Possum Holler Press

There's Something Amazing about Grace

2011-10-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

How you climb up the mountain is just important as how you get down. And so it is with life, for which for many of us becomes one big gigantic test followed by one big gigantic lesson. In the end it all comes down to one word: Grace. It's how you accept winning and losing, good luck and bad luck, the darkness and the light.

It's amazing what you can learn from your 12-year old. It's also amazing where the lessons come from. She started reading these words to me from the back of a bottle of body wash.

I've been trying to let go of some things lately that have been holding me back. I've been getting all kinds of messages of peace. Hearing from friends that I normally don't hear from. This was another subtle message discovered in our tiny bathroom from the person I trust and love most in the world from the most unexpected source.

Laying My Burdens Down

2011-09-20T10:54:00.000-07:00

Lately I have been experiencing a lot of inner turmoil. About my place in the world, the lack of a relationship, parenting alone, financial stress and the upheaval in my work life; all these things have resulted in massively diminished confidence in myself. Recently, I went through my Senior Book from high school with my daughter and I silently anguised inside when I read all the graduation cards I had saved. The givers had seen something in me then that I no longer have - the potential that I've never lived up to and it crushed me to think I had let them down.

I've been carrying a lot, a lot of unhealthy anger inside. Where do I put it? How do I turn it over to God and let it go? Somedays it feels like every single thing I have tried to accomplish I get feedback that I do incorrectly or get criticism for it. There is so much negativity in my workplace that its toxic for my Polly Positive soul. One of my friends and I joked that the Polly part of me has been locked in a closet since March. Maybe that's why I'm so angry.

Last night after working late I started driving home, I was going to change into something more comfortable before picking up the carpool from dance. But when I saw my little house, I just drove straight by and drove straight down Hillsboro Road to see the one person in the world who has always made me feel better no matter what was bothering me. I drove to see my Grandmother.

Her room was quiet and she was dozing. Before I woke her up - I noticed a few things. The horrible sores on her feet had sealed. Her hand that was drawn up was no longer atrophied in a death grip. Her skin was smooth.

I bent down to kiss her and told her that I loved her. When asked if she knew who it was, she immediately said "Sabriner". The past year due to her dementia/atavan state, she couldn't recall my name or see my face, but tonight through His grace, she heard my voice. The tears started falling and wouldn't stop. I told her how much I loved her and missed her. I kissed her soft, smooth hands over and over. I told her that I had no one I could talk to but her. No one could understand. With her eyes closed, she said simply, "tell me." So I knelt by the side of the bed and whispered in her ear and I laid my burdens down. She told me over and over not to cry, to not worry about anything, somehow her always comforting "everything is going to be alright" gave me instant peace.

It was so easy to tell her. Why couldn't I tell Him? Why do I fight it? Why is it so hard to really let go and let God take care of me? My whole life I've always held on to things and been embarrassed to ask anyone for help. Not so much as a sign of weakness, but there have been few people whom I really felt like I could trust and depend on.

My grandparents were always there for me - growing up, through college. After my grandfather died, my bond with Grandmother only grew stronger. She was supportive of my marriage, was at the hospital when her only great-grandchild was born and when my marriage fell apart she was there for me. Her home was our refuge. When I had no home and was living out of a suitcase, I drove to her house and stayed every possible weekend. I was safe there. No one could hurt me. Her house was a place where love lived and was fully dispensed. Her advice came from years of experience. She was the one person I could trust not to gossip or judge me.

Today I feel anxious again, but last night felt so freeing that I had her back. I didn't want to leave her in her hospital bed. I must have kissed her hands a thousand times. As I drove off, it struck me that He was in the room with me too. It was Him who sent me there instead of stopping at my house. He gave me the gift of her saying my name one more time. He allowed me lay my burdens down with the one person who makes me feel safe.

Pic Challenge - A picture of your favorite night

2011-06-14T12:43:00.000-07:00

Katie was five years old, in kindergarden and I was taking our dog Pongo out for his last walk of the night. It was a cold January night and she was standing at the back door waiting for us to come in. Unbeknowst to me, she had put on her coat and she ran outside to me.

"Mommy, can we watch for shooting stars?" I was tired and wanted to go to bed, but couldn't say no to her innocent bright eyes. I remember thinking it might be a long wait before we see a shooting star. Reminding myself that I didn't want to squelch her exuberance I said "yes we can sweetie."

She threw herself down on the ground, I laid down next to her - our heads were touching, our bodies sticking out in a right angle to each other. Our dalmatian Pongo followed suit. We could see our breath in the night air, the outline of the tree tops, a beautiful deep, blue night sky and the stars that night seemed to sparkle so bright just for us. The longer we laid there our eyes adjusted to the dark and the brightness of the stars. Cars would come by and we would lay there stock still as the headlights grazed over us. I can only imagine what they were thinking. We giggled at the thought. We got lost in conversation and I finally said "I don't think it's the night for shooting stars."

"Mommy," she said, "you have to believe."

Not five minutes later, a shooting star streaked across the horizon - my heart jumped and as we laid there in a right angle holding hands - she squeezed my hand in excitement - we both let out a gasp. I will never forget that squeeze! "I told you Mommy." "Yes, you did sweet girl, yes you did."

Another star whizzed by, then another...how did she know?

I will never forget that night, we laughed, we held hands, our dog did a happy dance around us. I marveled at the wonderment of a girl of five believing in the stars. It was a perfect night, in fact one of the best nights of my life.

About this photo - I don't have a real photo of this night, but this is the closest I could find to capturing the outline of the trees and the color of the January sky. That night the stars danced just for us.

Pic Challenge - A picture of the cast from your favorite show

2011-01-24T08:51:00.001-08:00

Friday Night Lights owns my soul. This is the final season and I'm going to miss the fictional players of Dillon and East Dillon High, but most of all Coach Taylor.

Based on a book by H. G. Bissinger and a movie by the same name, the series focuses on the team, the coach and issues facing kids in small town America. Not a big fan of the movie, the series captures what a two hour movie couldn't. I love this season's cast as much as I did the cast from the first season. The favorites from the earlier seasons come back for cameos - but you continue rooting for them all to grow up, go out in the world and succeed.

Why do I like the show so much? My dad loved football and played in high school in spite of many against many odds while being the head of his family. Some nights he had to walk home over ten miles after the games if he didn't have a ride. My mom was the head cheerleader for the same high school although they were years apart during their time on the field. I wish I could have seen their Friday Night Lights. If I would have had a son - I would have loved to watched him play.

Pic Challenge - A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest

2011-01-21T08:38:00.001-08:00

We met in the 9th grade Economics clas of Coach Mel Brown - two band buddies - on the outer tier of Jock Hall. We studied stocks, sold lollipops for the baseball team and wrote the best advertising copy assignment. Coach Brown was so proud of it - we had to do our commercial over and over again for any teacher that walked down the hall.

It was an instant connection of like minds and teenagers chasing dreams. What sparked that day when we were 14 - has led to our still going strong 30 year friendship. We would bond over the years through colorguard, heartbreaks and heartaches, rolling on Friday nights, going off to college, and driving by crushes houses in the dark of night. And even tho I call her KB, she will always be Kris Trolinger to me.

At that time none of my other friends parents had divorced, but Kris'. We stood up for each other when we got married and I begged her not to get divorced. I thought she had been so happy. When my marriage started falling apart - I finally understood her quiet pain.

There is something about the comfort of the friend who knew you as a girl you were at 14, 16, 18, 20 - because I still feel like I am that girl. Sometimes I want that girl back. When you are with the friend that remembers who you were then - you become that girl again for a little while. You can say one boys name and start blushing again and she knows why instantly and it makes you smile.

Today we bond over our love (and worry) for our kids, Colin Firth and all things Real Housewives and Jane Austen.

I haven't driven by a potential crush's house in a long time... but if I did - I would want Kris to be in the front seat next to me.

About this photo ... it was taken during Summer Lights Festival in downtown Nashville circa Summer 1988 maybe. We were both finally able to legally drink and drink that night we did. I was home from a weekend from school and we were with one of both of our longtime crushes "the Bonfire" whom Kris later married.

Pic Challenge - A picture of yourself with 10 facts

2011-01-20T08:45:00.001-08:00

Ten Facts About Myself ...

1. I love being KK's mom.
2. I want to go to Chicago.
3. I miss writing.
4. I have the best friends in the world.
5. I love college football.
6. I love playing online scrabble.
7. I think with all the texting, FBing and online world has given me ADD or maybe it's just my age. I'm scattered now.
8. I hate how insecure I am now. I miss that confident girl from 1989.
9. I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
10. I am hoping against hope that 1 Corinthians 13:4 is someday going to happen for me.

About this photo ... this was taken after KK's dance recital in June 2010. She loves to dance and it shows - she worked really hard this particular year. I am so proud of my brown eyed girl.

30 Day FB picture challenge

2011-01-20T08:06:00.000-08:00

So I'm over FB and everyone broadcasting the good, bad and the ugly about their lives. For those posting the good - I hope it's good and not some fake facade - because I know better than anyone else - our lives are all a house of cards and it just takes one card getting pulled to make everything else come tumbling down. And then also, they all give me something to aspire to... Maybe the bad is the real truth on FB - but posting about puking and what anti-depressant works - is a little too narcissitic and too much information for me. This blog could very well be this way, but now FB has conquered the world - the few people who read my blog have forgotten about it. :)

So to get myself back into blogging - i'm going to do the 30 day FB picture challenge - just do it on here and give me some guidance on what to post - and not broadcast it to my friends and acquaintances and those who could really care less. I care and on here that's all that matters.

2009-04-20T14:51:00.000-07:00

Went shopping this weekend and looked in a mirror. I hardly recognized the person looking back. I sat down - with an armload of clothes in my hands, and just stared. Who is she? and where did I go? And why didn't turning 40 have all the answers I thought it was going to have.

As I wondered who I am - I also wondered where I'm going - I thought by now I would have moved forward with my life. But I feel like I'm just standing still or treading water. Even x in all of his tumultousness has moved on- in a bad marriage but moved on just the same.

I hate feeling in limbo like this. I am meeting some major goals in my life. Almost finished with my masters. Lost XX amount of weight. I'm in between sizes and just in between everything it seems. I need some direction. Hoping for some hope - gotta build back up my faith. Looking in the mirror - sometimes we don't like what we see - but it's there so we can modify that reflection.

Thankful

2008-11-25T13:49:00.000-08:00

“Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”

-- Albert Einstein

Cliff Island Blues

2008-09-30T07:10:00.000-07:00

When that plane touches down on the ground in Nashville
you'll hear it on the news.
Come 9:05 tomorrow night
we'll have the Cliff Island Blues.

There's a big difference sitting at the Power Point
and your feet can't find your shoes.
Come Monday morning when I put on my heels for work,
then I'll have the Cliff Island Blues.

Gourmet meals flavored with garlic
and the dishwashing cleaning crews,
Beats a Happy Meal eaten at my desk anyday.
It's enough to give me the Cliff Island Blues.

The island transport, feeling the breeze off the ferry
and hearing the seagulls mews
Beats rush hour traffic, a $5.00 gallon of gas
MAN, I've got the Cliff Island Blues.

When the airliner crosses over that Mason Dixon line,
we'll have a bit of a clue.
Toto, we ain't close to Portland no mo'
We've officially got the Cliff Island Blues.

Redemption

2008-07-01T11:14:00.000-07:00

Five years ago I looked out across Casco Bay to the mainland we left behind. We were alone on an island in the middle of the Atlantic. My little one was only 5 years old. I was broken from the end of my marriage and it’s aftermath that was as rocky as the shores we walked upon each day. The shell shock had started to wear off but barely. Recently I found a photo from that trip and if it looked as if we were holding on to each other for dear life – it’s because we were.

That week we watched sunsets, enjoyed the company of loving and supportive friends and started to make our way in the world again. It had been a long and lonely winter.

Five years forward, I find myself looking out across Casco Bay again – this time on a different island, some friends the same with new ones picked up along the way and the shores are even rockier. But this time out I can navigate them. Bravely climb on them and welcoming whatever the rising tide brings to us. I’m 40 now (for one more day) and my beautiful girl is 9. We have both grown tremendously both in body, heart and soul.

So it’s fitting that we return here in the safety of treasured friends, to the beauty of a place that accepts me and lets me be anyway I need to be.

Turning 40 was more than a major milestone in my life this last year – I have used the year as a talisman of what direction my life would turn towards to navigate the rest of my days. It has been a lovely year. A year of destinations, music, continuing support of family and friends – both new and old and the constant connection and reconnection and the gifts they all continue to bestow on me. I am so blessed in my life. It’s also been a year of trying new things – I learned how to knit (!!), meeting goals and exceeding the hard expectations I have set for myself. And finally, not being so hard on myself as a parent going alone. I can do it – it has been done by so many before me and as long as we communicate and back each other up – we can do anything.

Most importantly, I have learned that it’s okay to let go and love again. The hardest lesson about love this time around is opening yourself up to even allowing someone to love you back and not second guessing and chasing away all those old ghosts that want to hang around.

Last night I sat on the porch alone and I listened to the waves hitting the rocks, felt the breeze giving me a chill, watched the beacon cycle from a distant lighthouse and had the entire evening sky ablaze with stars shining directly over my head. I didn’t feel alone – I felt redeemed – I feel like my life has come full circle.

Along the Road

2008-06-09T13:47:00.000-07:00

Halloween Night 2003. Murray Lane, Brentwood, Tennessee. The last time I ever heard my father's voice. Every time I drive on that part of the road where I remembered talking to him - especially if it's dark like it was that night - I get this tiny ache for him.

