Today was the first time I shoveled this year.

My husband gallantly handled the storm last Friday all on his own while I got caught in a whirlwind of multitasking.  When I calmed down enough to stop, I made a promise not to leave him out in the cold on his own anymore – and today I kept my word.

It was a light snow.  The kind that makes you almost like shoveling.  The kind that’s good for moving and thinking.

With Ken clearing one end, and me at the other (we have a horseshoe driveway), and Briggs away at daycare, it felt like old times.  Like when we first bought the house and we were excited to do all of those homeowner things (like shoveling our drive), together.

By the time I finished my side Ken was clearing out our mailbox.

“This is like before we had Briggs,” I said.

“Yeah,” he laughed.  “Did you miss it?”

“Maybe a little,” I said, before leaning in and finding a way to give him a quick kiss under all that white stuff.

Later on, after I’d ventured out to get Briggs and we were all warm together getting supper ready, I started daydreaming about our late afternoon shovel.

“You know all that work you’ve been doing with our family tree?” I asked Ken, while mixing a batter for zucchini fritters.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Just got me thinking.  I know we don’t love to shovel or anything, but all that tracing back to our grandparents, and their parents, and their parents, parents.  There are just so many stories stacked upon stories of low-wages, boarding houses, early deaths, struggle, sacrifice, struggle, sacrifice…”

“Okay…”

“And, you know how I still sometimes get caught up in worry?  About money.  About providing – about any of this (I whirl my rubber spatula around) all of this, being enough…”

“Yeah…”

“Well the term ‘lot in life,’ just popped into my head.  I’ve always read that as negative.  Like, it’s just ‘your lot in life.’  But, I don’t know, when I really think about the whole story of us, and how right now, you and me, and Briggs – how we actually have a literal lot in life.  And on top of that, a LOT in life.  It’s just kind of overwhelming.  And…I think, they’d be proud.”

“Our ancestors?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Of our lot.”

“Me, too,” Ken replied.

And with that, no one felt too badly going back out to shovel.

Briggs must be growing, because afternoon naps two days in a row for this four year-old is a bit of an anomaly.

Nonetheless, this afternoon I found myself cuddling up with him and dosing off.  But, before I did, I took a deep breath and remembered the first time I took him to work with me.

Given his extended NICU (Newborn Intensive Care Unit) stay, I took an extended maternity leave.  Not returning until he was a little more than six months old, and even then, I only worked in the office a few days a week.

He wasn’t cleared for daycare until he was nearly 18 months old.

One day, fairly early on, I was stuck.  There was an early live production (I used to work in radio and television) that I was needed for and it was a rare morning where no one else in the family was available to stay with him…so, I brought him to the studio.

He was a darling.  Amazingly, angelic.  I nestled him into the Baby Bjorn,  he cuddled in, and I did my thing.  Later, I made our way to an all-staff meeting in the station’s large atrium.

The station president caught a glance of us in the corner and came over with no prompting.  He knew of the miracle of Briggs’s beginning and he was always very appreciative of my efforts on the job.

He asked for an introduction and I happily obliged.

His own daughters were approaching college age and it was obvious from the way he looked at my son that he adored being a Dad.

“Now this is really important, Amanda,” he said.  “When you’re holding him like that, with his head tucked into your neck, make sure you make a memory.  Remember everything about him.  His skin, his smell, the way his hair feels.  If you really concentrate on it, you can go back to it – even long after he won’t let you carry him anymore.”

And that’s just what I did – on that day and so many others.

And, it’s all I could think about this afternoon as Briggs and I laid down for what I know is an ever shrinking number of lazy afternoon naps together.

Before sneaking out of the room, long after he’d conked out, I took a good, long, deep inhale that seemed to stretch years back and years ahead all at the same time.

There are so many things I still strive to know, and feel, and understand…but how to be his Mom isn’t one of them.

This week felt chaotic, unbalanced, messy.  So, I asked Ken if we could each just pick one area of the house and try to restore some order.

He took our bedroom closet.  I took the kitchen cabinets.

Four and half hours later, we had both restored as much order as we could tolerate for a single Saturday afternoon.  Afterwards, Briggs took an uncommon late afternoon nap, and I volunteered to go grocery shopping on my own.

Navigating the aisles at Wegman’s was almost…meditative.

Being the day before “the big game” the store was crowded, and noisy, but only being responsible for my list and me also made it calm and peaceful.

