Mixing it up...again

In college, I was a music major. My minor was commercial music, which is just a fancy way of saying I liked to study music that wasn’t classical. I spent a good bit of time in a recording studio, and honed several completely useless-in-today’s-world-of-music-production-and-delivery skills. 

The top of this list was REALLY understanding and being VERY good at programing the sequence of songs on an album. (Track one is upbeat; Track #2, your first single. Track #3, your passion project and/ or slightly slower off-beat-filler song to get the listener to Track #4 which is your power ballad, i.e. your second single. It’s very likely that if you look at your favorite albums, you’ll notice that track six is your favorite, though not a commercially successful tune at the time. It MIGHT BE track 7. But it’s probably Track 6.) 

And no one listens to the last track. That’s your taking out the trash track. Your Friday afternoon press room briefing. Though often it does sorta round things out. It may be the last 30 minutes of a Saturday Night Live episode, but it probably puts a period on whatever you were trying to say in your album. A goodbye. Thanks for showing up. Hope to see you next week for what’s next. 

Because I was SUPER into music and really good at programmatic song selection, I was a master of the mix tape. I mean, really, really good at it. And so in an effort to hone these skills, I had a mix tape (and later a mix CD) for pretty much every life event from “First semester of college” to “breaking up with Boyfriend XX” to “2 hour road trip that would obviously be worthless without theme music.” I have QUITE a collection of mix CDs that I have held on to for many, many years. 

So, Friday I quit my job. 

Yeah.

And have I mentioned that in order to do this, I have to drive two and a half hours to the office? 

Right. 

It gives a girl some time to think. And I felt like I really needed that time this go round. 

I’ve been dreading this conversation. Even though I’ve known it was time to leave for a very long time. Even though I have this incredible new opportunity sitting in front of me. Regardless of that, wanting to leave made me angry. I was hurt. I wanted to lash out at these people who just didn’t *get it.* I wanted them to be better. I had put five and a half years of my heart and soul into this place. I cared so.damn.much, even though I knew that was the root of my frustration. 

It’s hard to just walk away from something like that, you know? It’s like breaking up with an abusive partner. Regardless of the circumstances, there will be regret. Because no one wants to give up. No one wants to feel like a quitter. (Though my dear J reminded me that there is a difference between quitting and resigning, and that I was decidedly doing the latter. He’s a good egg, that husband of mine.) 

How was I going to tell these people how angry I was without breaking down? (I’m an angry crier, by the way. I rarely cry when I’m sad. But damn do I cry when I’m angry…which in turn makes me angrier…which makes me cry more. It’s a vicious cycle, really. One that I really effing hate.) 

As I started my drive to work, I knew that I would have to screw up my courage—get my words right—rehearse it a thousand and twelve times to make sure I said everything I felt like I needed to say without falling into raging lunatic crying basketcase woman. 

Clearly this required a soundtrack. 

Good news. I just so happened to have a “quitting my job” mix CD in my car. 

I had made this CD almost 15 years ago to the day, upon quitting my very first real grown-up job. And I’m not sure I had listened to it since. 

So, first off *wow.* Let me just tell you that apparently my rage was pretty real at the end of that particular part of my life. Songs on that mix included Cake’s version of “I Will Survive," Linkin Park’s “In the End,” and Cake’s “Nugget” (go ahead and look up the lyrics to that one if you aren’t familiar. They, um, paint a picture…) 

So yeah. I was pretty much done with that job. And kinda raw about it, if I’m honest. I had forgotten… 

This felt like a good bit of music to match my day. And it was.

The more I listened, the more it reminded me of that time in my life. How far I’d come. How much I had changed…and had not changed at all. The essence of me was still exactly the same. And that felt amazing. 

It was a really good mix. I sang along. I laughed at some of my choices. I cried through one or two that were sentimental favs from that point in my life. Exactly what a good mix should elicit.

As the end of the CD approached, I anxiously awaited the last song. How had I decided to punctuate that time in my life? 

Now, a really GOOD last song on a quitting-your-job-mix would be, like…Hands in my Pocket…you know, if you were feeling really good about it. Or maybe, a little TayTay confirming that we were, in fact, never, ever, ever getting back together (if it was more of a mic drop situation.) 

What had I chosen? I had to smile when I heard the intro to my punctuation song. 

On the Road Again. Amazing. 

As I listened to it, all my rage and wondering what I was gonna say, just sorta melted away. It seems I’ve always been on the road again, happy and excited about moving on to the next thing. Because I’ve always been doing exactly what I loved. Time to go on to the next thing. Not just “I’m pissed and leaving” but instead “I’m doing what I love and moving forward to the next great thing.” 