My little one and I were on the way home from trick or treating with friends and we were discussing via phone call with him our upcoming visit to the mountains with my college roommates. On our return home to the mid-state we were going to stop and spend the day with him in Knoxville. He talked to KK too and he always had this glee in his voice when he talked about her or to her. He would lose it and get so tickled when I told him about her escapades and the latest and greatest accomplishment she had mastered.

I always liked to think that he had once felt that way about me. I had spent my lifetime trying to get his attention and get him to notice me or do something with me. When KK was born I stopped chasing him - I could feel his love just by the happiness he showed by her being in his life. The way he would light up when he held her gave me all the daddy I needed. I had finally done something that he was proud of. I didn't have to chase him anymore.

Had I known that it was the last time I would ever speak to him - would I have said anything different - told him how much I loved him and how sorry I was for the emotional distance we had between us for so long? I can honestly say now that all of those years I thought it was his fault alone - but now I can say that it was my fault also.

We were having breakfast when I got the phone call from my mother. After I hung up the phone I quickly sat down and turned my face away from my friends to absorb the blow - I was in shock - I could not cry. Any lingering anger or disappointment that I was carrying around with me towards him quickly dissipated and left my body. I can't explain it any other way - the animosity and unspoken words (words that I would never have been able to say to him anyway) I felt died that day with him and freed me from carrying it around with me any longer. At least on that Saturday night, he may have been happy knowing he was going to see KK the next day. I have to hope that.

That night while waiting on my sisters to arrive the next day - my girlfriends built a bonfire in the fire pit. Not only was it extremely cathartic but it enabled me to have a quiet place to grieve alone away from everyone. I was able to send up some silent goodbyes to my father with a final admonition for God to forever take care of him. I will never forget or be able to convey the gratitude for the gift of friendship that my friends gave me that night.

I won't say that the next three days were the saddest of my life but this occurred during the saddest period I have ever experienced in my life. With Father's Day being right around the corner, those poignant reminders are everywhere. Not only this national day to celebrate the bonds of fatherhood, but his birthday follows closely on it's heels the week after. Always on the perimeter, but this time of year is just a two week time period in June when he is constantly at the forefront of my mind.

And my weekly drive across Murray Lane, the ache is still fresh and feels the same. The memory of that last phone call with him is always there waiting for me. No more chasing.

Love Your Path--Paulo Coelho

2008-05-27T07:33:00.000-07:00

1. The path begins at a crossroads. There you can stop and think what direction you want to take. But don’t spend too much time thinking or you’ll never leave the spot. Ask yourself the classic Carlos Castaneda question: Which of these paths has a heart? (…)

2. The path doesn’t last forever. It’s a blessing to travel the path for some time, but one day it will come to an end, so be prepared to take leave of it at any moment. (…)

3. Honor your path. It was your choice, your decision, and just as you respect the ground you step on, that ground will respect your feet. Always do what’s best to conserve and keep your path and it will do the same for you.

4. Be well-equipped. Carry a small rake, a spade, a penknife. Understand that penknives are no use for dry leaves, and rakes are useless for herbs that are deep-rooted. Know what tool to use at each moment. And take care of your tools, because they’re your best allies.

5. The path goes forward and backward. At times you have to go back because something was lost, or a message to be delivered was forgotten in your pocket. A well tended path enables you to go back without any great problem.

6. Take care of the path before you take care of what’s around you. Attention and concentration are fundamental. Don’t be distracted by the dry leaves at the edges. Use your energy to tend and conserve the ground that accepts your steps.

7. Be patient. Sometimes the same tasks have to be repeated, like tearing up weeds or closing holes that appear after unexpected rain. Don’t let that annoy you; it’s part of the journey. Even though you’re tired, even though certain tasks are repeated so often, be patient.

8. Paths cross. People can tell you what the weather is like elsewhere. Listen to advice, but make your own decisions. You’re responsible for the path entrusted to you.

9. Nature follows its own rules. You have to be prepared for sudden changes in the fall, slippery ice in winter, the temptations of flowers in spring, thirst and showers in the summer. Make the most of each of these seasons, and don’t complain about their characteristics.

10. Make your path a mirror of yourself. By no means let yourself be influenced by the way others care for their paths. You have your own soul to listen to, and the birds to whisper translations of what your soul is saying. (…)

11. Love your path. Without this, nothing makes any sense.

Finding Girl Power at the T-Ball Field

2008-05-10T05:25:00.000-07:00

Three years ago when my daughter expressed the interest to play T-Ball, we approached it like we do anything else: sign up, buy the proper equipment (in this case pink gloves, pink batting helmets and pink "Girl Power" bats) and show up at the appointed time for practice.

I'll never forget how excited she was to be a part of a team. At the same time it was a new venture for us out in the world of our little community full of perfect families, 2.5 kids, perfunctory Yellow Lab and a fleet of SUVs in the driveway.

As we walked to the field, I began assessing the situation. There was a group of rail thin Stepford Moms huddled in deep discussion on the bleachers and another mom dressed in work clothes in the dugout. I headed straight for the dugout and took my place on the bench. The other mom and I introduced ourselves pointed our girls and began to watch practice. Soon we began trading personal statistics. Yes, it's our only child. School info, where do you work, what do you do? And then I sheepishly mumbled something about being divorced. She said "I am too" in such an off-handed way like it was nothing to be ashamed of and I remember sitting up and thinking maybe this was not going to be so hard after all. I instantly dropped the feeling that "I am the only one" in this situation. I wasn't.

In fact, meeting her totally turned my life around. I was instantly impressed with her. She was straightforward, fun to talk to, beautiful and self-assured. Her bravada and self-confidence was something I soon began trying on for myself again.

A few games and shared bags of popcorn later (and crush on the drop dead gorgeous with perfect abs t-ball coach) - it was official. I had a new friend. Which was to me the greatest gift at this point in my life.

What started out as emails with logistics about the night's game quickly evolved into back and forth one-liners about life and sharing the fruits of our goggle-stalking efforts on said coach.

When X came to one of the games and was acting in a threatening manner, my older sister sat on one side of me and my new friend sat on the other side to protect me. They quietly said things under their breath to me and each other in response to things he would say to me and it got me through what was an uncomfortable hour. I will never forget that day either. Her simple gesture provided me with a different kind of "Girl Power" and I don't think she even had a clue.

I guess he didn't make a good impression on her, because in the months to come she was my only friend who gently quit the hand holding and bluntly told me I needed to get over him and get on with my life. She was right. She was not there during the early days of my separation when I was crushed, scared and hurt. And I'm glad she didn't see me that way. My other friends I think were afraid I was too fragile to have that talk with me. But not her. I don't think I'll ever be able to express the gratitude I feel that she had the grace and fortitude to do it. I know it wasn't a big deal to her either - but her "get over it" speech or email more like was extremely eye-opening for me.

One Christmas we could share the tiny sadness we felt putting out presents on Christmas Eve by ourselves. Last Christmas we could acknowledge that it wasn't as bad as the year before. Not many people could understand exactly how that feels. But she does. She's my one friend I can measure my single parent status by without feeling totally insecure.

Three years later, our daughter's no longer play in the same league. But Tiffany and I do. We now share vacations together, trade books to read, and numerous daily emails (she even taught me how to text). She has even pulled me into her circle of friends as a push from behind to get me "out there" again.

Signing up for t-ball season was a turning point in our new lives. I know that sounds so silly to say - I mean who knows if it means a life-long love of sports for my daughter or not. But it provided me with a new best friend and confidante. Lucky, lucky me.

A Mile in My Shoes

2008-04-27T03:23:00.000-07:00

It was raining this morning when I left for my daily walk. A light, cool sprinkle that actually felt refreshing on my shoulders. I added a hat to my attire to keep the drops out of my face and closed the door behind me. The first part of my walk I like to greet the day...a visual headcount of where things stand. Weather. Check. Birds singing. Check. Clouds/blue skies? Check.

Some mornings I wish I were listening to my favorite iTunes, but most mornings I'm content listening to the birds tend to their business of the day. I try to imagine sometimes what they must be saying to their chicks. Wake Up! Clean up your nest! Quit poking your brother! Brush your beak.

After I amuse myself with this for a few minutes, my thoughts quickly turn more interpersonal and over the past month I have found that this new walking early in the morning is working great for me. This internal conversation with myself ranges from the simplest thoughts to conversations I want to have with people to some lofty goals I am setting for myself.

The village of River Rest has quickly transformed, for the spring anyway, into my own personal Dogwood Trail. I have tracked the progress of many of the trees along my route and have decided that this spring the pink dogwoods are gorgeous and the white ones seem a bit confused by the unspringlike weather. They are still beautiful nevertheless and I am thankful that they line the path every morning.

Another great thing about getting up so early and getting out in the day is that you see and hear things that get lost once the rest of the world wakes up and emerges. The color and of the morning sky is the best kept secret especially in those moments that the sun hasn't yet hit to turn the sky that brilliant blue or give a bit of warmth to the overcast clouds... .

So once I give my thanks and get my nature fix, this inner dialogue quickly turns to me. It's the cheapest form of therapy one could experience! The endorphins act as a mighty healer to any anxiety or worry you are carrying around. I have found myself pushing thoughts around and figuring out solutions or coming to an acceptance with something without having to say a word to anyone else.

Five years ago, my sister's friend Carol gave me the best advice on being separated. She said "You have to walk - it will solve so many of your problems." And now five years later, in retrospect, I know that she was so right. Temporarily staying with my mom back in those days, I started walking every morning. My little one could sleep with mom in the next room and I would jump out of bed and just follow where my feet would take me. It was aimless then believe me and I wasn't able to appreciate the birds, the color of the sky or the dogwoods then. I wonder how did I even navigate myself around in those days much less take care of my child. I can laugh about it now. After about a month of walking my eyes must have opened somewhat, I walked past a For Sale sign in the condos nearby. I closed on it two months later and we had a home again. A start. A new beginning.

This last resurgence, I started taking walking more seriously. I keep a daily log in an online catalog of how far I walk each day. I increase it by a .5 mile each week. My body is waking me up at 4:30 and sometimes 5:00 as if to say - get up, get going, it's time to go! My inner dialogue has mapped out some big plans for me: climbing Mt. LeConte (5 3/4 mile hike - sometimes steep) and which trail I want to take (Alum Cave Trail), training in the next year for the Country Music 1/2 Marathon (so cool to think about for this Nashville Girl and registration is open now) and seriously contemplating getting a breast reduction. WOW!

Carol was so right and when she crosses my mind I send up a silent prayer of thanks to her. The past five years has been a journey of a tiny baby steps, thousands of tears, many blind leaps of faith, rights and wrongs, self-doubt and the joy at discovering I no longer feel guilty to laugh again.

I thank her because I realize every morning when I take off my tennis shoes, that walking hasn't just taken me a mile or two around what my little one calls our village. It's not something to tick of my list of things to do. I'm smiling when I get to work each day = I feel so great. I have arrived at home, yes, but to a new destination I never dreamed I would experience. A new place I've discovered inside of me. One of accomplishment, contentment and happiness.

2008-04-24T06:57:00.001-07:00

“Courage is being scared to death… and saddling up anyway!”

—John Wayne

Pop Fly

2008-04-17T09:11:00.001-07:00

Had to share this proud parental moment: Katie had a softball game Tuesday night - I was there for the first 30 minutes of the game and had to leave for class. While in class, I noted on my cell phone's caller ID that my Mom called me three times, afraid it might be an emergency with Katie or Grandmother, I frantically dialed her; however, when she answered she shared with me the sweetest news ... .

During the last inning of the game, Katie went up for a pop fly and came down with the ball! Not only that it ended the game preventing the other team from winning!!! It was her first catch like that. EVER! Mom said the look on her face was priceless. Everyone on the field hugged her and the parents in the stands went crazy! The coaches gave her the game ball (HUGE, HUGE, BIG DEAL TO KIDS).

It was such a great moment for her - so I was extremely proud - but felt terrible for missing it!!!!! I called my mom again on the drive home and told her how conflicted I felt: so proud for her and awful for missing it. Mom reminded that of course there will be many more games and other clutch plays - she also reminded me of the many things I do to keep her safe and happy. I thanked her for being there for Katie that night and sharing in the excitement. I also silently reflected to myself - I learned all these things from my mom. Sure, I'll be front row center at the dance recitals, kindergarden graduations and school productions, but these small unexpected moments in life are just as important and special as the major milestones.

I went to pick her up at my sister's after class and she was fast asleep. I stood in the doorway and realized that this was my special moment as her mom - the quiet moments that can never be replaced - knowing your child is safe and healthy - all alone to absorb it and so thankful she had the opportunity to have that experience.

I melted when I looked in her sleeping.The game ball was lying on the pillow right next to her.

Gentlemen, Step Off!

2008-04-11T13:14:00.000-07:00

A recent Tuesday evening found me in the front row of the Nashville Opera chorus rehearsal for their upcoming production of "Il trovatore." I wasn't rehearsing I was observing. I felt like a visible fly on ze wall. Actually, I was sitting with 16 of my MLAS classmates and I felt as if we were a group of lab mice being observed behind some invisible glass. Our chairs jutted out into the open space like a peninsula almost touching the invisible stage.

On this particular evening I expected to hear the chorus rehearse as in sing, but alas, we were in for a wonderful treat. A fight coordinator strolled to the front of the room, sword in hand and was introduced to his new recruits.

