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I dream of jewel beads and mopped floors…
Here’s to all the moms…
May your day be filled with jewel beads, clean counters and tidy rooms.
And if not, perhaps a lovely mess filled with love and laughter!
To the Mom’s – what has been one of your favorite, or most ‘memorable’ gifts over the years?
And to the rest of us ‘kids’, is there a gift you remember being so excited or proud to give to your mom?
Happy Mother’s Day!
Forget the Blueprint, Ride the Mechanical Bull
Have you watched the commencement speech Neil Gaiman gave at The University of the Arts last spring? It's been floating around this week on Upworthy and Facebook and Twitter. If you haven't, check it out when you have twenty minutes to spare. You can watch or read it here.
The speech is full of many great tid-bits and life lessons, especially for those of us who make art or are freelancers.
Comfort Creatures
“There is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort.”
― Charlotte Brontë
Change and transition are not easy for the strongest among us, and perhaps take their greatest toll on the smallest of us. In times of upheaval and transition, we are comforted by the familiar, the known, the safe. We want to be surrounded by what we know and those whom we trust. The familiar.
My son is truly a trooper and has given me glimpses of what he’s made of. He’s smart, sensitive, intuitive and well, all the same, a nine year old boy. The kind who loves to throw a football, giggle at bad words, deliver a curve-ball over the plate, get lost in video games.
And hang with his dudes.
To help ease some of the bigness of life, I got a few of his guys over for a sleep-over this last weekend. It’s called a sleep-over, but really, the boys were just over. Of course, there was some sleep involved, just not a whole lot. My Sunday morning began around 0-six-hundred as I heard something much louder than pitter-patter on the wood floor above me.
These are boys that my kiddo has known since baby days and kinder days.
One thing I know, he knows how to pick good friends.
The time together included dinner in the dark on the sidewalk out in front of the house; al fresco style complete with a flashlight.
Crazy made up games.
Laughing.
Challenges and contests.
Roasting marshmallows over the grill.
Silliness. Pure silliness.
Races in the living room with carpet skates.
A picnic style breakfast while watching YouTube on the tube.
It’s clear to me, these boys are comfort creatures to my boy. They give him a place to belong. A place where his name is known and his laugh is met with more laughter. A place to trust himself to be nothing but himself.
How young it starts, when we begin to make such a difference in the lives of others. If only these boys knew the importance of their presence. In time. In time.
Not All At Once
Hi Kiddo,
{a letter to my son}
In the last week you have revealed to me so many new corners of your character, and you simply amaze me. You got some news that had to be the hardest thing you have encountered in your short but full nine and half years. It breaks my heart to be the bearer of any news that interrupts your otherwise perfectly placed focus on MineCraft, Soccer, pitching for your little league team, mastering the kendama, and of course chasing the dog around the backyard. Someday, all of this will make much more sense to you. Maybe you will even see how it is in a crazy way even better for you.
For now, though, I wish I could really tell you how impressed I am with you, how in awe I am of your bravery, your determination to be a big boy. Your willingness to not only bend with and lean into this change, but that you can find some upsides so readily.
I can see the ripples of fear creeping up around your edges from time to time, and yet you somehow find a way to rise above it and knock it down, almost like your own version of emotional whack-a-mole. That, Bug, is true courage. If you only knew.
The questions you ask me are far more insightful than some conversations I have had with adults; you find the crux of it all more succinctly than I ever would have. You face your fears and ask me the questions anyway, even though I bet you somehow know that you are not going to like the answer, or know that at least you will not totally understand it. I don’t like ambiguity now, decades ahead of you; you somehow are able to roll with this ambiguity with no ambivalence.
I wish I had had what you somehow have in abundance when I was nine and a half. If I did, perhaps you wouldn’t have to.
When I pushed too hard, trying to help you, comfort you, I could hardly comprehend how you knew what you needed and even more, that you knew exactly how to ask me for it. With an analogy. “Mom, it’s too much advice. All at once. Too much advice mom, is like a bunch of rocks too close together “, you said, and then told me that, “it should be more like a long string, strung out over time. Not all at once. Ok?”
I hear ya kiddo, you are speaking my language and I am astounded by your wisdom. You have my word to not barrage you with too many words too close together; but whenever you need to take a rock from that pile, you know I am right here next to you and will take your lead. Maybe together we can out to ‘your bridge’ and go throw it in the river.
