Category: writings (Page 63 of 66)

i’ve fallen into challenge and i can’t get up

December 10, 2009 / jeanne / 18 Comments

a snap of tree roots growing in north hollywood, california that look like feet to me. guess it’s all in how you look at things.

just writing this post proves a challenge of the first order as i try to get it from becoming a flat-out pity party.

other top contenders include:

* we moved this year.
* the holidays: overspending.
* the holidays: feeling melancholy instead of the generally preferred (by others) festive.
* the holidays: decorating followed by the dreaded un.
* the holidays: greetings, as in continuing to wish folks a “happy, happy” when around here, anyway, using anything but “merry christmas” can draw blood.
* a to do list that’s about to implode and involve collateral damage.
* settling the estate of a precious, much-loved, childless 97 year-old great-aunt who had two not-really-so-dear-but-just-as-childless-and-tenaciously-long-lived predeceased sisters (a.k.a. you never saw so much stuff).
* learning del.icio.us (the “damn” is implied).
* creating digital social faux pas’es. (which is the way i think you indicate plural, as in a few more than several).
* not sounding too eager when digitally meeting new people.
* not sounding too lackadaisical when digitally meeting new people.
* my weight.
* those little critical, naysaying voices.
* juggling what i need to do with what i want – and vice versa.

i have written this post several times now. the first draft was a clever little ditty about the boot camp i just finished. (or would have had my back not gotten all messed up). the 2nd draft was a wordy wrangle about how the challenge of how much a private girl like me should actually reveal and why opening yourself up is always risky. the edit stage of that version is when i realized my real challenge was how not to appear/feel like a poor-little-me girl. and just now, as i was polishing this off, comes a text message from a friend who underwent surgery for a hernia today telling me they found cancer. and right on the heels of that a call from my brother telling me that his stepson’s face and neck came in direct contact with a full-charged and running drill motor, requiring some 67 stitches on the outside and i-don’t-know-how many on the inside.

so.

now i realize 2 things:
1) in the best interest of myself and everybody else, i HAVE to get this challenge piece posted and move on

and

2) i don’t really have any challenges worthy of note. (but thanks for listening.)

#best09

~~~

the story is mine, but credit for the kindling goes to gwen bell and her best of 2009 blog challenge.
~~~

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this blog changed my life in less than a week. i’m not kidding.

December 8, 2009 / jeanne / 22 Comments

first, i want to say, on behalf of both gwen and me, that this was no setup. but, gwen, i do thank you for making today’s post so easy for me.

i spent the better part of this year spinning things off and practicing saying “not now, i’m writing” without apology or laughter. my plan is that come january 2010, i will sit in the green leather banker’s chair that once belonged to my paternal granddaddy and write those books and plays i’ve been carrying around inside for a while. i’ve remain determined that i want to do that, but as the calendar ticks nearer the 1/1 box, my confidence wavers.

then on november 30, author, blog/facebook/twitter rockstar, and funny one patti digh posts something on facebook about this blog challenge that she’s entering, and before i had time to talk myself out of it, i’m in, too. i wanted a ready-made writing structure and to develop a rhythm to my writing days, and i’ve found that and much, much more . . .

i ~~am becoming~~ will eventually become fluent in twitter.

i’m meeting new people – folks who are not only nice and encouraging and supportive, but who are dynamic, crackerjack, intelligent writers, and, as if all that isn’t enough, they step up my writing game. they raise my bar. for starters, and in no particular order, there’s lindsey; and patty; and karen; and angela; and mahala; and bryce.

i am choosing – sometimes it’s agonizing and i want to dodge in the worst sort of way – but i stick and select, and that feels good. real, real good.

i am developing a rhythm that goes like this: i read the assignment > think about it all day > let it get bigger and bigger and bigger to the point of wondering about things like bandwidth > spend some creativity coming up with reasons i just can’t post today > jotting a few notes > then finally sitting down just to see if anything comes out > burn a little clock trying to find my notes > then sighing audibly and turn my fingers loose.

i am learning new organization systems for my digital life, for keeping up with the so-called normal life while checking in with new posts and investigating new links. responding and replying and initiating communications, encouragement, and support so i don’t take more than i give and don’t constantly feel like i’m sipping from a firehose. (it’s slow going and none have completely gelled yet unfortunately, so ideas, suggestions, and tips welcomed and appreciated.)