The band of gypsies were assembled with gleaming (faux) swords eager to receive instruction. To see these performers in street clothes took me a bit aback. They represented an assortment of fellows you would see at your basic office picnic. Wearing khaki's, jeans, button-downs, loafers, black turtlenecks, hoodies and their feet shod in Eastlanders, loafers and a few sported tennis shoes. They were in essence a bunch of guys who could pass as any guy - because they were "every man" and I didn't quite expect that. As I sized each of them up I imagined what their chosen professions might be: accountant, academic, minister, analyst, salesman - not the wooly rag tag bunch of gypsies (or metrosexuals) I was anticipating.

The fight coordinator put them through their paces and cued up the chorus on his iPod, which again was another surprise. I absolutely loved this modern touch of hearing Verdi's rich composition blair out of a miniscule iPod system.

As they mimic the fight coordinator's moves, I start to notice that some of them are sporting the shaved head (bald) with goatee or soul patch which has become popular of late (I personally HATE this look). Then I notice more of them have heavy facial hair - surely to play the part of this 19th century opera. Snaps to them for having fun and getting into their character as a strictly volunteer chorus - what dedication and love for their art.

I'm starting to feel more comfortable and not on display - the chorus for the most part is ignoring us. I don't feel as self-conscious. I start to look around the room more and find I'm no longer afraid to turn my head and look at the director.

I'm distracted by the sword fight from so many different side shows playing out:

An opera diva wannabe (real name Amber) wearing a too short sweater dress, tights and knee boots vamps off to the side - I wonder is she the maid Ines or maybe Azucena?
I suspect Talmadge in the front row of the sword practice was in an MLAS film class with some of us - how did he get here I wonder? Talmadge, who knew?
The fight coordinator is wearing a t-shirt with a skull and crossed swords below it. He is very slight, smooth in his moves and has a very tiny, little paunch that adds a little panache.
The men are all wearing large green nametags so the fight coordinator can talk to them.
Amy, the rehearsal pianist, is also the official shusher.

The manly sword fight ensues - the men are wielding these masculine symbols - some like a golf club, some of their first tries a bit Stooge-like. I personally can't wait to hear the swords clashing.

The gypsies have names like Joey, Steven, Derek, Chad, Bill, Ed, Howard, Steve, Billy, Joel (hey Billy Joel - ha! how my observational mind wanders), Dave, Carl and I think to myself - a gypsy named Carl!!!??!!! I would love to know the back story of each of these modern day gypsies and what journey brought them to the Nashville Opera. Finally, in the back row - I spot a nametag of Geren - finally someone with a gypsy worthy name!

Of course, the one guy who has been acting theatrically and silently pontificating to himself can hardly lift his sword and he is also standing in the make-believe fire and he will not get out. Some of the men lean into their overheard thrust like they are going to take off and soar throught the air behind it like a superhero.

Talmadge takes his thrust very seriously, Billy missed the last lift. As I'm analyzing each one, a train whistle blows outside from Radnor Yards as it passes the industrial park the Nashville Opera calls home. An outside, but proud reminder to me how evolved my hometown has become - that we have our very own regional opera company - is something so special for our arts community.

The fight coordinator tells his band of gypsies "We will not stab you!" Now they are going to sing with their new fancy sword work. The first chorus they sing blew me away! These baritone, tenor and bass(?) voices were so intense and they were very well rehearsed. The chorus surprised me so much that I felt as if a brass line of trombones, tubas, trumpets and french horns just turned to the grand stand away from the back field into a company front formation and blasted away the stands. This took me by such pleasant surprise.

The nuns (ladies of the opera chorus) entered and the men are then divided into "Manrico men" and "di Luna guys." Geren who looks like a gypsy is a "di Luna man".

I get the same giggles that I did from the men by reading the names of the nuns - Barbara, Della, Therese, Jan, Fran, Amber (so not a diva) and Karen. In all fairness to the ladies, I assign them professions also. They could easily be: bank teller, school teacher, grandmother, data entry clerk, soccer mom and I notice that not many of them are young women.

The fight coordinator is busy staging these new scene. He gleefully says "Let's kill a gypsy" and bends over backward with an evil, echoing laugh.

The room stops for a moment as the diva of the opera enters the rehearsal room stage right(?). She is gorgeous with shoulder length silky black hair and big soulful eyes. I cannot wait to hear her sing. I also notice that the principals sit in padded, comfortable chairs and the chorus sits in cold, folding chairs like us lab rats.

More principal buzz in the air of the rehearsal room. Manrico and Gus (di Luna man) steps into the rehearsal. di Luna is not present and is summoned by the director. I am so impressed with the director's patience and professionalism at this point. He summons his assistant to call the missing Lester, which she does in front of the entire company. Everyone quietly pauses and pretends not to listen. As this is going down, the director announces in a very loud voice "Manrico men, step off!"

Finally from the back of the room, the maestro sitting on the raised platform at the front of the stage speaks and commands the entire room. He speaks very (pause) eloquently "Guys and ladies, when you aren't thinking about it, the 8th becomes a 16th." The chorus sings it again and takes direction well.

Lester, aka Elvis, aka Count di Luna enters the building. I cannot wait to see his entrance on the stage at TPAC.

As the fight coordinator arranges for Carl the gypsy to get sliced the propmaster scurries around in a dirty yellow peasant skirt, brown twinset, knitted scarf and backless scuffy mocs and hands out weapons to the principals. Gus, the di Luna man, moves swarthily across the stage to slice Carl and I am starting to inwardly purr until bummer - I see he wears a wedding band.

The fight coordinator assigns the most excellent ending sword poses to be taken as the curtain drops - I take a snapshot in my mind because I can't wait to see them at the performance. I see lots of theatre i.e. acting in this rehearsal and am impressed as much by the character and seriousness of the chorus as I am of the principals.

The Fight Coordinator is setting a new scene and as he is busy staging the skirmish between the guards and the gypsies, everyone is milling about, nuns/gypsy women are playing cups on the floor and the buzz of their murmured conversations fill the air. However, when it is time to hit their marks and be on - the energy I sense from the chorus is overwhelming and the vocals feels as if it could knock you over.

The Fight Coordinator makes reference to the movie "Princess Bride" and receives many enthusiastic answers. I wonder where on earth did they find this guy? The Tennessee Renaissance Festival in Triune? West End Park with the medieval weekend jousters? I would love to see his business card.

The director announces "One more time. Gentlemen, Step Off!" This is my new favorite phrase. They boisterously sing the Anvil Chorus and as I listen to their rousing voices I try to envision what color the color of their voices would be? Brassy? Copper?

And before you know it - my time at the rehearsal is over and I leave this 19th century world with a modern day twist and I head for home in the night wondering what kind of chorus member I would be and if so? What color would my voice be?

2008-03-28T14:20:00.000-07:00

Once you choose hope, anything's possible.

--Christopher Reeve

Going Back to the Big Easy

2008-03-28T13:36:00.000-07:00

Our return to New Orleans was wonderful. Weather was full-blown spring - we ate at many great restaurants (Cafe Giovanni that features the opera singers not one of them, but my sister knows the Chef so maybe next trip). Rode the street car and browsed in the French Market, watched the cargo ships on the Mississippi with KK and had tea at the Ritz Carlton, saw my sister's new digs across from Commander's Palace and stayed in a very nice boutique hotel - the Lafayette Hotel - it was what a visit to New Orleans should be.

The highlight for me was breakfast one morning at Camellia Grill - the best Western omelet my mouth has ever tasted followed by a slow ride up St. Charles in the street car past all the blooming azaleas and dogwood trees, not to mention beads still hanging precariously tossed too high for any Mardi Gras revelers to retrieve.

We also saw the sobering rebuilding process after Katrina - the middle class and upper crust neighborhoods are clearing lots and rebuilding, FEMA trailers are everywhere, but the poor side of town stands still with green moss growing on the roofs of the decaying buildings. In every neighborhood, the houses still standing wear the X's and messages spray painted on the sides by the National Guard like a badge of honor denoting if anyone or pets were still in the house or had been removed. Luckily, my sister lived across Lake Ponchatrain when the storm hit, but every home she had ever owned in New Orleans was damaged or gone. So, so sad.

Touched by An Angel

2008-03-12T17:38:00.000-07:00

We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight

to liberate us into life.

Love arrives

and in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasure

ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love's light

we dare be brave

And suddenly we see

that love costs all we are and will ever be.

Yet it is only love

which sets us free.

-- Maya Angelou

Tough Enough!

2008-03-04T09:26:00.001-08:00

X is coming into town and I need to have a pep talk with myself. I'm feeling these impercieved slights from everyone - but probably just feeling vulnerable I guess. My psyche loves to play tricks on me in a self-help effort to toughen it's exterior up.

Let's see ... how many lobs have I dodged since Saturday - 3 or is it 4 now at my last count? Funny thing is they have no idea that the pebbles of conversation tossed my way turned into heavy boulders before I caught them.

I guess everyone thinks I'm no longer this fragile shell of a person walking around and can handle life and whatever punches - high or low that come my way. So that's a good thing. Some of them are totally unintentional. Some of them are friends I respect who have the best intentions but have perhaps not lived through anything truly challenging yet and have no idea. I'm glad for them.

One friend choked back on her words about how a weird roommate we shared came from a "broken" home - I could see she could tell she stepped in it. Another much respected friend said that his nephew was the "success story of the family" because he had done so well for himself in his undergraduate studies and college recruitment in spite of his parents' divorce. I felt like the success was not in overcoming his father's marital strife, but in believing in himself. Their divorce really had nothing to do with it - he's a very smart kid.

The ones that hurt the most are from those whom I'm going to name-call as judgmental and hold a much over-elevated level of self-importance. I would love to tell them to get down off their f**king high horses and get over themselves. I have to ignore those comments to get through the humilation, maybe I'm stronger than I think, but how I would love to revert to my old juvenile tricks and knee jerk react to them and tell them off. Say things like "If I wanted to continue to be made to feel bad about myself and feel like a loser I would have remained married to X." I can't say it outloud to them, but I can write it down here and get it off my chest. Do I feel better? No, well maybe a little.

Why, when I'm criticized, does it always come down to me doubting my self-worth? That feeling of not being good enough for anyone.

It's a good place to be in that I can recognize this, confront it and try to deal with it; however, my inner dialogue will not shut up in this conversation with myself. I know that I'm tough enough, I have proved it to myself and to everyone around me.

The Dark Side of the Moon

2008-02-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day Wisdom

2008-02-14T08:48:00.000-08:00

What Most Valentine's Day Cards ... Won't Tell You About Your Heart!

Your heart is a muscle roughly the size of your fist,

But the trouble with fists is that they don't hold very much (especially when clinched).

To hold more of this incredible world in your hands

Unfurl your fingers (like a flag or flower).

To hold more in your heart

Just keep it

Open.

Take Cover Immediately

2008-02-06T10:56:00.001-08:00

Recitative: Last night during the final half hour of my MLAS course, life imitated art in an extremely surreal manner. We were in the midst of discussing and dissecting the hilarious chaos in the final scene of Act I in Rossini's "The Barber of Seville" when the campus tornado siren started it's eerie cry in the night. The entire class quickly evacuated into a stairwell and then proceeded to be further evacuated to the basement below Ingram Performance Hall.

Our prof said to imagine the popular chorus from this opera playing in the background as we stood in the stairwell. With that planted in my mind many of the moments to come would have coincided with superb comedic timing to this delightful Rossini chorus.

Cantabile: At first, our class of adult grad students we were the only ones seeking safe shelter, but were quickly joined by aloof, but albeit younger students, incredulous profs and a few walkie-talkie toting maintenance workers. It was an intriguing, if vanilla, peek at the underground behind the scenes world of the Blair School of Music.

Our evacuated state hiliarously reminded me of the scene we were discussing in "The Barber of Seville" . The cast was showcased on a split stage in what seemed to be the orchestra pit while the star ensemble sang a sextet layered above on the mainstage. The group was moving furniture and perhaps stealing it out of Bartolo's house, talking amongst themselves like they were at a fraternity mixer.

Cabaletta: A sign taped haphazardly to the wall pointed down the hall to the Blair Opera Costume Shop (more than a few of us wanted to be adventurous). Chairs were stacked to the ceiling, the duct work and plumbing hung above our tired heads. It was warm, but about to get warmer when a group joined us of tsarist-era Russians whose "Fiddler on the Roof" dress rehearsal was cut short. A crying peasant went hurtling past and collapsed on the floor in tears of real fear. Many were quick to comfort her. An Asian Hasidic Jew took a post on the wall next to one of my classmates joined by another young man with extremely bad fake facial hair (at least close up it looked hideous).

A few of us adult geeks talked of our addiction to online scrabble. For the most part, the voices were boisterous and appreciative of the much needed safety precaution. I had wanted some excitement since I was missing Mardi Gras on this evening, but didn't expect anything quite like this.

It wasn't until my dark and windy drive south on Hillsboro Road did I receive the campus-wide text message to take cover immediately. It was a tad too late for that, but it made me pause to think of the calm I felt in the midst of the Blair's basement chaos. I was surrounded by my friends and I felt so incredibly relaxed and safe.

After I arrived home our county tornado siren again interrupted the night and it sounded like it was located right across the street. We took cover immediately upon learning we were in the path of yet another storm.

Another mini-chaotic scene ensued as we rushed to get pillows, blankets, a flashlight that didn't work, a hyper dachshund, American Girl Dolls, Chewy (my daughter's beloved stuffed animal) and Victoria the hermit crab and ourselves into our safest interior space (in this case a tiny half bath). I held my daughter and shaking puppy tight as the wind whistled and the meterologists tried to outsing the storm with their many warnings. This was a new kind of safe for me, wrapped in the love for my child and presence of peace among my friends.