We are just starting this new adventure and you have shown me that you are possibly stronger than your mom. You are showing me how brave you are, how truly adaptable and resilient you can be and I could not be more proud of the person I get to call my son.
You, growing up, is a long game and even though you and I both want it to all be ok for you right now, let’s both try to remember that you need to take your own time with things. I want you to know that everything I do is for you – so that things are better for you. So that your easy laugh and smiling eyes are always what people see first when they meet you.
Love,
Mom
Ps: that wrestling match tonight? I totally won!
Professional Be-Bop
Yesterday I was feeling blue, but moving through the day as if, as if all is well. I ran some errands over my lunch hour and had the music playing, loud, to soothe my soul and boost my spirits, as it usually does.
One of my favorite beat inducing artists came on and I found myself tapping my foot lightly, patting the gear shifter, nodding my head just ever so slightly and mumbling-almost-lip-syncing the lyrics – truly a lackluster attempt to be moved by the music as I drove through town.
Still pondering my mood and it’s source, I noticed, or rather felt movement, on my left as I pulled up to a stoplight. The woman in the car in the lane next to mine was simply, rocking out. She was totally jamming to the music! She was behind the wheel of a fancy black sedan, shiny and well maintained. Without staring, I could tell she was a professional woman, probably in her 50′s and maybe even early 60′s. Short dark hair nicely done, but not quite coiffed. Styled. Stylish. Yes, I could even tell she was wearing a suit. She looked so well put together. Fancy sunglasses, some highlights in her hair. I promise, I didn’t stare. Or stalk. Or snap. I really wanted to take a picture and I didn’t.
You can exhale now.
I couldn’t help it; she was really rocking out. Hands in percussion-like movement across the steering wheel and gear shifter, lips moving with the words, body engaged in car-dancing. Completely in tune with the music.
Before I knew it, I was smiling. My heart lifted, my eyes brightened. I was delighted by her joy, her lightness and her pure enjoyment in the moment. I was moved by her obvious happiness. I was actually disappointed when the light turned green and as I drove on past her, I turned and gave her a quick smile; I somehow wanted her to know that her happiness was contagious. I have no idea what she was listening to, but I decided in that moment that she was grooving along with the same song I was. She just had to be.
As I turned up the stereo a little bit more, it occurred to me how we can make an impact others when we don’t even know it. When we have no idea that others even see us, notice us. We matter.
My professional be-bop lady was happy, she was IN her moment; all she had to do was be happy and I got to benefit. From that point on my day took on more shades of yellow and much less of the blue. I wish I could thank her, let her know how much she brightened my day, lifted my spirits and gave me something to smile about.
Have a be-bop kind of day; go ahead and rock out – you just might make someone’s day! Here is what Bonnie and her Be-bop lady were listening to:
The heart of life is good
I can remember a conversation I had, that unbeknown to me at the time, would one day shape my entire attitude towards life and make some of the most painful and challenging and testing experiences that were yet to happen, bearable. And not just bearable, but valuable.
It was only 8 words in response to a question I posed to my mother, but I knew even at the time by the way the words struck me dumb that I had heard something that was significant and somehow, would shape me.
I was thinking about something last night…
…and I forgot what it is.
I was laying on my couch, half asleep and half watching an episode of Homeland [thank you Amb from Words Become Superfluous, for the recent addition to my TV lineup!] and an idea came into my mind for a blog post.
Like in many cases, I get the idea from a seemingly unknown corner of my brain [I know, scary, right?] and it starts to take form with words and phrases, but most importantly, a feeling. At least that is how the creative process works for me. Some of the time.
I worked through the the concept and I liked it, felt I could get some traction when I sat down at the keyboard to put some meat on the bones.
I even had some ideas for images I might pair with the words. Like a good Cabernet and some dark chocolate.
Then something unfortunate happened. Homeland got intense.
Then something mundane happened. I fell asleep.
As I perused a few of my favorite blogs this morning to start my day, it suddenly dawned on me. I had had a blog post idea of my own. I started to get excited to write when I realized, I was thinking about something night and then I forgot what it is.
