The Unexpected Advantage of Absence

My dad, a hopeless punster, once told me a drawn-out, miserable joke that ended with the punchline: An abscess makes the fart go "honda."  Like the sticky aftermath of a traumatic experience, I doubt I will ever be able to shake that punchline from my memory.  And, really, that's okay with me.

What I have been reminded of these past few weeks, though, is the original adage from which this bastardization emerged--Absence makes the heart grow fonder.  I realize that, in these cynical, post-modern, meh-riddled days we live in, such simple, old-timey adages can be viewed through a rather dismissive lens.  The fact that they endure at all, though, tells me that they are rooted in some sort of truth that can outlast even these brutal times we live in.

That truth has made itself known to me over and over again, ever since Eric and Allison departed the homey shores of their motherland. 

How else do I explain the solicitous attention both kids have given to Mark and me these past few weeks, framed in what seems to be something like accumulated gratefulness?  Remove them from the home and, upon their return, magical things emerge--dishes done without request or complaint, meals prepared with what almost seems like joy or satisfaction, questions asked about our days, our struggles, our lives.  And then, there's a strange hesitance, too, an unwillingness to let us buy them an outfit or pick up a few groceries for them.

Eric and Allison are not perfect, of course.  Far from it, thank goodness.  But they do seem to have done a pretty fair job of growing into post-Copernican humans who understand that it really isn't all about them.

Selfish as we are, Mark and I never chose a parenting style that was, ultimately, all about us--unless you consider our determination to hand off every rotten chore we ourselves had once been strapped with.  So we are left scratching our noggins of late, wondering how to explain this nice development in the family dynamic.

It almost has the feel of a Penn and Teller trick, something wonderful that lacks any apparent explanation.

This generosity of spirit, it turns out, has been the unexpected silver lining of emptying our nest, the quiet pleasure of watching our fledglings behave in loving, appreciative, grown-up ways that give us confidence in the future.

I won't hold my breath that this comfortable, surprising stasis will continue from here on, but I know now that this good stuff burbles beneath the skin of my children.  And, like a rotten yet well-loved punchline, it will make its appearance again and again in this life I live.

The Cicadian Rhythms of Late Summer

I, for one, am not looking forward to the upcoming Apocalypse that the guy in front of Marcus Theatres keeps announcing.  For one, I just bought a new pair of sandals and I'd really like to break them in before the Big Day. Who wants to meet her maker with bandaids on her heels? Not me, buster.

I'm curious if this doomsayer thinks he's doing us a favor, all wrapped up in his doom-and-gloom duds.  How could anyone possibly enjoy the remaining days knowing that the End Times are just around the corner?

I suppose some people welcome the pronouncement, using it as a wake-up call to start checking off their bucket lists.  But I don't keep a bucket list and, frankly, I don't foresee jotting one down in the near future.

That's why I'm so glad that the cicadas have finally returned!  Their absence, which most of us had noticed--with some alarm--seemed far more damning than any scriptural speeding ticket we could have received.  What did it mean, we asked ourselves in the privacy of our own minds, that our late-summer evenings were punctuated by the absence of droning?

Turns out that this year's crop of cicadas is like my newspaper carrier, not in any particular hurry to deliver the goods.  And, as the old adage goes, better late than never.  Unless it's the newspaper. . . .

Ah, but I digress.  Back to the cicadas and why I'm so dadgum happy that they've returned.

Even if we don't say it aloud, we Midwesterners love our seasonal rhythms.  And it's one of the most endearing things that our environment offers us.  Like sailors circumnavigating the globe using stars not sextants, we Midwesterners keep track of the passage of time with the height of a corn stalk, the first crocus, the meandering line of geese.  The drone of the cicadas.

Take these away or delay their arrival, and we start to get a little nervous.  Not that a Californian would ever recognize the sign of nerves in a Midwesterner. . . .

So it was with private revelry and an extra long sigh of relief that I celebrated this week's returning evensong of Periodic Cicadamorpha (I looked it up).

Turns out, the sky really isn't falling, Chicken Little.  Like their easy-going Midwestern neighbors, the cicadas were just taking their time this year.

Fly Away, Little Ones!

Dear Eric and Allison,

I imagine you in bed this morning, laying atop your sheets with the weight of a new world upon you, unwilling to move because of all that you perceive that is already lost--a rhythm, a steadiness, a place.  I imagine this and want to rouse you, to reassure you that these things run through you, always.

We have tried to raise you to be steady, competent, kind.  Now, lean into these things and trust them.  Let them help you build this new road, and don't be afraid to chink the gaps with new people, new experiences, new knowledge.  I promise that they will not replace what is always there--your family and friends, your sense of "home."  Rather, they will expand you and you will be left gasping, unable to believe that there was room for so much more.

Go and live your lives with courage and confidence, with a willingness to leap, for your wings have not been clipped.  Indeed, they are stronger than ever.

Feelin' Mighty Fine (Mighty Fine Blues) by the Eels

Slogan, Don't be Well. Be Better!

I love Walgreens.  I love most everything about that store--the width of its aisles, the fine selection of candies, the array of shampoos and end-cap bargains.  Compared to CVS--that Burger King to my McDonalds--Walgreens is a shining star.

. . . except for the seemingly endless checkout screens and its new slogan,  "Be well." 

Be well?  Are you kidding me? 

Every time I'm standing in line at Walgreens now, I find myself uttering a prayer for the clerk and the person ahead of me.  

