Eight shoes abandoned by the door. Eight soles crusted with fresh mud—surprising, considering it’s nearly January. This is what grief looks like at my house today, my dog Hobbes freshly buried in the garden.
I woke in the middle of the night last night to the sound of steady breathing, listening intently for the slight wheeze of a tired dog’s lungs. This morning, the sun still snoring miles to the east, I slipped out of bed into the crisp darkness, my feet moving gingerly, so I wouldn’t wake Hobbes, who sleeps in our room.
Past-tense verbs are slow to roll off my tongue this morning. I cannot seem to shake “slept” out of “sleep,” without my throat tightening up.
So I let the grief pour out of me. And, like the pull of plunger to clogged drain, I am surprised by all of the things it brings up with it. Faces of people I have loved and lost, missed opportunities now dusty with time, the strange longing for a past fuzzied and skewed by softening memories.
I remember when a former student, Mindy Papenfus, finally succumbed to leukemia midway through her sophomore year of college. It was over 15 years ago, but I can still access even the tiniest details of that funeral. I was sitting to the right of the altar, three rows back. Wearing a green-and-black flannel dress, accented by the bulky silver bracelet my grandmother had forged. I remember being struck by the outpouring of love for Mindy, who’d dug her roots deep into the St. Olaf women’s soccer team, most of whom made it back to Lincoln for her.
And I remember being unable to hold back the flood of tears that swam over me. Tears for Mindy, to be sure—a life cut short but so well lived. But tears also for my dad, who had died two years before.
That’s the surprise of love and loss—the way both can creep up on you, like a hyacinth suddenly awash in tiny flowers, where seemingly nothing had been just a day before.
Maybe the hyacinth is what I need to focus on today, the surprising beauty that nudges its way through cold earth. Through the soles of muddied shoes that lay abandoned by the back door. Through the silence, where clicking paws once punctuated the air.
The flower, deep in the earth, remembers what it is. And it is patient, trusting in the future.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Pork and (Human) Beans: Simple Pleasures
"Simple pleasures are the best
All the little things that make you
smile and glow
all the things you know
Life's simple pleasures are the best."
--Andy Williams, singing in a Van Camp Pork & Beans commercial from the 70s
Damn, I love that song. Got goosebumps every time that ad was on. Every time.
My love of that song comes from a combination of things--Williams' silky-smooth voice, the catchy tune and those lyrics.
Ah, those lyrics. . . .
Really, what's not to love about simple pleasures? Especially this time of year, when life can be anything but simple?
As I think about yesterday--Christmas day--I keep coming back to its essence--spending time with people I love. Ask me about it and I'll skip right over the new pajamas, the breakfast casserole, the apropos tabletop decor and put my focus--and love--on the people.
Yes, I have been known to spin my lazy ways in such a way that--from a distance, with a pair of squinting, mediocre eyes--they might actually be mistaken for something almost admirable. But I believe my appreciation for simple living doesn't require a lot of spin to maintain its essential goodness.
Why simple living hasn't caught on more is one of those bewildering things to me.
It's as though we can't quite convince ourselves of the importance or beauty of something if all it requires of us is to show up and enjoy it.
And yet, what is there that could possibly add to the beauty of a day with family or a feeder full of chickadees or a sky smeared with sunset?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
So, who really cares if we run out of stuffing? Who cares if our kids get last year's hit DVD or if our ornaments don't really match the lights on our tree?
Frankly, I don't care. And, to be honest, I hardly ever notice these things when I'm in someone else's house, either.
That's the joy of a simple mind. With the bar set low, my eyes and mind are free to enjoy the most basic of things--the joy of spending time with others, the pleasure of a nice meal, the love of a friend who doesn't expect much in return.
ENJOY VAN CAMP'S COMMERCIAL YOURSELF! Here's the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjzinJ4QeHo
All the little things that make you
smile and glow
all the things you know
Life's simple pleasures are the best."
--Andy Williams, singing in a Van Camp Pork & Beans commercial from the 70s
Damn, I love that song. Got goosebumps every time that ad was on. Every time.
My love of that song comes from a combination of things--Williams' silky-smooth voice, the catchy tune and those lyrics.
Ah, those lyrics. . . .
Really, what's not to love about simple pleasures? Especially this time of year, when life can be anything but simple?
