2010 in Review

I let myself get caught up in the jingle bells and Christmas awe this season, and in the process I have neglected important things, like writing in my blog and sending Christmas cards (or at least a Christmas letter). I intend to repent, at least partially. With luck, the resulting half-baked "year in the life of the our family" will slide me off the hook. In, um, age order...

I began the year in the throes of mid-life blahs. Yes, it happens. You wake up one year to realize that you will never again read a book without glasses, that in fact you DO need to get proper sleep in order to maintain a significant exercise routine, and that the once well-defined path of your life has begun to meander toward no perceptible goal. So I did what any self-respecting forty-something woman would do. I got my motorcycle license and rode the Harley off into the sunset. I also began writing again and woke up my brain with some online classes and personal study goals. Take that, mid-life crisis! I'm smiling again. Also, thanks to plyometrics and weight-lifting, I actually enjoy running for the first time in my life.

Brad has enjoyed his share of motorcycle sunsets, as well, exploring our new territory of central Illinois and taking wicked pleasure in the fact that he can legally wear a do-rag instead of a helmet while he rides. Hmm...He even rode through Springfield in drag recently, but that involves the long story of his film debut, so I'll just leave you hanging with the delightful image of Brad in long red hair and a dress on a Harley. In real life he continues his work as applications manager at Springfield Clinic, weight lifts for sanity, and dreams about the project bike he is building in the garage.

Halfway through his undergrad program at Utah State, Devin has switched his major to Psychology and loves it. He works in a behavioral analysis lab, teaching children with autism and diving into various research projects. Finding himself in need of a death-defying sport that does not require snow, he took up climbing this year and spent a good chunk of the summer and fall dangling from various cliffs in Northern Utah and Southern Idaho. He even got Brad out on a cliff!

As central Illinois offers no cliffs to speak of, Alec sticks to the death-defying sport of football. He recovered nicely from his concussion, even remembers his name now and managed to memorize a staggering number of dates for his AP European History final. He plays piano in his high school jazz band, and with any luck he will finish his Eagle Scout requirements by this summer so that he can celebrate his 16th birthday with a driver's license. He thoroughly enjoyed his solo trip back to Vermont this summer but also seems to be settling into life here, despite whining about the lack of hills.

Jared attacks life with the exuberance characteristic of most fifth graders. Family vacation gave him the opportunity to celebrate his tenth birthday with two sets of grandparents and other assorted marvelous relatives in Utah. He returned from our cross-country adventures to bond with his father on the football field and basketball court, where Brad continues his love of coaching. Away from the game, Jared has added trumpet to his musical accomplishments (still plays piano) and discovered a love of reading.

Princess Kristina is bored to tears at home and needs kindergarten. With the rigors of preschool, dance class, musical composition (yes, there is a Grammy just around the corner...I'm absolutely certain of it) and charming the socks off of everyone she meets, you would think an almost five-year-old could find a measure of contentment. Sadly, no. But we glory in her hugs in spite of the occasional Attitude.

Christmas week finds us enjoying a rare time with the entire family in one state. With stockings hung on the mantle, and snow in the forecast for Christmas Eve, we send our best wishes for a joyous Christmas and a peaceful New Year.

Christmas Moments

Christmas 2009

During every pledge drive, NPR listeners take to the airwaves to recount their "driveway moments," those times when an intriguing story keeps them glued to the radio in a parked car just outside their own front door. Likewise, we laugh at ourselves about "Hallmark moments" that find us secretly brushing away a tear in the card aisle or choking up while watching a T-Mobile commercial.

Yesterday I had yet another in a series of "Christmas moments" that have made the season surprisingly joyful for me this year. I have no particular problem with Christmas, no painful memories or existential crises, but I do tend to let the materialism and general holiday stress wear me down. Yesterday afternoon I held my sleeping daughter in my arms next to a tiny Christmas tree and drifted off to the sounds of the Salt Lake Children's Choir singing carols. I think the angelic host must have included some children in the chorus when they sang to the shepherds.

Kristina and I had spent the morning with her preschool class on a Bethlehem journey at a local church. Searching for the Christ Child, we followed a magi to Herod's palace and the home of Elizabeth and Zacharias, through a shepherd's field where the sheep huddled against a prairie wind, and to a crowded inn. Finally we presented gifts of wooden stars to the Child as he slept in his mother's arms next to Joseph, who soothed a nervous donkey in the neighboring stall. Cold wind seeped through the stable walls, and Baby Jesus was, after all, just a doll, but the children stood entranced at the manger. I nearly cried as I walked through the nearby marketplace, past child actors asking "Did you find Him?" with a light in their eyes.

Early in the season, I shared another Christmas moment with my teenage son as we attended Rochester High School's annual Madrigal Tea. The choral department transformed the auditorium and took us back through the centuries with flute and jesters and music that settled on my soul like starlight. Music always stirs me, but Christmas music with candles and the warmth of good friends touches my heart with particular poignance.

The following week, we forced our reluctant boys into dress shirts, braved the first real cold of the season and entered the magical world of The Nutcracker. Kristina's eyes lit up when she saw her dance teacher on stage and watched Drosselmeyer's magic. I remembered back fondly to my own ballet years, when dancing in The Nutcracker ushered in the Christmas season for me, and I love that my children allow me to impose my past on their present.

Some of my favorite Christmas moments pass quietly in the evening, with the house dark except for the lights on the tree and in the windows of the village above our fireplace. Brad and I chat about inconsequential happenings of the day and mostly just relax into the best of the Christmas season.

Happily, I find myself this December in the midst of some in depth spiritual study. I discovered some weeks ago that with a little more intense reading, I could finish James Talmage's Jesus the Christ on Christmas Eve. Thus, the Advent has me immersed in the life of the Savior whose birth we celebrate. As I read of His miracles and His teachings, and as I become more aware of His hand in the minutia of my life, my love for the Savior deepens, and my journey to Bethlehem and the gardens of Gethsemane and the resurrection finds color and music like never before.

Bonding Moments...

I reacted rather strongly to a blog entry recently, a reaction that has set me pondering about blogging in general, the peculiarities of how women relate to one another, and the benefits and follies of communal grieving. I am relatively new to blog world, and I have explored little of that world so far. I love eavesdropping on my nephew's rather remarkable thought processes (http://defiantlydead.blogspot.com/), and peaking over the fence into my friend's gardening adventures has made me long for the Pacific Northwest and a green thumb (http://thefarrm.blogspot.com/).

My experiences with a group blog written by and for women have been more mixed. The accomplished writers on this blog deliver polished, engaging material for the most part. With vivid images and fluid prose, they draw their readers close to the heart. From the comments I have read, it is clear that the essays on the blog resonate with their audience. Still, I have this growing sense that as I read I am peering in on an ongoing group therapy session. Nearly every entry details a death, a troubling diagnosis, a heart-wrenching case of abuse, the daily struggles of motherhood, or a series of slights from a group of people who "should know better."

The recent entry that sparked my reaction was a case in point. The writer spoke eloquently of her grieving process following a tragic loss. I ignored the "group therapy" thought tickling the back of my mind as I followed along. In fact, I managed to keep the silly inner voice at bay right up until the blogger began to lament the fact that the only person who seemed to "get" her grief and know what to say was a perfect stranger. Others gave her the silent treatment, and she resented it, particularly at church where her fellow worshippers should know how to mourn with those that mourn.

My pesky inner voice began to grow louder. By the time I glanced through a couple of the dozens of commiserative comments, I gave the voice free rein and quickly turned away from the computer before I could surrender to the temptation to add a comment of my own. I have no problem with the very real pain of loss, just with making others responsible for sharing that pain gracefully.

