Crashing Ladies' Night....

First of all, he crashed ladies night.

Ladies night is the weekly evening to which a few chosen ladies are invited to attend with one minor prerequisite:
you must engage in some form of exercise prior to bellying up to the bar for a beer.  Bathing kids does not count.

My father in law insisted that he'd cycled earlier in the day.
So, we let him in for a pint.

It turns out that this non-lady shared the most compelling story of ladies night.

Not more than a day earlier he intercepted a very lost elderly woman on the side of the road near his office.  She waved him down in somewhat of a panic.  He noticed that she was a bit flustered so he encouraged her to pull aside, park the car, and rest for a bit under his watch.

She was lost.

She was very, very lost.

And, one of the first things she told my father in law is that she needed to use the restroom.  (That made my heart hurt a bit when I heard it the first time).

Once her car was parked, he escorted her across the street to his office and provided her with a clean bathroom, a cold cup of water and, most importantly, compassion.

To make a shorter story of a longer story, he drove her home in her own car (followed by his co-worker so they could get back to their office) and it was a 40 mile (one-way) excursion.  Perhaps, the most incredible part of the story is that - while she was intercepted 40 miles from her home... she actually had set out to travel only a few miles from the senior center and back to her home - in her home town.  Somehow she took many wrong turns and ended up in my father in law's shadow.

Gosh, I thought, as I listened to the details. 

How very sad, I thought.  Emah asked, "Did she know who she was?"

On the other hand I couldn't help but think
how perfect that my father in law was the one to intercept her.

In my mind, there could not be a more understanding, compassionate, caring, and attentive person for this elderly lady to have found.   It was a meeting meant to happen.

And so,  he can crash ladies night as often as he'd like -
if it means he'll come around armed with stories that make us pause, reflect, and regard him as an even more kind, incredible and compassionate man than we had the day before.

Thoughts from a lucky student.

Yesterday he asked me if the
box that I work in has a bathroom in it.

When I inquired about "what box"?
he explained, "you know, the small room with four walls that you sit in with your computer..."

And, after further reflection, the space is really best described as a box, though I've never viewed it that way.

Yikes! a box!
(It might be time for a change.)

Yesterday he declared that he knew what he wanted to be when he grew up.
Which, for the record, is a long way off since he is a sprightly 6 years of age.
Either that or he has already grown up cause the kid blasts me from reality with
age-old wise one liners on a nightly basis. In many ways, he is my spiritual guide.

Without further ado from behind the shower curtain,
he declared he would be an author. One day. He'd write great stories because he had
so many great stories to tell.

As my heart flipped and then flopped, I immediately declared to him that
I would faithfully read, and then own, and then cherish each of his books.
Clearly.


I learn so much from him.

I learn so much from him.

These are just two of many Lessons from Him.

Oh what an incredible teacher he is.
Oh what a lucky student I am.

Thinking 'Bout Getting Older.

There are far too many thoughts whizzing through my mind to write a clear, and coherent post.
This would explain why you haven't heard from me much in the past few days/weeks. What an insanely busy 6 weeks.

I keep saying to people "life seems to be in fast-forward". My neighbor, she drives by while I scoop the mail up, my friends in town - while our grocery carts eek by each other in the pasta aisle, my not-yet-friends in the parking lot of Nonie's preschool.... they all hear my same phrase - "life seems to be in fast-forward".

And it does. Life seems to be moving in fast-forward. The bags under my eyes and my gray hairs are having trouble keeping up.

Can't believe we're halfway through October and moving full steam ahead into November.
Wait. What?!

I'm thinking about getting older. I'm thinking 'bout it a lot.

During these weeks, and days, when I keep saying to myself:

Slow Down.
Look Around.

Your Children Are SO YOUNG.
And Full of FUN. And they WANT to be with YOU.


So, in full awareness of the "getting older" mindset - the other day,

I said to the hubs - let's take the children for a bowl of soup at our favorite spot....
and then to the Res for pictures.


And then to the res for pictures. A photo shoot -

So that we won't forget this day.

This day when I'm thinking 'bout getting older.


***

So, when we got there the children laughed and ran and played about -
as they always do.




And when they got tired we (me and the hubs) taught them all about echos.

You know the echos that come from the sounds we cry out from the depths of our timid souls especially when we think about getting older???

The sounds we hear reflected back at the most unassuming and unexpected times.

-those echos. We had an impromptu field lesson about them.

First it was funny to get the children to scream as loud as they could.

Then,

we each took a turn - howling to the wild blue yonder and carefully listening to each echo as it returned from the distant valley.