As I think about yesterday--Christmas day--I keep coming back to its essence--spending time with people I love. Ask me about it and I'll skip right over the new pajamas, the breakfast casserole, the apropos tabletop decor and put my focus--and love--on the people.
Yes, I have been known to spin my lazy ways in such a way that--from a distance, with a pair of squinting, mediocre eyes--they might actually be mistaken for something almost admirable. But I believe my appreciation for simple living doesn't require a lot of spin to maintain its essential goodness.
Why simple living hasn't caught on more is one of those bewildering things to me.
It's as though we can't quite convince ourselves of the importance or beauty of something if all it requires of us is to show up and enjoy it.
And yet, what is there that could possibly add to the beauty of a day with family or a feeder full of chickadees or a sky smeared with sunset?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
So, who really cares if we run out of stuffing? Who cares if our kids get last year's hit DVD or if our ornaments don't really match the lights on our tree?
Frankly, I don't care. And, to be honest, I hardly ever notice these things when I'm in someone else's house, either.
That's the joy of a simple mind. With the bar set low, my eyes and mind are free to enjoy the most basic of things--the joy of spending time with others, the pleasure of a nice meal, the love of a friend who doesn't expect much in return.
ENJOY VAN CAMP'S COMMERCIAL YOURSELF! Here's the link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjzinJ4QeHo
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Bandaids for Beheadings
We all have our "off" days, our less-than-stellar performances. These moments frame us in our matte finish, rather than the glossy one we'd prefer. So be it. Best to just embrace the embarrassment and move on.
And so, below is a list of some of my better worst moments. I list them so that I can pretend they will just disappear now that I've owned them in print.
A girl can dream. . . .
Spinach Balls
Writing about these won't make them go away, I know. Even though Mark wishes they'd never surfaced in the first place. I totally own this one. But, in my lame defense, my children now eat a LOT of spinach, even though it's rolled up and jammed in their cheeks like a wad of chew. And they don't need any dressing, either. Which is really, really bad for you.
Chic Jeans
It's possible that, for a short time in his young life (maybe a year, tops), my son wore my Chic jeans to school. Hey, they fit and they were really slimming on him.
Dog "Food"
The last year or so of our dog Rasta's life included a steady downward spiral of her weight. Her vet asked me a series of questions about the weight loss, finally asking what it was I fed her. When I mentioned that I'd found an off brand that only cost $4 for a 20-pound bag, I was told that the reason she was losing weight was because I was feeding her "packing peanuts in a light gravy." That day, I became a name-brand pet-food shopper.
The Dog-Poop Potato-Scrubber Incident
I'd rather not go into the details here, except to say that I only had to learn this lesson once.
Homemade Maxi Pads
After becoming a full-fledged woman at 11 (my mom's words, not mine), I was so horrified by the transformation and too embarrassed to ask for replacement packs that I made my own pads for about a year. Pretty sure Kleenex stocks rose about the same time. . . .
Mannheim Steamroller
Yeah, I was a fan. A BIG fan. For kind of a long, long time. And I still like hearing their version of "Silent Night." Just deal with it.
I think you get the point. Besides, I've got other things I want to do today, beyond just making myself feel stupid. Like go to Walgreens, where floating pens and wrinkle cream are buy-one-get-one.
And so, below is a list of some of my better worst moments. I list them so that I can pretend they will just disappear now that I've owned them in print.
A girl can dream. . . .
Spinach Balls
Writing about these won't make them go away, I know. Even though Mark wishes they'd never surfaced in the first place. I totally own this one. But, in my lame defense, my children now eat a LOT of spinach, even though it's rolled up and jammed in their cheeks like a wad of chew. And they don't need any dressing, either. Which is really, really bad for you.
Chic Jeans
It's possible that, for a short time in his young life (maybe a year, tops), my son wore my Chic jeans to school. Hey, they fit and they were really slimming on him.
Dog "Food"
The last year or so of our dog Rasta's life included a steady downward spiral of her weight. Her vet asked me a series of questions about the weight loss, finally asking what it was I fed her. When I mentioned that I'd found an off brand that only cost $4 for a 20-pound bag, I was told that the reason she was losing weight was because I was feeding her "packing peanuts in a light gravy." That day, I became a name-brand pet-food shopper.