Please, God, be with the person ahead of me in line, that their basket may not contain Tucks Medicated Pads or a prescription for a festering wound that just won't heal.  And give the clerk the courage to skip "Be Well" if such things are sitting in the basket.

Really, for a place that sells prescription drugs and Cheez Whiz, "Be Well" seems like the dumbest slogan ever.  Except maybe AT&T's "Reach out and touch someone," which seems hard to do over telephone wires, not to mention a little creepy. 

And what Walgreen's customer doesn't cringe when grabbing their receipt, just waiting for the teenaged clerk to murmur "yeah,  uh, be...well...uh"?  It's just awkward, even if the sentiment actually fits.  Better for Walgreens to have stocked their clerks' minds with adjustable slogans, if you ask me.

Buying cold medicine?  Get well.
Buying cigarettes?   You'll never be well.
Buying condoms?  She can do better.

Despite the great heaps of money that went into developing them, most companies' slogans roll off the tongue and out of the head like water on an oil slick.  True, a few have great sticking power.  But Walgreens has reminded me that a stupid slogan that employees are required to utter, regardless of what I'm buying, is, well, not only often inappropriate (Really?  I'm buying AZT and you're telling me to be well?!)  but also annoyingly memorable. 

And that is the worst slogan of all.

Pike's Peak

Four thousand three hundred and twenty two.  That's how many steps it took me to walk around Holmes Lake this morning.  And, while the walk took me less than an hour, I kept wondering to myself how it is possible for a person to complete the trek in anything under eight days' time. Had I brought my little magnifying scope with me, I doubt very much that I would have made it to the bottom of the dam by now.  

Although Finn and I have a semi regular habit of heading to Holmes Lake on Sunday mornings, it was a character in a novel who nudged us out the door this morning.  Boy, am I glad Ambrose Pike showed up on page 196 of Elizabeth Gilbert's "The Signature of All Things."  I was starting to wonder why I was sticking with this book.  Although I appreciate the botanical and biological aspects of the story, I've been unimpressed with the self-absorbed, emotionally girdled main characters.  Pike, though, is another breed altogether, an open-faced sandwich of a man who delights in the curiosities of the natural world.

It was because of Pike's unabashed joy that Finn and I headed out the door before most of my neighbors had awakened this morning.  By the time we pulled into the parking lot, I found Pike's joy to be infectious.

Wide-eyed, Finn and I stumbled out of the car, straining to get our feet off the pavement.
Immediately, we were rewarded; first, with the quiet sight of a nesting blue-winged teal, waking slowly atop its nest along the bank.  Its neighbors, the swallows, though, already were buzzing the air for a morning bite to eat, chattering about strange dreams from the night before.

Really, it's a miracle Finn and I clocked even a hundred steps on our outing!

By the time we topped the dam, we were overwhelmed by bulbous, orange-tinged clouds reflecting off the glassy, still lake.  And, for just an instance, as I looked towards some houses abutting the dam, I mistook a handful of pink surprise lilies for two resting flamingos.

And so it went from there.  I can provide a count for those who prefer numbers:  two herons, a half a hundred swallows, eleven Canada geese, two dozen ducks, six solitary fishermen, one kayaker, two bicyclists, one runner.  But the count falls short of capturing the pleasure of time spent quietly out of doors.

This was not the first Sunday morning on the lake in which I wondered why a person would bother to go to church when there is all of God's wildness just outside the door.

I can still feel that walk in my feet, not because it was rigorous, but because it was magical.  I like to think that a stranger passing me on the trail would see it on me, like flecks of dew refracting light.  I like to think that Ambrose Pike would have enjoyed tagging along with us.

Viscous Cycles

"Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin'
into the future."

You know it's a bad sign when a Steve Miller song seems profound to you.  Yet, life feels awfully viscous these days, and I'm trying like crazy to grab onto it.

A migraine and a list of realizations woke me around 3 this morning.  I could do little to appease either, so I finally gave up and got up.  And now I'm pondering that list.  The items that weigh most heavily on me include my children's impending departures, my friends' continuing struggles, my job's upcoming requirements.

 Try as I might, I've never been a particularly adept juggler.  And I can be downright pathetic when it comes to weight distribution, misguidedly putting too much emphasis on the lesser things.  A person could make a pretty decent argument, I suppose, that these are the sloppy realities of being human.  Still, it can be hard to make my peace with these discrepancies.

So, instead of fully committing to any one item on my list, I end up skirting them all.  Like a dragonfly alighting on the water for the briefest of moments, only to be drawn away by something fluttering off in the distance. Call it a form of pain management, this segmentation of things.

I can hardly imagine August 16th, when son Eric wakes up in Sweden for the first time.  And because I can hardly imagine it, I turn my attention elsewhere.  To friends whose days are filled with doctors' offices and question marks.  But those lives get heavy awfully fast and, well, my shoulders are shot.  So I let my eyes wander over to Allison, whose room is quickly filling with dorm-sized bedsheets and storage bins.  This sight, too, hurts my eyes and heart, though, so I let something else distract me . . . .

This is the cycle I find myself in, then, one of motion and deception and pain management. . . and joy and silliness, too, which is part of the problem.

Who am I, after all, to get a case of the giggles in the midst of all these real-world challenges?   But who am I to deny the healing power of a good belly laugh?

When sun meets earth and body finds bed each night, it is this complicated, lovely, aching mess called "life" that I lay down beside, my mind awhirl with a thousand conflicting thoughts and experiences.  And, most nights, I fall asleep easily, trusting that the good of others, coupled with my own imperfect intentions, is enough to keep it all together.