That night,

I howled. And howled and howled.

My echo responded. And responded and responded.

And when the howling was done,

In my mind, in my heart, and in my soul...

I never did feel quite so young.

Too Good Not To Share.

A perfect hike with mom.

At the Res. and to the top of the top of the spot that Dec reached at Camp this Summer.
The spot he promised to show us. Before the summer ended.

We ate together - gourmet food of sorts from the new local shop down the road.
It was nearing sunset.

On the hike to and fro we laughed, slipped, marveled at buttercup's new "kneesocks", laughed,
listened, did some heavy breathing and loved. Each other.

At the top, mom handed over the pound cake she insists she "finished half of" during the storm.

I take it willingly. I know the recipe well, and recall that the word pound is not figurative.

Especially when it comes to the butter line item.

Yum.

Two proud and exhausted hikers sat in the back of my car as we made our way for home after the hike. They quietly munched on Granny's Cake and passed the luke warm water bottle back and forth between each other.

The open tub of pound cake sat next to me in the passenger seat the whole ride home.
Tempting? But of course.

During the drive home, we all used the same word to describe the evening, the stroll in the woods, the walk with Granny....

Perfect.

It wasn't until we rounded our last turn to home that we slowed.

Flashing lights and large cherry picker trucks were blocking our road.

I took a bite of the pound cake calling my name to the right of me. Darn, that is good stuff.

Then I turned my attention to the traffic delay.

My first thought: I can't believe they are still out here working at dusk - a full one week after IRENE hit

They seemed to be moving on from this post.

Three trucks went roaring past our idling car.

WISCONSIN DEC AND NONIE! DID YOU SEE THAT PLATE?! THEY ARE FROM WISCONSIN.

Without much thought I found myself frantically waving my flabby white arm out my car window just in time to catch the fourth truck.....

WHAT AM I DOING? I KIND OF THOUGHT. Then, my next thought was: I BET HE THINKS I'M GOING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT SOMETHING. Since everyone has been grumpy without power.


The ginormous truck slowed and then grinded to a halt, just in time for our windows to line up perfectly.

I took a glance at the driver.

HE'S YOUNG - A KID! (I THOUGHT).

And this darling young thing with a crew cut and midwestern accent lowered his window as I offered up some pound cake.

DO YOU CARE FOR SOME POUND CAKE (I SHOUTED - OVER THE ROAR OF THE ENGINE)?

Gee, sure I'd love some. THANK YOU! Said the young kid (couldn't have been older than 19) and he grabbed a slice and roared away.

Then came the next, fifth and final, truck.

I put my flabby white arm to work.

MY MOM MADE THIS POUND CAKE. WOULD YOU LIKE A SLICE?

And he said

WOW! SURE! THANKS!!! and he grabbed the tupperware and was off.

(Gran, sorry - but the electrician from Wisonsin has your tupperware. However, I think it was my container anyway. I recognize the lid, which is all I'm left with as I type this post up.)

In every way imaginable....this evening, buttercup's mud stockings, eating really close to a copperhead snakeskin, Gran's pound cake, and offering up all I had at the time (WHICH IS A LESSON MOM HAS ALWAYS TAUGHT ME) the whole day really -

was too good not to share.

A DSI Can't Compete With This.

Just before Xmas of 2010, we asked Dec for a Christmas list.

More interested in getting him to practice his penmanship than actually directing

"Santa" in his Christmas gifting.

Then, the hubs and I sat down to enjoy a few quiet moments while Dec worked on his list.

We smiled at each other.

(We thought his listing would take longer than it did.)

Within a minute, Dec waltzed in and handed us a list.

There was a snarky smirk on his face. It reminded me of my second oldest brother.

His list.

Dec's list.

We were eager to read it because he'd just started the fine art of writing, and we weren't sure he could EVEN SPELL THE NAMES of the toys he wanted.

The hubs and I huddled together. This was exciting.

We unfolded it and read together:

The list was short.

Just one thing?

Number 1. DSI

My first thought: Oh, he can spell it alright.

Second thought: Uh-Oh.

The hubs and I looked at each other.

We weren't entirely sure, but kind of certain, that a DSI

was a hand-held video gaming device.

I won't go into the boring details, but after many conversations Dec eventually learned that Santa wouldn't bring that to this house, so he may as well do a "Do Over" Christmas List.

(Which he did -and well.)

So yesterday, I sat upstairs typing up a press release for work and found myself having to shut down my laptop and just listen to Dec and his daddy play "Cars" downstairs.