i am accepting positive feedback and encouragement with heartfelt appreciation instead of my usual sidestepping or deflecting in my familiar aw-shucks mode. for decades, i’ve been the cheerleader, you see – a role i find easy and rewarding – but to have the tables turned, to have others rah-rahing me makes me think keep-it-coming while saying oh-stop.

i am making my way through a month that others find full and festive, a month i find melancholy on the best day. participation hasn’t made me giddily festive or caught me wearing christmas sweaters or wiring a wreath onto the grill of my car, but i am quietly getting through the month focusing on what has filled instead of what has emptied. and i’m discovering and developing more good things in the process. it just doesn’t get much better than that.

with so many benefits, it’s easy to see why i say that behind door #1 we have the best blog i stumbled onto in 2009: gwen bell’s big love in a small world. gwen, sugar, i thank you for being and supplying the kindling. i thank you for being fun and generous and honest. i thank you for raising the standard with your writing. and i especially thank you for yesterday, for making me believe that maybe – just maybe – i can do this thing called writing.

p.s. gwen, feel free to go ahead and sign me up as a 2010 volunteer . . . but do you think i could be an elf instead of a reindeer? it’s a personal preference thing, that’s all.

#best09
~~~
the story is mine, but credit for the kindling goes to gwen bell and her best of 2009 blog challenge.
~~~

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#best09

the wind tunnel as life’s little book of big lessons

December 7, 2009 / jeanne / 24 Comments

this is my boy, kipp. he could collect toy trains or comic books or baseball cards, but nooooo. his hobby is jumping out of airplanes, and the weekend before thanksgiving, i got to see him compete in the national skydiving championship.

i’ll get to the conference part in a minute, but first, let me introduce you to my son:

when he was 11 years old, kipp was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. he could’ve tucked himself into a nice safe cocoon where he remained comfortable, but instead he pursued acting and snowboarding and running themed marathons (like the time he ran through the mud carrying a huge boombox) and eventually skydiving. which is not to say that he runs around constantly pushing the limits and behaving recklessly. no, he’s quite the balanced guy – one helluva writer who’s also holding down a full-time job, raising a dog he rescued from the pound, participating in some open mic nights, snowboarding during the season . . . and skydiving every chance he gets.

i’ll get to the conference part in a minute, right after i show you a few snapshots of my boy at the recent championship:

here he is right after his chute opened. his dad argued that some other guy was kipp (his dad also mistakenly goo-goo’ed over somebody else’s baby in the nursery after our daughter was born, but we’ll talk about that another time).

and this is kipp righting himself in preparation for the landing:

and finally we see kipp – well, we see his chute anyway – safely on the ground:

i’ll tell you about the conference, but first you need to know that kipp’s team, relativity, came in 2nd at that national championship.

okay, now proud mama is ready to tell you about the best conference of 2009 . . . which isn’t exactly a conference but i’m going with it anyway. if you squint, i promise it comes close to qualifying because: (1) there were several people there, (2) i only knew one of them (2 if you count kipp’s former girlfriend, but let’s not), and (3) i learned something new. (not something you’d call a marketable skill, but still, i learned something. something important.)

kipp practices for skydiving competitions during weekly sessions in the indoor wind tunnel, and one day last year, (this is as good a time as any to mention that i just don’t track linear, chronological time that well) he took me along. i watched the 5-minute training video, suited up, double-knotted my shoes, and took my place in line (last).

before we started, the instructor went over the hand signals one more time. this, he said slightly curling 2 fingers, means bend your legs slowly. and this, he said straightening out those same 2 fingers, means straighten out your legs just a little. this, he said putting a finger to each corner of his mouth, means smile, and this, he said displaying the hawaiian sign for hang loose, means relax.

as it turns out, falling into the tunnel is my specialty. once inside the tunnel, however, things went ugly fast. some of the air churned by the unbelievably huge and loud (even with earplugs) jet engines went right up my nose and, well, you know how when you forget that you’re not a fish and inhale while under water and feel like you’re gonna’ drown any minute now? it’s not just a water thing. it can happen with air, too, i’m here to tell you. i felt like i was going to drown and just like in the movies, my life whizzed by before my eyes.