What is it that bothers me so much about this poignant essay and so many others like it? After all, I get plenty of blog mileage out of my own inner turmoil. I think there are a few primary ingredients to my frustration. I do not understand why women, in particular, seem to have a penchant for bonding over tragedies. It's as if someone created a special club. To gain entrance into the club, or at least to earn the privilege of offering an opinion, one must present her tragedy at the door. Fine. I'll pay up. The things that truly stab me in the gut these days I prefer not to discuss publicly, but I think losing a spouse should be enough to give me a turn at the mic.

I do claim a rudimentary understanding of the grieving process, enough to realize that the process has as many flavors as there are mourners. I also realize that just as we have a responsibility to help shoulder each other's burdens, we also need to take final responsibility for dealing with our own pain. Yes, it would be wonderful if everyone knew just what to say to the survivor of a loss or the single mother struggling for a finger hold. Occasionally, someone will, indeed, strike a profound chord--by inspiration or accident, or simply by virtue of the sufferer's own readiness to accept the Savior's comfort. More often, spectators to grief or pain offer silence or awkward, even hurtful, attempts at conversation. Most folks find the spectre of another's grief incredibly intimidating. We ache for the wounded heart behind the brave face or the tears, and in our fear of miss-step we too often turn away. Grief is such a personal matter, and sometimes we turn aside to give the sufferer a chance to throw a robe around the naked pain. I don't condone the silence, but I do understand it.

Just now, I read through portions of my journal from the cancer years. I marvelled again at the heroism of neighbors and co-workers, family and church members who heeded inspiration and bravely entered the foreign world of my pain. I also remember a dark afternoon when I pleaded in prayer for relief from a burden I felt was too heavy to bear. The Lord answered my prayer with a phone call from my aunt. Fae had walked in my shoes, nursed a husband who died from a similar illness, and I just knew she would say something wonderful to ease the burden. I kept no record of the details of our conversation, but I vividly remember that it did not offer the healing balm for which I had hoped. Instead, it gave me something I needed more that afternoon: a pair of emotional hiking boots and a prod up the trail. I miss my Aunt Fae.

Aromatherapy

I walked outside just now and took a deep breath as I contemplated the next two and a half hours of solitude. In the air I caught a faint scent of new rain. I closed my eyes and inhaled again, more deeply this time, searching. Depending on the season, the musky scent of rain beginning to fall takes me one of two places.

A chilly rain, like today, takes me to Logan Canyon in early autumn. I have left the car at the parking lot at Third Dam and found a trail heading...upward. It doesn't really matter where the trail leads. I hike quickly but aimlessly, the chill giving me energy and the mist over the mountains shrouding any pretended goal. I revel in the solitude of mist and twirling leaves, the drip of the rain and the scent of the earth.

A warm rain, on the other hand, sends me to the desert in the midst of a downpour in Mesa, Arizona. As usual, given the rarity of a rainstorm here, I have left the windows down on my parents' Ford Courier truck. I run out into the rain, laughing, to close them. I toss a towel on the seat for the ride home, but tomorrow's blistering heat will dry the upholstery just fine. The rain covers the hubcaps, and we splash in the street, shirts now a second skin and hair drenched.

I love the power of smell to unlock memories, transporting me to almost forgotten moments in times and places I haven't visited in years. A trip to the grocery store leaves me paused in the coffee aisle, my body in County Market but my head far away in Alaska. At 4 a.m. we have gallons of coffee waiting. The sun rose long ago, and the vacationing fishermen begin to trickle into the dining room. Randy has the float planes waiting at the beach, and the guides swallow their last bites of bacon and eggs. A few hours of folding clothes or cleaning rooms will earn me an afternoon to explore the tundra.

Far from the wilderness of the Alaskan bush, I find myself strangely enamoured with the smell of diesel fumes on a passing city bus. Nasty smell, I suppose, but for me it smells of freedom and adventure, of early morning in Chicago. For the moment, I am fifteen, traveling cross country alone. Just after dawn, we near the Greyhound station. I gaze up at the skyscrapers, smile at the busy and unfamiliar din of horns honking. In another 24 hours, I will yearn for a long shower and a quiet bed, but here in the city the tingle of adventure quickens my step. I want to dance about, but instead I stroll through the bus terminal in my best imitation of a seasoned traveler.

Back in the Midwest again, but much older, I search for Christmas candles. I find it difficult to choose among the pine of childhood Christmas trees, the vanilla that reminds me of the eggnog at Mrs. Gleich's annual Christmas bazaar, or the spicy citrus of the oranges we used to cover in cloves and tuck away in our sock drawers. Perhaps I should simply buy them all and bring decades of Christmases together in a whiff.

City on a Hill

When my husband came to Springfield on a house-hunting trip last year, he asked for directions to the church. "Just look for the power plant, and that's your exit," they said. Directions like that make even Vermont directions sound as specific as a chemical formula. I rolled my eyes and chuckled...until I saw the power plant. Accustomed to locating myself in relation to mountains, I find this flat farmland a little disconcerting. Fortunately for me, Springfield had the foresight to build a monstrosity of a power plant with huge smokestacks, visible from 20 miles away. As long as I can see those smokestacks, I know where I am.

While I appreciate the visibility of the smokestacks or Mount Mansfield, I have not always appreciated my own visibility. As a teenager, I hated my mother's lectures about example. "People watch you," she said, generally in relation to the modesty of my clothes (or the, um, occasional lack of modesty), my language, or how I treated others. Particularly as I left home for college, I fought against the pressure of expectation, hoping to relax and explore my boundaries. My personality never required a full-scale rebellious phase, but away from home my skirts slipped higher up my leg and my language descended rather closer to the gutter. I lived my religion faithfully, but that fact always surprised folks who knew me only casually. Their surprise brought my mother's voice to mind. "Avoid the appearance of evil." Bleah.

Twenty-five years later, I find myself reminding my teenage son that he is both cursed and blessed with visibility. With his confidence, his intelligence, and his engaging personality, he draws attention whether he likes it or not. "You and I do not have the option of anonymity," I tell him. Hopefully, he recognizes both the opportunity and the responsibility of being visible.

The Savior taught his disciples that a city set on a hill cannot be hid, reminding them of their responsibility to shine a light to lead the world to good things. I am sure Peter would have preferred to fade into the crowd outside the palace of Caiaphas, but his devotion to the Savior and his impetuous nature made that impossible. Peter rose to the challenge of example, though not always gracefully. In that messy process of learning to shine, he set a powerful, yet humble, example of discipleship.

I have thought a great deal lately about this business of being a city on a hill, particularly about the risks involved. After all, those who are visible risk succeeding. With success comes a powerful feeling of accomplishment, and with success comes praise. With that heady feeling of accomplishment and sometimes the warmth of the praise, it is easy to begin to believe that one's own powers of organization or insight somehow rise above the norm. Joy in success too quickly morphs into pride.

The problem is that the Lord cannot work with a prideful heart, and I cannot hear the Spirit effectively with my head and heart full of my own importance. I want desperately to serve in useful ways, to rise to my potential. That service requires humility, and humility is not one of my strong points.

I knelt in prayer the other night, wrestling with my need for humility and not wanting to pray for this gift that I need. After all, I know how the Lord answers those prayers. I have felt the benefit of painful humbling experiences. Remembering, I feared to say a prayer that would bring on another round of what my father used to call "learning experiences." But my desire to reach upward won out over my fear. I took a deep breath and quietly prayed for enough humility to serve effectively.

