When I was a young girl ... (PKW)

(Possible kleenex warning!)

When I was a young girl, I believed that when I turned the radio off the music would stop.

And I was always puzzled when I would turn it back on hours, or even days later, that the song had changed.

I was so certain that "I think We're Alone Now" would still be playing, that I would start singing where it had stopped.

And for a long, long time I was always surprised.

It took me a while to figure out that the music went on for other people while it had stopped for me.

And sometimes on holidays, I feel like that still.

That somehow, my holiday will pick up automatically from last year and the year before that and the year before that.

That maybe I could start singing "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" and my childrens voices would join me in discordant harmony because only a day had passed since the last holiday.

In my head I am somehow still expecting my children to be small and dancing about in excitement with their little blond heads gilded with crazy morning hair, their eyes bright, their teeth shining in perfect little rows of dazzling white pearls. And I am always astonished that this is not the case.

I wonder how the years have passed so quickly.

And even though I keep the holiday traditions as best I can, there are never little feet running down the stairs in excitement now...or little voices squabbling over who got the most jellybeans...and certainly never little voices tired and tender with just-tucked-in sleepiness saying...

"Mommy, is there really an Easter Bunny?"

For you young mothers out there remember that these times will end.

That the radio keeps playing even when you are busy with housework and feeling overwhelmed with all the why's and bickering and running around that raising small children consists of.

That radio just keeps on playing and someday you will be in this moment puzzled and wondering why-oh-why-did-that-music-not-just-stop-playing when you weren't looking.

There is a simple quote that I try to embrace each waking moment...simple but somehow true for me.

"May you live every day of your life."

And just by your posts and e-mails we share I know so many of you do just that.

But as a Mother whose children are grown and gone can I just tell you something?

Remember it all. Hold it close. Treasure it now. Live it to the fullest.

Slow the music down while you can.

And remember all the melodies for someday.

They will be the songs that will help soothe your soul when your nest has grown empty.

Wishing you all hugs, moments of new memories, beautiful melodies and happy times remembered.

In remembrance...(PKW)

Today is the two year anniversary of my youngest sisters death.

Consider yourself warned that this is a sad post and that you might need a kleenex. If you're a new readers here that's what the PKW means...possible kleenex warning. I've heard from quite a few readers that they came to my blog expecting to find funny...and instead found sad...tears were the result in inappropriate places...thus the warning.

My sister died after 31 years of illness and this is the eulogy I wrote for her. I delivered it twice. Once in a church here in Arizona and again when her ashes were interred in Ohio. We stood atop a hill surrounded by friends and green trees and a lovely sky sprinkled with clouds and I said these words for a second time.

Before I hit the "PUBLISH POST" button I thought about disabling comments here because, really, what is there to say other then "I'm sorry"? And I know you all are...you are all lovely, kind-hearted, compassionate people.

But I will leave the comment button on because the interaction with you during all my silly posts and sad posts have given me so much joy.

And I like the feeling that we are all connected...by nothing more then words on a screen.

You are all my community and so I want to thank you for sharing this moment with me on this sad day.

Hugs,
Jenny
Right after Liz died I was having a conversation with our Mom. Mom talked a lot about remembrances but then she said something that really stuck with me. She said that ever since Liz was a small child she was always so accepting and since that day I have thought about that comment a lot.

It seems that acceptance is not something very many people have whether it is the acceptance of rules and authority or the acceptance we have of the twists and turns our lives take. We cry. We get angry. We feel sorry for ourselves. And truly that is something that Liz never did.

I wonder if God granted Liz a special gift at birth knowing how her life would play out. If so, there is indeed a compassionate God.

As a small child Liz listened to what our parents said as gospel. There was no gray area. No cookies meant no cookies. The rest of us girls were pretty good about trying to find a loophole so that we could get what WE wanted but to Liz - no was no. Yes was yes. Don't was don't. Acceptance of what Dad and Mom said became part of who Liz was.

As she got a bit older and started school and Catholic Studies, Liz added her teachers and strong religious beliefs to what defined her life. Acceptance of this knowledge and religion also became part of who Liz was.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not saying Liz was mindless and a robot. She could be horribly stubborn and she wasn't always an angel. Sssshhhh... don't tell my Mom but she did cheat sometimes at games and was known to make mean faces on occasion. But I think what I'm trying to say is that Liz accepted that there were forces more powerful then her. There was a sweetness in her and a lack of rebelliousness along with a sense of joy and creativity that spilled over into all aspects of her young life.

Liz loved making things, drawing, playing outside, running … all the active things that are the definition of a creative, happy childhood. Nothing seemed unusual at all until she got into high school and then we all noticed that she began to walk funny. Kids gave her a rough time and made fun of her but it didn't seem to effect her. She had her piano and her sisters and her parents and her art and her religious reading and her schoolwork… if walking was a bit difficult it was just something to accept…. So she did.