What Matters Most

2008-02-03T21:52:00.000-08:00

Tonight we were the only car on the road. Everyone else was tucked safely in their homes, positioned in front of the television watching the Superbowl. ½ tuned into the frenzy of 2008 and ½ tuned out. By the time I sat down during the 4th quarter and watched the end of the game – I had claimed the team I was rooting for. It didn’t really matter this year, other things, real things mattered more.

I spent Friday night at home with my daughter and Saturday morning running errands with my sister. Put my feet up for a few minutes in the afternoon before visiting with and kissing my sweet grandmother. Saturday evening we celebrated the 40th birthday of a good friend. Sunday morning my mom stopped by on her walk and we all acted silly with the dog. Went to church, talked on the phone with one of my best friends to check in on each other and asked how to make her special casserole. Cooked dinner for a sick friend, delivered it with a smile, but cried a few prayerful tears for her on the way home. Ended the evening writing in my journal to yellow lamp light and finished an assignment with snoring puppy and snoozing 8 year old wonder lying sweetly beside me.

I am so blessed and my life is so full - the Superbowl seems so inconsequential

Disclaimer: (However, I must admit I am THRILLED that Eli Manning and the New York Giants beat the Patriots!!!! – SEC baby)! Belichick is a baby - sad to see a grown man be SUCH a poor loser.

Throw in a Little Hope for Good Measure

2008-01-30T11:12:00.000-08:00

"Don't you see, Hook? You will never win. Not as long as there's faith, trust, and pixie dust."

-- Jane, Return to Neverland

Is it the lack of sunlight touching my face? Or is it the January doldrums? For whatever reason I have hit the negative wall face first. I feel so much anxiety I could scream silently in the midst of this cube farm I sit in each day. I trolled through my pictures looking for something to bring me up into the blue and I found this photo I took in the Smokies at Elkmont Campground - a monarch butterfly about to take flight.

This week my daughter got sick - nothing serious - but enough to warrant being home and resting for a few days. When I returned to work - I felt like the worst mom ever. Why is it when she gets sick do I feel like a failure as a mom? It's not that I can't protect her from catching a germ. It's that I feel so alone - really like KK and me against the world - I have help and I have support and my girlfriends all call to check on her, but when you are up at 4:00am and you cannot go back to sleep for fear you will sleep through your alarm - it is so isolating.

I've been called a Pollyanna - sometimes it makes me smile and be happy that I can gloss through life without being bogged down and other times it makes me angry that someone would make fun of me for that. Maybe the Lost Boys of Neverland have got something there...Maybe being Pollyanna is how I have survived - it's hard for me to hear negative things - it stresses me out. I have to put it out of my mind like a child putting her hands over her ears for things she doesn't want to hear.

The past few days have been hard - I've beat up A LOT on myself for my failings in life - and today I can't shake it - I've simply prayed for God to put his arms around us both and provide his guidance and protection - that simple faith is all that has given me hope today - and if pixie dust works - I wish someone would sprinkle some of that on me too.

Good Tidings

2008-01-23T13:25:00.000-08:00

fortune(fôr'chen)

noun

1.
a. The chance happening of fortunate or adverse events; luck.
b. fortune(s) The turns of luck in the course of one's life.
c. Success, especially when at least partially resulting from luck.

2.
a. Fate; destiny: told my fortune with tarot cards.
b. A foretelling of one's destiny.

Someone tossed me a fortune cookie today and hidden inside was this lovely message. I jumped on the good tidings it brought to me. It could mean many things - a new friend, boyfriend, co-worker - instead of jump to conclusions I'm just going to keep it in my pocket - think positive and see who the relationship brings to my acquaintance.

For full disclosure - I got this fortune too - but it didn't get my hopes up quite like the one above - but it did make me giggle.

It's like totally Scrabulous!

2008-01-10T14:52:00.000-08:00

So a friend on Facebook got me hooked on this online scrabble game and I'm totally hooked. It's highly addictive. I can totally understand how people get hooked onto the online betting schemes; however, scrabble is so not worth losing cold, hard $$ over. I haven't been into a computer game like since I played Tetris on a Mac during lunch break while working at DuPont as a technical writer. It's fun - try it- I may even be gaining back some lost brain cells that have been obliterated through parenthood. It's Scrabulous. I actually feel intelligent again. Who knew scrabble could be so fun??!!??

My Must See TV

2008-01-07T11:18:00.001-08:00

My TV viewing habits - PBS, Reality, High School Drama, Comedy - What does this say about me?

Sunday - Masterpiece Theatre - The Complete Jane Austen - Masterpiece Theatre - always a favorite since my days working Master Control at a local PBS station. But now to celebrate my favorite writer with her own series. My heart is happy on Sunday nights.

Monday - Nothing There is nothing I MUST see on Monday nights - I would rather read but this semester I will be finishing my reading assignments on Monday evenings for my Tuesday evening class.

Tuesday - The Real Housewives of Orange County This show is almost like watching a trainwreck but I can't look away. Now after 3 season I even care about what happens to some of them. It's fun to see how the other half lives and see that reality underscores money not being able to buy your happiness.

Wednesday - Project Runway 4 - This is one reality show where you actually have to have mad skills to advance. No America voted, but really talented judges who do have something to say. For me it's not even about the fashion - it's being wowed by the creativity that walks down the runway. My mom used to sew everything for us - we had the most beautiful clothes you could imagine all for under $1.99.

Thursday - ER - I love this show. Period. Abby. Luca. Pratt. Nuff said.

Friday - Friday Night Lights - Great acting by all involved. Riggins, Coach Eric, his wife, these characters remind me of people who really do exist and live for the big lights on Friday Night.

Saturday - Saturday Night Live (if I can stay awake) - when I was a little girl I got to stay awake for the opening scene and a few following skits with my sister Dawn and her boyfriend Billy, I thought I was a big shot. I saw the Killer Bees, Rosanne Roseanna Danna up close and personal. This show will always be special because of that memory.

I Lost My Man, Cause I'm a Titans Fan (Inspired by a true story)

2008-01-02T16:41:00.000-08:00

When we started dating
You could find him in the front row.
He escorted me every week to O'Charley's
So I could attend the Jeff Fisher Show.

To win my hand he became a fan too.
He learned all the plays.
He wore Titans merchandise proudly.
And He never missed a game.

But I quickly found out it was only a ruse.
So he could win my heart.
He found out that he was at the end of the line.
Of Vince, Kyle, and Keith whose stats I could impart.

Chorus:

He bought me a headset so I could listen
To Mike Keith pre, during and post game.
But he drew the line on Wednesdays
When I listened to 104.5 the Zone and John McClain.

Yes, I lost my Man, `Cause I'm a Tennessee Titans Fan.

He only lasted through two seasons.

He began grumbling on the Titans shuttle.

He lost his spark and soon.

His high step faded from doing the Cupid Shuffle.

No one comes between me and the Titans
I thought as I watch Coach Fisher with glee.

I love seeing the players expressions.

Through the binoculars my ex-boyfriend gave me.

Our love affair ended last January.

He packed up and moved away.

We might still be together.

But I tune in to Plaster, Willy and Darren every day.

Chorus:
He bought me a headset so I could listen
To Mike Keith pre, during and post game.
But he drew the line on Wednesdays
When I listened to 104.5 the Zone and John McClain.
Yes, I lost my Man, `Cause I'm a Tennessee Titans Fan.

I wrote this song in honor of mom, Linda "Jazzy" Langley - a huge Tennessee Titans fan, whose boyfriend upon breaking up with her - gave her love of the game and the Titans as one of the reasons for the break-up - before he moved out of state. He also couldn't believe that she - "A woman" would listen to sports talk radio "every day."

What a waste of a whole season of tickets taking HIM to the game.

The Christmas Letter

2007-12-31T19:43:00.000-08:00

You know those cheery Christmas letters (CL) you receive in the mail each year? I actually received less this year than normal.

The ones I did receive did have their usual, to be expected highlights. For example, I have been following with interest the news each year of a former college roommate's children's struggle with peanut allergies. Year 1 of the discovery they gave away their cats while trying to get to the bottom of the trouble. The next year found them ripping up their carpets and putting in hardwood floors. Year 3 they moved out of the allergy prone house. Year 6 finds them (with a dog in the photo) attending a national peanut allergy convention in Washington D.C. this spring... you get (long pause) the picture.

One CL is a pictograph of all the events one family has attended in the calendar year. Including 25 miniscule photos of said family with virtual strangers - they do include a key so you can keep up and try to guess who is who in said photo.

A friend at church launched into her CL with an entire paragraph filled with a detailed account of every GI bug her side of the family had, a cousin's illness and a remembrance of a death 11 years before and ended the paragraph with parentheses stating (enough heavy stuff). I'm glad she realized it too.

An extremely quiet and unassuming niece surprised everyone with the CL bombshell that she eloped to Viva Las Vegas. Now that is some NEWS! Best ever read in a CL and her mom included emails for everyone in the family -which I found very helpful. I can email quiet niece and exclaim my good wishes to the happy bride and groom.

Joking aside - the CLs are always welcome - I'm glad to be on the list and get the unabridged version of the modern day town crier. I got my cards out so late this year - I changed the photo card to one bearing a Happy New Year message. I didn't have any returned either and patted myself on the back until I realized that oh yeah, I didn't have time to put my return address on them.

Tonight I returned home after a festive New Year's Eve dinner with my mom and daughter and was tickled to notice a handwritten letter addressed to me (that always means - NO BILLS!).

I didn't recognize the return address. I opened the letter and a slim newspaper clipping slipped out. The letter started out as an introduction from the sister-in-law of an older couple I always send a Christmas card to... .

It seems this couple, who really stood by me during my parents lengthy separation and divorce, did not receive my card this year. Vera is in an Alzheimer's unit in Florida and Gil died seemingly of a broken heart six months later after she could no longer remember him. Some sad news to reflect on this New Year's Eve and the regret that I didn't stand by them and keep in better touch when they may have needed me the most. They forever touched my life that's for sure and I hope I stressed to both of them they had done that for me.

And their seemingly duel passing has touched me as well - thank God I will forever be the hopeless romantic who still hopes I will find a man that loves me that much who can no longer bear to live when my memory fails me.

These Christmas letters bring the moments that are important in people's lives - and why shouldn't they be able to brag about being successful as a family, a new union, pet or grandchild, European travels, raise health concerns, reflect on fun places visited in the past year and most importantly, deliver a simple message in a white envelope of that special kind of love that we all seek.

Things to Do in 2008

2007-12-28T11:53:00.000-08:00

A new year has arrived and so much to do...no resolutions for me, but instead lofty goals worth giving serious thought to... .

Take more walks.
Listen more.
Talk less.
Set aside five minutes every day to be quiet and still.
Read.
Cook a new recipe.
Learn a new stitch (knitting).
Write a real letter.
Slow down.
Pray for what I really want out of life.

2008 is going to be great!

Someone to Watch Over Me

2007-12-12T14:37:00.000-08:00

I was recently questioned by X (ex-husband to those who do not know) as to if I was seeing anyone. After insisting numerous times that it was none of his business, I broke down and told him yes. I was seeing someone. That simple answer shut him up. He seemed satisfied and hopefully he will leave the topic alone.

... What I failed to tell him that the man in my life is Orion the constellation of the nighttime winter sky whom I make direct eye contact with every night while walking Heidi. The three stars in his belt are a constant reminder of what his strengths are to me. Every night it's easy to find him. He's always there unless the clouds get in the way. Strangely, I find his presence comforting. From my front doorstep and my Eastward facing car window I can always find him up there in the sky waiting for me to notice him.

Calmly watching over me - it gives me pause and quiet reflection. After the latest admonissions from X. A very good friend told me she was going to pray for a strong and protective man to come into my life and make me feel safe. Kind of sounds like Orion.

I told her to please add to the list of attributes kind and financially stable. But for now Orion can be my main man. Tall, quiet, strong, safe and always there watching over me.

Discovering A Different Kind of Soul Mate

2007-12-05T07:20:00.000-08:00

A soul mate sometimes enters our life as someone to stir us up ... To hold up the mirror so that we can see ourselves more clearly and antagonize us and make us so uncomfortable that we have to change because we can't continue to look at the same thing because we're looking at it clearly now." "The encounter is so intense and so clarifying that we burn through those things quickly."

-- Richard from Texas

Eat, Pray, Love

Michigan State Study: Divorce Isn't Eco-Friendly

2007-12-04T08:31:00.000-08:00

Give me a break - to add to the pain and guilt of divorce - now I have to worry my divorce causing causing more than my unfair share of my ecological footprint. I read this recent study in Monday's Washington Post: "Divorce Isn't Eco-Friendly" and felt even more of the literal weight of the world shift on my tired and sore shoulders. The article has its merits and it's facts ring true, but picking on the divorced is laughable in this instance.

After all, the unmarried single women have had enough dumped on them over the past four decades Why don't they go ahead and praise the unmarried single men still living at home in their parents basement for saving the earth. White men would rejoice everywhere and the Republicans could use them as their poster boys on the global warming stage (even though its not happening). They could even trot them out on the Convention floor and allow them to tell their story with their photos projected on the big screen and a patriotic balloon drop in their honor.