Surprisingly, the bottom has not yet dropped out of my world. As I knelt and prayed timidly for humility, thoughts began to take shape in my mind. Yes, trials are an effective method of inspiring humility. But there are other ways. I began to ponder how to humble myself without requiring circumstances to do the job for me. Almost immediately, my thoughts turned to gratitude as perhaps the single most effective method. When we take the time to consciously recognize the Lord's hand in all that we do, our pride melts away. We realize, for instance, that the wise counsel we gave came not from our own brilliance but from the Spirit. As we take the opportunity not only to recognize the Lord's hand in our lives, but also to record those experiences, our sense of our own nothingness and our confidence in the Lord grow in tandem.

Acknowledging the heavens leads us to gaze outward, as well. I find that my bloated sense of self-importance begins to return to acceptable levels as I look around me with the intent to recognize the talents and achievements of others. I quickly begin to realize all that I stand to learn from the son who has the ability to always see the positive or the friend with the remarkable talent of teaching her children with patience.

I learned a third ingredient to humility some time ago. I used to sing a bit, performed at church and for the odd wedding or funeral. I have a pleasant enough voice, but no matter how hard I practiced, I never achieved the powerful talent that I longed for, a voice that would sparkle and soar. It dawned on me, finally, that God gave me a certain measure of talent for a purpose. He blessed Audra McDonald and Jessye Norman with voices to reach across the world and inspire millions. My very little voice inspired just a few folks with the realization that they, too, could sing. Accepting and magnifying my gifts just as the Lord gave them to me brings humility.

I have no doubt that life will bring me more learning experiences somewhere on the road ahead, times of confusion and pain that will force me to my knees. The Lord has carried me through those times before and will do so again. But I also know that I do not have to wait for times of trial to bring me humility. The more I look upward and outward, the more I begin to understand my tiny, yet wonderful, place in the universe.

Bliss List

Last year for Christmas, our friends gifted us a subscription to Cook's Illustrated magazine. I like the recipes just fine, and the cooking tips are marvelous. If I renew my subscription, however, it will be for the superb editorials by Christopher Kimball, a fellow Vermonter. When the first issue arrived on my doorstep, I opened it to find Kimball's "Bliss List." In the essay, he describes several of the handful of moments of absolute and perfect happiness that he has experienced in his life. That got me to thinking about some of my own blissful moments. I'll include just a couple of those here.

* I am spinning on a hilltop, arms stretched wide in my own imitation of Maria in the opening scenes of “The Sound of Music.” I even sing and laugh out loud, because no one can hear me. With each step I bounce a bit on springy, fragrant tundra. The wind carries my laughter away and blows the hair back from my face. As I spin, I see nothing to suggest human presence–just tundra, mountains, wind and clouds. I know that a short hike down the hill and around the bend will bring me in sight of a float plane and a handful of businessmen playing out their Alaskan fishing adventure. But high above the stream I can neither see the blue of the plane nor hear the occasional voice. For the moment, this corner of the wilderness exists only for me.

* It is early in the year 1978, with South Dakota in the midst of a historic winter. I open my eyes to see nothing but white outside my window. Tugging the blue quilt close around my neck, I wiggle my toes and listen. The wind rattles the window next to my bed, and the branches of the mulberry tree scratch the glass. In the middle of the night the sound would leave me paralyzed with fear, but on a weekday morning it sends a hopeful smile spreading across my face. My mother listens to the radio in the kitchen as she makes breakfast. Over the clatter of plates and pans I hear the announcer begin the school closings. Thankfully, Mother turns up the radio. Near the end of a long list I hear “Yankton Public Schools closed.” No school today! I wait for the call to breakfast and gaze at the snowflakes while I contemplate a day of snowdrifts and hot cocoa.

*  It is the spring of my first year of college. I am on the back of a motorcycle, flying along a back road in southern Idaho. Mark and I chat occasionally on our helmet mics, but mostly we just take in the scene around us. By the time we make it back to Logan, we will probably miss our next class, but today the early spring sunshine in the Rockies seems more important than French verbs or World History. We pass small farms, cows lazily munching new grass, and a large abandoned barn that makes me dream of swinging into bales of hay even though I’ve only read about it and never actually done it. Ours is an easy friendship, comfortable and without the pressure of romance. Mark stands a little apart from the boys I date—neither the straight-laced Mormon that his Merrill heritage would suggest, nor a self-proclaimed rebel, either. He challenges my comfort zone with this motorcycle, and I like that. I lean against the backrest, warm with friendship and the sun on my shoulders.

Building Blocks

I have been thinking today about people who have significantly influenced my life over the years, trying to sort out the various facets of my personality and attitudes and determine their source. I have a changed a few names, but not all, just to keep you guessing. And no, this is not an exhaustive list. I have left gaping holes that I will fill at a later time.

My parents have obviously wielded immense influence, primarily through their examples. Three main lessons come to mind, however. Seek knowledge. Be interested in, not just tolerant of, people from all backgrounds. Maintain integrity always. Yeah, always. Even when it embarrasses your teenage children who would prefer a graceful white lie.

I have one sister, five years older than I. We stand the same height, and my children think we sound alike (particularly in our sarcastic moments). Beyond that, the similarities fade. Sylvia left home when I was 13 and thoroughly self-absorbed. I have recognized her influence more as an adult. Her overall calm and her example as a mother to an amazing family have inspired me. I have never managed to match the calm, but I have aspirations...

College was a pivotal time for me, as it should be, and Chris was a huge part of my university life. He is one of those larger than life characters who draw a following, and it took a few years for me to realize, somewhat to my embarrassment, that he played a much greater role in my life than I did in his. Be that as it may, our friendship in a sense embodied those college years for me. I learned to challenge boundaries, not just societal boundaries, but also those within myself. I also learned that life and love are messy, and that is just fine. Creativity is a messy process.

Not all of my life lessons came from comfortable sources. While my friendship with Jane died some time ago, I remain indebted to her for invaluable lessons about what friendship is...and what it is not, or at least what it cannot be for me. I learned to respect my limits, and I learned not to dive headfirst into someone else's life and problems. Years ago, I sat on my bed one evening and wailed, "But I wanted it to be a happy day!" I have never relinquished that childhood wish. I still long for a happy day not only for me but for those around me. I cannot fix everyone's problems. The bare fact of the matter remains that often the healthiest solution for all involved is to simply stand back and let people climb their own mountains. Sometimes we walk alongside and cheer them on. Sometimes we toss them a canteen. And sometimes we turn our backs and claw the way up our own trail.

I grew up with Mother, and I gained Mom with my first marriage. Although she calls herself the "outlaw" now, I will always consider Kathryn family. I often echo her counsel that "things done when thought of need no further attention." My children listen about as well as her son did, but at least I remind myself of the counsel on a regular basis. Also from Kathryn, I have learned that tears can be a gift. I have watched and felt the marvelous effect of her tears in softening hearts that need to feel and releasing tears from dry eyes that need to weep.

We named Kristina after two of her grandmothers, both because we loved the names and in order to remind her of her rich heritage. I watch from across the room as she plays hide-and-go-seek over the phone with her Grandma Ruth. How they play over the distance of 1000 miles, I will never understand, but they share a special bond. I admire Ruth's unconditional love for her family and her dedication to each of us.