What a freeing thought that was. 

And so I went on to the office. Had my polite and professional conversations which were very graciously received. No anger. Just excitement about what’s next. Even from the people I was “quitting.” They were all really nice interactions (that I had not anticipated) and honestly doubt would have happened had I not set my mind ahead of time with my music (at least on my end. My boss didn't probably listen to anything particularly motivating that morning...)

As I headed home, back 2.5 hours to my house from my office, I felt about 100 pounds lighter than I had in the morning. In that moment, I felt incredibly happy that my throw away song had been Willie. 

And then I thought—maybe, even then, it wasn’t a throw away song at all. But rather the end of the beginning-- the lead in to my next album. Thanks for coming. 

And stay tuned for my what’s next.

Here's your sign.

One of my dearest friends is a manager of risk. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. Her resume doesn’t say risk management. But that’s the essence of what she does. She scans the landscape, looking for even the littlest inkling of there being “something on the horizon” that she’d have to react to if it happened. It’s even better if she has the foresight to react *BEFORE* the thing happens. There’s where she makes the big bucks.

Sometimes she gets paid not to react at all. Sometimes, her oft missed-by-others “reaction”, is no reaction: to stay the hell put. And it takes many professional years to learn the difference. The do something v. don’t do something struggle is real, and requires experience, insight, intuition and some significant confidence in yourself.   

But even she will say that at the point at which there are 2983742 different “littlest inklings” on the horizon, that you’re compelled to act. Even if it might be easier to sit still. Even if you could probably ride out the impending storm by hunkering down. Even if you have almost as many reasons to not do anything at all. Sometimes you’ve just gotta move, even if it is just for the sake of proving that you still know how.

You can’t build much of a professional reputation by being the guy that disappears into the bunker every time there’s a storm approaching. There’s a difference between being risk averse and being scared.

Let me say this: She and I are unlikely friends.

We approach life from the opposite ends of the spectrum in almost all scenarios. I’m the train leaving Philadelphia going 200 miles per hour; she the train leaving Kansas City at 75 miles per hour. But in the end, we almost always end up meeting somewhere along interstate 70 around Indianapolis for a cocktail.

It’s not easy being the 200 mile-per-hour train. Most of the time, I push forward, full steam ahead (sometimes, I don’t even realize I’m doing it) and then sort of figure it out as I go along. Once I realize I’ve put myself on the Maglev, I sorta shrug and say “Huh. Look at that. Ok, how am I going to make this work?” I don’t necessarily leap before I look. More times than not, I look around and say “Wait, did I just leap?” and find myself on a path I didn’t mean to be on doing things I didn’t anticipate doing.

And let me say that for the most part this has been the bedrock of an awesome life. If I had realized I was jumping all those times, there’s a solid chance I wouldn’t have done it. (I’m stupider than I am brave.)

I got a pretty big dose of that this week. A series of *seriously* random events, over which I have no control, and which I could have never predicted, afforded me conversations with people I never would have had access to, saying things I never even knew I felt (until I out-of-body-experience heard them coming from my mouth.) This has most likely set me about a brand-new path which I had neither prepared for nor had planned for or had even articulated an interest in before that very moment. (Guess I accidentally leaped…again.)

I legit said at out loud *several* times this week “Wow, I guess that just happened.” (Also a frequent repeat of “I probably shouldn’t have said that…” and the ever apropos “Is this real life?”)   

But friends, it looks like I leaped straight from the platform right onto the speeding train.

For better or worse, I’m going to need to strap in.

My friend is likewise on the brink of transition right now. She has these amazing ideas and so much potential for a “what’s next.” And yet, right now she’s staring down all the perceived obstacles in her way. All the reasons to hunker down and try to ride out the storm. Or to make a 10-year plan to have this all happen later-on when there might be less risk.  

And I get it. That’s the part of me I wish I had a little more of sometimes. I need that perspective in my life (this is why we’re unlikely, but awesome friends. Balance, people. Balance.)

But at one point this week she said to me, “There are just so many little things, I feel like I can’t ignore the signs anymore. I think I’ve got to do this!”

In my mind (and often out loud, if I'm honest...) I said to her, “OF COURSE YOU HAVE TO DO THIS!!!! Why the hell are you waiting for all these signs from the universe? Get on the damn train, already. This isn’t the Polar Express. There’s no magical ticket (also no Tom Hanks.) And contrary to popular opinion, it's unlikely to get easier later.”