The Dog-Poop Potato-Scrubber Incident
I'd rather not go into the details here, except to say that I only had to learn this lesson once.
Homemade Maxi Pads
After becoming a full-fledged woman at 11 (my mom's words, not mine), I was so horrified by the transformation and too embarrassed to ask for replacement packs that I made my own pads for about a year. Pretty sure Kleenex stocks rose about the same time. . . .
Mannheim Steamroller
Yeah, I was a fan. A BIG fan. For kind of a long, long time. And I still like hearing their version of "Silent Night." Just deal with it.
I think you get the point. Besides, I've got other things I want to do today, beyond just making myself feel stupid. Like go to Walgreens, where floating pens and wrinkle cream are buy-one-get-one.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
A Lesson (or two or three) from History
Earlier this week, while previewing a civil-rights series for the school district, one detail got stuck in my craw. In 1971, Congress proposed the 26th Amendment, which would give 18-year-old citizens the right to vote. Knee deep in Vietnam, it made sense that all of the soldiers should have a say at the voting booth. A hundred days later, all 50 states had ratified the amendment, and constitutional law was changed.
A new law, a hundred days. That got me thinking. How long had other sea changes taken in this country?
December 15, 1791. The Bill of Rights--the first 10 Amendments to the U.S. Constitution--became law in 811 days. No quick shakes, by some standards, but considering the unimaginable freedoms these amendments gave to ordinary citizens--free press, free speech, freedom of religion (and those are just in the 1st Amendment)--what's a few years among friends?
December 6, 1865. It took the states 309 days to ratify the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery. Less than a year to outlaw an issue that had so recently caused citizens to take up arms against one another. Granted, it took Mississippi until 1995 to back the amendment, but that's another story.
February 3, 1870. Five years after outlawing slavery, the states ratified the 15th Amendment, which gave black men the right to vote. It took 342 days to ratify the amendment, but considering that just a few years before this, blacks weren't even considered human, it is both a breathtaking admission of wrongdoing and a righteous step towards addressing that error.
As I scanned the list of amendments and the days it took to ratify them, I noticed that most took less than a year to enact. Ironically, the ones that seemed to take the most time often had to do with money. For instance, it took three and a half years to ratify the 16th Amendment in 1913, which instituted income tax.
But none comes close to the 27th Amendment, which limits pay raises in Congress. Proposed on September 25, 1789, it wasn't until May 7, 1992--74,003 days later--that the country would back this one. Nearly 200 years for us to agree to a pay-raise cap for our legislators.
Had that amendment been proposed this year, my guess is that it would have taken the states about eight minutes to ratify it.
My point? If we needed any additional proof that this, our 111th Congress, has been a less-than-stellar performer, I find no greater proof than the history of the institution itself. Fresh off of a civil war, men once considered enemies managed to reach across the aisle and end slavery once and for all. And they did it in less than a year's time.
I shall always associate our current Congress with the bitter taste of bile across my tongue, so absent has it been of courageous acts and compassionate compromise.
A new law, a hundred days. That got me thinking. How long had other sea changes taken in this country?
December 15, 1791. The Bill of Rights--the first 10 Amendments to the U.S. Constitution--became law in 811 days. No quick shakes, by some standards, but considering the unimaginable freedoms these amendments gave to ordinary citizens--free press, free speech, freedom of religion (and those are just in the 1st Amendment)--what's a few years among friends?
December 6, 1865. It took the states 309 days to ratify the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery. Less than a year to outlaw an issue that had so recently caused citizens to take up arms against one another. Granted, it took Mississippi until 1995 to back the amendment, but that's another story.
February 3, 1870. Five years after outlawing slavery, the states ratified the 15th Amendment, which gave black men the right to vote. It took 342 days to ratify the amendment, but considering that just a few years before this, blacks weren't even considered human, it is both a breathtaking admission of wrongdoing and a righteous step towards addressing that error.
As I scanned the list of amendments and the days it took to ratify them, I noticed that most took less than a year to enact. Ironically, the ones that seemed to take the most time often had to do with money. For instance, it took three and a half years to ratify the 16th Amendment in 1913, which instituted income tax.