They do a complete Piston Cup race, with each car talking/shouting in the appropriate

accent - and I?

I just crack up listening to them.

I just crack up.

Dec has spent countless hours with his cars and his wooden JENGA racetrack. He beelines for these toys when he enters the house and puts up a MAJOR FIGHT when he's asked to pack them up before bed.

3 dozen racecars, a racecar track, jenga pieces to make the race course, and 1 enthusiastic dad to make every wise-crack joke,

every funny 1-liner,

and the goofiest Mater voice any of us have ever heard.

Though Santa ignored Dec's (FIRST) XMAS list last year....

I know Santa made the right decision.

A DSI just can't come close to competing with these magical moments

Dec has had with his simplest toys,

his wild imagination,

and his one goofy daddy who

makes silly soundtracks for every skid-out, flat tire, checkered flag, draft, and course record.

A DSI just can't compete with this.

Not this year, at least.

Easy. Hard. Harder.

The easy part is hanging the clothes.

The hard part is folding them.

And the even harder part is putting them away, of course.

Bet they don't teach THAT in montessori school, now do they Nonie?

On: Asking for Help

I have never been good at asking for help.

Never. Never. Never.

But recently, I've had to.

As a full-day *important meeting* in the "middle of nowhere Massachusetts" lurked overhead, I swallowed my pride and asked a neighbor if she'd take Dec for the morning

(to play with her same-age-son) and stick them on the kindergarten bus together at noon.

Not only did she say yes so willingly and beautifully, she sent me the most adorable email after the events: Dec spent most of the morning at our house encouraging "T" to "tidy up each toy" before they moved on to the next activity. My response was: "Really?!? I wish he did that around here!@?"

Maybe I didn't need to make that extra trip to the grocery store the night before to make sure Dec had something snazzy to share during that neighborly lunch-session. Why do I make things harder than they need to be?

***

Yesterday we asked Uncle Ollie to help on another tricky scheduling day.

Dec was thrilled.

I tried to ignore the guilty pit in my belly but it was certainly there.

Ollie was to bring Dec from his morning activities to our house, in time for the kindergarten bus. And to wait with him until the bus came (of course). But you see, Ollie is a busy guy - with a business and children of his own.

In my eyes, this was a very big ask.

At work, I waited until approximately 30 seconds after Dec's bus should've picked him up and texted Ollie:

"Dec was excited to have you transport him to the bus today.

I hope it was smooth. Thank you thank you thank you. Thanks again....K"

To which he responded:

"It was an absolute pleasure. Any time. He's a cool polite fun guy to be around."

A few seconds later a picture comes through.

It was a picture taken from our driveway of the "little" bus with Dec's little cherub face looking out the bus window at him. The title of the message from Ollie was: "Proof."

Cue the mother's heart into mega-melt-mode.

So I replied (choking back the guilt.....):

"Glad the bus came !!!! Always an adventure figuring out which direction (and what time) it will come.

New driver almost every day. Thanks again - I'm certain he enjoyed every mili-second.

(He told Nonie this morning that "Ollie is a cool guy".)"

In response I got a message from Ollie with no title.

Just the following picture of Ollie's daughter (Anna) & Dec together:

"He wanted to bring Anna with him" Joked the message.

To which I laughed out loud.

Sitting at my desk, in an office full of people, I laughed.

Out loud.

And I knew that this laughter brought me one step closer to being okay with asking for help. Not all of the time. But some of the time.

Thank you Ollie & Leah and to the many others who make me feel okay about handing over my children: Some of the time. But not all of the time.

I'm not good at asking for help.

But I'm getting better at it.

P.S. Look closely at Dec's pocket in that picture and you'll see the note I scribbled to Ollie about not knowing which direction the bus would come from and thanking him a million times over. Wonder what the Kindergarten teachers thought when that popped out of Dec's pocket at school. Very "Please-look-after-this-bear ... in full Paddington-esque-style". Huh?

Some walls, like people, fall down.

I first saw the crumbled stone wall from the kitchen window on Sunday night.

I was cleaning Finny's bowl.

Yesterday, I decided to take Nonie for a walk to the back stone steps leading out to the trails so she could have a look at the damage.

The retaining wall had crumbled in the far corner, and large stones were strewn below the spot where our lawn connects to the forest below.

It didn't really bother me that our wall had crumbled. It didn't really surprise me either, the rains last week wreaked far more damage on other landscapes than they did in our backyard.

Back in the yard, Nonie took a good, long look.

She crouched, rested on her knees and examined the mess below.

Then, she stood up and launched toward the back steps that lead to the kitchen.