As her walking continued to worsen our parents dragged her to many doctors in many hospitals for many tests. If the tests were painful and if she had to use a wheelchair more frequently it was just something to accept…. So she did.

High School graduation came and went and she got a car and started to college but her disease continued to progress and she became unable to drive and continue school, so the car was sold and she began to stay home more and more. If she resented the loss of these freedoms she never showed it. It was just another thing to accept. So she did.

Her time at home was still filled with piano and religious readings and unbelievable needlework. So many creative hobbies interested her…. Sewing dolls, cutting intricate snowflakes, making holiday decorations. She also began traveling with our parents and loved to see new things. She seemed happy with her life.

As the disease began spreading into her hands, though, one by one the hobbies began to be put away. If she was angered by the loss of playing the piano or sewing or doing her needlework she never showed it. It was just more loss to accept. So she did.

And when I say she accepted these losses I mean she accepted them with grace and courage. True and genuine acceptance with no remorse, regrets or anger.

More losses. The ability to do the most basic of self-care became impossible. Our parents continued to care for her at home as she became bedridden and she continued to be positive with a big, radiant smile often on her face. Our parents were finally faced with the difficult decision of placing her into a nursing home because her care had become too great for them to administer. If Liz was angered or fearful about this major change she never showed it. It was just another change in her life to accept. So she did.

In her final years simple things could merit a big,radiant smile in return. A snack that wasn't institution food. A pair of socks the right color of green. A reading of one of her favorite poems. Looking at magazines. But life had not yet finished creating changes for Liz and as her disease robbed her of more and more of her faculties these joys became harder to provide. But she accepted all this yet again.

During Liz's last few days one of the hospice nurses said that she believes that at the end everyone takes a final inventory of their life…. She called it book-keeping. She said she believes that we take out our memories and look at them and find acceptance for our lives and that we are then free to go.

Throughout the final days the family kept careful watch over Liz in her sedated sleep. I was there often and while I was I watched her face carefully. I often saw her smile and appear to be talking but I only saw her cry once. Once. Out of all the loss and pain and suffering that she had experienced in her too short life her final "book-keeping" was almost total joy.

I believe that Liz is in Heaven. I truly believe this. I think she is running and riding her bike and doing celestial needlework and planting pansies and eating spumoni ice cream and drinking a big glass of icy coke. I can just see her happy smile in my mind. In her later years as communication left her she was often unable to finish this simple sentence…. "I want…. I want….I want…." She would say over and over again in frustration… Liz doesn't "want" anything anymore. She has everything she has ever wanted or needed.

And I accept that.

F is for Fireflies

I'm sorry. I sat down to write this post with something else in mind and this is what came out. So I am leaving it. It does contain a PKW (possible kleenex warning)
Do you know the song "If Heaven" by Andy Griggs?

It is a lovely, sentimental song. If you haven't heard it is number 6 on my usual playlist which will be back up again tomorrow.

Part of the lyrics are:

If heaven was an hour, it would be twilight
When the fireflies start their dancing on the lawn
And suppers on the stove and mammas laughing
And everybodys working day is done

I cannot hear this song without being transported back to the enchanting years when my children were small.

I hear their laughter ringing out clearly through the dark night in excitement as they chased the elusive flickers through the velvet-soft, evening-damp grass.

I feel their joy in holding a twinkling bit of magic in their small hands for a moment.

I see their three little blonde heads bowed together in harmonious awe and wonder.

And I cannot hear this song without remembering catching fireflies with my own sisters.

These memories are as tangible to me as the keyboard I am typing this on.

I can close my eyes and capture that scent of mowed grass with just the smallest hint of fleeting time whispering around the edges of the memory.

I think of so many children today and I am saddened.

Where are their fireflies?

Who do these children grow up to be when their childhood is forfeited in pursuit of their parents desire for more money and bigger houses and always more stuff?

Where do these children learn their value of self when their parents cannot pull themselves away from their cellphones, PDA's and internet games to share a sorrow or a joy, to read a book, or to soothe a nightmare?

How do these children become caring and compassionate adults when they are raised without kindness and imagination and someone willing to kiss their boo-boos and nurse their sicknesses?

When will these children learn about humanity and the art of giving when they are surrounded by nothing but the selfish pursuit of self-interest?

At the preschool and the school I see so many children just looking lost.

Their eyes are sad.

And much too old.

They are already tired before they have even begun.

And I sit and listen to that song and I send up a simple wish along with my tears.

That these children with lost eyes and bruised hearts can somehow, someway find a firefly to hold in their hand.

This post is linked to Alphabe-Thursday.

A giveaway in Memory of Mike (PKW)

Possible Kleenex Warning post. Only a maybe...but I promised I would warn you always of any kleenex risk!