And then of course I’m reminded what she does for a living. Her mind is hardwired to mitigate risk. And

this new path with her is a road full of pretty sizeable, potential-risk potholes. It’s in these moments I’m reminded how we’re such different beings on so many levels. And I forget that I'm the kid barreling down the tracks headed towards St. Elmo’s for a Manhattan. And that she's MORE than one had to scrape my million-miles-per-hour, splattered-on-the-road ass up off the highway.

I just don’t want her to miss happy hour, you know?  

Our conversations got me thinking about why it is that we so often feel like we need a sign before we act. So many of us choose not to rely on our gut or the market landscape or research (or the writing on the wall…) before we make our move. We wait for some magical, cannot-be-ignored, from on-high moment to make our path seem inevitable and sure.  

I’m here to tell you friends: That shit doesn’t happen very often. I think we’d all do well to learn to let our gut guide us a little more.  We're smarter than we give ourselves credit for, I think. Most of us have figured out how we tick, and like my friend does professionally, when to hunker down, and when to move. It takes courage to take the chance that seems ridiculous in that very moment.   

I’m not here to say that proceeding without a plan (like I often do) is the smart or safe path. The number of times I’ve scrambled and struggled and fallen flat on my ass is more than I care to count. I would likely have benefited from at least a little more forethought on several notable occasions. 

But you know what? My intuition has never failed me. Not once. Even when I totally failed.  

One of my favorite, annual reads is The Alchemist. I feel like it speaks to me because I have always subscribed to its moral:  When you’re on the path to achieving your personal destiny, all the world conspires to help along the way. What a freeing thought. If you’re doing the right thing, help will appear when you need it.

As naive as that may sound, I guess I’ve always just assumed that I was doing the right thing (whatever “right” means…)  because it has always seemed like I had help when I needed it most—If I was supposed to move forward with something, help always appeared. If it was an uphill, horrible struggle that I had no support with, I could move along without much regret, trusting in the thought that it was time to shuffle along.

So maybe that’s it. It’s in the recognition of the help all around you—When you finally realize you have all the support (and motivation) necessary to do what you know in your gut you *have* to do. Maybe that’s the magical “sign” we need. Or better still, the sign which appears... when we're ready to see it. 

But I would say this: There ain’t a sign in the universe bigger than the core of your person knowing that you’ve GOT to do something. You don’t need anyone else to tell you that. And once you’ve recognized it, there are no more excuses. Get on the train already.

My husband is fond of saying that if you go looking for meaning in something, you’ll likely find it there. And I think that’s true to a great degree. So here it is. Time to look up. Take notice of the the supports around you. Take a deep breath, examine your gut, and leap (ahem, you know who you are…)

Here’s your sign.

The universe and your support system are all ready for your greatness.  

 
And me? I’ll meet you in Indy, regardless of how long it takes us to get there.

The meaning of life, the universe and everything

 

Each January we welcome ourselves into the new year ahead. We start fresh, looking forward to a year full of new beginnings and often the kicking of old habits. RESOLUTIONS ABOUND! Things to do, and stop doing. Things to toss; things to keep. Money to save, and money ear-marked to spend. This is the time to lay it all out there, often publicly, for accountability or attention (or a little from column a and a little from column b.) 

We’re probably all going to lose 20 pounds and save more money, in 2018, yes? 

Now I ditched resolutions a long time ago, partially because at some point in our history, the meaning of resolution morphed from “the thing about which you are resolute (definite; unyielding)” to meaning “completely unrealistic goal that you are almost certainly not going to accomplish.” 

I don’t enjoy setting myself up for failure. Life is hard enough as it is. Resolutions felt like an extra layer of pressure I didn’t need in my life. Like watching Game of Thrones. 

However, for those of you who know me, you know I can’t pass up the opportunity to reassess things. The only thing I like more than planning and organizing and setting goals (and completely overthinking things) is…well, let’s be honest. There’s nothing I like better than those things. 

It’s *my jam. * 

You should know that most of the time, my head is *spinning.* I have a LOT going on up there in about 82 different directions simultaneously. So, the beginning of the year finds me not making resolutions per se, but rather taking the time to write it all down. Get it out of my head. Map it out and start to draw connections between ideas, and getting rid of the stuff that feels like clutter. It’s the kind of mental spring cleaning that I desperately need and look forward to doing. 

