Tag: family (Page 7 of 7)

pieces of peace

December 8, 2009 / jeanne / 16 Comments

my grandmother made quilts – one for everybody in the family.

she’d swap fabric scraps with neighbors, decide on a pattern, then dump the accumulated fabric bits out on the bed, make her selections, and start cutting. she consulted with us about our preferred color for the flannel backing fabric, but she and she alone made the decision on fabric for the quilt tops based mostly – okay, solely – on what fabrics she had in hand.

she used a sewing machine – an old treadle machine – to sew the pieces together into blocks then the blocks together into the top. one the top was assembled, she’d sandwich batting between the quilt top and flannel backing and stitch those together, the machine whirring it’s irregular rhythm. the very last thing she did once the quilting was done and the borders finished off, was embroider our name in a corner of the quilt, and that she did by hand.

honestly, the quilts weren’t all that special to us. we figured quilting was just something grandmother did to keep busy. my mother used our quilts to wrap furniture when she moved it out to redecorate and as beach towels when we went to the ocean and as dog beds on cold winter nights. when they got dirty, she’d throw them in the washing machine then hang them on the line to dry.

a few years ago i decided to catalog grandmother’s quilts and asked my cousins, aunts, and uncles to bring their quilts to be photographed. when we held the first one up to the backdrop of the woods and stepped back to have a look, there was an audible collective inhale followed by the most exquisite silence – the silence of respect and appreciation and love-in-a-new-light.

my quilt is in the velveteen stage of life, loved raw in places, the batting spilling out and making a mess all over the place. i’ve thought about mending it, but, shoot, i’ve never gotten around to it. i ought to, though, because let me tell you one thing: some of the most peaceful moments i’ll ever know are enjoying that deep, peaceful, falling-off-the-edge good sleep that comes only on the nights when grandmother’s quilt is wrapped around me. mmm mmm mmm. all those tiny little pieces. painstakingly cut, arranged, then stitched together into something bigger. something much, much bigger.

#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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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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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

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

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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.

the key to thanksgiving 2009

November 26, 2009 / jeanne / 0 Comments

chapter 1:
we leave late . . . which puts us driving on the mountainous roads of western nc through the dense, opaque clouds. 2 cats fight the entire time (loudly and physically) while 1 cat practices his carsickness in my lap. and on my arms. and, when all other appendates seem to be covered, on my chest.

chapter 2:
we arrive at the house only to find ourselves locked out. my key that always lives in the car console is m.i.a., and the fella’ doing work on the outside of the house has apparently taken the (singular, as in the only) spare key home with him. or something.

chapter 3:
the garage door opens, thanks to the cooperation of that programmable thingie in my car, so we shepherd dog and cats into the garage and position a big box in front of the cat door because, at the risk of sounding inhospitable, i’m thinking i don’t want the cats to be inside without canine or human supervision. (surely you’ve heard what the cats will do when the mice are away.)

chapter 4:
we head into town where we are delighted to find the dollar store open and a rack of clothes for sale on the sidewalk. alison and mother have their clothes, but i have nothing save the ones that now smell of eau de cat vomit. i pick up clothes, deodorant, and a toothbrush . . . plus a couple of christmas trees for the front door, 31 reindeer ears, a few presents, holiday greeting cards, dog food, a gallon of water (since the water is turned off at the house), a blanket large enough for all the cats and then some, a bed for the dog, and some dog food (already have cat food). just the essentials, you know.

chapter 5:
we walk to the restaurant and inhale food while they mop the floor under our feed, refill condiments and wish we would eat faster.

chapter 6:
back to the dollar store where i purchase some black thermal pants and a mini-dress to wear over them as pajamas since both mother and alison draw the line at me sleeping naked.

chapter 7:
back to the house to feed the animals and tuck them into bed. as alison and i unload the car, mother slips behind the wheel, prepared to honk and flash (the lights) should cats even look like they’re thinking of running out of the garage. they don’t – just the sound of the door is enough to send them into cabinets, thank goodness. we put out the food and water, spread out the blanks, fluff up the dog’s bed, and leave.

chapter 8:
when mother exits the car at the front door to the hotel that we hope has one more empty room, out falls the fork that she “lost” at the waffle house where we stopped for a bite on the way to n.c. eons ago. don’t ask.

chapter 9:
we turn on television in time to see donnie osmond announced the winner of dancing with the stars then showers and smirnoffs all around (with me in pole position) followed by soft snoring and sweet dreams.

chapter 10:
after the free breakfast, we load the car and head back to the house. seeing the neighbor’s car, we stop and i ask if he knows the whereabouts of his friend who did some work on our house. turns out it’s a case of EX-friends due to the unfortunate fact that workerbee stopped paying rent to neighbor (a.k.a. landlord) which led to the eviction of workerbee. so, no, neighbor doesn’t know whereabouts of workerbee but grabs his tools and vows that he won’t leave till we’re inside our house.

