing Battle

2006-03-21T23:00:00.000-06:00

You know that feeling you have when you think you're fighting a losing battle? I have a friend, and she is between a rock and a hard place. And she’s been fighting like hell to gain some ground, but she doesn’t feel like she’s making any headway. And it’s wearing her out. She’s getting tired of fighting. And who could blame her?

Not me.

So today she told me she’s ready to throw in the towel. I pleaded with her to keep trying. I reminded her of all the reasons why the fight was a good one. I assured her that the battle was sure to get easier. I told her I didn’t want her to quit. And she said yeah, but she really was tired.

And I understand that. Of course I do. But it’s scary. I don’t want her to give up. I don’t want her to go.

I am full of encouragement for her. I do everything I can to make sure her glass is half full. But how do you know when enough is enough? For her? For me? When is it ok to say – “It's over?”

We’re about to find out, she and I.

Strawberry Sleep

2006-03-17T19:40:00.000-06:00

I am sitting on the bed in our Hampton Inn hotel room in Flagstaff, Arizona, having spent the last 6 hours learning all there was to know about Northern Arizona University as a potential college destination for Katherine.

It’s late afternoon and I am the only one of the 3 of us that is awake. Katherine is in the bed next to me, with the pillow over her head, snoring softly. Sam is in the other bed, pillow under his head, snoring loudly. Their snores are just opposite each other. Sam’s loud snore is followed by Katherine’s soft one, and then back again. Its like wearing stereo headphones programmed with the sounds of a sleep lab. And it’s cute. It’s really, really cute.

My friend Carrie often talks about strawberry moments, those moments when the stars align and things are so perfect you hold your breath for fear of disturbing it.

As I sit here listening to the sleep sounds of the two people I love the most, I realize this is a strawberry moment. But I don’t hold my breath. Instead I take long, deep gulps of air, filling every cell in my body with oxygen, and savor the moments until they wake up.

The Care and Feeding of an Invisible Rhino

2006-03-13T22:43:00.000-06:00

There’s an invisible rhinoceros that lives in our house. I know that probably seems strange, but she’s become quite a valued member of our family.

Her name is Tulip and she came to live with us from the Zoo. A couple of summers ago, after a rhino was born to the Kansas City Zoo, the Star held a contest to name the 250 lb. baby. Sam and I discussed it and settled on the name Tulip. It was spring. She was 250 lbs on her way to 2700 lbs. We thought she might feel self conscious about her weight as she got older, not to mention her nose, and so we thought a delicate name like Tulip would be perfect. And did I mention it was spring? We filled out our ballot, sent in the form and waited.

The results were announced several weeks later, and Tulip was not the winning entry. The Star and the Zoo chose a Swahili name, which certainly spoke to her African heritage, but we were nonetheless, non-plussed.

And apparently, so was Tulip, because a couple of days later she showed up at our house and has been living here ever since.

You would think she would take up a lot of room, but she really doesn’t. She’s quite tidy and very quiet. In fact, sometimes we forget she is here. She reminds us with a gentle poke to our ribs with the tip of her horn. I’ll be going about my day, minding my own business, when out of the blue, I’ll feel her poke me in the side or in the stomach. She is always very gentle and has a delightfully playful spirit. She’s also a very good sport. Anytime something turns up missing, one of us will exclaim, “Tulip must have taken it!” Normally we find that we’ve just misplaced it, but she is a good sport about this and doesn’t seem to mind our blaming her.

My 5-year-old nephew Garrett, knows about Tulip. She sometimes goes with me to his house to help baby-sit. He knows that if he feels a little poke to his ribs that “that ol’ rhinoceros” has come along to help baby-sit. Garrett has two invisible friends, Sikki and Sakka and I suggested that they might like to play with Tulip some night. “No” he replied. “They don’t like to play with rhinoceroses. Someone might get hurt.” Very wise advice from a 5-year-old.

No one thinks twice about a 5 year old having an invisible friend, but I am sure that you, like most others who have read this post, are wondering how on earth an otherwise normal family of reasonable people could honestly believe they have an invisible rhino living under their roof.

It’s a fair question. And I’ll just leave it at that.

