Family Values

I like this photo.  And, maybe I'm just making excuses for my sloppy selfie-bilities, but I also like that we don't all fit neatly into the frame.  Seems like an accurate portrayal of life.

But, mostly, I like this photo because of the collection of humans within it.  Half of us share some DNA, while two of us hold an enviable 26-year contract between us.  And the other two?  Well, they are hardly outliers.

The other night, this motley crew gathered at Lazlo's for no other reason than to eat some food and enjoy each other's company.  The photo above represents the only other time all six of us have eaten together (so far). A quick study of the mood captured in the photo will tell you that we get along well enough, thank you.

Sitting around the table at Lazlo's, there was a palpable ease that accompanied us, an intimacy that made the meal a pleasure, even if I did order too many brown things that required a deep fryer.  And, while I've got friends who are on the other end of the "parenting" spectrum right now--delighting in first words, first steps, and rapidly-firing synapses--sitting at that table Thursday night made me realize that there are many things to celebrate about our children, even when they are, themselves, adults.

There, in a building in the center of the Haymarket, a familiar warmth filled me, a momentary long view of gratefulness for all that has been and all that is, included the right now.  I was grateful that, 30 years ago in Henzlik Hall, Mark and I happened to be seated near each other as our new semester began.  I was grateful that Eric and Allison turned out so nicely, despite the stunning ignorance of their parents.  And I was grateful that Kate and Eric noticed each other at Prom 2011 and that Zach and his friends asked Allison last spring if they could join their sand volleyball game.

While the knuckleheads and blowhards may dominate the media, it is good to remember how many fine folks surround us in our daily lives, people we call "family," regardless of chemical connections. It is good to stretch out our arms, sometimes, and invite folks in, even if we cannot quite completely capture their essence in a single frame.

The Gift of an Inviting Morning

A morning like this begs to be lived in.

As soon as Finn and I rush out the door--pink skies practically yanking us--I imagine Colorado or the Camino Trail, certain that I could walk forever.  And now, with that same door cracked open to let in bird song and fresh air, I wonder what I'm doing inside with all of that outside pulsing right there.

Even the birds seem different this morning--energized and spring-time chatty.  Cardinals practice their half-forgotten morning songs while chickadees pronounce their namesake over and over again. Halfway around Woods Park, I swear I hear the "tsssssss tssssss tssssss" of Cedar Waxwings just as a flock of birds alight from a tree.

I am comfortable in my delusions, content to believe I've seen the unbelievable, lightened by the experience.

That is why, as I pass my neighbor's Honey Locust tree, its bark like the curled lips of a dried-out pond, I stop to look for my tiny Brown Creeper friend, where, earlier this week, it was tucked in and nearly invisible.  Of course it's not there--what are the chances, after all, that a bird would return to this very spot at this very moment on this very morning?

What harm is there, though, in hoping?  In recalling the sweet, startling moment when mottled brown became living thing?

Indeed, this is a morning that begs to be lived in.  A crisp salve against a world too often drawn with harsh, delineating lines.  I, for one, hope to blur those lines all day long.

Yearning for Yawners

I'm a pretty boring person.  And I say that with some satisfaction.  Never a fan of drama, unless it's on a stage or big screen, I generally embrace the routines that mildly punctuate my days--waking early, exercising a bit, reading the paper, walking the dog...all before 8 a.m., if life is really good.

Yesterday, though, was not one of those days. Yesterday, I was a hot mess from the get go.

I woke from splintered sleep with a strangely sore nose and a brain that did not feel like my own.  Before 5:30 a.m., I'd managed to screw up that night's chicken shwarma recipe not once but twice.  And, while waiting for the newspaper to arrive, I made the mistake of looking at Facebook, where one person had referred to our president as the anti-christ. (Honestly, I don't think I would ever have referred to Richard Nixon as the anti-christ!).

Filled with anger and smelling of Middle-Eastern spices, I headed out on a walk, feeling wobbly and disoriented.  And, while I knew that, behind those clouds, there were five beautiful planets perfectly aligned, I never was able to let go of my disgust at the Facebook post and enjoy the longer view.

I stumbled and sputtered my way through the rest of the morning--off point and out of sorts--wondering if I'd suffered a stroke in my sleep, until I remembered that I probably hadn't slept long enough for a stroke to occur unnoticed.  And when my brother emailed me with news that my mom's medical procedure had been delayed because of someone else's knuckleheadedness?   Well, I felt a bit like that new ninth planet that was just discovered, whirring wildly in a galaxy that felt very far from home.

Convinced that not one part of my life was now within my control, I wondered if I had come face to face with a tipping point, of sorts.  Perhaps the weight of all of the losses of the past six months--my friends, my step father, and now, maybe, even my mom--had accumulated within me and burst through my pores, demanding my attention.

It's good for me to have an emotional day now and then.  It reminds me that many things are outside of my control, that losses--like plaque--build up if I don't take the time to address them.  And, inevitably, when I finally whisper "uncle" to a friend or family member, admitting that I am suffering and that boredom has been replaced by something harsher,  I am cloaked in kindness.  Made almost whole again, ready for routine to find its way back to me.

Everything That Rises Must Converge

I'm an adequate cook but a hesitant baker, especially when the recipe calls for yeast.  To me, yeast is like golf--something few of us understand and most of us shouldn't attempt.  Blame my visceral memories of Miller & Paine's orange rolls, then, for my decision today to make the Pioneer Woman's orange marmalade rolls.

After I got over the intimidation factor, the experience transformed me. Yes, I had to read the directions several times.  I fretted, hemmed and hawed until the clock was working against me.  And I was downright persnickety when it came to determining what "lukewarm" really means.  Eventually, I had to trust my instincts, though,  and toss the little buggers in.