It’s gone. Totally gone. Well the frustrating part is not really. It’s not totally gone. If it were totally gone, I’d be in peace, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But, because I have a tiny remnant of memory that I had had a great idea, it’s driving me crazy that it’s there, but not really. It’s like being blindfolded to hit a pinata. You know that the rainbow colored paper-mache donkey is there, right in front of you and you strike out, here, there, over there, up there, over there , again and again. Wildly. And still, no contact.
I want the idea back as much as the kid with the bat and the blindfold wants the candy.
It could have been about getting an idea to write about. It could have been about the elusiveness of time when you are waiting for something. It could have been about purples horses.
In my fleeting contempt with my suddenly sieve-like brain, I searched for and found a great article that outlines some strategies to capture the muse and the author writes:
I’m obsessed with the concept of creativity, especially how to capture the muse when she finally shows up to the party (usually, fashionably late).
In my case, the muse showed up when I didn’t know we were having a party. I was a rude host and didn’t invite her in, feed and water her or even give her a seat at the table. Next time I will serve fine wine and smelly cheese, with a pad of paper and a sharpened pencil!
What tricks do you use to remember your best ideas?
Now, what was I going to do next?
Holding Tight the Laces
Let it Go.
There are a hundred ways to say it. A hundred things we would be better off for letting go of. Old resentments, misguided worry, a weary worn out grudge, the past, unrealistic expectations, that which we cannot control, a broken heart, a million what-ifs and of course all the coulda-shoulda-wouldas.
Let it go.
We have all heard it, we have all heard ourselves say it to someone else in compassion or perhaps even exasperation, and maybe we have muttered it under our breath for our own benefit when we have worn ourselves out worrying or troubling or obsessing about something, or someone, and finally, at last know there is nothing else we can do.
Let it go.
A simple little phrase. If only it were that simple.
It seems to me that this this is one of those lessons we have to learn over and over. And then, perhaps, again. Turns out, that along with our hearts, our brains are not programmed for change or loss. I learned this from a new perspective recently while reading a terrific article about dealing with change. It hit home when I read that…
When we run into a roadblock, suddenly information we trusted has broken down. Where does the other road lead? How long will it take? Is it dangerous? What we don’t know tends to scare us, and change creates a lot of things we don’t know. As a result, we tend to act pretty irrationally to try and prevent change, often without realizing it, and make our lives unnecessarily problematic. {via Lifehacker}
Letting go is saying yes to loss. Choosing to say goodbye to something. Even the things in our lives that take up unnecessary space, cause pain, or rob us of joy somehow settle in as something familiar and letting go creates an unexpected emptiness. Letting go is an active invitation of the unfamiliar, and somehow, we are strange creatures who cling to what is familiar, sometimes just what takes up space, even when it doesn’t always feel good.
As an eighth grader, I had begged my my parents for new roller skates for my 14th birthday. Begged and bargained. And finally, they gave in and agreed that would be my gift that year. I got to pick them out – white leather boot, blue wheels and stopper, and even a bright blue pom-pom on the toe. While the surprise element was zero, the anticipation factor was high; I loved knowing that by a certain date, those skates would be mine, all mine. My birthday finally rolled around and the skates were safely in my possession; I am sure I skated around the block, imagining my first chance to loop the rink with my girlfriends and with an eye on that cute boy from across town. That night, some thirty plus years ago, as I fell asleep, proud owner of the new skates, I held the laces of those new skates tightly, my hand hanging over the edge of my bed, unable to let go. I wanted to be sure that when I woke up, those skates would still be there. I didn’t trust that what I had wanted so badly, and had finally received, would not in fact somehow slip away.
The skates were something I could easily – and legitimately grasp, hold on to, and make sure they did not roll away from me.
But what about when it’s more complicated than roller skates? When it is something that stirs you? What if it is something, that despite the fact that the earth is not likely to tip on a slant and cause things to roll away, is something you want to hold close?
We know that if we can let something go, and if it remains with us, or returns, that we should be able to trust that it is meant to be part of us, that there is something truly organic at play. When we successfully stuff a square into a circle, it may seem for the moment to feel good that we conquered, that we won, that we got what we wanted. But in the long run, it seems safe to say, that time will only reveal to us that it never really fit in the first place.
What’s hard is not knowing, and yet allowing ourselves to truly step back and let the universe do it’s work. Let the surface slant and see what rolls. What I am still struggling with, I will be honest, is finding that balance. The balance between gently holding that which we care about, and still allowing time and space to work its magic. Knowing when it’s time to put my hands up in acquiescence; understanding that I have done all that I should, or could. Even if just temporarily. Understanding the balance between coincidence and intent, the fine line between patient and passive, the delicate dance of safe and vulnerable.