Go ahead, pick on the divorced, to hear the experts tell it we are also contributing to the juvenile delinquency rate and the Christian conservatives label us as single moms like we are akin to road whores. As a divorcee does everything have to be blamed on me? I'm wondering if I'm off the hook now. Does that theory change when when one of the spouses remarry, because my ex-husband remarried last May and combined a household of 6 people - so that must mean for the past 7 months - I will take none of the blame this study places on me. They can take that to the dump along with the scarlet letter I removed from my right shoulder. Or maybe I should just recycle it.

The Musicians In Me

2007-11-30T13:22:00.000-08:00

After working on a presentation for my "Music, Gender and Sexuality" course and breaching my own "is nothing sacred" cry (after some beloved composers and songs were presented to me in a different light ...and even beloved fairy tales dissected and showcased in a way that was shocking to me) I am working on my final presentation.

After this course, I have been enlightened, embarrassed, labelled a Pollyanna by a friend in class, and shocked. So I'm borrowing from the title of a song in the movie "You are the Music in Me" and composing my own little diddy... it goes something like this.

The Musicians in Me

Boston, Donna Summer, The Eagles
and Frampton Comes Alive
the music of my older sisters
became by 70s vibe.

In the early 80s it was Prince, The Gloved One,
Duran Duran and Loverboy,
Adam Ant in concert, Culture Club, REM,
our Material Girl slash Boy Toy.

Androgynous Annie became a Diva in the 90s
Springsteen, Bon Jovi and Aerosmith kept on rockin'
Garth became Chris Gaines, Nirvana gave us Grunge
and the college kids started moshing.

At the millenium, the Boy Bands faltered,
the Spice Girls lost their Grrrll Power
The Metal Bands joined AARP, rehabbed
and went on another Farewell Tour.

After taking this class now I ask myself?

Will a gender bender make it to the American Idol stage? (they already have)
Will Britney get her shit together and once again be all the rage? (probably not)
Scissor sisters as a position? Am I really that naive? (yes!)
And, what does it mean if I fancy the Sinatra-like swing of crooner Michael Buble?
I sit in church and wonder what would the elders think if they knew Messiah's Handel was gay? (not too much probably)
And finally, through caring about all this I wonder...does it chip my newfound radical feminism away?

My iTunes are my secret
But I'll listen to the musicians in me more carefully now
I've been enlightened, empowered, labelled a Pollyanna
and all I can say after taking this course -WOW!

A Final Step in Setting Myself Free

2007-11-28T09:02:00.001-08:00

I just told a very close friend this morning that until she ends a floundering relationship that she will never be open to accepting a new one. She agreed, we said our goodbyes, I hung up and didn't think another thing of it.

As I trolled through my daily work of gathering and collecting news and announcements from med schools & centers across the country I came across the sweetest story: Two Dogs Spend 26 Days With Owner Who Died In The Wilderness and immediately thought of the person who I wanted to share it with.

So I took a deep breath, googled his email on the internet, put his address in the TO: box, wrote a brief note and clicked the Send button.

In sending it I discovered the biggest feeling of relief that washed over me. Why had I been afraid of sending an email to a terrific guy that I had shared so many wonderful moments and memories (of a special dog too!) with? We have both moved on with our lives - married other people, had the careers we planned on?? Was I afraid of being rejected again? I think so.

But I was able to send this before all that other stuff in the thought process got in the way. The words I told my close friend this morning came back to me albeit a tad differently. I haven't pined for this sweetheart since my divorce, while maybe I have, and I didn't unrealisticly think that he would come back and rescue me from my divorce distress but perhaps someone like him. Of course I wonder if I cross his mind? Isn't that normal?

Over the years, I've walked on many a beach and thrown countless but invisible good-bye messages in a bottle to this man, hoping to let that part of my heart go... . I have not been able to do so successfully.

But this morning, by clicking send - I confronted what I was afraid of with a friendly hi (after 15 years but who's counting?) and I'm gleefully discovering that I alone held the power to set myself FREE!!

Waking Up

2007-11-07T13:46:00.001-08:00

Every morning when my erratic alarm clock starts it's annoying beeping sound, I wake up half exhausted from the dreams that filled my slumber. I have envisioned emails where I could see the names in the sent box, seen colors so vivid in the darkness of my dreams and heard voices that I still trembled upon hearing.

For the past two months, it's been either a technicolor nightmare of relationships past or psychadelic mindtrip of crazy classroom assignments of dressing like a punk rocker or outrageous conversations that I'm having with people.

In the quiet of my day, I silently snicker to myself that no one in my office has any idea of how I spend my nights.

What has awakened inside of me? Is it me finally breaking away and moving forward? Dare I type it outloud? I feel happy most of the time!! Could it be "the big D" is finally behind me? Let me pinch myself and make sure? But it's true - I'm starting to feel alive again.

If I'm lucky maybe it will catch on to all aspects of my life.

I Am Tennessee (Author Unknown)

2007-10-31T13:30:00.000-07:00

I am Tennessee. I am the 30 year old couple coming back to campus for thefirst time with both little ones in tow. One wears her orange and white cheerleader outfit; the other wears #16 even though he's too young to understand why.

I am the 50 year old man who hoped no one saw tears in his eyes when the T wasformed by the band. I was too choked even to sing "Rocky Top". For a moment I felt foolish and then I didn't care. God, I love this place.

I am the 60 year old woman meeting her freshman grand-daughter who is now the3rd generation of UT students in our family. Despite my age, I'd strap it onSaturday and hit someone if it weren't for my gender and this blasted arthritis.

I am Tennessee and I have always believed I was different. You can see it whenyou look up into the stands. My orange is not the same as Florida's or Auburn's . But the differences go much deeper than my colors.

Read my creed. What other school has one? I genuinely believe in these things.To be a real Tennessee man or woman speaks of character, not of geography. All are welcome to walk though my gates, not just the wealthy or the elite.

Georgia and Alabama may have their nations, but we have always been family. Make no mistake, we loathe defeat, but even in defeat, we would rather be aTennessee Vol than anything else.

We are family and you are the sons of Heisman, the sons of Majors and Neyland.You come from a long line of brothers who names include White, Gault, Wilson,Manning, Shuler, Nash and Mahelona. It is a great heritage.

So this Saturday, when the warm ups are over and the prayers and amen spoken,when you hear my thunder growing in the stands above you, when you stand inthe tunnel and the smoke begins to form, listen for my voice when you run on to my field.

Behind the frenzy of the shakers and deafening roar, I will tell you something in a whisper you may miss. I will be telling you that you are my sons and I am proud of you for the way you wear the orange and white. I am telling you that you are my sons and I love you.

Tennessee is so much more than a state or a school or a team or a degree. It is something that, once you have experienced it, will live inside of you forever and become a part of what makes up who you are. It is driving into town on a game day.

You may have come from hundreds of miles away and as you get closer and closer to the city limits, you feel it rising inside of you. Other cars on the highway proudly display their Orange and White flags or magnets or car tags, and you honk and wave at them, because, for that one day, you are all on the same team.

It is the smell in the air and the ritualistic act of tailgating...catching up with old friends, making new ones, and invitations from perfect strangers totry their ribs or watch their satellite TV showing all of the day's important match-ups...of course, all being secondary to the one that will occur in thegreat cathedral of Neyland Stadium later that day.

It is the Vol Walk...where you might just see 300 pound men overcome withemotion and weeping with pride, because you have come there to cheer them on. As they walk by, you might exchange a glance with one or two of them, and youcan see it in their eyes...it is going to be their day.

It is the students...dressed in their best, because going to a Tennessee game is like going to church for Tennessee people....you show the same respect as you would if you were in God's house. Those students remind you of the dayswhen you were walking in their shoes and Tennessee was your home...but thenyou realize, in many ways, it is still and always will be HOME.

It is that lump that rises in your throat when the band plays Rocky Top as the"T" is formed.

It is walking around on a "foreign" and sometimes hostile campus. You are easily identified (Tennessee people always are) and the enemy jeers and shoutsthings at you to mask their feelings of intimidation. But just then you happen upon a friend you have never met before. You know they are your friend by the colors they wear or the shaker in their hand. You exchange a "Go Vols" and a confident grin, because he/she knows what you know.

It is when your heart leaps with every touchdown, field goal, sack, andinterception...because those are our boys. And win or lose, they will alwayshave our un-dying support. After all, it is those boys that you are really there for and not a coach or a logo or a trustee or a president.

It is the complete and utter exhilaration of walking away victorious over a worthy opponent...that feeling of pride and accomplishment as if it were your own feet that had crossed the goal line scoring the last points yourself...that feeling of wanting to scream "Go Big Orange" at the top of your lungs and hug complete strangers...and then there is the ultimate high of defeating your most hated foes from across the state.

No words can describe what this feels like, but you know because you have experienced it. It is the sheer agony of defeat as the last minutes tick off of the clock andyou realize that all hope of a victory is gone.

You feel like crying and maybe you do...then you hear the faint sounds of a cheer that grows louder and louder...."Its Great To Be A Tennessee Vol."

It is knowing that year after year, no matter how things change in our hecticlives, you can always come back to "the Loveliest Place on the River"... theplace where you came from...your home.

It will probably look a little different and there will be new names on the backs of the jerseys, but deepdown, no matter what, it is still the same. You still love it as much as you always have, because Tennessee is as much a part of you as your arms and your legs and the orange blood that runs through your veins.

And, finally, it is the feeling you have right now as you read theselines....the anticipation inside of you, because you know its almost time....Its about to start all over again...but then it really never goes away, does it?

GO BIG ORANGE!

Viva Las Vegas, Part Deux

2007-10-24T13:03:00.001-07:00

In honor of my Viva Las Vegas buddy, I am writing installment two today of our trip to VLV! To say that even the shuttle drive to the hotel was totally exciting would be an understatement, I guess that is what happens even when a 40 something country girl goes to the big city. The lights we saw from the airplane were overwhelming, inviting and exhilarating.

I'm sure the other riders en route to their hotels thought there was a Vegas newbie on board, because I vascillated between sharp intakes of breath and little squeals especially when I saw Paris Las Vegas and the Golden Nugget! Also cool to behold was the skyscraper size billboards for Celine, Toni Braxton and other celebs playing the crowded rooms on the Vegas strip.

We threw our bags into our rooms and didn't return until daybreak. This would set the schedule for the rest of the week. Leave the room at 10 return at 5 or 6 and sleep ALL DAY! A luxury for someone who gets little downtime. We agreed to stay in the safe confines of our hotel and venture out the next day into the wild world of VLV.

After being dissed at the all-night restuarant that was not serving the Prime-Rib sandwich we had hungered for across the country we descended into the pits of the casino and lo and behold we ran into Little Richard, Shania, Dolly, Elvis, Tina Turner, The Blues Brothers and Ricky Martin Living Las Vida Loca above the black jack tables. It wasn't the real deal but the dealertainers of Imperial Palace - who needed Celine when this was going on 24/7 in our home casino.

OMG, I Have Become My Mother

2007-10-08T14:17:00.000-07:00

Throughout this life, my mom has been my hero, my mentor, my role model to follow as an example as the woman I have most wanted to be like. We have always called her "Miss Stewart County High School" because simply put - she was. Valedictorian, President of the Beta Club, Captain of the Cheerleaders, Editor of the school yearbook and columnist in the local newspaper, were all titles attached to our mother's name. Andy Holt himself promised her a four-year scholarship to the University of Tennessee when he witnessed her commencement speech that she recited from memory.

It's an understatement to say how proud she made her parents. Another still to her three daughters and how it felt to grow up with an academic "rock star mom" who was not only brilliant, but fun and beautiful and strong. Upon "going into town" while visiting our grandparents, her former classmates would stop us on the streets, introduce themselves and say "I went to school with your mother... I'm (fill in the blank) and we had so much fun together, she was so smart, she helped me so much." To hear them speak of her impact on their lives, you would have thought she was the first woman to orbit in space.

The wonderful thing about our mom is that not only did she cheer on the Stewart Co. Rebels, but she was personal cheerleader, advice lender, and a positive reinforcement to everyone she knew, especially her three daughters and now her granddaughter. As her children, we blessedly were the direct recipients of these accolades. She has always looked for the best in people, never allowed us to gossip and always stressed to us to be the bigger person, to take the high road in life.

Words cannot even speak of the sacrifices she made for us before and after our father left - but she she took the high road, did not become bitter, remained beautiful, fun and entered the workforce. She excelled at every position she accepted. She never met a pair of high heels she didn't like. She met the career of her dreams when she became a real estate agent. It was the perfect fit for her positive personality, her intelligence and her cheerleader personality. We began calling her cyber-mom when her prowess on the computer became evident.

After Granddaddy died, her sweet mother remained at home growing even prouder and even getting our mom a few real estate clients. When I got married, it was she who walked me down the aisle.

What I'm trying to say in this post but taking too long to get there is that I understand now and am trying to be forgiving when the cheerleader has a bad day. Always expecting her to be the positive one and cheer us on her way, it's hard for me when she is down. But I have to say now in light of being a divorced mother myself and forging onward each and every day for my daughter, I'll change places with you mom and give you a break. It's okay to have a bad day, a bad week, a bad month even, I will not give you the "pep talk". Mainly because I tried and it didn't work.

My sweet grandmother can no longer be the proud anchor for my mom that she once was so we try to fill her shoes not as a mother, but daughter anchors. I hope she'll use us and let us be her cheerleader for once.

When September Returns

2007-09-19T11:36:00.000-07:00

Let the autumn leaves fall,

Let go, let go,
it's time to face the winter.

I miss you most

when the August skies

shine blue
the way your eyes do.

Let the brown leaves fall,
Let go, let go,
do not fear.