Nonie, Nonie....where are you going?

To get my tape to fix the wall.... She shouted over her shoulder.

I retrieved her. Before she made it up the stairs I brought her back to the spot and told her that tape wouldn't work. It wasn't strong enough.

When this shocking news sunk in to her spinning little mind, she looked at me with big, sad eyes and said:

Daddy will make it all better when he comes home.

I was fine that the wall had crumbled and wouldn't be fixed any time soon.

But Nonie was determined to oversee an immediate repair job.

She wanted orderly rocks and paths clear of debris.

I didn't even try to explain that the job would require much more.

Scotch tape can fix ripped paper airplanes and torn books, but not stone walls.

Daddy has the creative answers and quick solutions, but not all of them and not all of the time.

I loved Nonie's simple solutions, but some walls, like people, fall down.

Sometimes it is hard for them to get up again.

And, it takes time and real effort to "right" them. And by them, I refer to walls, and people.

To build them to a point where they are stronger than they ever were before, that takes real effort.

Tape can't do that, sweetheart. But I wish it could.

Grace. Peace. Love. Compassion. Determination. Generosity. Leadership. Courage. Loyalty. Selflessness. Vision. Hope. Bravery. How about Prayer?

?

My prayers are with Japan.

Alive in the Books.

K.T.

There is a woman who influenced me. And now she is gone.
I just learned today from Erin that she is gone.

I once worked with her and she had an eye for all things fashion, current, and chic.
The way she flattered customers from the minute they walked through the door, and giggled as she rang up their thousand dollar sales ... that was the K.T. way.

She had the best laugh, and I can hear it as I type.

With no kids of her own, she spent a lot of time with her sister's children.
I really loved and admired the relationship that Karen had with them all.
She would talk about the three kids. Always.

Karen would talk to me about the day they'd all take the library by storm. "Library Day" - she'd call it.
I listened as she talked. She'd tell me about the books the twins had checked out when she went with them.

Sometimes, the girls and their tiny brother would come to the 'Tweed and race around with a new book in hand while their mom re-designed the display windows.
K.T. would chat with each of the kids, and ask them questions about their books. They seemed to glow in their Aunt's undivided attention. Probably because she really listened to them when they talked about their books. Her world would suddenly halt, when the children presented their latest "Library Day" finds.

I never knew how closely I paid attention to any of this, until today.

***

Why do I remember this?
Why do I remember this today, now that K.T. is gone?

***

I was much younger when I knew Karen well.

I was fresh out of college and had my sights set on three things: dating the love of my life, accumulating as much of the gear that we sold in that store, and oh, yeah - figuring out my career....

Now I am older.

I married that love of my life.
I still wear much of the gear amassed during those few years at the 'Tweed.
And my career seems to be moving in the right direction.

But "Library Day" has its place in my world, too.

***

Now, with two children of my own, my weekly "To Do" list includes going to the library with them.
Since Declan was an infant, we'd hit the library at least once a week. Karen was, without a doubt, the inspiration for those first few trips.
Suddenly, we'd established such a routine that it felt odd to not go to the library every week.

***

Today, after hearing the news about K.T., I paused and thought of her while standing with my two kids in the middle of our library.
A tiny hand held each of mine, and for a long time I felt very, very sad.

***

Karen is the reason our librarians greet my children by name.

Karen is the reason our library basket is overflowing with books every day of the year.

And, she is the reason I encourage my children to love libraries and all they contain.

***
There is a woman who influenced me. And now she is gone.

I'm having a hard time believing she is gone.

But in every way imaginable, Karen will be Alive In The Books we cart home in our canvass bag, on "Library Day" each week.

For the Birds.

Behold the birds of the air...

I have no idea how much snow we have but the cars are completely buried.

7:40am and it is still falling. Sideways.

Just watched my neighbor trudge through the process of shoveling.

But what interested me the most is that she didn't shovel her path to her car.

She shoveled her path to her bird feeder.

This was the first thing she did when she stepped outside this morning.

I also know that she has a barn full of animals waiting for her to feed them this morning just down the road - but since the plows haven't moved through this area yet - she has little hope of getting out.

Since I had just offered up food to the hungry birds sitting helplessly outside my kitchen window - I found my neighbors actions interesting.

In full disclosure, I took the lazy route and simply moved trays of salted sunflower seeds to the front porch. Yes, seeds right out of the cupboard since I've run out of our bagged birdseed. It is just far too early to start shoveling...(jeesh, I haven't even had my tea yet!).