Tax Time Made Easy

2006-03-12T22:48:00.000-06:00

Sarah, Katherine and I were having lunch last week and Sarah and I were complaining about our taxes. We both owe money this year and are none too happy about it. Katherine, who is 17, asked "“You don'’t always owe money do you?"” And then, without missing a beat, answered her own question. "“You should probably just always go to H&R Block. They always give you a refund."

Exactly!

Who says advertising doesn'’t work?

Legos in the Elevator Shaft

2006-03-04T07:59:00.000-06:00

I moved my desk at the bank from the Mezzanine to the third floor. The third floor is beautiful, but I didn’t want to go. And now that I am there, I still don’t want to go. I’ve sat on the Mezz for nearly 10 years and all 10 of those years I’ve sat next to Jim. Jim likes to pretend he doesn’t like me, but I know he does. (You know - as soon as you write something like that, you start to wonder if it’s true. You are just pretending – right Jim?)

Anyway, I’ll be 40 this summer. That means I’ve spent nearly a quarter of my life sitting at that desk, sitting next to Jim. It’s a great place to sit. You wouldn’t think so at first. There’s no office, no privacy, it’s completely out in the open. The desks are ancient, and the lighting is awful. But it allows me to see my customers as they come and go from the bank – and even more importantly, it allows me to throw pithy comments over my shoulder to Jim at any time throughout the day.

As Steve, our IT guy disassembled my computer I sat down at Jim’s desk, tears welling up in my eyes. Jim was on the phone so could only look at me with concern and helplessness until he finished his call. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he put down the phone, his voice full of fatherly concern. I pointed to Steve and my voice wavered. “It’s time. I’m moving.” My eyes spilled over and a big fat tear ran down my cheek. “Well it’s about time!” Jim quipped. “Goodbye!” and back to work he went.

This of course broke the spell and made me laugh; something Jim has always been able to do. “But won’t you miss me?” I whined. “No, not really. Now, don’t you have any work to do?” Maybe I am a glutton for punishment, but I love this sort of abuse from Jim. His sharp, quick wit has kept me chuckling for 10 years. But it’s not just Jim. There’s a lot of camaraderie that exists between the lenders as we all sit there in the open together. We are a team. We are friends. And that, more than anything else, was what I didn’t want to leave.

But it was moving day, so I found a cart and loaded it up with all the stuff that was sitting on top of my desk. Among “all the stuff” was my Lego job description. A lot of people have job descriptions, but I am willing to bet not many have a Lego sculpture of their job.

I did, and I was really proud of it. I built it a couple of years ago as part of a strategic planning retreat and I’ve had it sitting on my desk ever since. I’ve always liked it because, although I didn’t realize it at the time, I’d built something that so accurately represented the many facets of my work life, as to be uncanny.

The sculpture looks like this…..

There is a little guy wearing a crash helmet that sits on a rotating pedestal in the middle of the sculpture. Not only does the little guy spin around, but also he has arms that extend from his base with wheels that spin on each arm. The whole thing is in motion, and represents all the plates I have to keep spinning in order for my job as a lender to work. But if any of the wheels start spinning too fast, they fly off the pedestal. Just like in real life.

Also, there is a bridge from the little guy that extends out to the side. There used to be another little guy that sat at the end of the bridge. He had crazy, wild hair that stood straight up on his head and his pedestal was built with brightly colored pieces. That part represented my responsibility for Marketing and all the fun, crazy things I got to do in that part of my job. But if you put even a tiny bit of pressure on the little guy with wild hair, the entire sculpture would topple over. About a year ago, the little guy with wild hair just disappeared. I never knew what happened to him, but realized later that he disappeared about the time I hired a Director of Marketing and had to let go of much of what I had considered “my baby”. (See what I mean about it being uncanny?)

When I envisioned my new office (a thought that was never pleasant), I always saw my Lego sculpture sitting on the credenza. So when I began packing up my desk, it was one of the first things I took.