Spring - and love -
are so near.

I miss you Chris
when September returns,
for I'm always
thinking of you.

--SHK

Abyss Walking

2007-09-11T16:27:00.000-07:00

Working at a medical center has its pluses and minuses. Every time I'm having a bad day, feeling sorry for myself, I simply walk across the courtyard of the medical plaza and I change my mind. You see everything you can imagine and things you never want to. The sick kids are the worst and the saddest have to be the folks hooked up to their IV poles dragging on a cigarette on the smoking porch.

My job entails tracking med school appointments and teaching hospital news, so from the clips I glean these headlines from I also read the reports on the latest research study. So I read the symptoms and do a lot of self-diagnosing - enough to be dangerous a doctor would probably say.

I've convinced that I have PMMD - a disorder that mainly effects me emotionally more than physically. Perhaps my male ob/gyn would laugh it off - but he has never sunk to the depths that I have - self-doubt, low self-worth, hostility, feeling unloved and unloveable and the hopeless blanket that weighs me down. It comes on quickly - something that normal wouldn't bother me makes me terribly irritable and I feel out of control. A simple comment is twisted and I inadvertently jump on an innocent person. Sometimes I panic, sometimes I can recognize it, but other times I feel as if an alien has invaded my body and I'm sure my family, friends and co-workers feel as if they have encountered a counter-culture sub-species. If my one gal pal isn't available to talk to I wait for her call to back because her calmness and patience with me seems to be the one thing that make me feel like I'm not crazy.

The dictionary defines an abyss, as "an immeasurably deep chasm, depth, or void." James Cameron even made a movie called "The Abyss" (pre-Titanic). An American nuclear submarine is attacked (during the cold war) and crashes underwater. A team of deep water divers from an oil rig are sent to examine it - what they encounter is terrifying. When I find myself in this bad place each month I feel as if I'm walking on the edge of an abyss that I could easily slip off of - but something holds me upright on the edge and when I'm there it is a very scary place to be in. When it's over I'm relieved, I feel safe.

Today, I felt the first breeze of fall on my face. It was a welcome touch but it also made me feel melancholy. Abyss walking only makes me want to disappear so no one will notice me. Make me invisible until I'm through feeling this way.

The Importance of Being Ernest

2007-09-11T06:44:00.000-07:00

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

--Ernest Hemingway

I Have No One to Tell

2007-08-29T20:32:00.000-07:00

I received two graded papers back yesterday from my summer masters course and I picked up the phone to call my sisters, my mom, my friends, but no one was home and to tell - "Hey, guess what I got an A" just seemed like I would be bragging. I realized on the drive home that I had no one to tell. No one really cared, but me anyway. A huge wave of loneliness hit me and knocked me down into the rough. There it was - I. Am. Alone. in the world with no partner to share my highs and lows. No one to share the events of the day with - to laugh about things or help shake things off.

It was a rough moment but I quickly got over it and thought - just sharing with myself should be good enough - am I doing this for these other people - no. Who then am I acheiving this for? Me and my daughter - so we both can have a brighter future. When I picked her up I told her my news. She said "That's good Mom" and that was it.

I briefly thought of another alone moment a few months back that I was proud of an alone moment that I thought would be tough but I got through just fine. Christmas Eve - putting the presents under the tree alone - when I finished and looked at the offering of gifts - I realized how hard it was the first time to do that by myself - this past Christmas I realized I was going to be okay and I am now - even if I have no one to tell of my triumphs or my disappointments in life. I'm going to be okay.

10 Chick Flick Movies I Love!

2007-08-08T12:12:00.000-07:00

1. When Harry Met Sally - After watching this movie - I was gone! Sally was my hero - embarrassingly I even dressed like her and sported a similar hat for years to come and struggled not to be high maintenance when I thought I was low maintenance.

Fave quote-Harry Burns: I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

2. Valley Girl - This was a chick flick but I didn't know it yet. I had never seen anything like it - I was kind of into punk and had visited one of my best friends in California and saw real Valley Girls and Boys up, close and personal. "I'll Melt With You" by Modern English will forever take me back to fall of 1983 when I met Chris for the first time.

Fave quote - Fred Bailey: [introducing himself to Julie and Stacey] Hi, I'm Fred. I like tacos and '71 Cabernet. My favorite color is magenta.

3. Gone With the Wind - This movie strikes at the heart of every girl and what it means to be Southern and a Southern belle at that. And always the Cause. In hind site I see I have followed in Scarlett's path and pined for years for a man who will never be in my grasp again and I've got to wake up and let him go once and for all before I miss out on some other special person. I love this scene because Scarlett wants to dance so bad and throws care to the wind that she should be in mourning.

Fave quote-Scarlett: Great balls of fire. Don't bother me anymore, and don't call me sugar.

4. Out of Africa - This movie told the story of an independent and powerful woman in her own right who fell in love with a great adventurer who would never put his love for freedom above her. The scene where Denys washes Karen's hair took my breath away - it was a necessity but such an intimate gesture. Oh to be loved and touched like that.

Fave quote-Karen Blixen: He even took the gramophone on safari. Three rifles, supplies for a month, and Mozart.

5. Proof of Life - Your husband gets kidnapped in a foreign country and Russell Crowe comes to save him. OMG - Forever cemented the fact that - yes, I want to have Russell Crow's love child. Based on a true story that ran in Vanity Fair, this story is beautifully shot amidst lush scenery and combines a chick flick with a tough guy, shoot-em up story. It also marked the return of David Caruso in a role that brought him back from obscurity.
Fave quotes-Alice Bowman: Just tell me you know how much you mean to me. Dino: Downtown One, what the f*ck was that?

6. Serendipity - This is really a buddy film/chick flick - where two guys are doing the same crazy things that two girlfriends would do to track down a lost love. I was hooked the moment John Cusack pointed out the constellation in Kate Beckinsale's freckles. This movie almost inspired me to read Love in the Time of Cholera.

Fave quotes-Dean [Lying on the grass with Jonathan, outside Sara's house] Maybe we're lying here because you don't wanna be standing somewhere else.

Looking for Mr. (W)right

2007-07-28T20:21:00.000-07:00

This past weekend my grandmother's roommate passed on to the positive side of heaven and earth. It was sad to visit last night and notice how empty and still it was on her side of the room. The experience left my grandmother shaken and confused. When I arrived my grandmother was looking for her mother. I stayed with her a little longer than usual and even crawled into her bed and laid down with her. I hugged on her, loved on her and spoke in her ear to try and give her (and myself) some comfort.

It was a difficult decision my mother faced when placing Grandmother into this facility for her medical and day to day care. The first night I stayed with her and silently cried throughout the night listening to the sounds and seeing how the light fell into her room. She was safe here, but it was hard to leave her here without one of us present. The facility is clean and bright, the nursing staff is extremely professional, the aides respectful, positive and some are very loving to their patients. However, to borrow from Dorothy, "there's no place like home." On a personal level, it's difficult because from the moment you walk through the front door you are facing your own mortality.

My mom visits my grandmother every day. My sister comes from out of town and stays for weeks and spends entire days with her. My daughter and I visit her every Saturday and Sunday. We try to go for Bingo when she feels like playing or afternoon church services on Sunday.

In this weekly ritual, we have inadvertently gotten to know some of the other residents. There is the stripper at the end of one hall - she strips in the doorway of her room every night at 7:00pm. It is said she targets the thirtysomething male charge nurse who works the weekend shift. There is a klepto - who steals shoes, stuffed animals, candy bars, mardi gras beads and newspapers and only she knows what else. I guess it gives her a little bit of power in the world she lives in. There are also those who count cards at Bingo and will vehemently complain if they feel someone has an unfair advantage. In all fairness, my grandmother is a butt pincher. It's her way of showing affection to those she cares abouts (I inherited this habit from her). We tried to warn the staff and luckily they laugh and do not take offense. And then there are those who are sadly lost in their own world.

The week my grandmother arrived, a sweet gentleman was stationed across the hall from her room. He introduced himself as Arthur Wright and proudly congratulated us "You have finally found Mr. (W)right." He shook our hands and told us that he would check on Grandmother for us. We were tickled to say the least. The next week when we visited I couldn't wait to greet him "Hi, Mr. Wright - I finally found you!" And he looked at me with an unsure almost angry gaze like he had never seen me before. When he dawned on me that he didn't remember our conversation I realized that not only was he not Mr. Right, but that he wouldn't be checking on Grandmother either.

One day he was confused and asked me to help him find the restroom, I pointed him in the direction of his room and he said "No, that's the ladies restroom, I can't go in there." An aide overheard us and gently guided him into his room. The next visit I spotted a huge sign on his bathroom door - with a drawing of a toilet and the words "BATHROOM HERE" displayed in large letters. Another day, he got mom to verify the name on the door was his wife's name because he said the woman in the bed was too old to be his wife and showed mom the photo of young Mrs. Wright in her 20s. Other days, he was back in the hall welcoming us and reminding us that if we needed anything, we had found Mr. Right - he could help us on our way.

His forgetfulness prepared us for the days when Grandmother would endure the same confusion. It may have really worried me if it didn't provide some comfort to me that at least she wasn't the only one - in a sense they were all on the same journey together.

Shortly after, I had a conversation with my mom and some friends about a list of characteristics that I would prefer if I were to start dating again. That's easy I told them "Kindness has to be at the top of the list - outgoing, fun, smart, financially stable, spiritual, everything else is just icing on the proverbial cake." "So," one of my friends replied, "you are looking for Mr. Right?" "No, not quite," I said, "because I've met the Mr. (W)right and he's down at the nursing home and can't find the bathroom. Mr. Right is just a figment of the female imagination."

On a weeknight visit to see Grandmother, I noticed Mr. Wright was not out in the hall, but strangely his wife, Sallie, whom I had never seen out of her hospital bed was up walking around their room. Mr. Wright looked like he had fallen back on the bed - he was just laying there taking a nap. It's like their energy sources had swapped bodies.

We visited Grandmother and as I came out I noticed he was still in the same position. As I approached the nursing station to tell them a team of EMT's passed me in the hall and turned down the hall towards Grandmother's room. I grabbed my daughter's hand and rushed back to Grandmother. I knew that she was okay, but I had to go back to visually check on him. They had stopped at his room and were checking his vitals. We gave Grandmother one last kiss, worriedly glanced into his room and left.

I called my mom from the car crying. I knew something was wrong with sweet Mr. Wright. I told her how worried I was about him. I was surprised at the tears streaming across my cheeks, I never dreamed that I would get so attached to him or any of these people. But I was. I couldn't stop thinking about the first night I met him. How great would it be to walk up to a guy and him say "Congratulations, you have met Mr. Right..." if only it could be so easy.

My mom called me the next day with the news, Mr. Wright had died. He probably already had passed to that positive side of heaven and earth when I saw him laying back on his bed. I sure hope it was peaceful. I said a silent prayer and just quickly thanked God for allowing me the chance to meet Mr. (W)right - if only briefly. The stripper, the klepto, the butt pincher, the bingo police and the lost who live in that space all hold their special places in my heart.

Every weekend when I visit Grandmother, I can't help but picture him standing stationed just across the hall outside her door. And thanks to this sweet man who could never remember our names, he gave me a hope I can't describe just because he verbalized that maybe it could be possible. Thanks to him I will never stop looking for the outstreched hand of Mr. Right.

2007-07-26T14:25:00.000-07:00

A giant plague of frogs follow me wherever I go.

Listen carefully… you’ll hear the thunder of their hops…

-- M.D.

2007-07-16T09:28:00.000-07:00

And in the end it's not the years in your life that count.

It's the life in your years.

-- Abraham Lincoln

Viva Las Vegas, Part I

2007-06-20T11:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, I actually heard this song in Vegas - how appropro I thought as I walked towards the dancing waters of the Bellagio Resort and Casino - Elvis sang me over the pedistrian bridge while the mist of the water cooled the stiff, hot night air.

One of my resolutions for the year 2007 was to go to Vegas for my 40th birthday. My new BFF Tiffany helped to not only make this a reality, but a great trip. We didn't get wild. We didn't dance on any tables. However, two moms disappeared in the desert for a few days, emerged on the strip and stayed up all night and slept all day. We didn't have to cook dinner (we only ate two meals while we were out there), wash clothes and didn't have to take care of anyone but ourselves. It was a great escape with a great friend and a great way to celebrate turning 40.

Our trip began with teary daughters not wanting to send their moms off without them - it tugged at both of our hearts and for me, it was especially hard - I had never left my daughter to go on a trip - for me - without her. Heartstrings were taut with guilt and having to let go a little. But we put on our shades and drove towards BNA.

The plane ride was LONNGGG but we met Vicky from Virginia - who spilled Jack Daniels on her jeans three rows back - and we heard about it all across the Midwest skies. Her husband was "invited" to a poker tournament in Vegas - he was a "professional poker player" (aren't they all) while Vicky supports them working in the E.R. at a Richmond hospital. She found out 1) it was my birthday and 2) I was the only other person drinking on the way to McCarran and then 3) a Crown and Coke arrived courtesy of the poker playing house-husband. When I looked back to thank them - they were making out - Grosser than Gross! We promised we would look her up at Harrah's (yeah right) and glimpsed the lights from the Las Vegas strip from our window to the world on the plane.

The first thing we saw after we hopped off the plane were slot machines in the gate area of the airport. It was a surreal experience. The luggage area was a trip - the huge ads for the Aussie "Thunder From Down Under" greeted us not to be confused with the Outback Steakhouse dessert of the same name (except it's chocolate-enough said!)... .