chapter 11:
neighbor can’t find a spare key in keybox open either. doors all locked. windows all locked. he’s checking the last door when i notice that workerbee left a trapdoor open that leads to under the house (i immediately picture me trying to wake a family of bears and ask them to pretty please find another place to hibernate) and i hatch a hail-mary idea: “what if we can get inside by going under the house?” i explain that there are 2 closetesque doors in j’underneath (my n.c. studio) that open to – surprise – the big rock on which our house sits. (it’s eerie and captivating all at once.) the way i figure it, he’s just got to take the hinge off the smaller trapdoor (the larger, open door is a deadend – i already know that), crawl in, and find his way over to one of the 2 surprise doors. it works, and before you know it, i’m standing inside asking how can i ever repay him for breaking and entering.

chapter 12:
the key is now permanently attached to my person, and 4 duplicates are on their way up with hubbie. the animals roam contentedly (if not always peaceably). groceries are put up. yesterday’s clothes are washed, and now – at 3:11 a.m. on thanksgiving day – i prop my eyelids open waiting for hubbie and son to arrive and make the dinner table complete. let the overeating begin . . .

a wordless story told with sole

August 18, 2009 / jeanne / 0 Comments

and this, kids, is what you get when you combine too much time with a new camera.

trekking on down memory lane

August 16, 2009 / jeanne / 16 Comments

last night found me at hippiefest with hubbie, daughter, daughter’s friend, and a friend of my own from long ago. as we trekked down memory lane, remembering through familiar songs sung by men who sang them back in the day – the names and the tunes familiar if not the aged voices.

i remembered a girl who not only loved to stitch and sew, embellish plain closet doors with collages of photos of things that captured her attention, repaint furniture to suit . . . i remembered a girl who loved to wear pretty clothes (and on whom clothes looked pretty)

(sorry for fuzzy picture – i’m auditioning new cameras, and this one is obviously not The One.)

i remembered a girl who read everything she could get her hands on, a girl who collected words and copied sentences she liked and wrote stories.

i remembered a girl for whom music was a jet plane, taking her wherever she needed . . . or wanted . . . to go in a mere measure or two, music that also provided an escape hatch, allowing her to vacate moods and memories that she wanted to leave. a girl who played colorful tunes on the piano like her grandmother before her.

i remembered falling in deep, instantaneous love with a man who has never once asked me to be more than who i am, accepting (if not understanding) that who i am is subject to frequent change, even while who i really am remains the same.

and then somewhere in the night, i found myself looking forward, thinking and wondering about the future, knowing i did not have to/would not leave the future up to chance. that’s when i decided to do what so many others have done before me: make a list of things i still want to do. so today i got out pen and paper and started My The List.

i was on fire – jotting things like this was my only chance, and in the end, i came up with a list of 3 things.

count them: 3.

oh, i actually came up with many, many more – it’s just that i got all hung up on what’s a real desire worthy of going on My The List and what’s merely a to do and what’s something i feel like i ought to put on My The List because it seems like it’s something i ought to to want to do.

maybe it’s the brownies from last night.

kinnected: day one

August 10, 2009 / jeanne / 8 Comments

(i’ll explain the pose tomorrow.) (or the next day.)

laughter. that’s the language we spoke today. not just those silly giggles, but good old-fashioned bely laughs. the infectious kind of laughs to which no one is immune.

it’s been a day filled with moments i wish i could just freeze and capture – put in a jar somehow so i could pull them out on the days when i need a good laugh, a good memory. (maybe there’s an iphone app for that?)

there are 3 generations here, the idea is for my mother to enjoy a week with her 3 grandchildren with me along as . . . for . . . well, i’m just here. we’re one day into the plan, and so far, so good.

on the day spent with my cousin last week, it was memories of grandmother that segued from one topic to another. our favorite shared memory is how grandmother leapt out of her reserved demeanor every new year’s day. she’s sit in that god-awful piece of furniture under the telephone (i swear, it looked like some cheap souvenir one of the kids picked up for her at a roadside stuckey’s and brought home to prove to her they were, too, thinking about her while on vacation), going down the list of children and grandchildren:

she dialed.
ring-ring. ring-ring.
“hello?” answered the callee on the other end.
“is this 1-9-8-2? (or whatever the year was)” she’d ask, barely able to squelch her laughter before committing the unpardonable sin of hanging up without even saying bye.

it’s become one of our favorite shared annual rituals now, my cousin and i racing to see who can call the other one first thing on new year’s day, wishing we could be like her in more ways than this.

a friend once revealed that she wanted to adopt her granddaughter, and even though she didn’t ask my opinion or even my thoughts on the matter, i put on my best maxine-self and blurted ahead anyway about what a dang fool thing that would be, depriving that adorable child of an invaluable resource: her grandmother.