Anyway, like I said, I loaded up this cart with all my stuff and took the elevator up to the third floor. As I was pushing the cart off the elevator, a wheel caught on the threshold and the cart tipped precariously. This caused the folders and notebooks I’d balanced on top to slide off, crushing my Lego sculpture in the process. The Lego pieces spilled over the edge of the cart onto the floor, and …. I kid you not….fell into the tiny space just in front of the elevator….. and down into the elevator shaft.

I’ve now told several people this story, and the universal response has been out and out laughter, but laughter was not my response in that moment. Instead, I burst into tears.

This little sculpture, which had seemed almost magical for the last several years, had just broken into 30 pieces and half of them had fallen into the elevator shaft. As I looked at the remaining pieces that lay strewn on the floor, it was clear that my fear about this move had been well founded. My “job” lay in shambles. The little guy in the crash helmet, being nowhere in sight, had presumably fallen three stories to his death. This couldn’t be good.

So I moped and was teary eyed, and generally played doomsday scenarios in my mind until finally I had the good sense to go talk to my friend Julie about it. Julie was in the process of cleaning her office (two floors down) with the help of a woman who specialized in energetic healing. I’d never met this woman before, and began to blurt out my story without even introducing myself.

Julie and I laughed about it, and then I cried again, and then this woman, whose name was Pat, asked if she could share some insight with me. I readily agreed and she started by asking why I was so upset about moving to the third floor. I explained that I was sad and scared about being separated from my team. Only a few of us are moving, the others are staying on the mezz. I think our sitting together is very important and I fear that this separation will break down the sense of teamwork we feel.

Pat listened carefully and then began to explain that the Lego sculpture represented the past and that its’ destruction was indeed symbolic. Not symbolic of a doomed career as the result of the move however, but rather, symbolic of my needing to leave the past behind. She assured me that what happened had not been a coincidence, but an indication that it was time for me to embrace my future, my fresh new life in the new space. She said I had to let go of my attachment to the past (the mezz) in order for my new life to begin. She also said that I was a leader, an influencer, and that my work with the people who were remaining on the mezz was done. She said it was time for me to turn my attention to the team I would be working with on the third floor.

You know, I believe in the sort of energy stuff she practices, but even if I didn’t, you have to admit what she says makes a whole lot of sense – right? (Jim is rolling his eyes right now) Yes! It does. It was probably also NOT a coincidence that she just happened to be in Julie’s office on the day this all happened.

So that’s how I am going to play this. I wish my team could stay together, but at the moment, we can’t. So I am going to break with the past and take this move on as a fresh start, a new adventure. My work on the mezz is done. My work on the 3rd floor is just beginning. And all is as it should be.

Thanks Pat. (Goodbye Jim – you old fart!)

The Big Hole

2006-03-02T21:55:00.000-06:00

Several weeks from now, I’ll be checking in to the hospital for surgery. It’s not major surgery. Certainly nothing scary. But there is a possibility I’ll be losing an organ. A major organ. For a woman, THE most major organ. It’s only a possibility though, and unfortunately I won’t know until I wake up what happened. Which means I have to decide before I go under what I want to do.

I’ve gotten second opinions. I’ve searched the web for information. I’ve talked to friends and family. I’ve cried a few tears. I still haven’t decided what I’ll tell the surgeon before they put me under.

The organ in question is my uterus. My womb. It’s never been used. I’ve never been pregnant. I don’t mind that really. I’ve known for years I wouldn’t have a baby. I haven’t wanted one. But I’ve always known I could change my mind.

The uterus is only about the size of your fist. It feels bigger though. A friend told me she imagined her uterus to be about the size of a watermelon. I think that sounds about right. If I let them take mine, what would that leave? A hole the size of a watermelon? Sam says no, but I’m not sure. How do you measure that kind of hole?

Last week I was driving to meet my personal trainer. I was running late as usual and decided to take a short cut. I turned on 50th Street, took a right, and then another. And then suddenly, right there in front of me, right there where I use to live, right there in that little studio apartment on the second floor… The one with the black & white kitchen and the bedroom I painted orange. The one with the claw foot bathtub in which you couldn’t stand up straight to take a shower without bumping your head. The one where Jorge serenaded me from below my window and Kris left a trail of rose petals up the steps. The one where I nursed my cat Panther back to health and where I killed that GIANT spider and felt proud of myself for not screaming as I did it. The one where I hooked up my first real quality stereo system and where Scotti lived when we first became roommates. That place. The house at the corner of 48th & Holly. Was gone.