okay, well, not my ENTIRE life, but i did vividly remember that one time when i went swimming at lake spivey with my friend joyce and nearly drowned because i jumped off the concrete block wall (don’t ask why a lake had a wall – just don’t ask) a little further to the deep side than i should have been. ordinarily i would have just waded in like i normally did, but you see joyce knew everything about everything (just like her mother did) and she was best at everything (just like her mother was) and she knew everybody who was anybody (just like her mother did) so naturally i could NOT tell them that i didn’t know how to do anything more at a lake than walk in ankle-deep water.

i was drowning in jet-propelled air this time, though, and right about then is when i realized that while i could read their signals, we hadn’t begun to talk about mine. i began motioning furiously to the exit door, and the instructor just smiled and gave me the relax sign. eventually, when i pulled away and just started to swim (i’m embarrassed to tell you that i did – i swam through the air) towards the exit door, the instructor picked up on where i was headed and helped me get there.

my boy and his friends were kinda’ concerned about me, but honestly, my early exit meant more flying time for them, so their concern didn’t exactly eat up a lot of clock. i gave myself a good talking to and knew – i just knew – i couldn’t quit. i might never have this opportunity again, so i had to shake it off, take myself in hand, get back in there, and fly.

and when it was my turn again, i did – get back in there, i mean – and i swear, it was a near-exact repeat. fall in: check. air goes up nose: check. panic sets in: big time check. again i started with my own wild, obviously indecipherable hand signals, and again the instructor gave me his signal to relax. every time i’d manage to get myself oriented towards the exit door, he’d grab a grip on my suit and spin me back around. with my eyes, i pleaded with the guy in the control booth to GET ME OUT, but he just smiled and turned up the air. finally i realized that i was, in fact, going to be in that tunnel until my time was up, and so, i reasoned, i and i alone was responsible for how i spent my time there.

relax, i told myself, and i relaxed. breathe, i told myself, and i breathed. look around, i told myself, and i looked around. shoot, i think i even smiled a bit. i focused on what my body was doing and feeling and marveled at how the slightest movement – just a quarter turn of one hand, for example, changed my direction or altitude.

when my 2 minutes were up (yes, it sounded like it was a lot longer, didn’t it?), was when i was just getting comfortable.

i’ve thought a lot about that conference. about how short my time was there, about how i spoke my own language that not everybody understood, about how my slightest movement was powerful enough to affect big changes . . . about how if i’d’ve been given a face guard to provide full-face protection, things might’ve turned out much, much differently.

#best09
~~~
the story is mine, but credit for the kindling goes to gwen bell and her best of 2009 blog challenge.
~~~

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#best09

the best night(s)

December 6, 2009 / jeanne / 0 Comments

before we get started, a confession: i signed up for gwen bell’s blog challenge for two specific, well-thought-out (maybe fairly well-thought-out is more like it), self-serving reasons:
1. i want and i need to associate with good writers, seriously good writers. writers who will keep me sharp and keep me trying.
2. i don’t know if it’s fear of commitment or what, but i have trouble selecting favorites in my life. oh, i’m reflective enough all right, but in a general, broad-stroke sort of way.

that said, today’s assignment goes like this: December 5 Night out. Did you have a night out with friends or a loved one that rocked your world? Who was there? What was the highlight of the night? and my response goes like this:

best pre-2009 nights that come to mind include the night when, as an undergraduate student, i felt absolutely, undeniably, uncontrollably in love with my life. and the night he scooped me up – broken knee and all – and whisked me away minutes after we said “i will. oh, yes, yes, yes, you know i will.” how could i ever forget the night my daughter was born, and i slept through the night on my stomach for the first time in 12 years or the night 14 months later when my son was born and spent his first night sleeping quietly right beside me as i finished his christmas stocking?