grandmothers play such an important role in a grandchild’s life. grandmothers don’t need glasses to see the best in each grandchild. grandmothers don’t need letters after their names to teach their grandchildren the most important things in life.

it was my paternal great-grandmother who taught me to like potatoes and cornbread. mimi lived in the cutest, most adorable house-for-one built especially for her by my daddy and his brother, gene. mimi took in sewing to create grocery and pin money. one of my most treasured possessions is the doll dress she made for one of my babies, all of it stitched by hand.

my maternal grandmother made quilts – one for each child and grandchild. these were everyday quilts – we used them for picnicking on the beach, for protecting precious cargo during moves, and mostly for comforting us when sick. several years ago, i held a family reunion and asked that everybody bring their quilts made by grandmother. my backyard was filled with boisterous relatives, and when the first quilt was taken to the edge of the woods and held up by its owners, a hushed awe filled the air. “she really was an artist,” someone said as we all took in the quilts – one by one – from afar.

distance is important to perspective – there’s no doubt about that. this week we’ve reduced the geographical distance, coming together to laugh the days away. we’ll spend the week creating memories that will grow soft around the edges with time, while comforting and warming us for a long, long time. it’s what i call a dream vacation.

(especially if we all come out of it alive.) (i’m just sayin’ . . .)

waking up on memory lane

August 5, 2009 / jeanne / 4 Comments

though my children are no longer in school (unless, like me, you count life as school – but we’ll save the philosophy for another day), i still operate on a school calendar. which means that the lazy, hazy days of summer are coming to an end. screeching to a halt. closing.

but wait: what lazy hazy days of summer?

i can remember waking up and just lying in bed, the birds singing me to consciousness, the day beckoning me with all the opportunities it held as treasures. i felt so, so . . . in control of my life. there was time in those summer days, and i spent it traveling through books; adding to my collection of words and thoughts in my notebooks; swimming in the lake as the bottom gushed up between my toes; painting my furniture with antiquing kits ordered from the sears catalog; carving my initials in a tree; rolling down hills (and coming home with grass-stained clothes to prove it); eating lunch at grandmother’s house – my plate filled with fresh vegetables we picked maybe an hour before devouring them.

i sewed, creating clothes i wore proudly. i stitched, grabbing something from the closet and embellishing it – transforming it – with decorative embroidery.

i added to the collage of photos that transformed my closet doors. i rearranged my furniture. i napped at will and without apology.

the days were leisurely full: deliciously, creatively, spaciously full.

am here in my beloved n.c. now – phoebe and i trekked up yesterday for a short visit. for reasons i cannot explain, the days are more spacious here – resembling those i remember so fondly – opening up to allow most anything i choose.

today i’ll be setting up my new computer (i do so hope it’s as easy as “they” say it is – am just transferring files from one apple laptop to another, but the hiccup is that the old laptop is really, really, really old while the new laptop is really, really, really new. am hoping my software will be able to make itself at home on the new playground.) and auditioning 3 paint colors for the exterior of the house: Zenful, Early Morning Mist, and Enlighten Mint. (i’m leaning towards enlighten mint – the color’s okay, but oohh those words.) (remember how i told you i collected words? sometimes just for fun, i go to the paint store and read names of paint colors.) (and you should see my collection of race horse names.)

i’m also looking forward to seeing a favorite cousin of mine . . . perhaps that’s the kindling for the nostalgic tone this morning. i do so enjoy our reminiscing – sometimes philosophically and psychologically, often humorously, always lovingly.

3 a day

July 9, 2009 / jeanne / 6 Comments

started my day out the old-fashioned way today, the way i once started every day out: i wrote 3 notes then walked to the mailbox to mail them. just brief little handwritten notes. emails would’ve been quicker and taken less time, but there’s just something about pen meeting paper.

one of the notes made me feel a bit on the uncertain side of things as it’s about the third note i’ve sent this friend. always telling her how i noticed something she did and how marvelous i think it is, whatever she did or said. but after a while i wonder if she’ll think me odd in the worst sort of way.

oh well.

when my chiclets were babies, i’d get up early to pen the 3 notes before they woke up, and during the winter when it was just too much trouble to bundle 2 babies up to go out in the cold, i’d sometimes lose contact with adult types and run out of people to write. when that happened, i’d go to the local newspaper and send a note to somebody i read about there. kinda’ felt like a stalker, but i went right ahead and sent it with the clearest of intentions and hoped it would bubble-up a smile on the recipient.

though i’d sometimes hear that the person on the other end of the mailbox enjoyed and appreciated the surprise note, it’s amazing how much it didn’t matter because it was so satisfying just penning and sending the note. in fact, i’d often forget who i’d sent notes to, and i often wondered if that was good or bad. did it mean that i was able to let go of any expected or desired outcome or did it mean i had early onset alzheimers.

i don’t know/can’t explain it, but starting my days this way makes me feel like i have control over my day.

probably a mere illusion, but it’s nice, nevertheless.