I loved seeing all the cheetah spotted luggage on the baggage conveyors and the collectors of said luggage who thought they were true pussycat dolls. At another row a California surfer dude was picking up the bright red "American Tourister" suitcase he must have borrowed from his grandmother. It was 11:00 when we landed and baggage claim was as happening as any casino on the strip for a Wednesday night...

South on Hillsboro Road

2007-06-19T13:03:00.000-07:00

The collapse of my marriage was a scary time. I don't really remember at times driving from Point A to B. I had so much weighing me down, so many worries, so much pain and sadness. I didn't know where my our lives were heading and I have never felt so lost and alone. I would be overwhelmed by the fact that all my daughter had to get her through life was simply me. The thought paralyzed me at times.

I turned to my mother for refuge and we moved in with her for a brief time. To get to her house was a one shot deal south down Hillsboro Road. I would drive out of the Vanderbilt enclave, cross I-440, run the gauntlet of traffic through afternoon rush hour of Green Hills, meander through Forest Hills and make a brief appearance in Brentwood as I crossed Old Hickory Blvd. Passing the Forest Hills Baptist Church meant I was almost home free from all the issues chasing me. So many times I would pass the sign marking the Williamson County line and I would breathe a sigh of relief, I could escape into the lush, green hills of forest and fields and no one could find me.

Her neighborhood felt safe for me and I would retreat upstairs to the second floor and just "be" in one of her two guest rooms. I did this for months. We slowly began getting back out in the world, but I never ventured far from this radius off Hillsboro Road.

After a few months passed we moved to another area for a brief period of time - this time to the neighborhood I had grown up in. It still felt like home and I would do tours of the old high school stomping grounds, take my daughter to the park I used to play in and I rekindled some old friendships and visited with a lot of my friends' moms that I ran into in the grocery store. I even drove by the home of my high school sweetheart a time or two for the comfort it gave me. I came to realize that I had outgrown this part of town and moved on.

I quickly found my way back down Hillsboro and bought a home of my own and settled us in a spot close to my mom. At the close of each work day, I brighten when my commute takes me past the sign announcing my entry into Williamson County. I say my prayers regularly and give thanks for our safe home, school and "village" as my little one calls it. I rarely drive the interstates anymore - I have no reason to - going South on Hillsboro Road leads me to all the places I need to go - including the most important place - home.

Dad, Thanks for the Bird House

2007-06-13T12:14:00.000-07:00

I can't avoid thinking of our dad when June rolls around - his birthday is this month and of course, the Father's Day golf and fishing displays, greeting card aisles and television commericals scream out out for notice in the weeks preceding both of these events. The past few weeks have made me wince when the event was brought to the surface. And not just because our father is no longer around to receive the obligatory card either.

In the past when I would read the verse on the cards, I resented that the lovey-dovey lines about the dad always there for you - words not applicable to the type of relationship we shared.

I always wanted to ask Hallmark if there is a card that says - "Hey dad, Mom did a helluva job raising us all by herself - we turned out great in spite of you being voluntarily absent from our home. Aren't you proud?? Happy Father's Day" ??? There are many other angry, bitter, and sarcastic questions that could easily be posed but I'll stop with this one - it all comes down to underscore this same point.

It wasn't until I became a parent that I realized the mistakes that parents make aren't on purpose - it's a learn as you go process. That life is full of decisions and you don't always make the right choice. As a parent your strengths and weaknesses seemed magnified in the eyes of your child - you would rather die than let them down - however, your child will overlook them just to be loved by you. Maybe our father thought his transgressions were so great that they were unforgivable.

On the other side - just to be in our father's presence meant the world to me - when he showed up for the birth of my daughter and came to see her after the surgery she had as an infant - his absences at my dance recitals, performances at football games, car wrecks, heartaches, awards night and even at my wedding were instantly forgiven.

Every time I make a mistake in a life choice that inadversely affects my daughter - I wish I would have had the chance to talk about this point with my dad as an adult, but I never reached that level in our relationship. I never had the chance because it was hard for me to talk to him without reverting back to that little girl afraid of her father and I would always break down and cry.

The night we came home from the hospital and stood over her on her changing table the enormity of the responsibility of having a child hit me like a seismic wave. My parents did this three times - oh my gosh - how did they do it?

Even though my father's absence in my life was hard to live with - I knew he was out there on the periphery - if I had a need - I think he would have come through for me. I kept telling myself because his father died when he was so young maybe he just didn't know how. He had to be father figure to his three sisters - when his three daughters came around - maybe he was just tired of it all and knew under the tutelage of our mother - that we would survive it somehow.

A few years before he died, I was walking in my backyard in Kingston Springs and I heard an unfamiliar noises - silent-like screams and peeps and little mini-hubbub going on. Hanging from a tree was a birdhouse he had given me and it was filled with the sounds of a young little family - three little birds ready to eat - waiting for their parents to come back to the nest. A beautiful blue-jay approached and warned me away (dive bombed me more like) - I quickly backed off as to not invade the sanctuary of their home and watched from our deck as the parents flew back and forth bringing sustenance to their little babies.

The birdhouse was one that he had built - one of the few gifts I had from him at my home - and I cherished it. I was thrilled that the birds had finally made a home in it, so I picked up the phone and called him and told him how fitting it was that the day was Father's Day - and the little bird family was literally thriving in a house. Just like my sisters and I thrived in the house built by our parents - the baby birds had shelter, they had food, they had love and protection -and they were gonna be just fine.

Not Ready for Swimsuit Season

2007-06-04T12:35:00.000-07:00

I was recently pushed into the deep end of the dating pool by a beloved friend long before I was ready for it. After I pulled myself back out of the cold water - I realized that it was both surprising and fun to be pushed in and not only that I found that it was actually quite refreshing... . That first experience over and behind me, however, has led me to decide that wading in slowly is much, much better. Is anytime ever a good time to start back? Probably not. Am I ever going to be ready to pushed into the pool?

I haven't done this in 15 years. And although I enjoyed my dating years when I was younger I don't know how to do this anymore. At this point in my life I always simply envisioned myself just being "mom" - my central and proudest role in life to date. Not "mom" going out on dates, giggling on the phone late at night, hoping to get an email in my inbox and daydreaming of where this could lead or even worse the terrible self-recrimination we put ourselves through and second guessing myself by secretly wishing I looked younger and was actually getting invited out on dates and should I be doing this at all?

Not dating at all just solved these afore mentioned problems because you don't have to deal with it - being a harmless flirt is so much more fun and less problematic.

So my first plunge - albeit shocking and exciting and a little letdown now that it is over before it really got started is behind me. I guess I'm kind of relieved.

I can still do this - the old chops are still there - however, it is not like riding a bike cliche - pick up where you left off ... and so I find myself feeling like an alien? Who is this person inside my skin? I don't know her. It feels "pizarre" as my little one would say. These feelings have lain dormant I now do not know what to do with them.

Some of the feelings feel the same, but some are different. I'm working out of a whole different SOP manual than I used to now that I'm a mom and it's throwing me off my dating game.

It's like standing in the dressing room trying on different swimsuits and hating looking in the mirror - you're looking for the right style that best fits your body shape, but after much self-analyzing you finally have to throw your hands up and say - I just need something suitable to swim in... . I guess dating is going to be like that now - be yourself, have fun and realize that nothing lasts forever, it's just swimsuit season - being thrown in the pool every now and then just simply swimming is not so bad.

2007-05-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

Beginnings are scary.

Endings are usually sad.

But it's the Middle that counts the most.

-- Hope Floats

Lost and Found at the Met

2007-05-16T13:07:00.000-07:00

A recent Saturday found me with a day in Connecticut all to myself. Been there, done that...I needed to extricate myself out of Connecticut for my daughter was attending her father's wedding. I thought putting myself as far away from the trainwreck unfolding might be the best thing, because for whatever reason I found myself slightly humilated at the spectacle he was creating on his third trip to the altar.

I had thought of more than a few of my New England friends to join me on this day, but it was something I needed to do by myself. A certain, independent rite of passage and most certainly, a great adventure for any Southern Girl and to do it alone was like bungee jumping. I took a deep breath and made my decision. I was going to the city via the train and visit the new Greek and Roman Gallery at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And in retrospect, I couldn't have spent a more fabulous day to get my mind off of the events unfolding.

I woke up, had a fabulous cup of coffee, borrowed a car and drove an hour over the NY state line to the MetroNorth Station in Katonah. The train station was the crossroads of the city ... quaint coffee shops, stationers, bistros, funky and expensive boutiques lined the picturesque town where Martha Stewart served her in-home sentence.

Taking the train into Grand Central was a breeze. I didn't play tourist too much, after arriving I got a quick visual of my surroundings, information desk, restrooms, foodcourt, newstand and headed outside to the taxi stand. The maize colored cabs streamed through the streets, I looked up and saw the Chrysler building and my heart really did skip a beat - I had arrived safely in Manhattan.

Should I go to the Empire State building? Should I walk down Madison Avenue? No, come back when you can share it with Katie and play tourist then - stick to your plan, I told myself, don't get overwhelmed. My turn came quickly in the cab stand, my senses were on sharp alert as I listened to the different dialects and didn't smell that landlocked city smell. The day was bright and the breeze was light. I humped in and gave the address - followed the street signs on the pocket sized map in my hand.

We whizzed through the city streets, I got tickled at the back and forth video-like game the cabs played with each other. I tried to glimpse down corridors passing by in blur and see the neighborhood flavor but before I could take in too much we had arrived. I was deposited at the steps of the Met paid my fare and stepped out into the bright day. I quickly gobbled down a hot dog from a bona fide street vendor and had to make myself sit down and take it all in. I did it. I HAD arrived. I tried to look cool and not appear to be too dumb-founded and act like Gomer Pyle - well, Gol-ol-ly, I was in NEW YORK CITY (channeling both Gomer and the salsa commerical at the same time here).

People-watching on the concrete steps was something I could have done all day, but galleries of famous and not so famous art awaited me. I had referenced a few pieces from this new exhibit in my research paper I had turned in the week before and presented some images of the collection in a graduate study presentation. I had discovered the new and improved collection from the NY Times that inadvertently sat on my desk for days, so I was extremely exciting about seeing it in person.

The first thing I noticed upon walking into the Grand Hall was that the place was buzzing. People checking bags, waiting on friends, talking on cells, inquiring minds at the information desk lent their voices to the white noise that echoed off of the arched ceiling.

After fumbling around at the information desk and audio tour station, I made it to the Greek Gallery right away - I wanted time to enjoy the entire collection. I got chills seeing some of the pieces we had only viewed in various multimedia collections. The funerary vases from the Geometric period were so much larger in life than I had expected. The expressions on the grave steles were so somber and personal that up close. I loved wandering from piece to piece and marveling that the works of a stonemason lived on these many centuries past.

Finally, I saw the many images of the Greek Gods - Herakles, Aphrodite, and the mighty Zeus. I may as well climbed Mt. Olympus than the steps of the Met.

Ascending to the 2nd floor, I found myself viewing the 19th century & European collections. Matisse, Monet and Van Gogh - nothing compares to seeing them in person. I wandered back down in search of the elevator I kept appearing at the front of this gate in the Medieval collection...

Like Dennis the Menace in the Family Circus comic strip, no matter where I wandered or followed the map or way-finding directions, I ended up back in front of this map, if I had redpaint on my feet they would have criss-crossed and landed at a big X. In a way I was lost and kept coming back at this crossroad. If I went to the left, right or went through it - somehow, I got turned around and landed at the open gates.... it was a minor frustration but resulted in showing me some of the other galleries that didn't particularly interest me. If not for standing in front of the gates and letting fate play it's course I would have missed some spectacular pieces.

Highlights of the day included the infamous Jackson Pollack piece, sculpture Gallery, the China exhibit, Egyptian tombs, and the rooftop garden...

The rooftop was particular exciting - seeing the West Side of Central Park stretch out across the vastness of the green space caused me to pause and realized I had never seen this part of NYC.

I wandered a bit more - sometimes I would sit and look at the details - seeing Washington Cross the Delaware was impressive and I appreciated the art students scattered throughout the gallery making notes and sketching away. What a wonderful classroom this turned out to be for all of us visiting that day. I found that I learned a lot about myself on this day as well.

Upon leaving I browsed in the gift shop but couldn't find anything that came close to representing the precious hours I had spent behind the Ionic columns of the museum's facade. I descended the steps, bought a kitchsy t-shirt for my girl and jumped in a cab & headed to Serendipity III.

I wanted to catch the Ford Escape Cab that looks like our car but couldn't get myself aligned correctly in the cab stand line. After assurances from my English speaking cab driver that I would be able to get a cab on this street, I jumped out to find a yound crowd gathered outside. The wait at Serendipity was 2 hours long - "Not bad," chirped a 20something from Long Island-probably drawn to the place like many - since it had become famous on the silver screen.

I couldn't wait that long - I went out to the curb and threw my hand in the air and yelled "Taxi" and tried to sound as commanding as possible, OMG - I actually hailed a cab all by myself!! One shrieked to a stop at my feet - wow - what power! I jumped in and headed back to Grand Central - tickled with myself - I longed to buy from the street vendors but played it safe and just headed back to my original destination.

Since this cab driver did not speak English - I kept my thoughts to myself - and I realized that I had been voicing an internal conversation with myself all day. I had really enjoyed spending the day with myself and doing something that in another time I would have been told that it wouldn't have been possible.