And this year (thank you Christina Wallace) I mapped it out IN SPREADSHEET FORM (yeeeeeah, that happened. It’s an 8-tab Excel sheet. It’s super impressive, if I do say so myself. You know, if you’re a SUPER nerd.., which I am.) 

Basically, I take this brain-noise, throw it all out there, find the themes, take out the trash, and develop a roadmap for my year. What’s this year going to center on? What is it about? And since I am a lover of words, instead of resolutions, I typically try to come up with a guiding word for the year. A mantra, if you will.

Having just one actionable idea for the year ahead helps me to focus my energy without pinning me down with super specifics (drill down to the big picture? Oxymoron, what?) 

Now the beauty of having a January birthday (beyond Gladwell’s Outliers theory, which I’ve gotta say, is compelling) is that once I come up with my WORD, it sort-of ends up being the theme for that year of my life. 

This trip around the sun, I think about this one guiding principle. A natural bookending to all things lived. And if it ain’t about THAT, put on the shelf for next year. 

As I stumbled up on my 42nd (yeah, there that is) year on this Earth, I pondered my word: 

• J and I have now been married 6.5 years. And we're good. And we're happy. We’re in a groove. 

• We just bought our forever home with no plans to leave. I’ve never had that before. Previous to this? I lived in 15 apartments/ houses over the last 24 years, in 7 states. Oofa. 

• Our family is complete. No more kids. Just us 4. Plus a picket fence (it's not picket.) Maybe a dog someday.

• Our kids are in the schools that they will attend until they are in high school. 

• There's no foreseeable change in my job. Or city. Or home. Or finances. 

Finally. FINALLY. I get to settle in. Make a home. Make a budget. In what will become my hometown. No more insane changes. Now is the time I really get to hang things on the wall (both literally and metaphorically.) 

I get to establish habits. And routines. And traditions. No more "I'll lose the weight when I'm done having kids." I'm done having kids. Now's the time. I’m not getting younger. It’s not getting easier. 

No more "when things settle down, I'll look into writing that book." Things are as settled as they'll ever be. Now's as good a time as any. 

No more "I'll make a budget when I don't have so many crazy incidental costs." I'm as settled as I'm getting. Now's the time to figure out my savings and retirement and insurance and college funds. 

I don’t think I realized how transient I felt in my life until this Christmas, when I got to do things like put the Christmas tree up, you know, where our Christmas tree will go. And decorate the house in a way I want the kids to remember. I didn’t realize how little stock I had put into traditions (which are really just routines to which we assign meaning, right?) until I put effort into it this year and realized that it was kind of a first. 

I WANTED the routines to mean something. 

I had told a friend that I thought that my word this year would be establishment. The establishment of routines and traditions and life as it will be for us. You know, to *get* established.

But the more I have reflected on it, I think my actual word is constant- “a situation or state of affairs that does not change.” 

Finally. 

Exhale. 

When Douglas Adams wrote the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, he thought that it would be a hilarious joke for this master computer to work for years and years and simply spit out “42” as the meaning of life, the universe and everything. There was no deeper meaning in his mind—just a fun number to say to confound the masses. (Hilarious.) 

In the years following, people found it very hard to accept that it was random. That it just meant nothing. So much so, that multiple lists abound on the interwebs of “important events in world history centered on the number 42.” There has even been a group of Cambridge astronomers who have found an important connection to the age of the universe and the number 42. 

Know what it is? They call it the “essential scientific constant.” 

Forty-two is the constant. Right.  (Thanks, Universe.) 

I was trying to explain this all to J this evening and, ever the skeptic, he scoffed a bit. 

“Go looking for meaning in something and you’ll find it there.” 

Heh. I suppose that’s true. 

But isn’t that what we’re all doing? 

Maybe I’m looking too hard for a connection to my Constant mantra and my 42nd birthday. Maybe it’s just another year, and another birthday and another mantra. 

Or maybe, 42 really will come to bring me the meaning of my life, my universe and my everything—a reminder that however random (and hilarious) it might seem, there is some consistency to the galaxy, and our lives…if we look for it.

Pilgrimage

 

My father was simultaneously the most humble man I have even known and the proudest. His pride was not something he shared outside to the world, but to those who were closest—who knew him best; we knew that his family, his home, his God, and the goodnesses in his life that he had worked *very* hard for were things in which he held great pride. These were his; things that no one could take from him. Most of all, he was very proud of his family history. 

Our family was about as American as it comes. And by that I mean, we have roots in Germany and Italy and England way *way* back, but the real “beginning” of our family line can be traced to a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and early lawyers and teachers in the newly formed United States. We were first generation Americans in the truest sense. 