then, after enough consideration to disrupt sleep and cause headaches, i’ve decided that the best 2009 nights include (in no particular order):
the night we supped with our n.c. friends – people we know only by sight – and their longtime friends whom we’d never seen at all. now eating with the people who live next door can be tricky. real tricky. and expensive if things go badly and you wind up having to sell your house or something. anyway, the first potential land mine is the fact that i’m a picky eater of the first order. it’s nothing my mother did or didn’t do, it’s just the way it is and i am. and what if we have multiple forks and i select the wrong one? what if we stay too long? leave too early? what if there’s something i can (read: will) eat, and it sticks to my teeth . . . and what if it’s an APPETIZER? what if i say the wrong thing? what if andy says the wrong thing and i can’t cover?

you get the picture.

at the appointed time, we head out and walk down to their house. it’s a nice night (and, honestly, we forget all about the fact that we’ll be walking uphill on the way home). what unfolded after we crossed their threshold is a night that, well, i’m writing about it here, so you know it was a good night. the food was DELICIOUS – i even asked for a recipe. there was only one spoon, one knife, and one fork at each place. the conversation flowed freely and easily – even when the other two couples talked about things shared, we didn’t feel left out for a single minute.

as we ate and talked and laughed – oh my goodness how we did laugh – the music played, and to my great delight, we would, after the hosts set the example, get up and dance right smack dab in the middle of the meal. this wasn’t dancing after dinner, this was dancing during dinner – and nobody had to ask to be excused. a good song would come on, and somebody would be up dancing before you could say “turn it up.”

another night worth remembering is a recent meal at the house of other friends. again, the food was delicious, the conversation never stalled, and cutlery was blessedly kept to one of each. at one point in the meal, the four of us were watching a football game on television; reading selections from a book by carlos castaneda, and discussing pre-columbian textiles as modern art – all at the same time.

the other 2009 night that comes to mind is this past thanksgiving night when i was settled in with the husband, my two chiclets, my mother, and an assortment of cats and dogs. tummies were full, dishes were clean and stored, and as we sat talking about this ‘n that while looking at the spectacular, can’t-take-your-eyes-off-of-it waterfall, it started snowing. we turned off all the lights inside, turned on all (read: both) the outside lights, and sat mesmerized with the beauty and quietness of it all.

. . . you know for a picky eater who hates cooking, it’s interesting that each one of my favorite nights involves a meal, isn’t it? well, i suppose there’s nourishment then there’s nourishment.

#best09

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best of 09: favorite book

December 5, 2009 / jeanne / 0 Comments

(then)

let’s pretend i’m visiting my son who lives in the mountain time zone so i can post this by the midnight deadline . . .

If the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children. ~ Madeleine L’Engle

just two weeks ago as we exited the vikings boat ride at epcot through the norway gift shop, my eyes (that were riveted on the door that would eventually let us out of the retail maze) happened upon an old, dear friend: a book called Snow Treasure by Marie McSwigan. not so very long ago (if you ignore calendars, numbers, math, and such) this book held my fourth grade self captive. i read that book enough to wear the words right off the page and into my memory. in the story (that’s reportedly true), a group of norwegian children got up every morning, loaded their sleds with gold bullion, then pulled the gold to safety, sneaking it right under the noses of the nazis whose uninvited arrival changed a peaceful village into a land of fear, uncertainty, and oppression.

so delighted was i to be reacquainted with this old friend (who’s had some cover work done, let me tell you), that i adopted all 4 available copies: 1 copy for each of my children to open on christmas and 2 for me (so i’ll have a replacement when i read the words right off the page again).

(now)

#best09

~~~
the story is mine, but credit for the kindling goes to gwen bell and her best of 2009 blog challenge.
~~~

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best article of 09: live your obituary into truth

December 4, 2009 / jeanne / 9 Comments

i’m participating in this december blogging challenge, you see, and the object is to write a post every day on the given topic. the assignment du jour is to write about an article read in 2009, something good enough to be clipped and tucked away in the family bible. what immediately came to mind for me is an obituary published earlier this year in the cleveland newspaper, an obituary i found via patti digh, who is a veritable treasure trove of good words and good works.

i love reading the obituaries – not to see if anybody i know has died (contrary to what you may have heard, i’m not THAT old), but because, well, there’s just nothing that delights me more than a well-written obituary. this one is the kind of obituary that needs to be written in youth so there’s time to grow into it, to live it into truth.

p.s. i also love visiting cemeteries, too . . . which i guess you might expect from somebody who reads obituaries for fun. my children learned much about multi-digit math and history and writing from tombstones, and though she’s no longer in need of schooling in the graveyard, my daughter was with me on a recent cemetery walk when i snapped the photo you see here.