It was a gorgeous day here in the valley on Friday. Beautiful, pure blue skies...a few pristine fluffy clouds making the blue even more intense ...soft sunshine and soft cool breezes.

Steve and I drove through the congested traffic to share memories and sadness with our friend and her beautiful family.

The radio was playing softly...the sun made the interior of the car warm and cozy...my arm was tucked through Steve's and my fingers traced patterns on his wool jacket. Cars and miles and mountains fell away and we traveled closer to a church we had never been to before. We both sat quietly, wrapped in our own memories and thoughts

Funerals do that, don't they?

They make you dust off all the memories you have placed into safe-keeping. Memories so precious and painful that if they are not locked away can startle us when we least expect it. Those oh-so-painful memories that make you close your eyes and replay the sadnesses that you have put on “pause” so you can get through days, months and years at a time without ripping your heart out.

But funerals also make you remember lovely things. Moments of silliness. Memories of laughter. A remembrance of embrace or shared intimacy.

The first thing I saw walking into the large vestibule was our friend. She was looking small and lost in the echoing space…standing alone…looking almost dream-like. Behind her was a picture board collaged with photos of her son and a guest book and a beautiful gilt box filled with candy.

Her eyes focused on us and she came toward us with a lovely smile lighting her sweet face. “Oh, thank you for coming,” she said in a strong, clear voice. I hugged her perhaps a bit too long. I tried very hard to keep my own sadness to myself. This was about her. Her son. Her loss. Her day of grieving and closure.

She looked at the picture board with us. The baby pictures. The birthday pictures. The silly pictures. The pictures showing a healthy, sturdy child and a young, dream-filled man… the pictures showing the sickness creeping in.

We signed the guest book. Both for ourselves and for a precious group of friends that could not be present.

My husband and I each took a memorial card and a piece of Werthers gold-wrapped original candy. The metallic wrapper seemed oddly cheerful in such a somber setting. The candy, apparently a favorite of her sons, a sweet gift in the midst of such a solemn occasion.

The church was peaceful and quiet with only the sound of a water feature bubbling away accompanying the occasional sound of a sob or a whispered word.

It was a beautiful church. Jewel-toned stained glass clearstory windows lit the altar area with rich illumination.

Shortly after we were seated someone started a slide show presentation...the baby pictures, the birthday pictures, the silly pictures and the pictures showing a healthy, sturdy child and a young, dream-filled man…

Steve wrapped his arm around me and we held hands, tightly, the warmth a comfort as we intently watched the pictures showing the passage of a life.

The service started. The Priest was joyous. The music was beautiful…the guitars and vocals soaring to the very rafters of the church in celebration.

At the very end of the Mass, our friend went to the pulpit and shared little pieces of her life with her son. She reminisced about making wine, canning peaches, gardening and fishing. She spoke of her son's acceptance of his illness with grace and dignity. She spoke of his faith. And his joy.

She was strong. Composed. Sure in her words. Sure in what she wanted to convey.

Her plaintive cry at the very end was painful. “Oh, Michael,” she cried, “I loved you so much!”

The long silence after she returned to her seat let us all regain our composure.

Only to lose it again when Mike’s nephews attempted to sing a final song. Their muffled sobs into the microphone were sobering. And tear provoking. For everyone in the now solemn Church.

We waited quietly in the church foyer after the service. We looked at the picture board again. Oh, how quickly life goes. Here was a picture going to prom with a girl in a wide southern-bell hat.

And here now was our beautiful friend. Standing looking slightly puzzled but being her gracious and lovely self in the midst of all this emotion.

Everyone gathered in the church hall to share a potluck the ladies of the Church had provided. Food lined long tables…ties were loosened...talk became more relaxed.

Steve had taken his camera along to take photos if our friend wanted them. My Mom particularly treasures the photos from my sisters memorial lunch and we thought perhaps this was a small gift of remembrance we could offer.

Steve took photo after photo of laughter and hugs and tears and reflection. The aftermath of an emotional event.

The last photos Steve took were of the family gathered today. In strength. In remembrance. In love.

We said our goodbyes and drove home. Quiet again. Reflecting on the grace and courage we had just seen.

Reflecting on how quickly life goes and how important it is to live every moment.

Saddened by the loss of someone so young with so much courage and grace and example to offer.

And that is really what last weeks little series of gifts was about for me.

I wanted to share a little joy in what can often be a sad world for so many of us.

And what I learned was much greater then what I gave away. I learned that by turning outward and sharing it does diminish the loss. Somehow when we turn in it magnifies our sadness and isolates us from the people that can help us through. It truly and honestly does. At least for me.

So I thank you sincerely for letting me share a bit of happiness with you on what could have been a very sad time.

And in Mike's honor I would like to do one final giveaway.

This man loved the outdoors but lost his ability to be out in it and enjoy it often. His illness took that from him.