Carefully choosing producing.  Thoughtfully minding those shoppers keeping a speedier pace.  Lovingly giving myself permission to wander into new sections.  Suddenly, preparing for the week ahead didn’t feel like a chore at all.

Checking out took longer than usual – and there was an issue with one of my items, and the light above the register stayed blinking for minutes.  The cashier apologized profusely, even after I let her know that her sorries were completely unnecessary.

After a bit more small talk about the approaching game, yesterday’s gorgeous sunset, and what I planned to do with that spaghetti squash, a lovely woman in an official Wegman’s royal blue polo came hustling over – continuing with the sorries.

As the cashier and I both assured her not to worry, I heard the cashier mutter:

“Great way to spend you birthday day, huh?”

The woman smiled.  Then shrugged.  “It’s just another day,” she whispered.

“I hear ya,” replied the cashier.

The woman in blue settled the product issue, loaded the last bag into the cart, and apologized for the delay one more time.

“I was happy to be here today,” I said. “And, Happy Birthday.”

She touched my arm and looked genuinely surprised.  “Thank you.  That’s just…thank you so much, really.”

I smiled and headed back to my car – feeling that restorative togetherness that’s been alluding me lately, finally checking in.

So, I mentioned in my last post that I just finished listening to Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Eat, Pray, Love.

It’s about a woman – a writer – who, after a time of tremendous stress and personal anguish takes a year to travel Italy, India, and Indonesia to restore her spirit and reconnect with herSelf.

I resisted this book for many years. It was a best-seller and made into a movie starring Julia Roberts as Gilbert…so, before ever really exploring the story, I knew the gist of it.

I knew that a writer in her mid-thirties was smart enough to use her craft to get paid to eat, pray, and love her way out of depression and turmoil.  And, it took me a long while to get over my jealously.

But, I did, and I’m glad – because it was a good read – or a good listen in my case.  And Liz (or Groceries, as she calls herself in her book) taught me a great deal.

Like how to honor the parts of me that make me, me…even if at times I think those parts earn me demerits in the spiritual realm.  Like, how I know focus and stillness are essential to enlightenment – but, I still love getting involved in multiple projects and talking to everyone, anyone, nearly all the time.

And how to forgive myself.  Really, truly, and wholly forgive myself.  For the wretched things I’ve done, and the missteps I still make, and whatever chaos I may cause in my tomorrows.

But, mostly what I learned is that I need to put away my yard stick.

Liz got herself a year to eat, pray, and love all around the world.  And I can find smalls ways to experience my own joy and divinity everyday right here in Billerica.

And who’s to compare?  No matter if the actions are completely alike, or totally separate…if the energy’s all connected, Billerica or Bali – it’s just as meaningful.

I’ve decided to call my practice nibble, bow, hug – tiny acts of mindful self-appreciation and inward glory.

And it started with feeding into my creativity and writing early into the morning after a day that ran late into the night.

Thanks for taking a bite with me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pSsh-nxF5c

The past few days have been packed.

Lots of meetings.  Projects.  Deadlines.  To-Dos.

I could feel the hems of my calm – those stitches that I have so patiently and mindfully been sewing – starting to fray.

The quick and easy fix would’ve been to reach for the tape, in a misguided attempt to keep pace and stay the course.  But, I’ve ran that busy, crazy, narrow course before and I don’t like it.  It doesn’t suit me.

So, instead of obsessively relaying the many things I “must” do, instead of expounding all  of my pure energy on moldy worry, instead of letting those frayed edges come completely undone, I decide to love my messy, little imperfections back into place.

Just start with one stitch, I tell myself.  Just put one little thing back in place.

The best place to start, I decide, is the beginning.  The morning.  And, so, right before falling into a lovely, decadent, rich sleep I set an intention.

I awake early.  I enjoy those pre-dawn hours bathed in candle light and soothing music.  I am happy to be here with my Self and my yoga.  I am grateful for the early rise and the peace it brings.

And so it goes.

I wake up before the alarm goes off at 5:04.  I am downstairs lighting candles by ten past.  I’m wrapping an hour of Yoga for Beauty before the boys start rustling out of bed around 6:30.  Out of the shower, breakfast made, dressed to impress (me), and enjoying my commute with an EveryDay Detox Tea and the final installment of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love by twenty of eight.

And I’m early to work.  And I am good and ready and together.

And who knows if it was my intention or my attention, or nothing of mine at all, that pulled me back into place.  All I know is that everything felt better and balanced and aligned.

And I’m okay with letting that mystery be.

Tonight, I cried on my mat.