(NANCY) LEE HIXSON of Danville, Ohio died at sunrise on June 30, 2009. She was born Nancy Lee Wood in Cleveland on April 17, 1944, baptised at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, Valley City, Ohio, and confirmed at St. John’s Lutheran Church, Independence Ohio.

In addition to being a teetotaling mother and an indifferent housekeeper, she was a board certified naturopath specializing in poisonous and medicinal plants; but she would like to point out, posthumously, that although it did occur to her, she never spiked anyone’s tea. She often volunteered as an ombudsman to help disadvantaged teens find college funding and early opened her home to many children of poverty, raising several of them to successful, if unwilling, adulthood. She also enjoyed a long life of unmentionable adventures and confessed she had been a rebellious teen-aged library clerk, an untalented college student on scholarship, a run-away Hippie, a stoic Sunday School teacher, a Brownie leader, a Grange lecturer, an expert rifleman, a waitress, a wife once or twice, a welder, an artist, and a writer.

She was in earlier years the president of Rainbow Systems Trucking Company, Peninsula Ohio, and she drove tractor-trailers over-the-road hauling freight commodities to startled customers from Minnesota to Florida. She was the CEO of the Cuyahoga Valley Center of Outdoor Leadership Training (COLT), where she lived in a remote and tiny one-room cabin in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park.

Despite the lack of cabin space and dining table, she often served holiday dinners to friends and relatives and could seat twenty at the bed.

She lived the last twenty-three years at Winter Spring Farm near Danville where she built a private Stonehenge, and planted and helped save from extinction nearly 50 varieties of antique apple trees, many listed in A.J. Downing’s famous orchard guide of 1859 – among them such delicacies as Summer Sweet Pearmain, Sops of Wine, Westfield Seek No Further, and Duchess of Oldenburg. Her homemade cider and wine were reputed to cause sudden stupor. She befriended countless stray dogs, cats, horses, and the occasional goat. She was a nemesis to hunters, and an activist of unpopular, but just, causes. In short, she did all things enthusiastically, but nothing well.

After moving to Danville, she bravely suffered with a severe and disabling disorder and a ten-year battle with lymphoma that ultimately took her life. She was often confined to the home where she continued to tirelessly volunteer and donate her limited resources to needy teens in the area, always cheered by their small and large achievements.

Sympathy and big donations may be extended at this time.

She was predeceased by her father Dwight Edward Wood of the Ohio pioneer Wood family of Byhalia, who died in the Columbus Jail having been accused of a dreadful crime, and by her second father Ted A. Cznadel of Danville who adopted her, loved her and raised her despite it all. She is survived by her dearly beloved son, her heart and soul and every breath, Christopher Daniel Hixson of Akron, (a sterling citizen who rose above his murky childhood with a scandalous mother), and by his loving partner Mitchell Kahan. She is also survived by her mother, the opinionated and stubborn Ann Gall Cznadel; by her brother the Rev. Dr. Thomas R. Sluberski, a Lutheran minister and professor, most recently of Rio de Janeiro; by her gentle, ecological brother Gregory T. Cznadel, a quality manager of Cleveland; by her talented sister Linda R. Cznadel Hauck, a librarian from sea to shining sea, of San Luis Obispo; by her genius nephew and godson Matthew Hauck of Minneapolis; and the other half of her heart, her patient friend and backstairs lover of thirty years, David Paul Bleifus who resides at the farm.

Ms. Hixson traced her lineage directly through eleven generations to Governor William Bradford of the ship Mayflower and the Plimouth Colony, and was in the process of membership to The Mayflower Society. She was a long-time card carrying member of the ACLU, the Democratic Party, and of MENSA.