I was raised by liberal parents who set an example of sticking firmly to standards while accepting and celebrating the diversity around them. While I once prided myself on internalizing that principle, I have come to realize that my husband far outstrips me in his genuine interest in other people and his willingness and ability to accept them regardless of their degree of social acceptability. Brad frequently reminds me of the fact that God looks on the heart, that if we have the opportunity to catch a glimpse of heaven one day, we may find ourselves rather surprised at its inhabitants.

I met my friend Susan years ago when we both worked in Cache Valley, part of the bosom of the Mormon church. While not particularly religious herself, Susan exhibits charity and integrity more than almost anyone I know, reminding me that those attributes are not restricted to folks who are overtly religious. We all could use that reminder now and again, particularly when we make bold assumptions about a political candidate or a neighbor based on where they spend their Sunday mornings or what dogma they profess to follow.

Melissa and Heather brought exercise into my life, starting with daily walks while we passed Cheerios to our boys in their baby joggers and sustained each other through the ups and downs of life and motherhood. From those early morning walks, they pushed me to yoga and weightlifting, plyometrics, and beyond. I owe these women not only for their remarkable friendship but for a habit of exercise that has become essential to my well-being.

To the village who continues to raise this adult, I send a humble "thank you."

Searching for Zing

 We moved into a brand new house one year ago. Though three children and a dog have added their marks to doors, walls and counter tops, the house still feels new. The carpet shows exactly one spot of wear. It took me a while to realize the source of the worn circle next to the piano pedals, a circle that reappears no matter how often we vacuum the shag to attention. Then one day I watched Alec play piano, watched his heel push into the carpet as he worked the pedal. He ignores me when I stand and watch him play, absorbed as he is in his music. He leans into the keys, occasionally tapping the rhythm with his toe, and music fills the house.

In true teenage boy fashion, my son rarely discusses his stresses or elaborates about his worries. Instead, he plays the piano. He takes after my mother in this respect, and I envy them both. Childhood summers found me sitting in my grandfather's house, reading in the living room while Mother and a revolving collection of relatives created music around the piano in the side room. I remember gauzy curtains on the windows surrounding the piano, the scent of geraniums from the entranceway, and the murmur of voices figuring out parts or planning a violin obbligato. Those same voices rang out at family reunions and brought the Spirit rushing in at Grandpa's funeral. Heavenly choirs have nothing on the Corry family, except perhaps a touch of hushed reverence.

I used to dream of sitting at Grandpa's piano in an otherwise quiet house, running my fingers along the keys and sending my joy, my anguish or simply my moment of peace winging up Cedar Mountain by way of Chopin or Rachmaninoff. I never did learn how to filter my soul through my fingers. Periodically, I sit down to play a sonatina, sure that the emotion bubbling up inside of me will somehow guide the notes. Inevitably, I stumble on a chord, fracture an arpeggio, and eventually give up in disgust.

For a time, I hoped my voice could carry me where my fingers could not. I studied, practiced, sang concerts and funerals, even taught some wonderful students. I remember two times in particular when I caught a glimmer of the feeling I sought. In preparation for a master class, I finally gave in and learned a German art song full of emotion simmering just barely in control beneath the surface. With the master teacher's whispered coaching in my ear throughout the song, I felt the music and my soul click together for just a few moments. The music swelled, and my voice floated right along with it. I closed the piece, exhilarated by the experience.

Later, I sang in the sanctuary of a cathedral. Huge windows overlooked Lake Champlain, and the audience faded to insignificance in the expanse of wood, concrete and air. A friend had composed a gorgeous arrangement of a favorite spiritual for the occasion, and we joined with a talented oboist. Voice, piano, and oboe danced in and out of the haunting melody. Again, I felt the music and my soul combine.

I have not felt my voice and spirit click in many months, and I doubt I will feel that connection in the same way again. I have come to accept the fact that music is not my calling, though my soul responds to the talent of others. At the same time, this need to write has my fingers traveling keys again. I feel the tug of my soul reaching. More often now, the spirit inside me finds expression, and I feel the exhilarating click. The quest continues.

Solitude

I have discovered that, in addition to the usual life-sustaining necessities, there are a few items critical to my well-being. When these fall out of balance, I get edgy, unsettled. I need regular spiritual study and daily exercise. I need to write. And I need time alone. I suppose I also require social contact, but as I cannot currently seem to escape people these days, I have not felt sufficient lack of society lately to recognize any conscious craving for it. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have missed my coveted hours of solitude this week. The loss has set me to fantasizing about how I would spend a couple of hours alone with my own thoughts. In true David Letterman fashion, I will post my top 10 list.

Number 10: Lock the door, turn up the music (something rather loud, with a decent beat), and clean. Then, with the dust and grime a not so distant memory, relax into the sofa, smell the subtle hint of Pine Sol, and soak in a fleeting moment of order and calm.

Number 9: Dine alone in a restaurant, preferably one with a garden view, an artsy decor, and enough of a crowd so that I can observe the other patrons anonymously and imagine their back stories. Order something light, with an exquisite blend of flavors. Wash it down with sparkling water and a twist of lime and tie it all up with dark chocolate and herb tea.

Number 8: Don leather and hop on the Harley for a motorcycle ride through the countryside. Watch the sunlight sparkle on the lake as I pass.

Number 7: Close the blinds, turn down the lights, locate a CD of rainsong, and meditate. Find ohm.

Number 6: Watch a movie, perhaps something on the order of Jane Austen or "Room with a View." It must be entertaining and can even verge on frivolous, but it must also be well done.

Number 5: Go for a hike. The Sunset Ridge trail on Mount Mansfield fits the bill as well as anything else. It starts in the trees, shaded and intimate, but soon opens up to an expansive view and culminates above the tree line, overlooking mile upon mile of humanity, softened by hazy afternoon sunlight and too far away to be obtrusive.

Number 4: Settle into a steaming hot bath, with scented candles and soft music.

Number 3: Visit an art museum. Rush through the ancient history and cubism exhibits. Slow down as I round the corner to the Impressionists. Drink in the likes of Monet and Van Gogh, then move on to Edward Hopper, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Ansel Adams. Breathe until my soul fills to the brim with beauty.

Number 2: Write. The result won't be the great American novel, perhaps, but ideally something profound, not so grand as to inspire nations but rather so true that it introduces the reader to his or her own soul.

Number 1: Gather my herb tea and a book, arrange the pillows just so, and settle back on the bed to read. Fight to keep my eyes open just long enough to allow the urge to grow impossible to resist.  Then let my book fall to the side and surrender to sleep, a mug of vanilla chamomile cooling at my elbow.

Of Friendship and the Cadence of Life

Some years ago, a new friend of mine surprised me one day by announcing that she had determined I was "above the fold." Laughing a bit at herself, she explained a philosophy that sounds arrogant at first but holds significant wisdom. The gist of the "above the fold" philosophy of friendship, as I have come to understand it, is this. Most of us meet a great many people in the span of our lives. Sheer logistics dictate that we cannot count them all among our bosom buddies, nor can we spend equal time and emotional energy on each and every relationship. Just as newspaper editors place key stories above the physical fold of the paper, we sometimes need to determine which friendships are key relationships in our lives.

For me, these are the friends I deliberately choose to spend time with, those whose advice I seek and value, the companions I would invite to my vacation home...if I had one. I dare say some of these people would be surprised to find themselves above the fold on my list of friends. I avoid talking on the phone, value my time alone, and have proven terrible at maintaining long distance relationships. Still, when I pick up the phone to find an unexpected voice from long ago on the other end, the years melt away, and I relax into the familiar cadence of an interrupted conversation.

