Yesterday my mood meter swung unexpectedly and quickly from blissfully happy to deeply sad in a matter of minutes.
Yesterday my mood meter swung unexpectedly and quickly from blissfully happy to deeply sad in a matter of minutes. Everything is okay. As my grandmother used to say, “no one died today”. It is just another big bump in my relationships journey.
I spent the evening at dinner with my father and my step-mom. We spent four short hours together at a booth table in a restaurant. Eventually the entire staff gave up on us ever leaving and left us alone. It was wonderful. The night flew by and we were all shocked to discover four hours had passed so quickly. My Dad has always teased me about how much I talk. And, even asked me last night what it is like to have so much boundless energy. He then expressed a concerned – as parents will – that I find quiet time for myself. I reminded him that I live with a nine year old that goes to bed by 8:00pm each night. So, yes, I have plenty of quiet alone time and I get a bit excited when I get to be with adults. He smiled.
When I returned home I checked my computer. There was an email that stated that my sister had shared a pin on Pinterest with me.
I clicked on and this is what came up…
I fell apart in a pool of tears. It was exactly what I needed. She knew that when she sent it. She knew I would cry. She knew it would wear me out and zap my boundless energy. And, she knew I would sleep the deep, heavy sleep that comes after an emotional release. I woke feeling groggy, but ready.
My sister rocks!
PS. I tried to find the original source of the image above, but sadly couldn’t. If you know the source, please let me know. I would like to give them credit for their words.
PSS. I am deeply blessed with a family that loves, accepts and celebrates me.
It seems to be vastly believed that Casey and I share a brain. We do not. We’ve actually had a customer ask if we live together. We do not. We do not share clothes. I don’t share one particular Chinese dish very well, and she never shares her last shrimp on a salad. We have been known to borrow jewelry from each other, but that is becoming rarer.
However, there are some things we do share, and they are eerily funny. Last Thursday – Halloween – our stepmom stopped by the store for a quick meeting with me. She lovingly heads up the tagging of all the holiday ornaments, and she finished a few days ahead of schedule. We were able to meet on a few details, and then she was free for another year!
As she was turning to park the car, she saw a woman in a witch’s hat trip while looking down at the curb. If not trip, then falter. When the woman stood up, it was Casey.
Casey was walking back from the coffee shop and her eye had caught the most amazing water deposits on a fallen leaf. She had stopped, with her arms and hands full, to catch a photo on her phone. She admits to tripping a bit on the sidewalk as she positioned herself for the perfect shot.
Not an hour before Casey’s clumsiness, I was on my back deck, heading to work with my arms full of bags and boxes and my hands clutching my daily iced tea, when I saw photos I just had to take. Leaves plastered to the wood and still wet from two days of rain. Lichen brought to life by cooler temperatures and no sun.
The effort of getting my camera out of my purse while not putting a single item down on the wet surfaces was a balancing act worthy of a circus. I perched my drink inside my tote and I fleetingly wondered what my excuse would be if it spilled into my computer. Sure, it was lidded, but did that matter when you were bent over with a camera and the tote was sideways on your back?
Four clicks later, I was in the car – tea perfectly safe – headed toward a meeting I didn’t want to miss with yet another amazing family volunteer.
Casey was clumsy on the curb, and I was not quite balanced on my deck. All for the perfect shots. And both at almost the same time. Sharing behaviors.
We freak me out sometimes.
p.s. I’m guessing if we cause a big enough stink, Casey will post her photo to a blog. If only….
We did not have the easiest of days yesterday, my sister and me. Mondays seldom feel like Mondays, but today was one. HR issues, packed meeting schedule, serious reminders that retail is a bear of a business, too many incoming phone calls. It was not the funnest day on record.
We did not have the easiest of days yesterday, my sister and me. Mondays seldom feel like Mondays, but today was one. HR issues, packed meeting schedule, serious reminders that retail is a bear of a business, too many incoming phone calls. It was not the funnest day on record.
But it was a day where the sun shined and we were healthy. We didn’t smile much, and Monday will roll into Tuesday a little bit, but we are good. Fine. OK.
