Writer, producer, and storyteller living in New England among two and four-legged loved ones. I use this space to focus on something I'm grateful for experiencing or remembering, or misremembering.
I’m not suppose to work on Mondays – but I keep breaking that schedule.
And I feel so much better when I start my day with yoga – but that routine’s been slipping, too.
And my son is struggling at daycare, and my husband is working so hard on the redesign of our living room, and I can feel the worry about money, health, and the future itching to move back in.
And, the pharmacy said they would call my name when my prescription was refilled in about fifteen minutes. So, I tried a walking meditation around the store to chill. And when I came out of it, and still hadn’t heard my name, I got back in line.
“Hi, they said they’d call my name when my prescription was ready? But that was thirty-minutes ago and I didn’t hear it.”
The tech, who looks as overwhelmed as I feel goes through the standard drill. Name. Street address. Date of birth.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “It’s been ready for about twenty minutes, they must’ve just forgotten to call you.”
I breathe my way to a smile. Pay my increased co-pay and notice a credit card, that’s not mine, on the counter.
“I think the woman who was in front of me left this.” I hand the card over.
“Thanks,” the tech says, “I probably wouldn’t even have noticed it.”
As I head toward the front of the store, I hear the name on the card come over the loud speaker. She’s kindly being beckoned back to the pharmacy counter.
She smiles at me. “Did you find my credit card?”
“Yeah, that’s why they’re calling you.”
“See,” she says, “there are good people in the world.”
And, yes, there are…even when we don’t have our shit together.
I spent the majority of my childhood dreading church.
Early on when my family lived in Fitchburg, I dreaded walking into the mammoth, cold, gothic structure on the south side. The ornate pews were finished in a thick muted gray paint with the slick coat of varnish. They always looked sad to me. Droopy even. Like at any given moment they were ready to melt like the witches in The Wizard of Oz.
I didn’t like the echo either. The way the organ, and the priest, and the prayers never seemed to fill the seemingly miles long (and high) first floor – but rather just bounced and banged off and into each other. Everything always sounded like it hurt in there.
And then of course there was the cruxifixction. The emaciated Jesus nailed to the cross with his crown of thorns. He was bleeding. Out his palms and the tops of his feet, and just the ever so slightly from his head. And while the pews made me sad, this starving, abused, dying man made me scared.
It scared me that people did this to one another. It scared me that no one helped. And mostly, it scared me that this reminder of cruelty and despair was a permanent feature.
As time went on the fear and anxiety faded into judgement and boredom. I found it really hard to pay attention or take away any greater meaning. Mostly, I was just left with guilt.
Like in third grade, when I promised myself (and God) that I was really going to try and get behind his whole church thing now that my parents were divorced and Lindsey and I were living in a new town and enrolled in a very small Catholic primary school.
And I was feeling pretty good when things started with a walk across the street for first-day mass. The inside of this church was smaller, warmer, and had a toned down crucifix. I was able to ease in and really listen. And that’s when I heard the priest declare:
“And remember, your parents love you more for investing in religious education. Those children at public school, who get lessons with no God, their parents are depriving them of the most important part. Your parents recognize that. They want you to have more than that, and that’s why you are so blessed to be here.”
Up until the divorce, if fact up until that very day, my sister and I had always been enrolled in public school. The anxiety and her always biting internal dialogue snapped immediately back into place: Did my parents not really love us when they were together?
Eventually my struggles with church would lead to a complete abandonment of faith.
Until recently.
This past September, after I was pulled out of work by my doctors and given a diagnosis of Depression and General Anxiety Disorder, I started exploring my spirituality.
I read and listened to works on prayer, meditation, mindfulness, and the power of intention. I began practicing yoga. I explored cleansing and fasting. I connected deeply with the power and practice of gratitude – and I started offering it not just for the blessings, but for the challenges, and the obstacles, and even the miseries, too.
And maybe that’s why I woke up wanting to write this entry on this morning, as I get ready for a long, lovely, and uplifting service with my yoga. Let this Sunday be an offering to every Sunday that lead me to find the true peace and grace of any (and every) blessed day of rest.
The food. The toasts. The conversation. I love all of it.
Today, at work we raised a glass in honor of a much loved and appreciated member of our team. She’s moving on to do a different job but will always remain a part of our work.
Typically, at these get togethers I like being fully involved in whatever’s happening. Folks are dancing – I like dancing. Telling jokes – I like sharing. Politics, religion, current affairs, music, television, movies, literature…I can put a good shine on whatever the group is waxing.
But, today, after having a private moment with the colleague that I’ll miss dearly – I found myself wanting to spend more time in our company kitchen.
Some other co-workers had brought in snacks, made eggplant parm and meatballs, picked up incredible cookies from the North End. The Founders of our company each gave a toast. Our team coordinator put together a perfect playlist.
And, there alone in the kitchen, I saw how I could contribute, too.
The stacks of dirty glasses, sheet pans, and the half-loaded dishwasher all needed attention. So, I lovingly gave them mine.
Cleaning as the party goes is something I’m accustomed to doing at home and at the homes of my dearest friends and family…but I can’t remember if I’ve ever extended the same courtesy at work.