I was on the opposite side of the yoga studio that I usually practice on and there were more students than usual, and yet somehow my mat felt more like my private island than ever before.

Maybe it was losing my phone for the better part of my morning.

Maybe it was starting my day with emails instead of tea and candles.

Maybe it was finding out that my son had a tough day at daycare and wound up biting one of his friend’s fingers.

Maybe it’s that I can’t wear contacts anymore because every time I do, one of my eyes swells the next day – and today is the next day.

Maybe it’s that I was late to therapy.

Maybe it’s that I was too quick to say, “yes,” to another project.

Maybe it’s all of it.  Or none of it.

I don’t know.

I don’t know why I cried on my mat, laying flat on my back, looking up at the emergency sprinkler and liking it’s shadow to two parents hugging with their little one happily sitting criss-cross applesauce on the ground, filling the space in between their knees.

All I know is that my cries were silent.  My tears were effortless. And for about ninety minutes I sailed away to my own private island of release.

And for tonight – knowing that – feels like all I need to know.

Recently, Ken and I bought a new couch.

Taking advantage of an unbelievable sale, brought our attention to our destroyed living room carpet.  Which lead to new hardwood.  The investment beneath our feet, then prompted us to look above our heads.  That’s when we couldn’t ignore the water damage any longer.

The cause of the damage has long since been addressed.  The cuts and bruises just left a nasty scar on our living room ceiling, that needed some minor surgery…but surgery nonetheless.

Since, April 3, 2007, the day we officially purchased our 1,000 square foot bungalow, Ken and I have been trying to heal this blue-collar baby back to her glory.  We bought her for her guts and lot in life, but nearly everything else has required deep, complete, and expensive love and care.

Though, when we closed all those years ago, I had no idea just how much love and care our place would open.

Every project our home has gently requested or forcefully demanded, has brought with it the exceptional talents and overwhelming generosity of an entire community rooting for it, and us, to succeed.

Fathers supplied all of the plumbing fixtures, put in bathrooms, windows, and all new floor joists. Mothers, brothers, and sisters willingly signed on for back-breaking demo, landscaping, cabinet installing, sheet rocking, and floor laying.

And, then the friends – who are also family.  Mudding, taping, painting, digging, fixing, consulting, hanging, roofing…they did, they have, and they continue to help us with all of it.

And today was no exception.

Our expert home surgeon friend – who works exceptionally hard and has far too few hours off – was here, helping Ken suture our ceiling and scheduling a follow-up visit for later this week to finish the job and see the patient totally healed.

And, tonight, as I caught the light drawing my attention to this lovingly attended wound, I just started singing in my head:

This little light of ours, we’re gonna let it shine.  Together Shine, Together Shine, Together Shine.

I don’t remember where I read or heard it, but a short while after my grandfather died I learned that seeing a cardinal was a visit from a dearly departed.

Again, I don’t know where I picked this up.  I don’t know if it’s true – but I like the notion – so, I’m not Googling it.

I likely subscribe to the Cardinal Theory due to the vast number of cardinals who call the gnarly vines, branches, and slightly alive trees on the Northside of our house, their home.

Prior to my Papa’s passing, I never paid the birds much attention.  But since the days surrounding his burial, I’ve been acutely aware of the all the boy and girl red beauties spicing up the otherwise bare and brown pre-spring landscape out our kitchen window.

Multiple visitors continue to drop in every week.  Including yesterday…which for a variety of reasons felt particularly significant.

Having spent so much time this past week engaged with family, loss, and the power of connection, Ken and I decided to do some research into our combined family tree.

There’s something incredibly empowering about tracing your roots and seeing just how far your branches reach.

The night before, we learned that the first Herman Goodwin – the name, my beloved father in-law carries on, was born on March 17, 1891.

I may have shared before that I was so determined, felt so destined to become a Goodwin that Ken and I actually delayed our honeymoon.  Given that we were married in my small hometown of Rindge, New Hampshire, the folks in the town office worked with me to get my marriage license from the state in record time.  Making it possible for me to be in line at the Social Security office in Lowell with all of my necessary paperwork for an official name change, in less than a week from the day that Ken and I exchanged our DIY vows.

So, really it comes as no surprise that when Ken read off his great-grandfather’s birthday, I cried.

Mine is March 17, 1981.

Now I know that Mr. Goodwin and I share a last name, a birthday, and years of our beginnings are made up of all the same numbers.

And, so, when I saw a Mr. Cardinal proudly and brilliantly darting a glance my way early the next morning, I smiled.