A recent birthday call took me back to Memorial Day weekend, 1992. April had flown into town from Houston for a visit. In our fifteen years of friendship, I had often played the wise big sister role. This time, however, April sensed my need for perspective and dragged me up the canyon for a quick camping trip. We left my toddler son and terminally ill husband in the care of my in-laws.

Finding all the official campgrounds full for the holiday weekend, we set up camp in a quiet spot near the “gnome caves.” Long after dark, we built a roaring campfire and talked of life and death in the philosophical way of twenty-somethings coming face to face with mortality. We laughed over the pages of Robert Fulghum’s “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” and I returned home the next day buoyed up enough to carry on for another week or so.

More recently, I sat with friends over lunch, chatting casually about the momentous and the inconsequential in our lives. I have known these three women for barely a year, and we spend little time together. Occasionally, we day trip to St. Louis or catch up with one another at book group. Still, the conversation was easy, comfortable. I trust these women, know instinctively that I could safely cry with them, serve with them, or celebrate with them. Their association gives me strength.

Even Jesus, though he was the Savior of all mankind and associated with lepers and noblemen alike, found refuge in a few close friendships. Though the crowds followed him, and though he took the time to bless and heal, to seek out the lost sheep, when the Savior of the world craved solace himself, he went fishing with Peter or dined with Lazarus and his sisters.

Over a period of decades, I have gradually internalized this concept of the need for friendships that nourish the soul. Not until my 30s did I begin to truly understand the value of close girl friends, not just women to hang out with, but confidantes. Through a number of years of early morning walks and monthly foodfests over a Scrabble board, I came to depend upon those confidantes. I also learned, through trial and sometimes painful error, to trust my own rhythms when it comes to relationships. Those rhythms bring music to my life.

Gems of the Heartland

I had a lovely lunch last week at a cafe whimsically called "Incredibly Delicious," in the Aristocracy Hill district of downtown. While I must say that "hill" represents a bit of false advertising, the restaurant certainly earns its name. Cafe tables fill various rooms of a vintage house, and patrons choose from a small menu that changes daily. I ordered a spinach quiche and washed it down with Perrier, because any lunch that includes goat cheese cannot also include Sprite. Tasty as it was, the lunch primarily provided a landing spot for the pastry that followed. If I knew anything useful about baking, I would gush intelligently about the flourless chocolate torte and the "strawberry jobbie" (as my father-in-law called the impossibly light, vanilla strawberry cake). In lieu of intelligent gushing, I will simply say the pastries are divine and worth the short drive downtown.

Sitting in the restaurant, gazing at the art around me and the gardens outside, I began to ponder this town I find myself growing to love. We did not move from Vermont to the Heartland for the scenery, and at first (or second) glance the area has little to offer other than Target and corn. Over the past year, however, I have begun to discover a number of gems behind the fields and strip malls.

Even early on I learned the sheer joy of riding a bicycle along flat Midwestern farm roads with endless horizons. Swarms of birds erupt out of the fields or off the sparkling lake as I pass, swooping en masse from tree to lawn to rooftop. In the fall, thousands of geese hold convention across the street in the freshly harvested field, and their honking carries me home from blocks away. High above the gulls and geese, the hawks circle, occasionally coasting down to stand sentinel on a street lamp. I have always wanted to glimpse a hawk's view of my world.

Following family tradition, shortly after Thanksgiving we took Kristina to her first live performance of The Nutcracker. I expected a charming, but amateur, production of a favorite story. The Springfield Ballet Company and its alumni dancers delivered a performance and set that far exceeded my expectations, a perfect kickoff to the Christmas season.

Several months later, I attended the Muni, a local summer theater, to see their production of Jesus Christ, Superstar. Once again, I foolishly expected a slightly awkward amateur production. Once again, the local art scene smashed my expectations. Jesus, Judas, and Mary delivered topnotch performances, complemented by a talented supporting cast and crew.

In addition to culture, the cityscape itself offers charm, from stately, tree-lined boulevards to a magnificent capitol dome to the flawless artistry of Frank Lloyd Wright and his Dana-Thomas House.

Closer to home, my daughter has chosen her favorite local spots. The Viennese carousel at the mall was an early magical discovery, and Kristina frequently begs to "ride the ponies." In addition, once each week or so we spend an afternoon at the local public library, which boasts a fabulous children's area and even a Barnes and Noble style cafe and bookstore. For two dollars I can happily feed both my sugar and my book addictions. Who could possibly ask for more?

Wherever we go, here in the Heartland, I have been struck by the sheer friendliness of the people. I cannot remember passing by a single store clerk, be it the shelf-stocker at the grocery store or the restaurant server with the intriguing tattoos, who failed to smile genuinely and say "hello" as if they were truly happy to see me. Warm welcomes extend far beyond the shop aisle here. Our movers brought Midwestern friendship to New England with the moving van and have remained good friends, introducing us to auctions and mostly delicious experimental barbecues. Their friendship was just the first in a line of unexpectedly delightful relationships.

I have no idea where the next five years will find me or what adventures await our family. Right now, on this sunny autumn afternoon, I am happily a Midwestern woman.

Chocolate, Cheese, and Lessons from Little People

Defenestration--as in "Mom, I saw a great picture of the Defenestration of Prague today"--is a great word. It doesn't slither off the tongue quite as deliciously as "plethora" or "thither," but it's still very nice. I should mention that the child describing defenestration (the act of throwing someone out of the window, by the way, in this case in political protest) is my 15-year old son. The same son apparently counts "extirpate" as one of his favorite words. I am ashamed to say I had to look that one up. I should, perhaps, worry that my teenager has his head filled with destruction, intellectually phrased or not. Given his ready wit and kind heart, however, I have decided in favor of amusement rather than horror.

I love that my sons have begun to embrace their inner nerdiness. My oldest son called from college this week,excited about his work in behavior analysis and describing the psychoanalytical theories of Anna Freud (Sigmund's daughter) with the same alacrity he used to display when describing a great snowboarding run in the powder of the Utah Rockies. These impromptu lessons in European history and child development are just the most recent of lessons I have learned from my children. I have learned a plethora (see, doesn't that slither nicely?) of lessons over the years at the feet of my offspring. The following are some of the highlights.

* The world has not created a food that cannot be improved by adding either chocolate or cheese. If chocolate won't fit the bill, cheese will. Trust me on this one. I have tried in vain to prove the theory wrong.

* Napoleon was not the last little person to rule an empire. Our 3 pound, 10 ounce daughter took the throne from her very first breath, and the age of the semi-benevolent dictator continues, four years later.

* A person who speaks with confidence can sound believable, even profound, even when he makes no sense whatsoever.

* Pajamas are world's most versatile fashion, acceptable for nearly any occasion, particularly school and particularly when worn with slippers in the middle of winter.

* Chill out. Relax through teenage driving adventures, surprise schedule changes, broken appliances, unexpected bills, bad hair days, and other calamities large and small. Listen to Bob Marley and remember that "every little thing is gonna be all right."

* A little computer time goes a long way. Alternatively, play games, cuddle, throw a frisbee, read silly stories, or dance. Your children, your husband, your dog, and your eyes will thank you.

* Wrinkled clothes and messy hair do not necessarily signify a flawed character.

* And finally, loving until your heart hurts may be more terrifying than bungee jumping, but it is also more wonderful than a million Lake Champlain chocolate truffles or even a lifetime pass to Disneyland.