I have been pondering this notion for days, trying to work out a solution to a dilemma and a way of being during an ambiguous time. I am wrestling with big change that requires grieving something familiar that cannot continue. We came close to losing my 92 year old father last week and my brother and I both felt compelled to let him go, and to let him know he was free to pass from one world to the next if he is tired. An important relationship requires that I let go for awhile to allow it’s potential to emerge on it’s own. In the time of my pondering, and beating my chest over all this, I’ve gotten a text from a friend who unknowingly suggested I give a listen to a song by Frou Frou called Let Go. Mimi’s post, graciously extending her angel wings over me, talked about letting go and the persistence of hope, and a very wise person I know [ok, my sister!] re-framed my question asking me if I can let it be, instead of feeling that I have to let it go. This letting go, this saying yes to loss, at any level; is excruciating in some moments. But sometimes, to let go is not so simple, but simply, the only way. And when we surrender ourselves to what is to be, we somehow allow for just that. What is to be.
So, where is the line? The line between grasping too tightly and letting go? Between letting go and letting it be? What about when letting go feels like giving up? Because somehow, I still feel like that 14yr old who wants to hold tight to the laces of my skates as I fall asleep.
Hometown Girl
The old saying, ‘you can’t go home again’ has some truth to it, as we know. However we choose to define home, the place where we ‘grew up’ – whether physically or metaphorically – we all know that we can’t go back and expect things to be the same, just as they were. Our mind plays tricks on us ; we often remember things as larger than they really were, selectively omit certain details and attach specific feelings to smells and sights. But, perhaps, we can go home if we understand that we will find a new version, with new layers that add to our memory and the richness of all that we have received from that zip code specifically imprinted upon us.
I grew up in a small town and even as a kid, knew that I would need to stretch my wings in a locale not edged with orchards and one little main street. I’m convinced that came from my parents, who had lived and experienced so much of the world before settling in what became our home town. Dad had left home at the age of 13, putting himself through school, jobs; ultimately serving as an Army Colonel in the South Pacific during WWII. The cabinets in our family home contain boxes upon boxes of his military photos, many of which capture him in uniform, touring Sydney, AU and out in the bush of aboriginal New Guinea seated with the natives – and their lack of attire. Post-war, he became a self-made man as the only optometrist in our small town.
Having grown up in Seattle and then San Francisco, Mom was a city girl. And though barely 5 feet tall, she could finagle the worst traffic in San Francisco with the grace of a ballerina and the mouth of a locker-room jock. She could bully her way into just about any parking spot she had her eye on and then stroll into I. Magnin with no one the wiser; she had exquisite taste in shopping and a culinary gift that clearly has not carried on with me. And a heart softer and kinder than I can explain in words.
McDonald Manhattan: 2 parts bourbon, 1 part sweet vermouth, splash of bitters. On the rocks.
In our home, dinners were often a formal affair, with the table set beautifully with all elements of the proper stemware, silverware and dinnerware. Our mother took great pride in presenting a meal that not only earned her the chops as wonderful chef, but her presentation was always perfect. In her mind, it had to look as tantalizing as it would taste. She would undoubtedly agonize over the details, often wearing herself out and then serving herself last; a true hostess. Ours was a home where napkins were placed on our laps, cocktails were often served during the 5 – o – clock hour, with hors d’ oeuvres in actual serving dishes, in the formal living room. Ours was a home with a set of every day dishes, a set of ‘nice dishes’, and a set of china. Ours was a home where people were always welcome, but by golly the house better be clean, all the way down to the baseboards.
We said goodbye to mom nearly 16 years ago, and my father, now 92, still lives in our family home along with my brother, who is beyond a shadow of a doubt, one of the most patient men I have ever known. He cares for our dad, with the assistance of a part-time care provider, Gloria. Last week was John’s birthday and my son and I hit the road and made the three-hour trek south for the celebration. The childhood teasing he subjected me to does not merit my mercy, but I will conveniently omit his age [you are welcome John]. But, let it be known that he is my OLDER brother!