Thank you – I said, without a word – And I’m sure it goes without saying – but, in case it needs to be said, please let the entire flock know that there’s always plenty of room here.

There’s this place by work…a bar in a basement that’s had my eye for the past few weeks.

They’ve got this red sign outside advertising breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  And lately it’s just been calling out to me – though mostly I’ve been ignoring it.

Made no sense to investigate while I was on the cleanse.  Didn’t look like a place that catered to vegans abstaining from cooked food.  And ever since I wrapped the 21-days of clean, raw, vegan menus, I’ve mostly been brown bagging it (in reusable bags, of course).

But, today I didn’t.

I had a late afternoon packed with important meetings.  I wanted to arrive to these meetings feeling good, focussed, and peaceful.  So, I decided to take my pen and my legal pad and find a place where I could connect with some pages and find a decent lunch.

The underground bar finally felt right.

I walked in to find the two room establishment packed with locals and local business folks feasting on bacon burgers and buffalo wings.  There was at least one gentleman insisting to the woman tending bar that today be a four beer lunch.

I’ve worked in the city for just shy of a decade now, but somehow I’ve never tapped in to this daytime scene.  The dark wood bar with it’s thick coat of polyurethane.  The brown and tan tiled floor.  The roaring conversations and thick accents.

Maybe this reveals too much about me – but the whole place just felt cloaked in comfort.

Even at the bar, scribbling away, with my ice water and Mediterranean Plate appetizer – even though nothing about my style or lunch order suggested it – I felt like a regular.

I couldn’t  put it all together until the bartender asked, “Have you been here before?”

And then, I remembered.

The night Ken and I joined our dear friends to toast the life and honor the passing of   Patrick.  It was right across the street.

We raised high-end drinks and ordered succulent, decadent bites of fried quail.  We cried and shared stories of our incredibly kind, funny, stubborn, courageous, passionate, loving, and handsome friend.  Stories of our trusted colleague and partner in crime.  Of our therapist and trouble maker.

Stories of Carol’s husband and soulmate.

Following the emotional and expensive tribute, an even smaller crew of us decided we needed to balance things out with a jukebox, beer, and appetizers that would leave us cursing Patrick and each other in the morning.

And that’s when we wondered across the street to the bar in the basement.  The very same one I found myself in this afternoon.

All of this remembering took place in the flash of a few moments, that certainly felt longer than they were.

Had I been here before?

“Yes,” I finally managed to answer – suddenly fully and happily aware of why I felt so good, sitting alone, in this packed place meditating over a legal pad. “Yes, I have.”

“I thought I recognized you,” the bartender responded.

I smiled and nodded and asked for some more water.  Then I went back to visiting my friend through my writing.

He lovingly mocked me for the hummus and the lack of alcohol in my glass, and then helped me find the strength and confidence I needed to successfully proceed through the rest of my day.

It was the best lunch I’ve had in a long time.

Thanks, PR.

I spent a lot if time with prayer today.

Morning yoga at home.  A Catholic funeral mass, followed by a burial.  Dusk yoga at a local studio.  And all the rides in between.

The meditations during my practice and while in church were expected.  But the ones in the car threw me.

On the ride to services this morning an alarm went off.  It was to alert me that the passenger was not wearing a seatbelt.  Which was odd, because the passenger seat was empty.  It didn’t continue for very long and I didn’t pay much attention to it.

So happens, a dear friend needed a lift to the cemetery following mass, so she rode with me.  She fastened her seatbelt and no alarms sounded.

The same was true for our shared ride to a favorite eatery around the corner for lunch afterwards.

On the lone ride home to Billerica, however, the passenger alarm once again dinged.  This time I did notice that my very (very) light wallet was in the seat, and I thought:

Maybe, it’s just a really sensitive sensor.

Though, I’ve been driving this car for more than a month now, and have weighed that passenger seat down with the likes of two laptop bags weighing more than ten pounds each, and that alarm’s never gone off on it’s own before.

But, again it happened, and again I let it go, and the day faded into dusk.

I came home, kissed Briggs, visited with my father in-law, made dinner, kissed Ken, and then got ready to head to yoga.

As I pulled in two-minutes late – just as I was about to cut the engine and dash into the studio – the alarm again alerted me to the necessary safety of the empty seat.

But this time, even though the clock was trying to fool me into rushing, I stopped.  I smiled.   And I found no harm in believing that perhaps today there was precious cargo riding shotgun.