After the day was over and the store was closed, we went to a kick-off event for a charity we both adore. She left work in her car, and I left work in mine. She ran her child to an engagement, and I went a picked mine up. We met up again at the event and never stopped smiling and laughing.
We were smiling and laughing because she pulled a stunt only she could. She fingered the sale rack and came up with this wicking doozy.
And we all rolled with laughter. And we’ll roll right through the week, and I know that, when I do not feel like smiling, I will look at this picture and know all is well with the world.
Work is work and play is play. We blend it all the time, but that doesn’t mean every day is easy.
This past weekend, I traveled with my niece and her friend (and other members of my family) to an art festival in Salina, Kansas. These two young women were a laugh a minute.
This past weekend, I traveled with my niece and her friend (and other members of my family) to an art festival in Salina, Kansas. These two young women were a laugh a minute. Morning and night. Both super sharp and funny. How they can be witty at eight years old is a mystery, but they are. And they were holding their own with four adult women.
When I took this picture, I knew before I clicked the button that I was seeing the past in these two. My past. My past with my best friend. My wish for them was that, even if they weren’t to be each others best friend, they found one who loved them as much as they were loved. A friend that can keep secrets. One that knows when to laugh, when to cry, and when to sit quietly and listen.
I have mine. I met her when we were in 5th grade. We may have met in 4th, but the real fun began in 5th, and hasn’t stopped. There are secrets we will never tell, and there are stories that we do tell. We’ve spent time apart during college years, and we have lived in the same urban neighborhood for the past 20 years.
Fifth grade is more than a few years ago. Heck, it’s more like 38 years ago. Time does fly, but it has real wings when you have a best friend at your side.
Notes: I was at the Smoky Hill River Festival with the girls. Definitely worth the trip. Photo #2 was taken earlier this year at the opening of the Mosaic Project for AIDS Walk Kansas City.
I attended a charity luncheon last week, and the main speaker – a graduate of the program we were there to raise money for – spoke of her life, her troubles and her achievements.
I attended a charity luncheon last week, and the main speaker – a graduate of the program we were there to raise money for – spoke of her life, her troubles and her achievements. A clear voice she remembers from her past, a grandmother, told her when she was young that she would never amount to anything. Ever.
I was breathless. I carry voices in my head from the women in my life. One grandmother, when life was too good or edging towards bad, would tell me, “It’s a rich full life.” Another grandmother, “Let’s get this done.” I can’t imagine my life without my family standing behind me. Perched there waiting to step in with help or preparing to step back in pride.
Less than a day after the luncheon, I was sitting at a breakfast to celebrate the leaps and bounds a local university has taken in accepting and embracing people in the LGBTQIA community. At this celebration, three young people told their stories of coming out to their families and their greater world.
Much like the woman from the day before, they stood there proud of their accomplishments but wracked with the pain of the voices they carry in their heads – of family and friends who have not been accepting of their life. An institution – and members of its staff – was clearly stepping in to fill a painful void. A void that four small years of learning or a five week empowerment program can’t completely fill.
These young people stood there alone at their microphones – placed arms’ lengths away from each other – and shared openly. It took every fiber in my body to stay in my seat half an auditorium away as they each reached a crescendo in the stories that left them speechless and upset. I wanted to be near them – right behind them and much closer than an arm’s length – to remind them silently that it is a rich, full life. That the norm is not for those you trust most to leave you or let you down.
I stayed in my seat, was joyously a part of the raucous standing ovation, and left the room wondering. Wondering if I was correct in my assessment of what the norm is for family behavior.
I will never know the answer to that. You are given one life full of challenges, loss, gifts, celebrations, pain and love. I doubt normal ever dips its foot into these waters.
p.s. My week ended at an amazing fundraising party for the KC CARE Clinic. The women in these photos are many of the voices that live in my head – from just that one night. I treasure every single one of them.
I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.
I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out.
I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.
I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out. She was escorted by her son and his wife. She had all the makings of a woman who has come to terms with her older status and her condition. Bright, clean tennis balls adorned the front two supports, and sturdy sneakers held her in place. Her steps were slow and purposeful, bone and muscle clearly full of the memories of a few steps previously misplaced.