Where I was this morning, the roads weren’t great.
Still partially frozen from the snow and freezing rain the night before – my route to work looked like a poorly planned quilt stitched together with patches of ice, puddles, and leftover snow tracks.
As I was approaching a red light with three cars already stopped in front of it, I pressed on the brake and it kicked back. The pedal continued to kick back and I began to head straight for the stopped cars. Having no breaks and starting to really skid, I crossed the yellow lines into the other lane and miraculously – at the height of the morning commute – there was no oncoming traffic.
The skid and I continued out from the wrong lane and onto a one-way, going the wrong way.
Miraculously, no one was traveling in the right direction.
Finally, the brakes came back and I made it safely into a Walgreen’s parking lot. I put the car in park, turned off the radio, and noticed the yellow legal pad on the passenger’s seat and a pen in the center console.
I made a list.
Today…
I am grateful for the skid and the grace of a missed accident.
I am grateful for the busy, racing mind and the challenge to quiet it.
I am grateful for the questions and my unquenchable thirst for answers.
I am grateful for the pain in my right shoulder and it’s command to breathe.
I am grateful for the longing to work for myself.
I am grateful for this pad and this pen being here, right now.
I am grateful for giving myself permission to stop.
I am grateful for the sore throat and the recognition that it needs to heal.
I am grateful for the new car and the attention I need to give it.
I am grateful for forgiveness and the chances to start again.
Everything on my list wasn’t directly related to the almost accident, none them were planned, and most of them weren’t even complete thoughts.
Nearly a year ago, a good friend of mine bought me a book: Great Quotes from Great Women.
Tonight, I happened to pick it up. At random I opened to page 24 and read this:
When you get into a tight place and it seems you can’t go on, hold on, for that’s just the place and the time that the tide will turn. –Harriet Beecher Stowe, 1811-1896
If I had read page 24 the day my friend so generously gifted me this bit of pocket inspiration, I may have mistaken Harriet for a naive optimist at best, and a liar at worst.
Tonight, I’m just thankful this great woman and her wise words came to me at exactly the right time–when I could hear (and know) their truth.
My youngest sister, Teresa was four when I left for college.
At 18, I was more than ready to leave rural New Hampshire, be out from under my parents’ roof, and start learning from some bad decisions. The only thing that really scared me was Teresa not having any memories of her first four years.
I remember everything. The first time I held her – in that hospital room, just her, my Mom, and me. And, I remember crying because I didn’t know what else to do with all that beauty.
I remember our Dad waking me up at two o’clock in the morning a day and a half after she was born to tell that he was headed to the hospital to go get Mom, because Teresa she was being transported to an intensive care unit in Dartmouth for a heart defect.
I remember the worry over her heart and the pure joy that flooded in when she finally came home.
I remember singing into her baby feet. Changing her diapers. Giving her baths. I remember when she was three and told my Mom that out of all the Scooby-Doo characters, I was Velma because Velma was the smart one.
I remember picking her up from school. Playing I Spy when she crawled into my bed early on Saturday mornings. I remember trying to remember all of it so intensely, because if she couldn’t remember, I hoped I could remember enough for the both of us.
Teresa was the first kid in my life to offer me a peek into the almighty power of motherhood.
My nephew, TJ was five when we met.
My then boyfriend, Ken and I had only been a dating a little over three weeks when he asked if I’d like to go to his sister’s house for a barbecue.
I remember everything about that barbecue. It was overcast – so we ate inside instead of on the deck. We had marinated chicken breasts and steak tips, tossed salad, chips, and pasta salad. We drank beer straight from the bottle, which I soon learned drove my future mother in-law crazy, but this all came after I first remember meeting TJ and his younger brother, Justin.
When Ken and I first arrived the clouds didn’t look quite so ominous, so the boys were still playing on their swing set in the backyard. Their Mom, Ken’s sister, Heidi was sitting on the grass watching her boys. She met her younger brother with a hug, me with smile and a kind handshake, and then she called for the boys to come say hello.
They ran – raced really – over to Uncle Kenny, and the three of them instantly started in on some wrestling maneuvers I didn’t really understand. Having grown up the oldest of four girls this was new to me.
Uncle Kenny introduced us. Both of these boys were unbelievably cute, kind, and so obviously loved and loving. They both gave me a high-five, but for whatever reason, and without prompting, TJ also gave me a hug.
That’s when I suddenly knew I was an Aunt – his Aunt – their Aunt. And the rest of the day took on this sort of euphoric state…ending with Kenny and I taking a long drive to see the ocean and him leaning into my ear and whispering:
“You know I’m going to marry you, right?”
And me, in complete and utter assurance responding: “Of course, I do.”
Today, I shared an early Sunday Supper with Teresa as she leaves for a semester abroad in New Zealand…and got to sing Happy Birthday to my now 17 year-old nephew, TJ.
I am so very filled with gratitude for the many memories that these little, lovely kids and kind, caring young adults continue to give me.