I was confused at first. I recognized the house next door. It looked just the same. But where my house had been – nothing. Nothing! Just a big hole. Not a hole in the ground, but a hole in the neighborhood. A hole in the air. A hole in my stomach. And another in my chest. There was fresh dirt where my house used to sit. Fresh dirt covered with yellow straw. And a sign that said “Lot For Sale.”

I turned the corner and drove the remaining few blocks to meet my trainer. I took the holes with me.

Don't Lose Your Child

2006-03-01T22:44:00.000-06:00

I opened my e-mail today and found this message from my Dad.

On 2/20/06 11:55 PM, "Dad" wrote:

“Julie, don't forget to tell Katherine the beautiful story of salvation about Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior! I hope that you haven't forgotten! --- I don't want to lose you??? It is so important! I lost a brother, or maybe two because I didn't spread the GOOD NEWS! the gospel, the truth. Don't lose your child!! Love you, Dad”

I can’t stand this sort of “Christian-speak”. It drives me crazy! It feels weird and terrorizing and sounds like an excerpt from a promo for the local evening news.

“Did you know that thousands of teenagers are going to hell right in your own neighborhood? Is your child on the fast track to damnation?

Find out how to save your child through the Good News Story of Salvation before it’s too late. We’ll tell you how, exclusively on Channel 41 News tonight.

Don’t lose your child!”

I’ve developed a profound dislike for fundamentalist Christianity and this sort of message is the epitome of why I dislike it so much. It feels long on rhetoric, fear and arrogance, and short on compassion, understanding and love. Within moments of reading this email from my Dad, my stomach had tied itself in knots and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck are standing up in a perfect row.

How should I respond to a message like this? Mostly I want to forget about it and do nothing, but I won't. I try typing a few lines of my reply. The words come slowly. It doesn't feel right.

I don't agree with his fear based understandng of Christianity, and haven't for a very long time, but don't really want to turn this into a debate about our religious viewpoints. I feel angry, and frustrated and a little defensive in response to his message. Should I be honest with him about that? Or would that only serve to further fuel the flames. I keep typing, then erasing, typing then erasing.

As I think about it, I realize there is actually a good deal of fear expressed in the urgency of his email. “This is SO important – I don’t want to lose you!” This makes sense as I think about the context of his message to me. Fear is inherent in his belief system.

For just a moment, I find myself stepping into his shoes. I catch a glimpse of how this might look through his eyes. I imagine how scary it must be to think that the people I love are headed for the fiery lake! I reread his email, I take myself out of the equation, I don’t take it personally, and this time it feels different to me.

“Please, Please!!” he says. “This is so important! I really love you and I really love my granddaughter and I am afraid I might lose you both!!! That is a terrifying thought to me! My brothers have died without me telling them how to save themselves and I feel terribly guilty and sad about that. I won’t make the same mistake again!

Please listen to me – this is what you have to do to save your self (and to save me from losing you!) Tell my granddaughter the story about salvation. And tell yourself also. This is so important! Please! I love you and am terrified of losing you!”

It is actually very sweet and touching when I take myself out of the equation. My Dad is just being human. He is full of emotion, love and fear, regret and guilt.

So how should I respond? I try a new approach and this time the words flow effortlessly.

Dad -

I just read your note from earlier in the week. It is clear that you love Katherine and me very much. I am grateful for your love and feel the same for you.

I could also tell you felt afraid for us. I want to assure you that we are ok. I know that our beliefs differ, but I feel confident and secure that God loves and treasures each of us.

I also hope you won’t be hard on yourself regarding your brothers. Feeling you have “lost” them must be a terrible feeling, but one belief I think you and I share is that God works in mysterious ways and we understand only the tiniest bit of his/her plan.

Thanks for caring so much Dad - Love you!

Julie

Taking myself out of the equation, not taking things personally - it really is freeing. Maybe my salvation is to be found in the act of remembering that it is not all about me.