The family wishes to thank Dr. Gene Morris for his care, understanding and sense of humor through it all; Dr. Paul Masci of Cleveland Clinic Wooster; and Dr. Skip Radwany and the nursing staff of the Palliative Care Center at Summa for their compassion as Lee shuffled off this mortal coil. Cremation has taken place. Immediate family and friends will gather at Stonehenge on a sunny summer day to celebrate her life. Interment is in the family plot at Brinkhaven Hilltop Cemetery in Brinkhaven, Ohio, where she will await an eventual and probable slide down the cliff to the Mohican River below. In lieu of flowers, please pray for the Constitution of the United States. “Now Voyager depart, (much, much for thee is yet in store)…” – Walt Whitman

#best09

~~~
the story is mine, but credit for the kindling goes to gwen bell and her best of 2009 blog challenge.
~~~

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#best09

restaurant

December 2, 2009 / jeanne / 8 Comments

he was stuck in the medical pinball machine, bouncing from one doctor to another. the weekly appointments became social outings, my mother inviting a friend or two to join us for the ride to the doctor’s office then lunch on the way home.

on this particular day, i chose a pizza restaurant they’d never been to before. mother, her friend miss eleanor, daddy – they were all excited at the prospect, but when we pulled into the parking lot, daddy changed his mind and grouchily voiced his reluctance. he just wanted to go home, he declared. “well, mother and miss eleanor are hungry,” i told him. “they had a light breakfast in anticipation, so we’re going to stop.”

“well, i’m staying in the car,” he huffed.

“fine,” i said as i wheeled into the sunniest parking space and rolled the windows down about half way.

“how many?” the hostess asked as we entered the restaurant.

“three now,” i said, “but there’ll be a fourth one in a wheelchair joining us in about 15 minutes.” mother and miss eleanor, now onto my plan, chuckled nervously.

we sat down, ordered our drinks, and perused the menu. they were amused but cautious, too, not knowing how daddy would respond to not getting his way. he was, after all, The Sick One, and even the driver takes second seat to The Sick One. sick one wants to listen to a particular radio station, driver must relinquish control of the dial. the sick one is too cold, the thermostat is adjusted to accommodate, even if the driver gets warm and drowsy. the sick one doesn’t want to stop for lunch, well, usually, the driver would go straight home.

about 15 minutes later, i removed a chair from the table to make room, excused myself, and went out to check. as i rounded the corner, he opened his door as though he thought i’d never come back for him, and we all ate pizza at a restaurant that still reigns as one of the family favorites.

my daddy died 9 years ago today, and i miss him more this year than ever before. 2 nights ago i sat watching my favorite television show, the closer. (southern gal rides into l.a., assumes a management-level position, sweetly and silently endures the ridicule, then goes right on to confidently solve the case in slightly less than 40 minutes every single week. i mean, really, what’s not to love?) anyway, monday night’s rerun was the christmas show, and when brenda lee’s daddy went into the bedroom to console her about something – when he sat there on the bed beside her and talked to her as her daddy – well, i’m not too proud to tell you that i was green-eyed, flat-out jealous of a television character.

daddy fell the day after thanksgiving that year, and ever the patient advocate, i stayed with him at the hospital day and night. as doctors talked of releasing him for in-house rehabilitation by mid-week, i followed my intuition and called the woman – my little elf – who was creating leather bound copies of the book i’d secretly written about daddy. “hello, karen, this is jeanne, and, well, i know you probably haven’t even had time to open my box yet and i know the books aren’t due back till 12/22ish, and i know this might be an outrageous request, but, well, see here’s the thing: i hear voices and they are telling me that i have to get those books back pronto.”

this remarkable woman who will always be high on my list of sheroes didn’t whine or complain or even exhale loudly. she simply said, “i can have one book to you by this-coming saturday and the rest to you on the following monday.”

he only spoke twice that week: once to tell me he was ready for this to be over, and once to tell me how his brother gene (who was killed at age 18) was wrestling with him and wouldn’t “let him in”. with his eyes closed, daddy described everything and everybody he was seeing, and when finally he came to some kind of agreement with uncle gene, a palpable peace filled the room. as daddy rested quietly for the first time in days, and as i sat soaking it all in, staff members (even the ones who had been so darn grouchy less than an hour before) gravitated to the room and talked softly, telling me about themselves and their woes. the room was a magnet for those in angst.

when daddy’s bells and whistles went off around 8:30 that saturday morning, i called the family. as we gathered around daddy’s bed, my husband and son arrived with the fed ex box. i unwrapped the package, bid everybody an early merry christmas (promising them their very own copy on monday), and began to read.