She was over 80, if she was a day. Well-groomed. Tidy. And the man, who I took to be her son, was my father’s age. 60s. Established. Comfortable in his life. The woman with them was his age, but he was the direct link to the walker, I surmised. All wore wedding rings, but the deep relationships ran beyond the binding of gold.
My grandmother at a STUFF party in 2001.
I saw them coming towards the car next to mine, and I decided that pulling back a bit to give them room would be so helpful. The tail end of my sedan was pretty much protected by the monster SUV idling to my right. A distant memory reminded me that you need room to maneuver a car door, a human and a walker. You need space and time and patience.
When my dad’s mother was in the last few years of her life, she was relegated to a walker. She took to it pretty well. She was a joyous and happy woman most of her life, and what would be a set-back to many just kept her moving, which kept her happy. What I remember most about this time was the feeling in myself that it was time for me to slow down, too. Rushing through life needed to abate, and I needed to watch more and see more. I had to be missing things by not standing still a bit. By not waiting. My time with her was clearly running shorter, and I learned much from her final years about myself and my family. Some of us couldn’t wait to ditch her walker at the restaurant after getting her settled. Some of us would apologize to others in public for our speed, even if we weren’t impeding their progress. I noticed strangers would occasionally have trouble making eye contact with me, as if my grandmother’s limited ability was a freak show they shouldn’t be watching. On several occasions, my grandmother would start to make conversation with an able-bodied stranger, and they seemed shocked that she could speak clearly!
My niece and her great grandmother in 2005.
Much came flooding back to me as I watched this group leave the ice cream store while adjusting my car’s position. Tears came to me slowly, and I was transported back to a cool, brisk day several years ago when I took my grandmother out for her last Coke and short walk. Within 24 hours, the beginning of her end would start, and she would soon take me on a journey that would eventually end at her graveside.
My son, niece and grandmother in 2007 at my grandmother’s birthday party.
When the stranger had his mother seated in the front seat of his car, he and his female companion walked toward the back of their car, and he said to me, through my open window, “Thank you very much. That was kind of you.” I was barely able to choke out the part about how it was the least that I could do.
“I remember it all so vividly,” is what I told them from behind my sunglasses. And I do.
I have a weakness for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I know I am not alone in this. We are almost at the 50 year mark of his death, but his words still make me want to be a better person. To do more. To make change. To be part of the solution. To speak out. To act.
I have a weakness for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I know I am not alone in this. We are almost at the 50 year mark of his death, but his words still make me want to be a better person. To do more. To make change. To be part of the solution. To speak out. To act.
This morning, I attended a breakfast at the University of Missouri – Kansas City. It is named “The Freedom Breakfast”, and for the last 23 years it has not only celebrated the achievements of Dr. King but it has fully recognized the African-American leaders in our city who have made a difference in the quality of life – not only at the university but in the city as a whole. Today, however, it was the words of Chancellor Leo Morton that riveted me to my chair. He alluded to the fact that life is different now than it was in the early ’60’s. Sure, it’s better, he stated, bit it’s more difficult as well. There may no longer be big huge signs that say “Whites Only” or “No Blacks”, but sometimes, sometimes the meaning is still hanging in the air. Elusive. Secretive. Sneaky.
Words are powerful things. I never met Dr. King, but his words still sing through time. He and Abraham Lincoln may be the greatest speech writers of all time. Hands down. I can’t really walk through the Lincoln Memorial without crying. President Lincoln just holds on to the arms of his chair like he’s about to launch out of it to hand me a tissue. I wasn’t too far down the Freedom Trail in Alabama this summer when I had to pull the car over. Some fool had put a portion of a speech of Dr. King’s on a billboard. They should know that driving and crying are dangerous partners.
At the breakfast this morning, we were asked to sing along to the Black National Anthem. I knew the words without reading the program. Honestly, I never really knew this was the Black National Anthem. I knew it as a song you sing at rallies for equal rights, equal pay, fair labor practices and human rights. Today the words struck me as those that could have been sung at the “commitment ceremony” I attended this past weekend for friends who achieved the blessing of their church after 22 years together. These friends are not protected by the laws that secure my husband and me in marriage, nor are they officially allowed to use the word “married” to describe themselves, but the 3-minute ovation they received would and should marry anyone.