Arriving at my childhood home, and walking into the kitchen, I could not help but notice that the table – the very same dining room table – was set impeccably. The decor, though decidedly a departure from what my mother would choose, was so well thought out, down to the last detail, and so perfectly created with my brother in mind. Gloria – the mastermind behind this party – had brought items from her home to create a setting fit for the celebration. For family celebrations, my mother would prepare a leg of lamb that as a 12 yr old I knew was special; and Cornish game hens that still make my mouth water when I remember them; and countless other dishes made to perfection. To the same height, Gloria prepared a feast true to her family; two recipes of fantastically homemade enchiladas, beans, rice, salad and more. “Juan” made the salsa and guacamole. On tap were beer, wine, tequila and drinks for the kids.
My nephew, now 21 and soon to graduate from college, played soccer with my 9 yr old in the backyard, the way that I used to entertain my nephew when he was the only little kid in the room. Friends from our childhood joined us for the evening and stories ranged from reminiscing of the old days, to forging new ground with sharing about the loss of our parents, and a spouse far too early in life, family dramas and old secrets, our parents’ marriages and world travels. We exchanged these stories with a fluency only spoken by those who have come up through the same ranks, inexplicably knowing we belong to each other, because our parents had forged the the bonds for us an entire generation ago. Photos were posted to Facebook and viewed on our phones while sitting 3 feet away from each other, in a living room where as kids we played and hung out, and would never fathom the advent of social networking or smart phones. Shots of tequila were consumed, and with my mother’s every day dishes put aside, we continued to drink and play Mexican Bingo. I quickly became unpopular as I called out “el lotteria’ over and over again. The cards were somehow stacked in my favor; which meant, that everyone else had to drink. While others could walk home, or were home, I had an early drive back the next morning. I needed those wins!
I sat and marveled at this new version of home, my home. My brother’s home. My mother’s dishes serving a beautiful meal that was never part of her repertoire, raucous laughter and banter from an unlikely group that spanned the ages from 9 to 92 and everything in between. Our childhood friends, and folks I had never met, but hope I see again, all sharing the same dining room table where I had sat as a child. English, Spanish, and probably some Spanglish mixed in. At one point, I looked over and my dad was mixing a martini; 10 minutes later in the same spot, my brother was attempting to learn to dance the Salsa, in spite of a knee refusing to let him forget his age, in the same kitchen where so many of our memories are safely held. And before I know it, my father has produced his trusty harmonica and proves that though his mind is a bit fuzzy most days, his lungs work just fine.
Report from the home front as I write is that the party may have been too much for our Dad; yesterday he had a martini at 3:30 and a bowl of cereal at 5:30. Who needs rules when you are 92!?
It seems plausible to say that it’s true, you can’t really go home again. Everything changes. We change. Physically and otherwise. The streets change, the landscape changes. It will never be the same as it was, and it really shouldn’t be.
But, after this last visit, I find myself realizing that maybe we can go home, if we can accept that things have changed, that we are different, and when we understand that what we remember will always be with us, a part of who we are. Perhaps the key is letting ourselves allow our memories to welcome new ones – new stories, new people, new recipes – in layers, like the perfect birthday cake?
Happy Birthday John…you are Juan in a Million!
So that, combined, with each layer resting upon the next, as if held together by the most perfect frosting - all the delicious life we savor during the years; the joys, losses, comforts, people, perspectives – is the “home” that we can return to whenever we need to.
Ever Have Days?
Ever have days where it all seems impossible, even the littlest things? I think we all need a reminder, time to time, of how strong we are, even when – and perhaps the most - when we feel it the least. Whether it’s letting someone know how we feel, sharing a truth that needs to see the light of day, taking a necessary risk, doing something that scares the *&$% out of us, or owning up to something we are not proud of, we all need a little push on some days, to take each step towards that which we seek out, want or need.
You are powerful when you believe in yourself – when you know that you are capable of anything you put your mind to.
You are beautiful when your strength and determination shines as you follow your own path – when you aren’t disheveled by the obstacles along the way.
You are unstoppable when you let your mistakes educate you, as your confidence builds from experiences – when you know you can fall down, pick yourself up, and move forward.
from http://www.marcandangel.com/book/
And if that is not encouragement enough, for we can find ourselves on the top step one day, and back at the bottom in the same hour, day, or week…then perhaps this little cheerleader can help remind you to not give up!