I used to love hearing my dad talk about how our family was a part of American History. 

Our other famous connection to American popular culture was our pretty direct (3rd or 4th cousins?) link to the Wyeth family of American artists: NC Wyeth the illustrator; Jamie Wyeth the pop painter, and most notably Andrew Wyeth, arguably one of the greatest American painters of his generation. 

Dad loved to tell that story, too. 

Growing up, there were Wyeth biographies around the house. If ever there was a showing of Wyeth art anywhere close to us (close being 3ish hours to Chicago) we would go. I had a poster in my room growing up that I’m not sure I even realized was a piece of Wyeth art until I was much older. It was just sort of woven into our family story. Not a big, proud announcement, but always just sort of there as something we could internally be connected to. 

Not long after my mother passed away, I moved to Washington DC. My father was older then, but not yet in failing health. (We still had some good adventures left in us!) Dad decided that our first family adventure just we two would be to drive from DC to Chadd’s Ford, Pennsylvania to the museum that housed the Wyeth art; that was the home of the family. He had said that being so close, he just felt compelled to go there.

I remember the trip so vividly. 

We visited the museum and the artists’ studios and toured the landscapes that were made famous by Wyeth’s art. My father was transfixed. It was very easy to see that my father felt a genuine connection to these long-distance family members, their art and their stories. And every once in a while, in hushed tones, with my father’s familiar little smile and his raised-eyebrow side-eyes, you’d hear him tell a passing stranger, “You know, I’m his cousin.” 

It became a memory and a trip that dad and I held dear to us, not just because it was the first thing that we did JUST us (Mom would have loved it, too), but because it connected us. Us to each other. And us to our family history. 

I was driving down the highway not long ago, and I saw a billboard for an Andrew Wyeth retrospective art showing for the anniversary of his 100th birthday. It was going to be held at that same museum on their homestead. I now only lived about an hour away. 

Clearly, I had to go. 

I took a day off of work and packed up my car for the pilgrimage. And that’s truly what it felt like—a meaningful, almost religious journey to a place that I felt compelled to go; drawn to visit. I didn’t merely *want* to go. I had to go there. 

When I pulled into the parking lot, this incredible wave of the familiar came crashing over me, followed by a sense of such blissful peace and the knowledge that this was absolutely the place I was supposed to be in that moment. 

The art was incredible, yet comfortable. Familiar. I don’t think there’s anything that I hadn’t seen before in one of his books or other showings I had been to. But I felt like I was looking at it all with different eyes. Not my eyes; my families’ eyes. 

The death of Andrew’s father NC was tragic and sudden and left Andrew a different man at a young age. It is said that it changed his art, his outlook on life, and the way he thought from that day forward. 

I get it. 

One of his greatest regrets was that he never had the chance to paint his father’s portrait and that all that remains is a quick pencil sketch of his father. His father; our cousin; to whom my father bears a striking resemblance. I stood and stared at those quick pencil lines for so, so long. Without knowing it, I feel like this picture was what I had come there that day to see. My father and the Wyeth family woven together. Andrew mourning the loss of his father, as I still sometimes mourn the loss of mine.

Turns out, I hadn't come for Andrew Wyeth after all. I had come for my dad. Like laying flowers on a grave. To pay tribute. To reconnect with that part of my family. Peaceful reflection and gratitude and reverie. 

I needed that connection and that time to mourn in ways that I didn’t even realize, and that I am so incredibly grateful for.

Before leaving, I took a seat next to the docent station to gather my thoughts and the books I had purchased in the gift shop. 

“Quite an amazing family of artists here, isn’t it?” mused the docent. 

“It is quite a family.” I replied. And then, almost as an afterthought, I smiled a familiar, sly smile. I raised my eyebrows. I gave a slight side eye. “You know, they’re my cousins.”

My love is like a Paw Patrol Blanket

 

Mother’s Day is Sunday. 

For being a ridiculous, Hallmark holiday, it certainly pulls on the heartstrings of the world, yes? Joyous for those with fantastic moms; heartbreaking for those who have lost parents (or children); devastating for those who struggle to become mothers and can’t. It’s like this massive day created to tug at the edges of a hole that already exists in your heart. Like, I know it’s there…but you don’t have to yank on it once a year, do you? 