The experience filled me with encouragement, pride, patience and about a pound of butter.

How on earth can a package of yeast change a life, you ask.

How can it not?  

Yeast, it turns out,  is all that and a bag of potato chips.  A puny, single-celled fungus that buds, reproduces and converts.  Think mail-order minister on steroids.

And I love that yeast is such a picky fellow.  Like a fussy rock star, yeast won't perform unless everything is just right.  Skip the bowlful of yellow M&Ms, though,  and replace them with a lukewarm bath and just a hint of sugar.

Tick it off and go hungry.  Treat it right, though, and yeast will be the fabulous fungus among us. The bravado in our bread, the oy! in our soy sauce, the winner in our Guinness.

For once, my house smells like a good, traditional, competent woman lives here.  For once, I made something I wanted to share.  Something that is both tangy and sweet.  Something that, unlike revenge, is best served warm.

Let's Do the Time Warp, Yeah

When I got home from school yesterday, I had two things on my mind--a walk with Finn and a cold beer to follow, two activities guaranteed to help me savor my "weekend" time.  Before I could hang up the dog leash and dry my shoes, though, my mom had called, worried about back pain.  After talking with the nursing staff at the Landing, it was decided that my mom's pain shouldn't wait until Monday to be addressed. (Is there any greater distorter of time than an ailment taking root just as the doctor's office closes for the weekend?)

I allowed myself a moment to lament the untouched beer, and then headed into traffic to get my mom.  My yen for yeast was soon replaced by relief, gratefulness that I had been there to get her call. Over the next four hours--the first two and a half of which went surprisingly quickly--there was a calm that my mom and I shared, an odd steadiness that quieted and slowed us, despite our jarring surroundings.

The Emergency Room staff was great--both efficient and caring.  In between their visits to our room, I found myself watching my mom, and wondering about the odd nature of time.

Time is a weird beast, a surprisingly unreliable measure, despite all of its precise proportions.  An infant has no respect for time, propelled only by the immediacy of its needs.   By my thirties, time had become viscous, too slick to slow down, leaving me breathless in its wake.  And there, in the Emergency Room,  time was something else entirely for my 88-year-old mother.

By 9 p.m., as my mom and I left the hospital--medical concerns put to rest--I wondered if time were better represented by the slow stretch of warm taffy or the staccato outbursts of Pop Rocks. Time, however, is uninterested in my need to rein it in and understand it.  It is both taffy and Pop Rock. Quite possibly, all at once.

Awake by 3:30 a.m.--curse the clock that ticks off the endless seconds!--I again faced the wildness of time, its nature utterly incomprehensible to me.  Under the weight of warm blankets, held tight in the darkness of a winter's night, I whispered a prayer that time might be kind to my mother.  That she might be swimming in gentle dreams framed in a timeless, warm light, unconcerned by the clock at her bedside.

Lips Like Sugar

I once gave up candy for a year.

That may not sound like much to you, but I was raised by a mother who could rifle through half a package of Archway oatmeal raisin cookies on her way home from Safeway.  And I say that with great admiration.

Sugar, you see, has a mighty, genetic hold over my clan, which makes my past resolve seem almost miraculous, if not potentially traitorous.

In looking back, I'm not sure if my grand experiment was framed in a New Year's morning, but I do know what it was that led to my eventual downfall--a Brach's Bunny Basket Marshmallow Easter Egg, arguably the worst excuse for candy ever.   How disappointing is this fact?  Imagine a Luddite  binge watching "The Jerry Springer Show," and you're getting close.

Our roads to downfall, it seems, often are lined with tchotchkes and reruns and Space Food Sticks.  Oh, my.

Yesterday, at a friend's New Year's brunch, we wrapped things up with a little experiment--seeing how many of us could rise from the floor without using our hands. (I know what you're thinking--"Dammit, why can't I get invited to any of the great parties?!")

When it was my turn, I was a bit nervous.  After all, I couldn't recall the last time I'd sat on the floor on purpose.  And, given that my descent to the carpet was punctuated by sounds more often associated with microwaving popcorn or seasoned firewood splitting under a very sharp axe, I had no delusions of success.  But I am stubborn, if nothing else.

Halfway up, teetering like a pooped-out child's top, my "friend's" giggles distracted me and I very nearly gave up.  Shameful visions of marshmallow eggs spurred me on, though, and I managed--finally--to rise to my triumphant victory, arms held high and legs only kind of quavering.

If I were brave and forward thinking, I'd resolve to sit on the floor more in 2016.  But I won't.  Mostly because I'm still kind of sore from yesterday's near fiasco.

Instead, the part of me that feels I ought to at least give this "resolution" thing a shot has settled upon a long-favorite tradition of mine--finding a vague motto that might occasionally be used to inspire at least mediocre future decisions, without actually committing me to much.

The motto I've settled on?  More or less.

Yeah, I know.  It isn't even a complete sentence.  And, from an AP-style perspective, the word "less" is rife with problems.  But I'm going to give it a whirl anyway.  Beginning today (probably), I will frame my future actions and decisions with the personal reflection of "More or less?  Which would be better right now?"

By applying the same Kung Fu focus I used yesterday on my friend's floor, this resolution may very well see me through the end of today and possibly even into Sunday morning, if I'm feeling especially disciplined.

And then, my newest resolution--like a Mayfly whose life sees but one sunrise--will die a quiet, sad death, most likely while I am driving home from the store, my hand stuck in the grocery bag, searching feverishly for the Snickers Bar that has fallen to the bottom.