As I moved from the window I couldn't help but think of the verse Mom painted in our vaulted kitchen wall (framing the window to the outside) in the house we lived in when we were younger. You'll surely find variations of Matthew 6:26 if you run a search for it, but this is how I remember it written:

Behold the birds of the air;

they sow not

nor do they reap,

yet your Heavenly Father feeds them.

Oh Yes He Does.

And He Feeds Me As Well.

Crisp Bills.

In my heart of hearts I know I'm supposed to be a philanthropist.
The thought comes to me two, three, sometimes even four times in one day.

I think that is why I got so much joy out of watching the garbage man pull the Christmas envelope off the lid of the can yesterday. And tonight, I held the thank you card from our postman in my hands when I came in from work.

We don't give much, in terms of Christmas "tips" to those who make our days and weeks run more smoothly. But we give what we can. And, we do give.

This year, like every other year that we've owned Happy House, I watched the garbage man walk the Christmas envelope to the door of his truck and place it on the seat. Just before he set back out to work - dumping our can and recyclables, he did what he always does:

He turned toward the Happy House, kissed his right fist and held it high to the heavens. Then he gave a wave and a smile in my general direction.

As in years past, this is when I stepped back toward the curtain in the living room - not wanting to be seen. But certain I'd been caught.

I don't even know his name and yet, this annual exchange is one of the most powerful I've come to know in the Christmas season.... and with that, his truck drove out of sight.

***

It is my Dad who taught me that the Christmas envelopes should carry crisp bills (not wrinkly dirty ones). So Dec and I went to the bank yesterday. He pushed the buttons while I navigated through the ATM prompts.

Crisp bills in hand, we ventured home to write out our envelopes. Mostly they just said "thank you" and "merry christmas". Most were in Dec's darling 5-year-old handwriting.

***

For a few years, I sat with Dad at the dining room table in our old house while he wrote the XMAS cards. Several times I was given the job of labeling all his Christmas envelopes in MY handwriting. I proudly stuffed them too, with bills so crisp just looking at them was grounds for a paper cut.

***

Will Dec do the same with his kids?

While he stuffs envelopes alongside his son or daughter will he be thinking:
"It truly is in giving that we receive."

Is that what Dad thought while I worked on the Christmas envelopes alongside him?



I've never thought about it before now.

But I'm pretty certain it was.



(That image isn't mine but I found it here: http://www.noveltieswholesale.com/holidaycheer.html)

Model Behavior.

For a little less than 5 hours last week, I was a fashion model.

***
HAIR
My hair was straightened, curled, straightened.... then slightly curled again.
It smelled divine once the darling woman at the sophisticated salon had worked her magic on it.
And I had soft wavy ringlets. She even gave my last ringlet curl a little ribbon coated clip to wear on my way from salon to show. "You know? To keep it just so...."

Oh yes. I knew. I knew that even my one ringlet curl in the front of my head felt doted on.

***
MAKEUP
Once at the venue, the makeup artist made my eyes "smokin".
Every time I thought she was done, she reached for another glob of shimmer, or sparkle, or misty shadowy powder, and laid on an additional thick coat. When she was finished with me, I struggled to keep my "smokin" eyes open from the weight of the makeup.

***
RUNWAY
First, the obligatory champagne. Then, the walk down the runway.
I stood tall. I smiled. I tried not to race (gallop, sashay, swagger....)
Then the quick help out of - and in to - and adjusting the clothes.
Then the jewelry.
Then the escort down the step of the stage out to the runway for a stroll down the runway. A second time. (Wow! is this funny!).

Next comes the FINALE. Women spill out from behind the curtains.
Cheering, clapping, flashing cameras. Stepping in tune with the clubbing music.
Circle back.
More cheering.

***
NO REALLY. A MODEL.
I was a model and I didn't hang a piece of clothing nor did I wear Spanx.
(Bri, sorry - did that catch you off guard?).
Fashion show, fashion show...fashion show at lunch. (Someone had to write that).

And we all know it was an honor to be asked to strut my stuff to raise money for a great cause alongside 17 inspiring women.
And yes, let it be known that I (really) enjoyed wearing the fur.
Roar.



***
NEXT TOP MOMDEL?
So, I came home late that night, tucked my sore toes into bed and just a few hours later two of the cutest munchkins in the world woke me up.
Cherub smile faces with giant blue eyes were peeking at me. (Me, the model).

Nonie & Dec, good morning! Thanks for starting the day with your incredible singing (WAY) out of tune accompanied by crazy dancing in the kitchen. Both behaviors serve as a powerful reminder to me of my real modeling job. Smokin' eyes optional.