For this giveaway I would like to share a ZippyStrippyQuilt I made - it is a simple little cotton rag quilt but it is cozy and warm. The patterns on it are of the outdoors: camping, fishing, and picnicking! Something I feel is so appropriate in memory of this man.


To enter to win you must be a follower of my blog and your comment to this post is your entry. Please don't be sad in your comment, just tell me something you love doing outside with your family.

You can post a comment today, Monday, and again on Tuesday and Wednesday for three chances to win.

If Mr. Random Org isn't busy I will do the drawing on Wednesday night around 8 pm MST, right before I put up the Alphabe-Thursday link!

Thank you for helping me celebrate a life well-lived!

And thank you for coming to visit my blog.

I was so worried that just telling my stories would not be enough. And it gladdens my heart to find that it is.

Bless you all for that!

Aristotle died long before this man lived...PKW

...but his words of philosophy and wisdom must surely have been written for this exact moment in time...this exact day...

The beauty of the soul shines out when a man bears with composure one heavy mischance after another, not because he does not feel them, but because he is a man of high and heroic temper” Aristotle

At Christmas I shared this story with you...It was entitled "Can I Show you Christmas?" and I'd like to share it again with you now if that's OK.

Technically her name is Riley, and she is our middle Granddaughter. Our dreamy, sweet, heart-driven, lovely Riley who is six years old. And who has one of the kindest hearts I've ever been around. Although she is wearing a pink and white dress and is holding a puppy in this photo, that's not why she is Christmas.

She is Christmas because of this drawing. And many others like it. Espcially because of who she has been drawing them for.

But I think for me it is this drawing in specific that whispers Christmas into every particle of my being. May I tell you about this picture?

This picture is drawn for a wonderful man who is suffering from so many awful things it would take me an hour to tell his tale. He is the son of one of the most loving friends I have.

This picture was drawn at Riley's own initiative. When she saw an envelope on my desk and asked who it was for and I told her "Mike" she immediately ran for the colored pencils.

This picture was drawn with two legs because Mike has had one amputated and Riley says he wants to see himself the way "his heart wants him to be."

This picture was drawn with the two of them getting onto an airplane because Mike goes back and forth between bedridden and the ICU unit at the hospital and Riley says he wants to see himself going on a trip. With her. To Disneyland.

One morning several weeks ago Riley was here in my office actually drawing a picture to send to Mike when my friend called to tell me her husband had suffered a stroke. All this in addition to dealing with the sadness and medical horrors that encompass every single moment of their life.

Riley listened to my conversation and then looked up at me to ask "Grandma, who is Bob?"

I replied "sweetie, that is Mike's Dad and he is very, very sick now, too."

And Riley said to me "oh boy, Grandma, I have a lot of drawing to do here."

And went to get another piece of paper.

Did I say that this picture whispers Merry Christmas to my soul.

It doesn't. It shouts "Merry Christmas!" to every atom that makes me who I am. It makes my heart swell with carols and pride and love and certainty.

Certainty that because this little girl exists there is still hope and love and joy and possibility and kindness in a world that sometimes feels otherwise.

And Mike, I hope this dream of walking sturdily and confidently onto an airplane to take a trip to somewhere wonderful soothes your soul and eases your pain for just a moment.

And Riley? Sweet, sweet girl.

Merry Christmas.

But that was at Christmas. And the story continues today.

Because this morning when our Granddaughters were here Riley made her first card for Mike. It was this Valentine. Just as Riley finished her card the house phone rang. I struggled to find it in the clutter on the table. Then my cell phone rang.

And it was Mike's brother saying Mike was gone. That he passed away peacefully this morning listening to his I-pod.

It's taken me the whole day just to actually take this out of the little place in my mind where I put things I don't want to know. You know that little locked-up place where you can put sad, bad things and hope they aren't real?

And even though I know on some level that Mike is whole again and getting off the plane with two sturdy legs to go to Disneyland I just don't want it to be true.

I used to think that what Mike did on a daily basis was heroic. You know? An ordinary hero. One of those people that seem to make all the bad things in our lives feel bearable.

And tonight I'm not totally sure what I think. My heart is so heavy for Mike's family...and in small, selfish way for me. It is his family that bears the sorrow of his passing and the true joy that he is free of pain and suffering finally. But somehow death always touches each of us...profoundly. And becomes personal. So please send your kind words and prayers to Mike's family.

Because this isn't really about me. Or Riley.

But Mike, just in case you're blogging up in Heaven, I want you to know that even though I mailed you silly card after silly card I never really came out and told you that I know Aristotle had you in mind, or someone as crazy brave as you when he wrote those words...

So, I'm going to say them to you just once more...

The beauty of the soul shines out when a man bears with composure one heavy mischance after another, not because he does not feel them, but because he is a man of high and heroic temper” Aristotle

Go in Peace, Mike.