Lost and Finding

I began to lose sight of myself on an early summer evening five years ago when God dropped a boulder in my path. I had one foot on the threshold of the next phase of my life, just waiting for autumn when my youngest son would step on the school bus for the first time. I had plans, vague to be sure, but plans nonetheless. God had plans, too. They involved one last child and turning my clock back six years. I could have refused, but I know better than to invite the consequences of resisting divine will. So I reluctantly, angrily even, opened a door I had locked tightly behind me some years earlier.

Born eight weeks early, our daughter captured all of our hearts immediately. I fell in love with her, as I did with all of my children. But still I struggled with God’s timing, fought against the direction my life had taken, and longed for the self I had intended to become. Before I regained my footing, troubled adolescence and ghosts from the past ripped the fabric of our family life. I found myself caught in a crossfire of struggling souls. Hurting for my son, my husband, and myself, one dark night I lashed out in desperation, dragging my fingernails across my face.

Before the wounds healed, when my bangs half-hid a red cross, my daughter stroked my forehead, trying to soothe the hurt. She never questioned, just comforted, and the heavens I once thought cold began gently to instruct. In my mind’s eye, I replayed an oft-repeated scene.

In the midst of the crossfire, oblivious to the bullets, a little girl cries out in the pre-dawn hours. That early in the morning, her crib no longer satisfies her, but neither is she ready to tumble open-eyed into her day. Still weary myself, both from the early hour and the household tension, I lift her out of her crib and snuggle with her in the nursery bed. At first she lays her head on my shoulder and nuzzles deeply into my neck, melting into me. I wrap my arms around her in a tight hug, feeling her heartbeat slow as she settles back into sleep. I let the fuzzy top of her head caress my chin and cheek as I relax into the pillows, breathing in the faint scent of lavender left over from the previous night’s bath.

After a time, my daughter begins to reach for wiggle room. I shift her out of my arms and place her cheek on the pillow next to mine. We lie there, foreheads touching and arms intertwined. I shift my head slightly to breathe in the air she exhales. Her breath smells sweet, innocent. I drift with my daughter into simple morning dreams, drops of healing elixir.

The elixir of innocent childhood healed all of us at times. The tension eased and changed form, but continued, exacerbated by Brad's new, out-of-state job and a house that refused to sell. I read somewhere that God tests us by asking us to surrender the very things we are most loath to hand over. I suspect my performance on that test failed to impress any casually watching angels. God asked for my time, my patience, and my willingness to stumble along in the dark, unable to direct my own course. I fumed, pleaded, despaired, gloried in epiphanies, occasionally wept in gratitude for tiny miracles, fumed again, and found hope in chance conversations and the wisdom of a patient husband.

Finally, the house sold, and we headed West to new adventures and space for deep, cleansing breaths. Caught up in the relief of calm vistas and peaceful nights, it took a few months for me to realize I had lost myself along the way. I began to feel the absence of identity and a need for goals to anchor me and provide me purpose. This time, I look upward and outward for cues, waiting a little more patiently and trusting a little more completely. Gradually, a new self begins to emerge, still slightly blurry around the edges but gathering clarity and strength.

Autumn Snapshots

My friend Judy Gile always said that foliage season in Vermont peaked on October 9, and Vermont generally complied with her wishes. Judy had that effect on the world around her. From our home in Sherwood Forest, not far from Burlington and Lake Champlain, we claimed a view of Camel's Hump and the hills and valleys of hardwood forests leading up to it. I particularly loved to gaze down over the town to see the mist rising above the river and the Round Church gleaming stark white against a backdrop of orange, wine, and the occasional splash of red. Closer to home, the trees along our road formed a yellow canopy over our frosty morning jaunt to the bus stop.

On Saturday mornings, we walked through the covered bridge to the football field. Mt. Mansfield presided in the distance, brilliant foliage lined the river, and the clang of the cowbell signalled each Wolverine touchdown. Later in the season, we kicked the snow at our feet and huddled under blankets while we cheered. The anticipation of hot chocolate by the wood stove kept us warm on the inside, at least.

In addition to football, we are also a Macintosh family. Every year I had to remind myself to wait past first frost for the Macs to grow red and sweet. Then, on a sunny Saturday morning, we rambled through the orchard with our wagon, brown bags full of drops for applesauce and half bushel bags for smooth pie apples. The scent of fresh cider donuts eventually pulled us out of the trees. Then we piled in the car, apples at our feet and crumbs on our smiling lips, anticipating the first pie of the season.

I miss New England autumns, bursting as they are with homebaked coziness and the tingle of promise. However, though I love first snows, I do not miss the long winter that follows. Those Vermont winters made the move to the belly of the country a little easier. Few people travel to central Illinois for the lush scenery. Still, a misty autumn morning holds promise with or without hills rolling with color. The huge harvesters lumber down the farm road outside my kitchen window, reminding me that my horizon now filled with fields of brown corn will transform overnight.

That right there is what I love about autumn. No New Year's resolutions for me. In the dead of winter, I would rather curl up next to the fire and read. But autumn...now that is the time for change. I send the kids back to school, dizzy with the possibilities before me. Then I open my journal, watch out the window as my horizon expands before my eyes, and plan my dreams into focus.

Of Blasphemy and Breathing

(This is a piece from a year or so ago, actually, but I'm posting it at the request of a friend.)

I’m pretty much a straight arrow when it comes to the Commandments. Never been one to flirt with hellfire and damnation. Don’t care to dodge lightning bolts, either. And yet, as the silence lengthened, and it became clear that he had breathed his last, ragged breath, I held Brady's hand and sighed, “God, I loved him.” I wish I could say I was praying, but that would add another to the list of Top Ten Commandments broken for the afternoon. I swear more than I care to admit. But that “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain” Commandment? I’m scrupulous about that one. I remember three slip-ups in my entire life—remember them vividly, in fact, because I felt guilty about each and every one. This time, however, my blasphemy took me by surprise, profaning an otherwise incredibly spiritual synapse between life and death.

6:02 p.m. August 7, 1992. We gathered in the bedroom of my apartment. Brady's parents, his best friends, and I surrounded the hospital bed that Hospice had delivered a few days earlier. The head of the bed lay against the window as lazy-summer sunlight washed over the scene. After a couple of days of wrestling my incoherent and writhing husband, I had been almost relieved when the onset of coma brought rest to both of our weary bodies. The labored breathing and the ritual of the family keeping a death watch, however, sustained the tension all day.

Now, with Brady's breath stilled, the group of us around the bed gradually eased our own breathing, relaxing tentatively into the emerging peace. An expectant silence filled the apartment complex. Word must have spread that Brady's death was imminent, because our neighbors seemed to respectfully keep their distance. The mortician was a family friend. A day or two later we joked morbidly with him while we planned the funeral, but on that evening he remained subdued as he and his assistant took the body carefully down the stairs.

Our son, Devin, came home from the babysitter’s after the mortician left, and my mother-in-law and I spent the evening alternating between toddler routine and shedding the trappings of illness and death. We sent the hospital bed away, poured bottles of medicine down the sink, washed bedding, removed the wheelchair, made phone calls, and hugged each other.

Years later and 2000 miles away, my young neighbor, Doug, wasted away with cancer. I remember glancing out my window one afternoon and noticing his wife riding her bike past our house—no helmet, wind blowing her hair back from her face. I knew immediately that Doug had died because I recognized that familiar, intangible sense of release surrounding his wife.

I had my own moments of release in those months after Brady's death, times when I’m sure my need for freedom jarred the sensibilities of family and friends who needed me to fit their own comfortable definition of “widow.” My parents worried as I headed cross-country, pulling all my possessions in a rented trailer behind my red pickup truck. Colleagues at work back-pedaled, embarrassed, when their questions about my marital status finally elicited an explanation they had not expected. As a 25-year old professional, smiling and independent, I was not exactly a poster child for grieving widowhood.