I Now Pronounce You....

When we were in the pre-cana process of getting married we were told that marriage was a sacrament that we gave to each other. The priest and our family and friends were all witnesses as we exchanged our vows to one another. It was a beautiful, life-altering moment. And when you took the time out of the craziness that a wedding can be, thinking about that moment is grounding.
The priest, chaplain, minister, presider over the vows "pronounces" you as a couple. For better or worse, richer, poorer, sickness, and health. But the pronouncement was not for us. We had lived the moment. The pronouncement was for others.


Today I was the presider, the official, the witness. Today I made the pronouncement.


I watched a husband die, and a wife greave. I was witness to what might have been their most intimate moment. I heard words whispered that were loving and heartbreaking.
"I love you." "You are the best husband." "What will I do without you."
I pronounced him. After she had hugged and kissed and cried over his body.
After his son had a moment to hold his hand. After he had his moment with God and his wife, and his family.


I was not new to this. Not death. Not loss or sadness. Not the love of family.
I was to be there as the official.
I was trying not to cry, and mourn and breakdown.
I tried not to cross certain boundaries, but show my empathy at the same time.
And I did. For a brief period of time. Before I lost it.
As soon as I signed my papers and finished my "official" business I got in my car and wept.
And I picked up X and wept.
And I drove home and wept.


And I don't have any answers, and I don't have reassurances, but I feel blessed to have witnessed what I have.
And it brought me back to our wedding. And our "official" beginning. In the church.
And our other beginning, on the top of a mountain where we got engaged.
And our real beginning, on 9/11/01 when our lives merged. And how love grows into something so amazing and complex, it is atsounding and awesome and overwhelming.




And my brain reels with these thoughts as I drive to the gym to run, I hear this on the radio:














And that was my day.

In The Shadow of Cowboys.

The other day (the night before I was to spend two days shuttling myself back and forth to hartford for a national convention of "tree huggers", I had an idea:

It was as clear as a neon sign against a black sky, and it flashed the words:

"2-DAY SPA"

What's that you say?

"2-DAY SPA"

You see, with childcare assembled for a solid 48-hour block, the idea of jetting off to a two-day spa danced in my mind and tricked the corners of my mouth to rise slightly. Slightly Mischievously, I might add.

Do It!! Just do it. You never do crazy things like that.

For a few moments (of bliss) I could just feel the white robe on my skin and the cushioned slippers soothing my 13.1-miled-feet. And, I could hear the distinct trickle of water over silky rocks and I could just welcome the warmth transferring to my hands as they wrapped around a cup of herbal tea.

"2-DAY SPA"

Did I do it?

Of course not.

(You Loser)

I did what I was supposed to do. I left my children, my husband and all homely responsibilities and...

Drove to Hartford.

And back from Hartford.

And drove to Hartford. Again.

And back from Hartford. Again.

And for most of the conference I thought:

What am I doing

• With my career?
• With my calling in life?
• With my interests in protecting the environment?
• With my talents?
• My time?

But then, in the very last workshop on the very last day I found myself in the shadow of two cowboys.

When they entered the room with big dusty hats and big dirty shoes, I knew some spark was going to fly.

It was an hour and a half into the workshop when one of them stood to speak. He spoke of family histories being embedded in the very ranches we're talking about saving. He spoke of love for the land and love for these lifestyles as the most important and effective conservation tool. He spoke about respect.

While he spoke, stunning photographs flashed on the big screen: of canyon lands, mountain regions, kids Dec & Nonie's ages standing in vast prairies with cowboy hats on checking out the endless landscapes with their grandparents off in the distance.

I was captivated, inspired, humbled and motivated.

How different he is from me (I kept thinking)!

Oh my word! How similar we both are!
(I kept thinking)!

In the shadow of these cowboys I found perspective on the world around me and my role in it.
I saw more clearly where I am going and how best to be an inspiration to others in the face of the adversity I am certain to find along the way.

In the shadow of cowboys
I concluded my "2-DAY NON-SPA" and rejoiced in the rejuvenation that came from them.

Broken Wings and Things...Like Hope.

Back in the day when I used to wear shorts (that's for you T) and dated a cute guy with long hair and earrings (that's for you D: sometimes I miss the long hair, but not the earrings), I had the unique opportunity to set up Plover Exclosures.

Plover Exclosures. Try saying that 10 times fast.

Called exclosures because they exclude predators - but keep the good guys inside.

And my first time doing it I witnessed the best acting I've seen in all my life. The actress happened to be a tiny sand-colored bird.