I see a great and continuing need for action and change. I will be a part of it. I have to be. And not just because Dr. King said, “We are not makers of history, we are made by history.”
Sing along with me now:
Lift every voice and sing, ’til Earth and Heaven ring, ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise, high at the listening skies, let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us, sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun, let us march on ’til victory is won.
Last night she said to me, “I spend time speaking to people my age about being HIV positive.” Not for the full 10 hours a week that she volunteers, but it is part of what she does for Good Samaritan Project in my town. It has been part of what she’s done nationwide for over well over a decade.
Last night she said to me, “I spend time speaking to people my age about being HIV positive.” Not for the full 10 hours a week that she volunteers, but it is part of what she does for Good Samaritan Project in my town. It has been part of what she’s done nationwide for over well over a decade.
Jane Fowler is the face of HIV/AIDS for me as I recognize World AIDS Day today. At an age “well over 50,” she contracted HIV from a partner. She knew the man, but clearly not everything about him.
She changed my life last night, and I told her so. She said, “sometimes I don’t know if I’m making a difference, but I speak up anyway.” I told her, fully choked up and with tears in my eyes, that she made a difference in me and I will never be the same. I barely got the words out.
We spoke about why I was involved with the AIDS fight in Kansas City. We spoke of my son and my wish for his children to live in an AIDS-free generation. We spoke of the holidays with her children. We spoke of mutual friends. We spoke of caring and of love.
Then I checked her out and wrapped her presents. All of this took place where I work. At the counter and in front of the Christmas tree. With people in clear hearing range.
When you hide from AIDS – when you whisper and turn your head – you give it power to make stigma and hate. But if you are like Jane, you speak up and you tell your story over and over until you fear you aren’t making a difference.
And that’s exactly when grace steps in and you change another life. Like mine was changed last night.
At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this.
At dinner the other night, my husband told the group I had sung my way through Costco the day before. He said it wasn’t loud but it could be heard by others. I did not remember doing this. I do, however, remember thinking that I hope I was in tune and, if not, then enjoyable. I sing when I’m happy – but I do not whistle. Humming is in my repertoire but not used often.
Found on Pinterest today.
There is one way in which my husband and I are diametrically different. He could go through life not really making a ripple on the surface. The thought of a server in a restaurant singing to him on his birthday would not only mortify him, it would be grounds for our divorce after almost 30 years of bliss!
He does amazing things – behind the scenes. He gives generously of his time and resources – quietly. And he backs me up in every single thing I do and stick my nose into. We are raising a child together, and so far the experiment is going swimmingly.
I don’t believe I make scenes. I don’t think I talk louder than the situtation demands or the microphone can take. I am a good listener and reside in quiet very well. I do occasionally, however, sing in public and like surrounding myself with my own joy. I laugh easily and talk to strangers constantly – inside and outside my work life.
My wish is that, at Costco the other day and every day, my joy envelops my husband and brings happiness and not embarassment. If not, he might want to get another cart and walk a few steps behind.
In the deeply gathering dusk a few nights ago, I stood in a small group of women and discussed the concepts of leaving. Of children leaving home for college. Of friends and their families leaving for different cities.
In the deeply gathering dusk a few nights ago, I stood in a small group of women and discussed the concepts of leaving. Of children leaving home for college. Of friends and their families leaving for different cities.
Three years ago I began publicly letting slip that I do not use the word goodbye. Remarkably, a woman in this little group admitted that she greatly disliked the word goodbye. We ran around and around the ways she doesn’t use it and in the end we were all laughing quite brightly.
I still don’t use the word. I wrote about this deeply held issue in a blog in July of 2009. It still stands today. Click here to read more.
I fell apart in a pool of tears. It was exactly what I needed. She knew that when she sent it. She knew I would cry. She knew it would wear me out and zap my boundless energy. And, she knew I would sleep the deep, heavy sleep that comes after an emotional release. I woke feeling groggy, but ready.