Watching them grow teaches me so much, and being a part of their roots is truly one of the most nurturing rewards of finding my place on our big, connected, and ever-expanding family tree.
While my son’s cold may be of the common variety, his chapped lips definitely qualify as severe.
The sudden arctic chill combined with the nonstop mucus out his nose, mouth, and eyes, has formed this red, blistery irritation that pierces my heart every time I look at him.
“Please, Bubba,” I begged (again) this morning. “Please, let Mum put a little Chapstick on you. Or a little Vaseline -something.”
His high-pitched, terror-infused, desperate wails of “no,” cut me even deeper than the sights of his beautiful mouth covered in hard, dry cracks.
I put the Chapstick away. He needed it, but not like this.
Out of ideas, and recognizing that guilt of parent fail wanting to settle in, I reached out to my boss who also happens to be a relationship expert and a leader in the field of using playful engagement as a way to help kids cope.
He gave me a lot of great insights and ideas, and the one that resonated with me the most was to make a special trip out of going to the pharmacy and letting Briggs see all of the different kinds of Chapsticks and balms, and giving him full control to choose whichever one he wanted.
“Thanks, Bubba. That’s a huge help,” I said. “Sometimes it’s tough doing things you’re not pumped about, but….”
Suddenly, it was our turn and the grandmother on the other side of the counter met us kindly, rang up our items, and then without out prompting, handed Briggs a Valentine chocolate.
And her smile to me seemed to say, “for being brave.”
This morning I got out of work to give in to my son.
He’s sick. Fever, stuffy nose, runny eyes, and those sick kid chapped lips that are painful to even look at. We took the morning to snuggle, go to the doctor’s (thankfully, it’s nothing too serious), and binge on PBS Kids.
Then my husband came home and took over the snuggle and PBS duties and I gave myself back over to my job. Closed some deals. Took some meetings. Hit a few deadlines. Added a few more “get-tos” to my to-dos.
And then…then, I came down and ordered take-out, because I had committed to giving my Thursday night to my uncle’s campaign for school committee. And, I find late meetings always run better on full stomachs.
And yet, somehow in between the sickness and the snuggles, and the conference calls and the campaign, I still found some time to give in to my own creativity. To wrap a four-page writing project (just for me) and even found my way back here before today officially runs into tomorrow.
And so, sometimes, maybe, the more you can give, the more you can give – which is actually, a pretty great get.
Today’s Ash Wednesday – which in the Catholic faith signifies the start of Lent (the Season of Easter) and is a day fasting and prayer.
I grew up Catholic but haven’t been practicing for quite some time, but when I saw someone at work with a dark, smudged, cross drawn on his forehead I was reminded of the holiday.
Through St. Bernard’s CCD and St. Patrick’s Elementary School, I learned that Lent was a time of sacrifice. A time to give up meat on Fridays and any other want, luxury, or decadence for 40 days.
Growing up I often gave up candy. Some years soda. My parents almost always gave up alcohol.
And then…I can’t remember when, maybe when I was in high school, instead of giving things up, my Mom started prompting my three younger sisters and I to spend the 40 days in between Ash Wednesday and Easter doing more.
Sending more cards to relatives we didn’t see often. Spending more time playing games instead of watching television. Volunteering to coach for the rec. or help teach Sunday School for the church.
All suggestions were considered by one of us or another, and to some degree or another, all were acted upon as well.
I didn’t think much about Ash Wednesday through the course of the day – until in fact, it was almost over…and I found myself in a conversation with someone I love, hearing things that were difficult to hear.
And, after having some tea and finding some time to process, I actually started to feel grateful for having received the hard things on such a holy day.
Thankful for the reminder that hard things tend to lose their edge when met with quiet, mindful reflection. And that there is always enough time to give more, and to let go of whatever is not serving your ultimate good.
I didn’t get in to my first-choice college – which, at the time felt like the worst kind of rejection.
Worse than when that boy with the spiked blonde hair told me in 7th Grade homeroom that I’d always be too ugly to get a boyfriend.
Worse than when my father moved to Florida my freshman year.
Worse than when I didn’t make the high school softball team.
I sobbed. I wailed. I called the school’s Director of Admissions. But, as it turned out, there was no mistake. No electronic error. The wrong letter was not placed in the envelope bound for my parent’s house.
I simply wasn’t accepted.
I let the rejection seep in and stain the rest of my early college experience. Never mind that I was accepted to three other schools. Never mind that I ended up with a near full academic scholarship. Never mind that I graduated as Class President and in the top 10% of my class.
None of that felt as big as the rejection – and that same line of thinking followed me through college, grad school, and into the work place.
No matter what I did do, I always (always) focussed on what I didn’t. What I didn’t say in a meeting, how much I didn’t raise for a worthy cause, the mistakes I didn’t catch before someone else picked them up and put them on parade.
The fear kept me marching, but it never let me enjoy the music, and that makes it impossible to keep the beat.
Lately, the marching’s been heavy and the music a bit distant. So, tonight I took a free dance fitness class at the library.
And I got nearly every step wrong…but I worked up a good sweat, and had more than a few good laughs – and that felt pretty right.
amandathanks 