I feel like this is a day that can be especially hard for those whose mothers have passed. I know about that firsthand. And of course, I take a moment and remember my mom on Mother’s Day. It would be silly to say that I don’t. It’s always been a day that’s tinged with just the littlest bit of sadness, and I think always will be, regardless of how wonderful my kids are, or how much I celebrate my other mom friends

Truthfully though, I’ve never taken a lot of stock in calendar-created “special days.” Because if you really think back to the super meaningful times of your life, I’m guessing that a good number of them didn’t necessarily revolve around a holiday. And if I’m honest, I don’t remember a single Mother’s Day with my mom. Not a one. I feel like the really profound moments with Mom happened on a random Tuesday, when I was otherwise engaged in the regular ol’ mundane tasks of life. 

Driving to school today with my daughter was one of those moments. And it was stealth. And crushing. 

“Mommy, I want to tell you a secret.” 

“Ok. Lay it on me.” 

“I love you.” 

“Aw, well that’s nice. I love you, too.” 

(Everything is still cool. Humming to radio. Avoiding traffic.) 

“But I want to love you always.” 

“Well, that’s very sweet, dear. You can love me for as long as you want. And I will love you forever as well.” 

(Aww. How sweet. What a cute daughter she’s decided to be this morning. We need ice cream or something.) 

“Mommy. Please don’t die.” 

(SCREEEECHING HALT in brain. What did she just say? Oh my God. Is she worried about me dying? Where is this coming from? Wait, did I just drive past her school? Dammit. Around the block.) 

Stumbling for words…“Honey…I mean. That’s not something to worry about. Not for a long time. And I will love you forever and ever, no matter what.” 

“You mean you won’t ever leave me? You won’t die?” 

(And now, I have tears streaming down my face. How do I explain life and death and love in the five minutes I have, in the car, around the block, so that I can make her feel ok, and still get her into the school building in one piece? Focus. Think. Stop crying.) 

Deep breath. 

“El. You know your Paw Patrol blanket?” 

“Yeah, I sleep with it. It’s my favorite.” 

“Right. And when you go to bed at night, you wrap yourself up in it, right?” 

“Yes.” 

“You wrap yourself up in it because it keeps you safe, and warm, and you feel cozy, and it lets you sleep with such sweet dreams, right?” 

Smiling…to herself, “Yes.” 

“And right now, you don’t have that blanket with you, but you remember that feeling, right? You know what it feels like to be safe and warm and cozy, in your bed at night?” 

“Yup. I love my Paw Patrol blanket.” 

(Deep breath as I try to explain the existential concepts of life and death and love to a four-and-a-half-year-old.) 

“Well, Mommy’s love is kinda like your blanket. It will ALWAYS make you feel safe, and warm, and cozy and cared for EVEN if I’m not with you all the time. Like when you’re a school, you remember that I love you, just like you remember how warm your blanket is, right?” 

She giggles… “Yes.” 

“So you know, that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, or if I’m with you or not… JUST like your warm blanket, you can stop, and remember, and you can always *FEEL* my love, wrapped around you, keeping you safe and warm and happy. And that’s there forever.  You can remember that anytime. No matter what.”

“Oh, ok.” She nods quietly, smiles, and looks out the window, lost in thought. 

And then we pulled up in the drop off line, and the moment was gone. And she jumped out of the car, waved, and said goodbye, like a 4-year-old, without a care in the world; like we hadn’t just had the deepest and most profound conversation of her life thus far. 

“Remember that I love you,”  I yelled after her.

“I love you too, mommy.” 

And off we went. On a random Friday. 

I’m looking forward to Mother’s Day this year, as we’re hosting family in our new home. I’m positive that it will be lovely day. But odds are, my kids aren’t going to remember it. But maybe, just maybe, 50 years from now, on Mother’s Day, Ellie will smile to herself and remember that my love is like a Paw Patrol blanket, and will smile to herself, and hug her children close.

The Good Stuff

 

My father and mother got married later in life. As such, all of my fathers’ relatives had passed well before I was born. I did not know my father’s parents, or really much of anything about my father’s side of the family. As a child, I always wondered what they were like; who they were; what they did. What did their days look like? What kind of relationship would we have had? (Just some of the millions of questions I should have asked my parents before they passed. I so wish I would have taken the time to do this. I will share these things with my own children. I will write them down. I simply must.) 

One of the things I inherited when my father passed away was a large box of my grandmother’s china. It was the “good stuff” that had been boxed up for most of my life. I sort of remember seeing it in the china cabinet, but I don’t remember using it growing up. We might have, but I have no real memories of it. It was just grandma’s china that lived in the cabinet. 