we started reading daddy’s book around 1:15 that afternoon, taking turns reading, laughing, crying, remembering. there were stories he’d told me, letters i’d solicited from friends and former employees – some he hadn’t heard from in decades – and stories and character sketches others told me about my daddy when i interviewed them. we read and we read and we read, closing the cover on daddy’s book around 10 minutes till 5; closing the cover on daddy’s life 5 minutes later.

the ancient rabbis ask “who is rich” then answer their own question by saying “whoever delights in their portion.” i had my daddy for a scant 72 years, but oh, how i do delight in my portion. rest in peace, daddy. rest in peace.

#best09

~~~
the story is mine, but credit for the kindling goes to gwen bell and her best of 2009 blog challenge.
~~~

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#best09

magic

December 1, 2009 / jeanne / 7 Comments

i am a planner of the first order, a list maker extraordinaire. some call me bossy, others call me a control freak, but none call me unprepared.

two weeks ago, we met my husband’s brother and his wife in the atlanta airport and the four of us trekked down to orlando where we picked up my 50-year old developmentally delayed sister-in-law nancy, and took her to visit the mouse. we don’t see this brother/wife duo more than once or twice a year, and given that traveling together has wrecked more than one friendship, and since we’re so different (both as individuals and as couples), and because nancy is more than a little on the high maintenance side of things, i think you’ll understand why i was the teensiest bit concerned about how this adventure might go down in the family history book.

talk about your unintended consequences . . . i was out of town the three weeks immediately preceding this little adventure, which meant i headed to orlando completely unfettered. no need for a packing list, i just took whatever clothes happened to be clean. no need to list things we might possibly need for nancy, we’d just take the rental car out and fetch anything we lacked. as for the list of conversation kindling, well shoot, i completely forgot about making that.

thursday found us at the magic kingdom where there were no crowds – i’m not kidding – which meant no lines. no crowds + no lists = no stressing over how to fit everything in. that night when nancy became ill, her two brothers were able to help her right into the ladies restroom, empty because even the teensiest bladders will magically wait patiently during magnificent fireworks displays. and when i decided we needed a wheelchair to get nancy back to the hotel, like magic, the first aid station happened to be right next door to the ladies restroom we inhabited.

friday found us at epcot where we strolled leisurely about, happening upon the italian players just as they needed someone who looked just like my husband to play romeo in their version of romeo and, well, edna; walking into japan just as the drummers flamboyantly waved their drumsticks in the air; arriving at our table in the moroccan restaurant just as the belly dancer took the floor. though we were not shopping as we made our way through the norway gift shop after exiting the viking boats, i spotted copies of my favorite 4th grade book called snow treasure. and when i approached the register with a heart racing with the happiness at being reunited with a long-lost friend, i was the only customer and thus able to pay and get outside before donn and carole even knew we were no longer right behind them. and as if all that isn’t enough, we happened upon mexico just in time to watch the sun set over the water as we sipped our margaritas – the spell broken only when nancy surprised us all by uncharacteristically saying “nothing wrong with me.”

despite the lack of planning of what to talk about, the only lull in conversation was when we slept, and even though i had no packing list to go by, i wore clean underwear every. single. day.

it was a magical five days, yes it was. not overly tiring, no cross words were uttered, and we didn’t leave a single thing in the room when we checked out.

now some might say it’s the camel who spat on me not once but several times who’s responsible for the magic. others might credit the mouse and his creator. had she been there, my mother-in-law would say i was holding my nose just right. but really, i’m thinking that the magic we enjoyed on this five-day adventure has to do more with me letting go.

quoting liz emmett mattox, patti digh writes “those who look and expect to see magic will find it everywhere.” with my nose not constantly hovering over various lists, i spied magic all around me. with hands not responsible for marking things off, i preserved magical memories that i’m finding far more satisfying than any list ever made.