As a matter of fact, I failed to fit my own definition of widowhood. Brady should not have died just three years into marriage, after I discovered his faults but before I gained the maturity to discard the illusion I married and admire his true strengths. He should not have died muddled by brain cancer, forgetting how to tie his tie, impatient with the toddler who had become his playground rival rather than his son. He should not have died before I learned how to forgive him for youthful bad decisions that had left me feeling betrayed.

One night, in the midst of those long months of illness, I knelt with my son to help him say his prayers. At my prompting, he asked God to make his daddy better. I watched his blond curls as he prayed, wishing I didn’t have to cheat like this, wishing I could say the prayer myself with the same fervor and faith. Didn’t I owe it to my husband to feel desperate for a miracle? Even in the disillusionment of early marriage, I know I never wished for his death. But, being the realist that I am sometimes, I did recognize stage-four glioblastoma as his death sentence. As a mother of a young child, I had to prepare for the future. So I let Devin pray for the miracle, knowing he was too young to comprehend the burden I placed on him. I also knew that he was too young to lose his faith when no ram bleated in the thicket at the last moment to save his father as the Old Testament ram saved Isaac.

Brady had a birthday last week, his 42nd. Devin, now off at college in Brady's hometown, called for directions to his father’s gravesite. I can picture Devin standing in that quiet corner of the cemetery, poised in an awkward phase between youth and maturity. On that August evening, years ago, Brady wasn’t so many years older than Devin, a far cry from the middle-aged man he would have been today.


With the perspective of decades, I think perhaps a sigh, once seemingly blasphemous, has become a grateful prayer. “God, I really did love him.” And once again I breathe, no longer tentative about the peace.

Thinking About Eve

I have been thinking about Mother Eve today, not fully understanding her complex character or the complicated role she played. In some settings, we revere her. More often, we think of a rather foolish (or at least innocent and gullible) Eve giving in to a silver-tongued serpent. She effectively introduced transgression into the world and dragged poor Adam down a path that led them from idyllic garden to weed patch.

I like to think of Eve as forward-thinking rather than foolish. Even with limited, pre-apple vision, she seemed to realize the apparent contradiction between the warning not to partake of the fruit and the commandment to bear children. God had, after all, given Adam and Eve the fruit that he told them not to eat, and the garden state made the bearing of children impossible

Eve transgressed, to be sure. She heard something in the serpent's arguments that sounded logical enough to convince her to put aside God's warning. Adam, wise in recognizing either the inevitability of the situation or the foresight of his wife, followed suit. They shared an "oops, we messed up" moment, hid, confessed, learned a critical lesson, took their consequence without complaint, and made life possible for all of us.

I have had some experiences lately that bring me, in a small way, a greater understanding of Eve. I tend to prefer action to lengthy contemplation, forward movement to stasis. While a host of miss-steps have taught me to pause and ponder a bit before acting, I still find myself all too often leaping out into the abyss without a clear notion of my landing spot. I open my mouth when wise women keep silent.

Most recently, last week I made yet another error in judgment. I offended at least one person deeply, caused a dear friend a great deal of stress, and generally created a mess. I made the error thoughtfully, though, with a pretty good knowledge of the risks. In the end, a number of us learned valuable lessons that will benefit us down the road, lessons not so easily learned without the aforementioned mess.

This minor experience comes after a period of contemplating huge breakthroughs in my personal life gained only after several years of pain and messiness initiated in good part by my calculated disregard of some wise advice. I have concluded that the gain far outweighs the rather significant cost exacted. Life is like that.

Please understand. I do not presume myself or my experiences equal to Eve. However, I have come to realize that some of the important lessons and growth in life involved some either brave or foolish soul making a mess and seeing it through. Hopefully, as I think likely with Eve, the mess is perfectly suited to the divine end. Often, at least in my own life, God helps us spin gold out of the straw we spilled all over the floor. In any case, I owe my existence to Eve's willingness to risk her own life (not to mention garden bliss) for me.

Football Weather

In the early years of our marriage, autumn began each year with my husband's wistful pronouncement, "This is football weather." Brad played high school and semi-pro football and kept warm memories of those days. While I never played football, I love the unique energy that comes with early autumn, the combination of ripeness and new beginnings that follows the delicious sluggishness of August.

Today was, indeed, a football day in all its Midwestern glory. Bright sunshine in a virtually cloudless sky teased the sweatshirt off my daughter's shoulders by the second quarter of this morning's high school game. The wind set the cornfields whispering along our drive home. This phenomenon of brown corn standing in the field for weeks puzzled me at first after years among the sweet corn fields in New England. By now, I have begun to tell the passing seasons by the height and color of the corn.

On my husband's insistence, I donned helmet and jacket this afternoon with the promise to take the motorcycle for a long ride while he cleaned the house. (How could I not acquiesce to such a demand?) For two hours I rode past fields and silos, sleepy towns and peaceful cemeteries. With the roar of the bike to keep the world at bay, I let my thoughts wander and relaxed into the rhythm of the back roads. Chilled by the wind, I returned home to my first hot chocolate of the season, a hot bath, and a book. Hooray for football weather!

A Janus Moment

I have learned not to ignore my premonitions. I have also learned that they often play out in unexpected ways. A feeling of impending doom continued for months a decade ago, culminating finally with the end of my corporate life. Later, during a period of family stress, I experienced several sudden bouts of inexplicable sadness, only to discover days later that the hours of sorrow corresponded with significant events in the life of my teenage son.

This past winter, I began to sense my approaching death. Sounds morbid, I know. And in the interest of full disclosure, I must confess that morbidity certainly runs in the family a bit. Still, this felt different than the impending doom of a decade earlier, more a peaceful anticipation of homecoming than a sense of fear or even of escape. While the premonition eventually subsided without any "now I get it" event, it gave me plenty of leisure and motivation to ponder my own "what I want to do before I kick the bucket" list.

I started a bucket list once, years ago, when the movie of the same name came out. The notepad has since wandered away, but you can fill in the blanks with the usual: ride in a hot air balloon, travel to Scotland, become fluent in Spanish (not so helpful in Scotland, of course, but still on the list), and so forth. All good things. And yet, oddly enough, when actually faced with the concept of my own early demise, I felt no regret for travels not taken or words left unspoken. Instead, I drank in quiet moments with my husband and children. I exercised, read, pondered my relationship with God, tried to listen more attentively to those promptings to love and serve. Mostly, I simply lived my life. I worried some about leaving family behind, hoped we had built enough good memories to last. I wondered vaguely if I would prove strong enough to handle the actual dying part with grace.

Obviously, I remain among the living, and I expect to revise my "bucket list" multiple times in the coming decades. The onset of middle age simply set me feeling mortal, I suppose. At the same time, it also gave me an opportunity to stand on the hilltop with a glorious view, both of the wonders behind and around me and the possibilities ahead. Life is good.

Of Skunks, Toilets, and Flight

I tucked my daughter into bed just now. Per our usual routine, I gave the preamble prayer. "Please help Kristina and Jared (don't forget Jared, Mom) not to have any bad dreams, and please help Kristina not to dream about smelling any skunks." I don't know that Kristina would know a skunk if she smelled one, but she has me say the same prayer every night, nonetheless.