When J and I bought our new home, one of the key components that drew me to this one was its large dining room with built-in china cabinets throughout. See, J and I? We like a good dinner party. Or drinks. Or just having friends over. Of *hosting* things. We both love to cook, love to entertain, and consider that the greatest gift we can give others is bringing them in—feeding them, hosting them, offering hospitality and sanctuary and warmth. Our home, in whatever shape and size it has been, has always been YOUR home, too. 

In every home we’ve had together as a couple (and dear lord, that’s been three different houses in the five years we’ve been married…) our dining room has been central to our home...and *wee.* Enough for a handful of folks, but not nearly enough to really host a party like I would like. 

(I’ll never forget the Thanksgiving that J was deployed and I decided to throw a friends and family Thanksgiving at my house, and because it was just me and Ellie ALL my friends decided to show up. I tried to squeeze like ten or twelve people onto a table made for 6 and nearly had a nervous breakdown when I couldn’t get place-settings down in {what was to me…} a reasonable fashion.) 

When J and I started dating, one of the things that we talked about as a reason for our getting along so well, was that we put equal value into our relationships with our friends. As far as we were concerned, friends were considered family. And for family, we would do anything. Host a dinner; take them in; let them come over in the middle of the night. And we have never had to ask or explain to one another this implicit importance. “Hey, set another place for dinner.” “Hey, I have a friend who needs a place to crash for a month.” The answer has always just been, “well, yes, of course.” 

When J and I got married, we didn’t register for a china pattern. Partially this was because we didn’t have space for it, and knew we’d just have to pack it up and take it from house to house until we “settled down.” And partially it was because I knew I had my grandmother’s china waiting for me. 

This week, as we finished unboxing the main part of our new home, I stumbled upon the box of grandma’s china. And since I now had a china cabinet, I decided that it was time for it to come out of storage for the first time in, literally decades. The first thing that struck me was its simplicity and its beauty. Myself not being particularly fancy, this simple design, very delicate, but classy was exactly what I would have picked out for myself had I had all the china in the world to select from myself. A small grayish blue leaf in the middle, with a silver edging. (I’m not really the pink/ floral/ gold filigree type.) 

Ah yes, this is actually stuff I would use. 

And then I began to unwrap each piece. Piece after piece after piece. Good lord, how much of this stuff was there? 

All told, it was a 14-piece place setting. Plates, salad bowls, soup bowls, cups, saucers, dessert plates, two serving plates, two serving bowls, sugar and cream and gravy boats. Holy cow—a full set of late 1800’s, delicate Japanese china…in a set of 14. Who gets china of this value, at that cost, during that time period in a set of FOURTEEN? Who could possibly need a place-setting for 14? 

We do. 

And they did. 

Exactly right. 

Suddenly, I looked at the dishes differently. I started wondering how much like my relatives I maybe was. Did they set a table for 14 on the regular? Did they host dinner parties? Have friends to the table? Parties into the night with wine and good food and conversation? All of my assumptions about my father’s family were based on the little that I knew about them: They were pre-Depression era, turn of the Century, Midwestern, blue-collar workers and farmers, who were extraordinarily pious and faithful, and to be honest (in my head) a little “colder” than I am. 

But maybe not. 

Maybe they enjoyed a good dinner party. 

As I unwrapped the delicate dishes, one at a time, I started to love the imperfections that come from use—the gravy boat, chipped; a plate broken; a soup bowl quite simply missing. They used these dishes. They loved these dishes. My grandmother’s hands had washed these cups once; had served Thanksgiving dinners on these plates; had no doubt filled the bowls with mashed potatoes. These are things that I will do, too.  

What a lovely connection we now had. 

This weekend, for Mother’s Day, I’m excited to say that J and I are hosting a brunch at our home. It is the first party for our family that will take place in our new dining room—a room that can hold the people we will host. 

And I’ll have the china do so. 

I anticipate that we’ll have our own chips and scrapes to add to the collection. And hopefully my children will have fond memories of these meals, and will carry forward our family’s love of others, good food and hospitality. 

And the china. They'll have the dishes. And all the other good stuff, too.

In the weeds

 

If your house is anything like my house, getting out the door in the morning is akin to a military exercise. It takes precision. And accuracy. And split second-timing in order to get my two VERY morning-moody children dressed, fed, and out the door even close to on time without some significant meltdowns. It’s loud. And it’s *busy*. 

Before Els was in a school where it didn’t matter what time we showed up, we had some wiggle room. No one CARED if we were 10 minutes late. So if the morning was going to hell fast, I could take a step away, have a long, sensuous sip of my coffee, remind myself that I had children by choice, take a breath, and come back and reengage in the madness with a clearer head. 