Your going makes the world a sadder place. Because you weren't just an ordinary hero. You were amazing.

April 4, 1964 - February 7, 2010

C is for Celebration(PKW)

If you are new to my blog PKW is Possible Kleenex Warning, just in case you're at work or something reading this!

So...

We have these amazing friends in Ohio. Their names are Jerry and Joanne. And I suppose I could have waited until "J" to tell this story but I want to tell you now, especially because we've just finished the Surprise Wedding saga.

These people are absolutely wonderful.

Hey wait a second, will you? My husband is just walking down the hall.

OK, I'm back. I just asked him to describe Jerry and Joanne because I know I am extremely biased and here's what he said, "warm, intelligent, funny, compassionate, friendly, just delightful, delightful people."

Joanne will tell you every silly thing she's every done...she is an open book to her loved ones and we all absolutely adore her and her hugs and kisses and very open affection.

Jerry is quieter and more reserved about personal things. He will talk to you about deep and esoteric subjects like astrophysics or why the allegorical meaning of Shakespeares sonnets should be... (well, OK, I don't know exactly what he says but he does say stuff exactly like this and you have to sit there trying to nod and look intelligent all the while thinking "why oh why didn't I pay attention in school in classes other than Chasing Boys 101?") But he doesn't talk about emotions or share his feelings.

Thinking about this right now, I don't think I have ever seen him hug or kiss or say "I love you" to his wonderful wife in public.

You can clearly see the affection between them, but she shows it often and with great abandon, and he does not.

But anyway.

Jerry has had cancer several times and has had a tough recovery...but he is a fighter. And a scholar. And a kind and wonderful man.

Before Christmas Jerry had a heart attack. He was on a ladder and fell to the floor. The ambulance could barely get up their snow-filled driveway to transport him to the hospital.

He survived. And is in the process of trying to recover.

January 18th is Jerry and Joanne's Anniversary.

Something they usually celebrate quietly and with no public displays of affection other then a loving glance toward one another.

This year was their 46th Anniversary.

Our lovely friend Joanne went to the read the morning paper that Monday morning and almost choked when she turn the page and found this... ...occupying an entire half-page in their local newspaper.

She was astonished.

She cried.

She laughed.

When she told me, I was astonished.

I cried.

I laughed.

And then I cried some more when she told me he explained it by saying, "I figured I better do this now...and not try and wait for our 50th."

What a Celebration of love.

The truest Celebration by putting aside his own feelings of humble privacy to shout from the very rooftops "I LOVE THIS WOMAN!"

And I am Celebrating again today how very fortunate I am to know them.

I wish I was a master of photoshop... (PKW)

And I will tell you why but first I want to warn you that this might need a Possible Kleenex Warning (PKW) because this post is serious.

You might not know this about me but I write every single day. Much of what I write is about deep and painful subjects related to introspective things I don’t really share here . I choose not to share those things because we all have problems. Problems with illness, family, hurt, pain, and loss and I generally want to make myself, and hopefully you, laugh so you can forget all those things if just for a few moments. And even if you don’t laugh I hope I confuse you enough that you can escape from whatever it is pulling you down for a brief minute.

Since mid-August I decided I would write in this blog every single day and except for the rare times when I republish old stories I truly write what comes out of my head. I don’t sit and think…the words just pour out…and then I polish them up a bit and put them here for your consumption.

And I can never, ever write what I don’t feel. It’s strange but I can’t force words to come out of my fingers …and sometimes, honestly, the words don’t go in the direction I think they will. They ramble and weave and go elsewhere and such is the case today.

I sat down truly intending to write some light hearted instructions for Alphabe-Thursday, but I can’t.

The words won’t come. Because what I want to write about is serious. And I suspect not very popular. And I suspect it might even anger some of you.

But I have been thinking and now I have to be true to myself and I need to write what is in my heart…which is sadness and even a little bit of shame. And so I will write this and gather my courage to hit the “publish” button.

And what I truly want to say today is this...

Most of you are probably too young to know this story but in 1938 Orson Welles did a radio adaptation of the H.G. Wells novel, The War of the Worlds. Before media bombarded us with instant news all the time, people listened to their radios and read the newspaper and those were the links they held to the world outside of their own immediate community.

In 1938, though, the sturdy and boxy radios in peoples homes didn’t broadcast the serial stories that kept Americans entranced and entertained. What they heard coming from the tinny speakers was a tale of aliens invading New Jersey…and people reacted with horror and fear and became obsessed with this terrifying possibility.

Times have changed.

Trying to convince someone that aliens were invading would be difficult now. We have access to everything…instantly…u-tube, radio, news, internet. And although we are hoaxed sometimes with fake stories and fake pictures for the most part we believe what we can see. But lately it is what we don’t see that has made me think a little too much.