#best09

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the story is mine, but credit for the kindling goes to gwen bell and her best of 2009 blog challenge.
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#best09

releasing

November 27, 2009 / jeanne / 0 Comments

i used to feel most invisible around the holidays, humming the song “cellophane man” from the musical chicago as i scurried about at warp speed. weeks or months ahead, i’d study magazines, take classes, make lists. wanting everything to look amazing, sound pleasant, taste scrumptious, and feel enjoyable. i wanted my family to oooh and aaah over the holiday trappings and traditions, and not just on that particular day – oh no. i wanted to hear rave reviews for months and months after The Big Day. they did pay the occasional compliment, but not nearly enough to satisfy me that they truly appreciated – or even noticed, for that matter – my efforts and energy.

with each passing year, i seem to be shedding the desire to impress (some would use the word “control”). i sold the turkey pan at a garage sale year ago. candles surrounded by treasures found on walks make what i now call stunning centerpieces. and i save money and space by avoiding magazines like the plague. i plan the big rocks, as stephen covey calls them, letting the chips fall where they fall.

are the holidays happier? more enjoyable? more memorable? i can’t say for sure, but i will tell you that some of the family legends recently added to our archives are entertaining and hilarious tales of amazing improvisation and resourcefulness. i can tell you that though i still sleep well at night during red letter events, it’s from tiredness, not bone-level exhaustion. and today, when they went for a walk up the falls and turned to smile and wave at me as i sat by the window watching, i felt incredibly loved and visible and fortunate.

thanksgiving 2009 wrap-up

November 27, 2009 / jeanne / 2 Comments

we got off to ~~a rough~~ an interesting start on thanksgiving 2009, but as we they sit here watching football, i know we pulled it out just fine. oh, the table wasn’t worthy of a single snapshot, and the food was served in the midst of countertop clutter, and the family balked when i lit candles and turned down the lights, but it was still a very nice thanksgiving.

mimosas help move us through the day with a kitchen full of folks, each of whom has their own cooking style. i prefer to clean as i go while others prefer cooking now/cleaning later and still others say if they cook, somebody else can clean by golly.

we still honor the 20-minute rule, a little something i conjured up many years ago in a foot-stomp moment: eat as fast as you want, i tell them, but you are gonna’ sit at this table for 20 minutes because I JUST SPENT THREE DAYS COOKING AND A DAY AT THE GROCERY STORE BEFORE THAT.

long ago i, like so many others, ended every day noting at least 5 things on my gratitude list, and you know, the more i was grateful for, the more i had to be grateful for. that practice, like anything else i’ve done consistently, taught me to see, to think in a certain way. over the years, i’ve tried all sorts of ways to enkindle conversation about gratitude as we sit around the overflowing table on the fourth thursday of november, but this year i waved the white flag and just left each to his/her own way of saying thank you.

once, on a family trip, my son wandered off by himself for some alone time. when we reunited later that afternoon, he came bearing a gift for me: a handblown glass stylus, inkwell, and stand. it is gorgeous and it is delicate – far too delicate to sit ready in a house with curious cats that leap with abandon – so until 2 weeks ago, it sat in my closet. it was the first thing i saw when i opened the closet door, and i vowed that when we were once again catless, i was bringing it out into the open.

then mother and i went to vancouver 2 weeks ago, and on granville island, i bought 2 bottles of vegetable-based ink and ever since, i’ve started each day penning thank you notes with my handblown glass stylus. i dip the nib in the inkwell and delight in the sound and feel of it scratching along the paper. once at least 3 notes are finished, the dog and i walk them to the mailbox.

so why am i not afraid for the stylus’ life even though we still provide shelter for 2 cats? because, my friends, i have discovered a little something called museum mount – a clear, slightly sticky gel that holds everything tightly in its designated place. yes, thanks to that little jar of museum mount, i can look forward to penning those daily thank you notes with my glass pen far into the future, cats be damned.

but now, as we close out thanksgiving 2009, i’ll publicly revert to noting 5 things for which i am monstrously thankful:

* children who enjoy, defend, and, when necessary, support each other.
* a low-maintenance, high-companionable dog.
* a mother who is still interested in all sorts of things, who never uses age as an excuse, and who is not too set in her ways to stay up past midnight and sleep till nearly noon.
* a husband who willingly changes out switchplate and outlet covers even though he thinks what we already have is perfectly fine.
* friends – those i see in person and those i see digitally – who tickle, support, inspire, and encourage.

oh, oh, oh: and museum mount. yes siree, i sure am thankful for museum mount.