I did not have the best day on Friday. Nothing bad happened directly to me. I just never caught my breath or reached my stride. I did not accomplish what I set out to do, and, by the time I got home, I was wiped out from too much discombobulation to my life that day. All visions of what my day was to have been when I started it were blurry and tattered. I was so emotionally tired that, for the first time in years, I had a “come apart”. (I picked this phrase up from my friend Karen Townsend years ago, and it just hit home as a great pairing of words.)
The incredible thing about my low point last evening was that, right before I let the tears fly at the kitchen table, I received a “just catching up with you” call from my best friend. She was making sure I had made it through the week and that all was well. Remarkably, however, within an hour of of drying my tears, I received two more calls from cherished women in my life who were also just making sure I was OK – one to ask me to lunch next week and the other to see about drinks yet that night. These women do not really know each other and definitely do not know each other’s phone numbers. Therefore, this wasn’t a planned circling of the wagons – this was some form of karmic, one-day-past-the-full-moon intervention.
Earlier this past week, I was part of a circling of the wagons as my mother endured another breast cancer surgery. So really, in contrast to her week, I had very little to be tired of or fed-up about. I wasn’t still flushing anesthesia and pain killers out of my systems, and I wasn’t dealing with the loss of any body parts and their cancer cells. I think I was just done with that one day.
Now I’m better. Actually, I was better as soon as I stopped sobbing and wiped the tears with a dish towel. Once I released all my pent-up crap into the ether, I felt a great weight lift, and I moved right on through my night with my husband and son.
I’m thinking what I experienced was an alignment that was buffered delicately by three women who just knew something was wrong in the universe. They set out to make it right.
Cathy, Brigid and Missy, I’m all right now. Really.
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The school my son attends had a policy, when he was starting out there, that no seats could be held at musical programs. “Come and claim a seat for yourself early, but don’t save any for others” was the open invitation. At the time, the school was still sharing a stage in the building of its neighbor church, and these rules served a purpose. I guess. I really wouldn’t know, because 
for years I surreptitiously laid my scarf / jacket / briefcase across six or seven chairs to attempt to hold seats for our son’s supportive and extended family. Divorce may divide families, but it acts as a multiplication factor when it’s time to sit and listen. Yet, six or seven was never enough; some of us still stood. I took major ribbing from many factions, 
but I never received a citation, and the school never threw my kid out of school. (Questioning authority runs deep in me. I push most boundaries gently.)
his performances, games and recitals.
they show up at all their grandkids’ events when possible, sit next to each other, and speak rather easily between themselves. I know this behavior is exceptional when I mention it to friends whose parents are divorced and I learn how they have to “divvy up” the school event calendar as to which parents will attend which event. That way, the grandchildren can’t see or feel the simmering emotions. 
I can’t imagine what that’s like, and I’m reminded that I live in grace in this category of my family life.
the rules for saving seats seems to have weakened and isn’t spoken as vociferously. I did notice that my sister was ultimately unable to “save a seat” for my husband’s and my late arrivals that day. And I can guess why: the ribbing got too intense, and she gave up what she’d laid claim to. I’ve been there. I know all about it.