The Plover Mama we'd been monitoring had finally laid eggs. We had to move quickly (four of us rangers) to set up fencing in just the right way, so as to allow Mama the freedom to come and go without allowing her predators to do the same.

The exclosure had to be set up in record time. If Mama Bird was off her eggs for too long they may sizzle in the sun, or she may abandon them all together.

Once the exclosure was installed, we were to watch Mama B through binoculars while hearts pounded. Will she or won't she go back to her eggs?

If Mama Bird didn't return to her nest the exclosure would be removed.

OH! The pressure!

***

The moment we arrived Mama Bird began her Oscar performance.

Her distraction displays - or efforts to make us all believe that she had a severely broken wing were instinctual, incredible, and borderline unbelievable.

She would dive bomb our heads (we were giants to her, and numbers were most definitely in our favor). Once she got our attention she'd throw herself on the ground and drag her wing behind her body.

Her antics continued: wing dragging and stumbling and desperately trying to lead the 4 of us away from her nest. She chirped madly the entire time.

"Take me, take me, TAKE ME! " came her heartfelt cry, "Leave my babies and take me".

And I realize now, she did this all to preserve Hope.

Hope was encased in eggshells and rested in her tiny clutch of eggs. Hope was cradled by a mound of sand. Hope was hidden so precariously within the huge tire tracks of over-sand-vehicles near the high water mark of this majestic south shore beach.

(Tire tracks never make good nurseries, Mama Bird. But tonight, I forgive you.)

In the name of Hope, I forgive you.

***

I recounted this story to a colleague today for the first time in about 7 years. Together we marveled (as we often do) about the incredible experiences and great fortunes we've had working in and for the natural world.

But with this Mama Bird story now fresh in my mind, I find I'm wondering what my distraction display will look like when it comes time to protect my nest.

I have no wing to drag. I have no fight song to chirp (except for "Hail to the Victors" however, that just doesn't seem to cut it).

But, I do know that if challenged -

I will offer up myself in order to preserve Hope.

My Hope.

For My babies.

Because some days, it is this Hope (My Hope For Them),

that is the only thing keeping me going.

She who cycles to work.

There is a woman who cycles to work. When I first passed her this summer several thoughts entered my mind:

1. They really make spandex that big?
2. They really make women that big?
3. If anyone should be cycling to work, it is her. Though it looks really painful. And awkward.

Keep in mind this is in an area of our country where pedaling to commute somewhere is practically unheard of. And, she happened to be cycling along the busiest road I travel from my home to work.

Yet she cycles.

I've seen her in the rain.

I've seen her go up hill. R-E-A-L-L-Y slowly.

I've seen her with flashing lights strapped to her back and ankles. Cycling home well after sunset.


Today I pulled up behind a cyclist on my way into work. She looked like a real bicycle commuter. Fit, fast, and confident. And one thought entered my mind:

1. Wow, other women cycle to work too.

And then I realized that it was the same woman as the one I'd seen for several months.

Only she was a smaller version of her old self.

I became really proud for her. And thankful to have watched her succeed.

And I wanted to shout out my window: YOU ARE AN INSPIRATION!!!!

But she pulled ahead at the green light, and cycled under the Merritt Parkway.

And she didn't look back.

Power in Numbers

We are FAR more powerful when we move in the same direction(s).


I GOTTA FEELIN' THE BLACK EYED PEASE

Lift High the Cross

The Recessional Hymn today was "Lift High the Cross" and frankly, I've never heard it sung with more energy or fervor. I am certain the angels heard us.

Lift high the cross

The love of Christ proclaim

Till all the world

adore His sacred name...

As I sat in St. Pat's I couldn't help but wonder about, how many of us were wondering about, how many people would be at our funerals, when we were the ones to die. At communion the people poured fourth. And didn't stop coming. What a testament to Muzz and her bountiful love. And how incredibly humbling for all us witnesses.

As Uncle Bri so pointedly stated, "Death is so final...". And it is. It is, I thought as I listened to his words and stared at the half-masted-flag billowing above the hundreds of mourners that filed into MKCC today. And the stinging began in the backs of my eyes once again. All I can believe, I told Bri, is that we go to some place more special than this.

It is hard to go there - into the depths of my mind wondering and worrying and worrying and wondering about what happens when we die. And I feel like I've been there a lot lately. Fielding the countless and unyielding questions from my curious wondering 4 year-old who always seems to ask the REALLY hard ones, just when I'm at my weakest moments. Today HE told ME that Muzz went to heaven by helicopter. Excellent, I thought. He knows far more about this than I.