My husband tells me his dreams in detail when he wakes up. Somehow, verbalizing and examining that bridge into his day puts things into their proper places, like shutting drawers or making the bed. I, on the other hand, rarely remember my dreams. When I do remember them, I find they generally fall neatly into one of the categories in a dream analysis book. For instance, I was relieved to discover that other normal women also, apparently, spend their sleeping hours wandering past filthy bathroom stalls in vain search for a relatively clean and private place to relieve themselves. Who knew?

In my favorite dreams I fly. Sometimes I soar almost effortlessly. At other times I tire with the labor of flapping my arms to stay aloft. Even when my arms ache, however, I marvel at the fact of my flight.

I have missed those flying dreams in recent years. Though happy enough, I have let my lack of ambition and the weight of everyday routine ground me. Garden variety escape dreams litter my early morning sleep now, dreams that wither quickly in the post-waking reality. I miss the view from above, the power of flight in my arms, and the faith in the impossible.

Just in the past few days, with a couple of simple goals to spur me on, I have begun to feel a tingle of possibility again. Time to dust off those dreams, flex my flying muscles, and reacquaint myself with the world above. Sweet dreams!

People Watching

Daniel Schorr died recently. I always loved listening to his commentaries on NPR. Consequently, on my next trip to the library, I headed over to the biography section, intent on learning more about this man who has piqued my interest over the years. Obviously, someone else had the same idea. No biography available on our dear Mr. Schorr. Undeterred, I began to browse the biography racks for other gems. I knew I would find a handful in short order. Sometime in the last decade I discovered that I love biographies, and that my enjoyment of the book has very little to do with any previous affinity for its subject. I imagine that realization came about the time I devoured a biography of the drummer for The Doors. I can name exactly one Doors song ("Light My Fire," naturally), and even now I can't bring to mind the name of the drummer. Nonetheless, I found the book fascinating.

I suppose I simply love the back stories behind the faces of humanity. I love the joys of discovering nobility in unexpected places and the insights I gain from other folks' triumphs and tragedies, even the small day-to-day ones. With that in mind, I've been thinking of some biographies I would like to read, some people who have crossed my path and left behind a question mark.

Obvious names come to mind, of course. Someday, I want to read the real story of Joseph the Carpenter, not just the few verses in the Bible that mention him or the myths created about him in an effort to preserve Mary's virginity for all time. And I want to read the story of my grandmother, Florence, who died long before my birth.

I also want to read about the 30-something man with a bright blue t-shirt who stood by the roadside yesterday holding a sign that read "will work for living expenses." He wore a baseball cap tilted just over his eyes and looked for all the world like a suburban dad on a Saturday morning.

Maybe someday I will stumble across a memoir by my college roommate. I lost track of her after that first year of college. I ran around with the honors group, and she danced on the dance line. Our circles rarely crossed. I heard some years ago that her husband died in the early years of their marriage. I often wonder how that tragedy affected her.

Half a world away and years later, Steven Koch successfully became the first person to snowboard down the highest peaks on all seven continents. Anyone that crazy must have a fascinating biography out there. In fact, given the expenses he must have incurred in the process of peak hopping, I am quite certain I could purchase his story for a small fee. I should do that.

Also thousands of miles from my sleepy Midwestern town, a Jainist nun named Mataji caught the eye of a journalist for the Washington Post. Mataji and her fellow nuns live an ascetic life, renouncing all possessions and, indeed, all attachments to any thing or person. These nuns walk, barefoot, for years, brushing the ground before their feet to avoid killing even a bug along their path. At the end of their lives, the women take sallekhana, essentially starving themselves to death in a ritual designed to bridge them into the next life. I am intrigued with the motivations and life experiences that bring a young woman like Mataji to such an extreme devotion.

And finally, I wish for a biography I will never have the chance to read. Eighteen years ago, my husband died of cancer at the age of 25. I would love to read about the man he never had the chance to become. As I watch our son grow, I begin to understand how little I knew his father. I would like to know him.

Forgiveness

This past spring I offered forgiveness to a woman who had been, at one time, a close friend. She neither requested nor acknowledged my forgiveness, but it didn't matter. My gesture was, in a sense, selfish, born out of a desire to rid myself of the burden of bad feeling. I hardly understood my feelings about my erstwhile friend as they simmered under the surface for months, clouded as they were by a mist of deceit and hinted complexities.

Were it not for my 4-year old daughter and her increasing references to this woman who had once worked her way so deeply into our lives, I could have buried my frustration. But 4-year olds, particularly when prompted by forces beyond adult comprehension, exhibit a remarkable tenacity. With every reference to Jane's house, Jane's pigs, the day we went swimming with Jane, the sliver worked deeper underneath my fingernail.

I craved emotional freedom, and as I pondered, I realized my only path to that freedom was to forgive. I pleaded with God for the power to do just that. Although I knew I needed to forgive Jane, I could scarcely articulate, even to myself, what I needed to forgive her for. Slowly and surely, however, the forgiveness flowed through me. I remember the day I sat down and wrote a message to Jane, asking forgiveness for those things I knew angered her and offering my forgiveness in return. I clicked Send and settled back in my chair, knowing I would receive no answer but already feeling the lightness. Oddly, my daughter has not mentioned Jane to me since then.

In the past weeks, I learned more about Jane and the actions she took after our friendship. Finally, I saw with clarity exactly what I needed to forgive, offenses I had not suspected before. The clarity should have overwhelmed me, should have chipped my armor. Instead, I felt a remarkable calm, an unexpected and beautiful peace. God, in His infinite grace, granted me the power to forgive in advance of my knowledge, so that when I most needed peace, His peace enveloped me.

Home

When I began to set up housekeeping on my own for the first time, I bought a set of blue willow dinnerware. I find the story behind the painted scene vaguely interesting, but the real reason I set my table with blue willow is because it reminds me of my grandparents' house. Every two years growing up, my family traveled cross-country from wherever we lived at the time to visit my grandparents in Cedar City, Utah. For Mother, these visits were "coming home" in the full sense of the word. Grandpa lived in his father's house, next door to the home where my mother grew up. Uncle Scott lived just past the garden, and the extended family still gathered at the piano to sing. Even with my own infrequent visits to Cedar City, I knew how the basement would smell and where to find my favorite books in the living room. And when I sat down to breakfast, I sat down to a table set with blue willow china.

Unlike my mother, I struggle when faced with the question "Where are you from?" or "Where do you call home?" Often, I simply take the easy way out and name whatever state happens to display on my driver's license. But every once in a while I look at those blue willow plates and wonder what "home" means for me.

I suppose for me home will never be a single place surrounded by walls and gardens, or even a single town with its collection of old friends and "remember whens." Rather, home is a collection of smells and sights and defining moments. 

I see home in the rise of a full moon over the mountains, smell it in the heat rising off the cement on a mid-summer day or in the whiff of mountain pine in the early morning. I taste home when I make sugar muffins for my children on a Saturday morning or chocolate oatmealers for dessert. (My children call them no-bakes, but I secretly still call them "COs" in my mind, just as we did in my childhood.) I catch the scent of creosote on a railroad tie, and immediately I hear the long-ago chatter of cousins as we build my grandparents' cabin in Strawberry, Arizona. I grow roses to the side of the house, just as my mother did. I scribble notes in the margins of my books, stand for long minutes in front of a single painting in a museum, and in my mind my father stands at my side.

Ironically, given the fact that I have spent only 10 years of my life in the Southwest and given the fact that my political leanings make living there an exercise in patience, I find that any roots I have dig deeply into Rocky Mountain soil. When I go home in my head, I smell canyon air, I tell direction by the mountains, and I eat my dinner on blue willow china.