And that is why I wish I was a master of photoshop.

My purpose would not be to scare people with the fears of 1938 but to perhaps open some eyes, including my own.

I would travel this great country of ours and I would photograph the families I see living from cars or cardboard boxes and trying to survive. I would photograph people who have no idea where and how to get help finding food and medical or mental health assistance. I would photograph people gravely ill from drinking contaminated water. I would come to your city and photograph the people lined up for the soup kitchen to have their only meal of the day. I would go to downtown Phoenix and photograph the addicts huddled in their misery having forgotten the potential of hope or the runaways living under the bridges. With teary eyes my quest would continue and I would photograph the fragile elderly literally counting their pennies trying to decide between purchasing medicine or food. I would photograph children curled up under rags in restless sleep dreaming not of new toys but of simply having enough food so their stomachs didn’t ache.

And I would weep.

And when I was done weeping I would somehow magically photoshop all this together into a collage of sadness...all the faces...all the pain...all the worry over trying to provide or find simple things like food and warmth and clothes and medical care.

And I would take this magical photoshopped collage and I would post pictures everywhere and I would say "these people are suffering from massive destruction the likes of which has never been seen before. There has been an earthquake that has rocked the very foundation of our country !”

And everywhere, all over the world people would be horrified and would cry great tears of sorrow and outrage that not enough was being done. And they would help.

Because that’s what people do. They help when they can. They help when they see the pictures and hear the stories. They help when they watch the news with horrified faces, perhaps shedding tears that there could be so much suffering…and oh, oh, oh, all those poor children.

And they would gather their prayers and their purses and send their spare change away. They would auction items to raise money and they would forego their lattes for a few days to donate a little bit more and they would all gather in a spirit of community to help.

And some of the suffering would be eased. Some of the pain would be abated. And some of the children would have a safe place to sleep and the people would have clean water to drink and for a time people would find some relief from their suffering.

My heart truly hurts for the people of Haiti.

But my heart also hurts deeply for the people right here that need this same level of assistance and this same level of compassion.

I have too often seen and heard the attitude that “people need to help themselves” and I believe this to be true. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want help. It just doesn’t work. But if the help needed does not come from a catostrophe of epic weather or war, sometimes we might forget to recognize that “helping themselves” might be something beyond their reach. And their ability to reach for help might be compromised by circumstances we don’t know and can’t imagine or understand.

Because how can people help themselves when they are cold and they are hungry and their every waking moment is consumed with trying to protect their children or balance their meager budget to purchase medicine?

And there’s so much this. An unimaginable amount of it. Right here. In our own cities and neighborhoods.

But perhaps the magical photoshopped collage could show a depth and scope of human suffering that might leave us speechless. And shocked. And in tears.

And everywhere, all over the world, people would be horrified and would cry great tears of sorrow and outrage that not enough was being done to help. And they would help.

Because that’s what people do. They help when they can. They help when they see the pictures and hear the stories. They help when they watch the news with horrified faces, perhaps shedding tears that there could be so much suffering…and oh, oh, oh, all those poor children.

But because our problems here at home aren’t as sensational and aren’t as dramatic and aren’t as huge as what we are watching in Haiti we forgot. I forget. And that is part of the shame I mentioned earlier.

I forget to help wonderful bloggers like Julie who try to make someone warmer…one blanket, one cozy hat at a time. People like Julie can help and do help and will help…they just sometimes need the small amount of help I can give personally. And I forget that. I hop on the bandwagon of public outrage and rush to help elsewhere. And helping is always a good thing. It’s just sometimes I forget it when I’m not being bombarded with mass-in-your-face-requests to do good in small ways here. The small amount I sent to Julie gave her enough to make a blanket. One blanket. And it warms me to think that some cold person might feel cozy for a moment because of that.

But sometimes I forget because I'm not seeing those photos of suffering on every media I follow.

I forget to be vocal about changes that need to be made.

Because I am just one voice and one voice can rarely be heard.

Which is why I wish I was a master of photoshop. Because a picture is worth a thousand times a thousand words.

And if we all gathered to look at the photoshopped collage of pain we would cry great tears and say “something must be done!”

And we’d do it.

Because it would be everywhere we turned so our intentions would not fall by the wayside in our busy lives.

Julie. I am humbled by your efforts and for your ability to remind me of this important fact.

Help begins at home.

And I am proud that perhaps with our combined efforts there will be one less photo on my imaginary photoshopped collage of suffering.

Thank you.

Peony tales - conclusion (PKW)

Not saying you'll need one but I promised the possible kleenex warning and here it is!
As soon as I got home I called the neighbor who plowed my gardens and asked him to come over right away to cultivate a new field for me. He came that same evening and worked up the rich, black earth into what seemed like a huge bed.