And then I drift along again thinking how hard it is to imagine the world drifting along. Carrying on. Carrying on without me. Or today, without Muzz. The sea of people on the buffet line, ordering drinks from the bar, making small talk about the hot weather. Where WAS MUZZ?

Was she with us? Could she hear us singing? Did she see?

Fast forward three hours to an energy filled car-ride (thanks to a bag of 6 oreos). Dec and I were to deliver Mads to Muffs for dinner and reunite her with her amazingly wonderful parents. (P.S. you really are the best).

With Dec and Mads, chittering and chattering in the back, I turned up the volume on the cd and tuned them out for a few moments. I reflected on the day. Where do we go? How will Mr. Z fair by himself? What will his world be like without her?

My questions were abruptly interrupted by words being belted from the back seat. Mads was singing along (with fervor!) to one of my faves. Not to be outdone, Dec chimed in moments later. I turned the volume way up and savored every moment of hearing these two cousins sing the words to a song that I never would have guessed they'd know the words to.

It goes a little something like this:

I welcome the sun,
the clouds and rain,
the wind that sweeps the sky clean
and lets the sun shine again.
this is the most magnificent life has ever been.
here is heaven and earth
and the brilliant sky in between.

blessed is this life
and I'm gonna celebrate being alive.
blessed is this life
and I'm gonna celebrate being alive

I dwell in the darkness
I let in the light
I sleep in the afternoon
and become the noise in the night
I trespass in temptation
suffered in sacrifice
but I awake each day with a new sunrise

blessed is this life, oh
and I'm gonna celebrate being alive
blessed is this life, oh
and I'm gonna celebrate being alive

~ Brett Dennen (the amazing brett dennen)

And, as I pulled into Muffs, the two wee ones still belting out the words, I thought that maybe -just maybe - that was Muzzy telling me not to worry so much about the future, but to enjoy the brilliance of now.

And just like that, I had some of the answers to my questions from earlier in the day.

She was with us.

She could hear us singing.

And she did see.

Bitten Lips & Tongues

Dec got a lesson from Daddy this evening about how to kiss Nonie. "Give her quick kisses." The guidelines were expanded to include: No lingering or laughing during the kiss.

Kissing lessons were prompted by the following scene:

Dec was swaddled in a blanket on the couch. Nonie was playing with a fuzzy soccer ball on the floor. She looked very approachable...playful...darn cute...kissable. He watched her for a few seconds, but then couldn't resist her any longer.

He swooped in for a kiss but lingered too long. I was half paying attention to the exchange but became completely absorbed in it when all of a sudden Dec lept from the floor and let out a roar of a sob....

"Waaaaahhhhhhhhhh!" He threw himself back onto the couch.

"Nonie just bit my lip."

I sat here, biting my tongue, wondering why he would willingly put his lip in her mouth and how he could possibly think she wouldn't bite it.

Then I figured that sassy Miss Chicklets was just getting her big bro back for the time he practiced his "Jackson Pollock painting techniques" on her and not the lovely plain paper in front of him. She's a smart Chicklet that Miss Nonie.

We Are All Artists

Today, (out of nowhere) Dec asked me what colors you mix to make blue...

I hesitated.

He filled the empty space that hung between his question and my answer by telling me he'd check one of his art books because an artist wrote it and artists know what two colors make other colors.



We are all artists. I interjected. You don't need to consult your books - I know enough to answer this one.



I continued: Nonie is an artist because she loves to make finger paintings using her applesauce and yogurt. Dec laughed and rolled his eyes. Looking at him I said: You are an artist when you make the most creative vehicles out of legos each morning. Then I realied, He wasn't really buying it - so I left the subject alone.

Later, over dinner, I found myself saying to Dame - if you had suggested we make a lasagna for dinner tonight I would have said that we didn't have the ingredients. The only lasagna ingredient I knew for certain we had was the box of lasagna from the depths of our cupboard which had not been opened in more than a year because we just never had all the proper lasagna ingredients.


But our babysitter was able to whip up the most incredible lasagna. Today. Out of what? I just don't know. We didn't have mozzarella, or ricotta - yet I taste both of those tastes when I bite into it.

Her incredible ability to create the most delicious meals out of ingredients I never knew existed in my very own kitchen - both amazes and inspires me.

I am an artist, but tonight I can't help but wonder how often I've had all the supplies I've needed to create a truly wonderful work of art and never even slowed down enough to notice the palette before me and consider my vast options.
***
In case Dec stumped you: blue is a primary color like red and yellow, there are no two colors that make blue. It just is.