But now, it’s not just mom’s schedule. It’s SCHOOL’s schedule. A new added layer of external pressure to the already angsty morning routine. Getting myself out the door each day is one thing. Getting out the door with two very willful, playful, “NO COATS!” children is a whole other can of worms. 

 (When I met my new neighbors this week, I told them that I just assumed that everyone in the neighborhood already knew the names of my children, as I bellowed them at top- volume each morning trying to get them into the car. She looked a little uncomfortable and was like “oh, no no. Not at all…” Definitely lying to me…)

But today! Ha! Today we did it. We executed our morning routine to perfection, and we were all in the car and pointed towards school ON TIME (ok…so coats were in our bags and not our bodies. I couldn’t fight that battle this morning…) 

Here we go. On the familiar, 8 (to 20 minute) drive to school. We were hurrying. It was a madhouse in the car. Contained chaos, but chaos nonetheless. And of course, today, the traffic. Sigh. Here we sit. Not moving. I’m growing impatient. Sitting. Waiting. Going nowhere. Going to be late, despite our best efforts. Sigh, again. 

That’s when I noticed, up the road about half a mile, a man standing in the middle of a group of trees, about ankle deep in a thick ivy creeping across the ground around him. Even though this was a park, this is not a place you would expect to see someone standing. There’s fresh-cut grass and park benches just a few steps away. Why was he standing in the trees and the weeds? 

His back was to me. But he wasn’t moving. Standing completely still, in the middle of the woods. What the hell? 

Ah, of course. He must have found a spot where his phone wasn’t dead. He was reading something on his phone. Yes yes. It’s the only reason why a random man could be standing in the middle of the weeds, not moving, while a traffic jam was parked literally next to him. Of course. Must be it. 

By the time I had slowly inched up to where I could see his face, I had written this man’s whole life story in my imagination several different ways. 

He’d been in one of the cars, frustrated he wasn’t moving, and had gotten out and found signal for calling into the office to them he’d be late. 

Or… 

He was the reason we weren’t moving—he’d been in a fender bender and had stepped out of his car to call his insurance company.  

I spent probably 10 minutes trying to figure this out. When I pulled even with him, I looked over, desperate to figure out what this strange man was doing, standing so quietly in the woods. 

He was meditating. 

His eyes were closed. His palms out in front of him, turned up towards the sun. He was breathing deeply. He had found the perfect spot, right there within the shade of the trees, to take solace. To find peace. Even with a traffic jam mere feet from him. He was unaffected by the din. 

I immediately started trying to come up with excuses for this possible state. He was old. He was lost. He’d just had some bad news and needed to walk outside and think for a minute. Dementia. Obviously. 

I caught myself in the excuse cycle that people always make…that *I* always make for silence. There had to be a REASON why he was there, right? He couldn’t just be there, resting? 

And then I wondered why meditating hadn’t occurred to me. The thought of someone intentionally taking a break—of slowing down. Of breathing. Of taking in nature, wherever that might be. Of being by yourself. Of giving thanks. Of connecting. 

Of just being still. 

None of those things had ever even crossed my mind in my fictionalized story of this man’s life. 

Looking at him made me smile and reflect deeply. 

With our move and all of the massive life changes we are going through as a family right now, I have been unplugged more than normal. I haven’t wanted to talk to people on the phone or chat. Haven’t felt like reaching out or posting on social media. I’ve neglected a lot of relationships outside of the four walls of my home. And have felt the constant need to apologize for that. 

And it’s not like I’m not thinking about people. I just haven’t had the energy to talk. I’ve been finding a million busy work tasks to fill the day—many of them legitimate, but most just to keep moving. I’ve been planning and analyzing and over-analyzing again pretty much everything that’s popped into my head. And I’ve definitely put together my list of excuses if anyone were to ask why I haven’t called. 

But if I’m being honest, the truth is, I just don’t want to right now. I don’t have the energy because my head is busy. I’ve been silent, but my mind has been anything but quiet. I was able to draw that distinction this morning. 

As I drove past my mystery man in the park this morning, I found myself saying out loud “Good for you, sir.” 

I feel like I’ve been missing the point of the self-imposed quiet. I need to quiet my mind, not just my voice. And once I concentrate on the bigger picture of the quiet mind, I feel like everything else is going to come along just fine. 

I’m grateful for this man in the weeds this morning… And for showing me that maybe I am the one in the weeds way more than he is.