But none comes close to the 27th Amendment, which limits pay raises in Congress. Proposed on September 25, 1789, it wasn't until May 7, 1992--74,003 days later--that the country would back this one. Nearly 200 years for us to agree to a pay-raise cap for our legislators.
Had that amendment been proposed this year, my guess is that it would have taken the states about eight minutes to ratify it.
My point? If we needed any additional proof that this, our 111th Congress, has been a less-than-stellar performer, I find no greater proof than the history of the institution itself. Fresh off of a civil war, men once considered enemies managed to reach across the aisle and end slavery once and for all. And they did it in less than a year's time.
I shall always associate our current Congress with the bitter taste of bile across my tongue, so absent has it been of courageous acts and compassionate compromise.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Old-Dog Blues
She says I love him more
Truth is,
I love him more anxiously
. . . because I can see his future from here
And it is bound by seasons,
not years
I go easy, then,
when his “clink clink clink”
draws me from my sleep again.
And again we wend our clumsy ways downstairs,
his muzzle nudging the back door
for relief
or escape
or whatever it is he thinks he may need
I melt the window’s frost with a fist,
trying to spy him in the black night
to make sure that he returns
I love him anxiously these days,
wrapping myself around his worn warm body
half on the lumpy bed he calls his own
I love him with milk
and words
and touches
and walks
I love him with time, the one thing I feel
slipping through my fingers
These woolly, condensed lives
are hard on us all
. . . which is why I love him anxiously these days.
Truth is,
I love him more anxiously
. . . because I can see his future from here
And it is bound by seasons,
not years
I go easy, then,
when his “clink clink clink”
draws me from my sleep again.
And again we wend our clumsy ways downstairs,
his muzzle nudging the back door
for relief
or escape
or whatever it is he thinks he may need
I melt the window’s frost with a fist,
trying to spy him in the black night
to make sure that he returns
I love him anxiously these days,
wrapping myself around his worn warm body
half on the lumpy bed he calls his own
I love him with milk
and words
and touches
and walks
I love him with time, the one thing I feel
slipping through my fingers
These woolly, condensed lives
are hard on us all
. . . which is why I love him anxiously these days.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
The Unexpected Wisdom of Kenny Rogers
People take their music very seriously. We also take it very personally. That's why we are slow to cross the lines of otherwise loathed genres, as though doing so makes a personal statement about ourselves. Alas, I must take a gamble and stand in Kenny Rogers' corner on this one.
I don't know if the guy sang those lyrics because they felt right or they were right, but, for me, they ring mightily true. Especially this week, after we gave our daughter Allison permission to walk away from cheerleading.
Despite our genetic propensities, when Allison first said she'd like to try out for cheerleading, Mark and I supported her. We also told her that, if she made the team, she would have to support her new endeavor financially. No small potatoes, considering the hefty price tag that comes with such short skirts.
Things really revved up last Spring, when practices and purchases piled up like clothes on a teenager's bedroom floor. Summer camp, followed by more practices, followed by Fall sports, followed by . . . a surprising lack of joy, despite all those hardwood-floor smiles and snappy moves.
It's not that cheerleading isn't a good fit period. Ultimately, though, it wasn't a good fit for Allison. And that is why we gave her the option of an exit ticket.
It was no free ride, though, since we also told her that, if she decided to quit, she'd need to have some tough, honest, face-to-face conversations with the adults in charge of cheerleading. Not easy for a people pleaser like Allison. But she did it. With aplomb, I might add.
I'm sure Vince Lombardi was a terrific coach. But I don't think his words should be etched in stone. Well, maybe soapstone. . . .
So, what do parents teach kids when they preach Lombardi's all-or-nothing sermon? In most situations, they teach resilience and strength, commitment and integrity. But I believe that it would be a mistake to make this our daily--and only--mantra.
I suppose going down with one's ship is a noble act. But it also puts quite a damper on one's future plans.
Watching Allison's moods darken, knowing her unhappiness, Mark and I figured this was one of those instances in which seeing it through to the bitter end would only make her more bitter. And so, we offered her a release valve of sorts, a way out, if not a get-out-of-jail-free card.
And what happened? She became lighter. Found her old self. Received unexpected hugs and support from her coaches and teammates, and realized that there is value in knowing when to call the game.
Call her a quitter, if you must. But we will continue to call her our daughter, a person of integrity and courage, with some really snappy skirts for sale.
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