When my children left for school the next day I took a bunch of boxes to the farm and started digging, being careful to keep each tag with each tuber. About ten minutes into the digging Doug came home and said he had the day off work and he was going to start plowing right away! Oh no! Lori and I dug and dug and piled peony tubers into the truck helter-skelter. We were covered in dirt and mud but no matter how fast we dug the rows still stretched on.

We heard the tractor starting up and realized we were never going to get finished so we grabbed two more plants and then watched as that shiny metal started ripping out years and years of beauty and history. Did I mention I never did like Doug?

It made me sad to watch so I left to drive carefully home. Careful of the blisters on my hands, careful of my precious cargo.

When the kids got home from school they filled buckets of water from the spring and we spent hours and hours planting the 27 plants that had been rescued. Five had tags. The rest were a mystery.

They all grew. Each one into magnificent plants laden with blossoms of every color from the palest yellow frills to almost black single blossoms. Most of the varieties I could never identify. I found out later that the man who had lived on that farm for over fifty years was a peony breeder and had varieties from all over the world.

Each year I lived in that old house the peonies took my breath away. I could feel the history in the blossoms. Feel the mystery in the unnamed varieties.

Sometimes I thought that leaving my beloved farmhouse and my gardens and my friends would break my heart entirely. But time does heal all wounds, eventually. Or at least make them manageable.

Several years ago when I was back in Ohio I asked the people who now live in my old home if I could walk around the yard. The peonies were gone. The old apple trees were gone. The perennial beds were gone. So much was gone. All of that clutter was just in the way of mowing they told me.

I left that day feeling so sad. So much lost beauty for the sake of an hour or two saved on a lawn mower.

That tiny kernel of sadness for loss still resides in my heart…for the lost peonies and the lost dreams. There is a small consolation recognizing that the blossoms are still inside with me in memory. I can easily close my eyes and recall the feel of the moist, rich soil under my hands as I cultivated around them. My mind still sees their glorious colors illuminated in the late afternoon sunshine.

But sometimes no matter how vivid the memory, my heart still grieves for the passage of time and the loss of something wonderful.

Tend your peony beds carefully, my friend. They may never come again.

If you missed the first part of this story just click on this link.

What a difference a year makes...(PKW)

...and I tell you this tale to...

... Oh, what is the PKW you ask? It is a "possible kleenex warning". I've had some e-mails and comment requests asking for a kleenex warning when I switch from wearing my normal smart-alec hat to my more somber serious hat...I'm not saying it will make you cry but it might...OK, resuming serious now)

OK, hmmm.... yea. Oh yea.

I'm not telling this tale to you for any pity but to let you know that the impossible can happen. And I'm not telling you this story for you to judge me. Judge me you may...and I cannot stop that but unless or until you have a child in this situation the way you imagine you will handle it never seems to be the way you do. Or maybe it is. But this is what happened for me.

Last Christmas found me sitting outside in the shivery star-filled night playing my guitar and singing "Silent Night" trying to regain my sanity and to subdue the pain that was ripping my heart apart.

My sweet husband found me there and wrapped a blanket around me and led me to bed where I cried until I literally thought I might die.

Oh, I wanted to. I really did.

There is nothing that can cause pain like one of your children suffering. And suffering by perceived choice and not by unlucky chance.

Our youngest daughter is a heroin addict.

The whole full-on hoodie wearing junkie with track marks you see living on the streets.

To say this has been a horror is beyond an understatement. I have probably written 500,000 words trying to rid my soul of this pain. To no avail.

Our last attempt at "saving" this beloved girl resulted in me being away from my home and family staying in shivery-cold Minneapolis for six weeks while she went to a naturopathic rehab. An experience that could result in a thousand or more blog posts if I ever choose to share it.

I saw a miracle in Minneapolis. A true, honest to God, miracle. I saw my daughter return to me...talk to me...laugh with me...have honest light and life in her dimmed and delusioned hazel eyes.

It was a revelation.

And a heartbreak.

Because when we returned to "real life" she fell back into her old habits. Immediately.

And with great sorrow in my heart I let my soul die and began letting her go. A process that might seem easy. A process that is anything but easy.

But I decided that I had to do this to save myself. And that there were others in the family that I loved and that loved me. And that putting myself into the grave trying to save someone who did not want to be saved served no purpose. No matter how much I loved them.

It broke my heart. Almost literally.

So I did not see her or talk to her. I left food and blankets outside for her to pick up on our cold winter nights. The thought of my child living on the street was beyond anything I could even wrap my mind around.

I went to all the NA support meetings, I did all the "stuff" you are supposed to do but nothing helped.

And there was no light and music in my soul.

And right before Christmas she called and said she was clean and sober and asked to come to Christmas Eve. And against all the discordant clamor of my inner warning bells I said yes.

Last Christmas was brutal. Beyond brutal. It was like what I imagine hell to be. Because she wasn't clean or sober. And I tried to pretend for my Granddaughters sake that it was all OK. But it wasn't. Not by a mile. Not by a million miles. And when that night ended and I watched my big, tough son and my husband who can control emotions like nobodies business reduced to sobbing tears I thought my heart had broken even more. Something that seemed impossible.

So I sat under the stars in the backyard playing my old 12-string guitar until I actually felt my finger-tips bleeding. But still I couldn't stop. I could not release that horror and all the previous horrors from my mind.

In January when I encountered one of my long last cousins through her blog. And somehow just meeting her let the music come alive in my heart again

Just a tiny bit.

And as months passed I learned to laugh again. In spite of the fact that I felt I had lost my daughter. We had endured so much through this addiction and not being around it let me finally breathe.

And even though each breath was painful it was possible.

And through each breath the tiny kernel of hope inside of me sat untouched. Just waiting.

In April when she called me she sounded oddly quiet and composed. And she told me she was working on getting clean and staying sober.

I wished her luck but kept that kernel of hope locked up tight, tight, tight. Because it was really and truly all I had left.

But something happened because weeks began to pass and she stayed sober. She stayed off all the drugs.

But I still kept that hope locked up...because it had been beaten down and trampled so many, many times before that I was afraid to loose it entirely.

But I watched.

And I waited.

And the days clicked by...one after another...as they do whether we want them to or not.

And she found a place to live.

And she enrolled in college.

And she picked up the tiny fragments of her life little by little.

And she came back into our lives...little by little...and we let her...very, very carefully.

And now over eight months has passed and she is still finding her way back.

And she has become part of our family again.

And that tiny little kernel of hope has grown a tiny sprig of green and there is a leaf there that is about to bud.

Christmas morning she came with her boyfriend and they opened their stockings and laughed and kidded and joked and then went to my parents.

And the entire day I was on the verge of tears.

That we had, indeed, had a miracle in our lives.

And by prayers and perservance and by taking any and all help we could get to survive intact ... we actually had. Survived.

I know this is not a cure...but each and every day she stays on this path is one day farther away from the life she led.

And we are grateful and overwhelmed with the miracle of this.

I have seen the power of prayer.

I have witness to the amazement of miracles.

And now we are living one.

I listen to so many of your stories and they sadden me and I wonder how you manage to cope with the overflowing troubles you carry. And I admire your courage. I hope you can keep going and keep your head up and work on keeping the music and joy inside of you intact. No matter what.

One of my favorite quotes is "Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark." We have gone through the dark of night to find hope blooming again.

And I wish that for you, too.

No matter how dark it feels.

Keep your faith. There is always possibility. And always hope.

Happy New Year.

Can I show you Christmas?

Technically her name is Riley, and she is our middle Granddaughter. Our dreamy, sweet, heart-driven, lovely Riley who is six years old. And who has one of the kindest hearts I've ever been around. Although she is wearing a pink and white dress and is holding a puppy in this photo, that's not why she is Christmas.

She is Christmas because of this drawing. And many others like it. Espcially because of who she has been drawing them for.

But I think for me it is this drawing in specific that whispers Christmas into every particle of my being. May I tell you about this picture?

This picture is drawn for a wonderful man who is suffering from so many awful things it would take me an hour to tell his tale. He is the son of one of the most loving friends I have.

This picture was drawn at Riley's own initiative. When she saw an envelope on my desk and asked who it was for and I told her "Mike" she immediately ran for the colored pencils.

This picture was drawn with two legs because Mike has had one amputated and Riley says he wants to see himself the way "his heart wants him to be."

This picture was drawn with the two of them getting onto an airplane because Mike goes back and forth between bedridden and the ICU unit at the hospital and Riley says he wants to see himself going on a trip. With her. To Disneyland.

One morning several weeks ago Riley was here in my office actually drawing a picture to send to Mike when my friend called to tell me her husband had suffered a stroke. All this in addition to dealing with the sadness and medical horrors that encompass every single moment of their life.

Riley listened to my conversation and then looked up at me to ask "Grandma, who is Bob?"

I replied "sweetie, that is Mike's Dad and he is very, very sick now, too."

And Riley said to me "oh boy, Grandma, I have a lot of drawing to do here."

And went to get another piece of paper.

Did I say that this picture whispers Merry Christmas to my soul.

It doesn't. It shouts "Merry Christmas!" to every atom that makes me who I am. It makes my heart swell with carols and pride and love and certainty.

Certainty that because this little girl exists there is still hope and love and joy and possibility and kindness in a world that sometimes feels otherwise.

And Mike, I hope this dream of walking sturdily and confidently onto an airplane to take a trip to somewhere wonderful soothes your soul and eases your pain for just a moment.

And Riley? Sweet, sweet girl.

Merry Christmas.