Back at Grand Central, I puttered around in the news stand - loving being surrounded by all those books, magazines and newspaper headlines, the words caught my attention and I circled the shop and read everything - downstairs I replaced the Frrozen Hot Chocolate craving with an even better piece of NY cheesecake. The girls behind the counter assured me I could go get a Starbucks and make my train in 12 minutes. "We told you," they laughed as I whizzed by 6 minutes later.

Heading northbound on the Harlem line, I relaxed and watch the stops roll by. I saw cars waiting for their loved ones to embark from the train, the dinner hour in full swing at cafes that lined the city centers and finally the quaintness of Katonah came into view. I was relieved to have found my way back safely. And not just to my destination either.

Writing's Power to Heal

2007-03-26T14:06:00.000-07:00

Writing's power to heal lies not in pen and paper, but in the mind of the writer.

--APA

Sharing our stories can also be a means of healing. Grief and loss may isolate us, and anger may alienate us. Shared with others, these emotions can be powerfully uniting, as we see that we are not alone, and realize that others weep with us.

--Susan Wittig Albert

It's been a year since I started this blog. I started writing again so I could do something positive with all the emotions I had inside my mind. To try and figure them out so to speak. The address I haven't publicized, but rather shared with only a chosen few...putting posts out when the mood would strike me - not blogging for the sake of blogging but just using it when I needed to examine something and see where it was going - why I was thinking about it or rather trying to decipher some confusing feelings and dreams.

For a time I couldn't write - the words simply would not form for me like they used to - but time is a powerful thing and a year ago I was able to let the keyboard sing again. Like most, I worry about my writing and if I will be judged for what I put down on paper. However, this format enables me to let my thoughts go in an anonymous world and in doing so it has saved a part of me and gave part of me back to myself. Finally I can love the giver - myself.

My writing has allowed me to finally get mad at my ex-husband! It has allowed me to walk on a hiking trail I traveled on long ago. It has allowed me to remember and cherish a special person I love deeply and have lost touch with... It has allowed me to love my old self and build a new self. It has allowed me to define the new space I live in...realizing that it's a good space after all.

This weekend I dreamed I was riding on a train in a antique passenger car... I knew my fellow passengers but I didn't know them...We were all content to be headed in the direction we were going. After I opened my eyes and going throughout the day, I realized that these dream was telling me that my life is heading in the right direction. I had been off-track for a while, but now I'm back on the right course. It is the greatest feeling to realize this feeling of contentment.

What a difference a year has made for me - I'm enrolled in a Master's Program and yes, I have the confidence finally to hold my head up and be a Single Parent (after calling everyone and checking in with everyone else first - yes it's okay, okay). I have a healthy, terrific, smiling, singing, skipping daughter who loves me and my mom and sisters are absolutely fabulous. And my friends, my chosen family - the ones I call on via a rotation basis so too many crisises doesn't overwhelm just one - well, there's not adequate words to describe the roll they have played in helping me build back my live and my self-confidence. They love me for me. They are there for me for my tearful "have to go sit in the car and cry" lunches and are there to laugh and call to make sure I'm watching our favorite team in the NCAA Sweet Sixteen this year.

A month and a half ago life was finally able to break through and make me realize how blessed I am with the life I have re-built and since that day the peace that I have prayed for so long has been present.

So now without my thoughts being clouded by worry I can continue observing things in life that touch me and record them here - my very special healing space.

Home Improvement

2007-03-02T13:10:00.000-08:00

I began tackling another room makeover project - with great intentions I selected paint colors and began shopping for new fabrics to redo my bedroom. With a Saturday free, I made the hasty decision to remove the wallpaper in the master bath and paint the bathroom first. I thought it should only take what an afternoon?

I peeled wallpaper for 10 hours over the past weekend. The wallpaper is winning - half of it is still up on the walls, my back is shot and my fingernails still have sticky paste lodged underneath. That's what I get for thinking I would tackle the easiest job first. My oversized master bedroom would be painted by now.

It's amazing the inner dialog you carry on with yourself as you spend that many hours in one of the most utilized rooms of your home. I listened to music. Sang old songs to myself. Thanked myself for thanking myself and talked to the putty knife and magic wallpaper scrapper more times than I care to admit.

Earlier in this online journal I reflected on a lot of self-discovery in Putting on the Primer where I worked on a similar wallpaper removal project in my kitchen. I finished that project that had two stubborn layers of wallpaper (they were much easier) so I know I can do this. I couldn't help but remember the self-reflection that came with that project. This one is no different. So much has happened on my personal journey since then...

While I stripped wallpaper of less than a half inch in length from the wall - I grew frustrated about how long it was taking me - I had given up my weekend for this?!? As I sprayed and sprayed the solution on the wall and scrapped and scrapped I related this act to how long it takes to peel back any layers and see what's underneath. And when you do peel back one layer - sometimes you are only scratching the surface.

Recently, I stumbled upon a peaceful place in my post-divorce life. Days have passed when I don't think about attorney's, court or even attorney's fees. The familiar feeling I have walked around with like air has been let out of a balloon has momentarily left me. Am I finally getting over this?

The spring air has brought me back to the night four years ago when I didn't sleep and knew that when I left my home the next morning it would tragically be my last night there in the home & life that I cherished and loved.

In my conversation with self - I have pondered why I took this route and didn't do the easiest room first. I certainly didn't follow the path of least resistance. Sometimes that's a hard road NOT to take. I tried that in my marriage and it backfired on me.

I have slowly and steadily worked to refortify the foundation that crumbled underneath me. I'm still building and reconstructing - that foundation that I'm now responsible for will remain a work in progress - because I have learned that nothing, not even the colors of the walls, stays the same.

Doughnuts for Dads, Daughters and Dachshunds

2007-02-22T08:40:00.000-08:00

They had donuts for dads this morning at school... my daughter got upset and started crying last night saying "daddy hasn't come to anything since kindergarden" - I just let her cry while I held her and told her how much that I loved her hoping that it would ease her hurt a little bit (her dad moved 1,000 miles away four years ago). I told her that I was sure there were some dads who were out of town and couldn't be there and then other kids like her - but to be strong and she would have another special time with her dad.

Then we went to church and in kids and adult worship they had Aash Wednesday service. For me it was very reaffirming when the minister put the ashes on my forehead in the sign of the cross and said "In the name of Jesus Christ you are forgiven" - hearing those words I felt both a sense of spiritual and physical relief wash over me - and I was glad I had made the effort to go the service because the path I have had to take this past year has been both clear and confusing and I'm trying to just look ahead and not look back. When I picked her up from children's worship she had ashes on her forehead also and she was tickled that we both had them

So early this morning - I made a sign that said Doughnuts for Dachshunds - and our dachshund was cooperative and acted crazy - jumping on her owner and biting her toes to wake her up and running like a banshee under the bed and into the bathroom at breakneck speed (at least for a dachshund okay)...and wouldn't stop until she got a mini doughnut...and that chilled the crazy pooch out by the time we left for the day ... so I walked my daughter into school in the midst of all those fathers and said I was going to storm into the principal's office and ask why they couldn't have "Moonpies for Moms" and she loved that and held my hand and was swinging it. So we circumvented the doughnut event and I kept us busy with a classroom project I am assisting with for Read Across America and got her to help me with a tape measure - then we saw a classmate and his dad from the beach this summer and the dad took one look at her instantly caught on and was so wonderful to talk to her about their moonlit hunt for crabs on the beach at night and she was beaming. Internally, I said a silent thank you to the dad - it meant so much to me.

My mom is taking her to her favorite doughnut shop, The Donut Den, this afternoon for a special doughfilled treat.

However, tomorrow is another day - Doughnuts for Dads P - Z. For now I'm taking one moment at a time and hoping that in the morning a crazy dachshund will provide some more much needed licks, laughs and pleas for doughnuts.

How Did My Life Get So Off Track?

2007-02-15T12:36:00.000-08:00

Did I got too far?
I can never turn back.

Two moments in my life
That got off track.

Will I always regret
the loss of civility?

With two people that I loved
that hurt me deeply.

I lashed out in anger
tired of being hurt.

To prove myself
to state my self-worth.

What am I trying to prove?

I made my statement
loud and clear.

They had both discarded me
No longer held me dear.

Did I reach my unstated goal?

Did I pull even?

Did I change my role?

Did I achieve the direction
I was trying to gain?

If so, why do I still
feel so much confusion and pain.

I made my statement
now what do I do?

Retreat to my safe place
and lick my wounds?

I wonder...

Will I ever get past this?
Will I ever heal?

These two episodes in my life
ever fresh and surreal.

Am I standing up to another father
so he won't do the same thing to his little daughter?

Their rejection was my story,
my life's underlying theme.

Do I just want someone held accountable
to give rise to my self-esteem?

Going Back to College to Get More Knowledge

2007-01-18T13:44:00.000-08:00

This summer I took a giant leap of faith in myself and applied for graduate school. For fear that I wouldn't get accepted I told no one what I was attempting. I did a serious self-evaluation in writing my personal statement, acquired my recommendation letters and closed my eyes when viewing my long forgotten transcript and GPA from my undergradute days. Still unsure of myself, I dusted off my portfolio from all my acquired work from the past 18 years, remembered the tips from my mock interview with my sister and went to an interview with the Dean of the program.

Two weeks of holding my breath later, I GOT AN ACCEPTANCE LETTER via email! I was schocked beyond belief and weak with relief. Before I would not have had any doubt of my abilities, but my shaky confidence wouldn't allow me to get my hopes up.

My undergraduate experience was some of the best four years of my life. I now found myself wondering what I had gotten myself into? At my first orientation for graduate students, I felt like quite the granny compared to some of the young kids sitting around me who weren't born until the (gasp!) 1980s. When my first paper was due, I discovered that I had forgotten the MLA rules of style and had to ask an 80s baby to refresh my clouded memory. Mrs. Estes, my AP English teacher from McGavock, would be appalled if she knew of my lapse in MLA brain cells.

Combining classes and work make for some long days and nights for me - but I know the end result will be worth it. This experience has already worked wonders for my battered self-confidence. I know that going after this degree would not have been an option for me in my former married life and I remind myself each time I walk to class what a privilege this is to take part in. More importantly, I feel like an important member of the community I find amongst and I didn't realize how much I needed to belong to something like this. My goal of obtaining this master's degree has given me a new purpose - one that I will be proud to accomplish.

The one night away a week is probably hardest on my daughter. When I first told her I was going back to school and it was going to take me three years to complete my degree this way, she burst into tears. "Mommy, you are leaving me for three years?" She interpreted it to mean I was leaving her behind literally going away to college. I quickly explained that this was not the case. "Why do you have to go back to school?" she asked. And I found myself evaluating my personal statement once again in a way to explain it to my seven year old.

Basically, I just told her that no matter how old you are learning never ends. I wasn't content to just read books on my own - that I wanted to study, examine, discuss things, be challenged and earn a higher degree for myself. I'm doing this for us, I told her, so I can get a better job and be a better person, a good example for her. Where this landed in her comprehension I'm not sure, but she loves that I have homework too, assigned readings and papers and research on the internet and was eager to see my "report card" at the end of the semester. I try to do my homework when she is doing her assignments.

Over the years, my reading has saved me - it has let me escape and taken me to places that I will never see. Already my graduate student experience has given me so much - courage to believe in my abilities again, finding my voice to express my opinion amongst other learners and realize that it counts.

During my interview with the Dean I told him - that if I were accepted that I would complete the program, because I always start what I finish and that was my sincere intention. This isn't only a quest for knowledge and accomplishment or a piece of paper to hang on the wall - it represents so much more for me at this point in my life.

My daughter came home one day with a new rhyme she learned on the playground it goes something like this... "Girls go to college to get more knowledge ... Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider". I wince when I hear this last part from growing up in a household where we were not allowed to say anyone was stupid or dumb it pains me to hear the latter part of this phrase repeated. The former president of Harvard, Lawrence Summers, would definitely debate me on the merits of the statement as well. But I love the first part - Girls go to college to get more knowledge. I can only hope and dream my daughter will follow in these footsteps - I've learned in my life that it's truly not about the destination, but the journey that leads you there.

And I'm Going to be Forty

2007-01-09T14:02:00.001-08:00

Sally: ... and I'm going to be forty.

Harry: When?

Sally: Someday.

Harry: In eight years.

Sally: But it's there. It's just sitting there like this big dead end.

-- When Harry Met Sally

2007 - this year I turn 40 (gasp!)

Actually I can't wait to embrace fortydom! No dead end for me - it represents a new beginning - with the drop of the ball on New Year's Rockin' Eve my countdown officially began! Goodbye tumultous thirties! Hello 40 and Welcome Back Home Sabrina!

My celebratory goals for the first year:

--continue to work on my Master's Degree.

--celebrate my official entrance into adulthood (Finally I feel like I'm going to be a bonafide adult).

--hike Mt. LeConte.

--go on a fabulous Girl's Trip to commemorate this milestone.

--have a fabulous party in honor of my family and friends that got me here!

--help my other friends turning 40 this year to enjoy it just as much as me.

--count each and every blessing.

--buy myself a fabulous birthday present.

This is going to be the year of living fabulously. No looking back - just straight ahead!

Watch out world - here I come!

2006-12-26T11:06:00.000-08:00

"Dear George, remember no man is a failure who has friends.

Thanks for the wings, Love Clarence."

I Lost it at Starbucks

2006-12-20T14:38:00.000-08:00

After my 6th trip in one hour to the big box stores in search of a hot Christmas item for KK, I stopped at the Starbucks counter at Target on my way to the parking lot. I couldn't score the elusive game I was in search of, but a latte was

available for my consumer consumption. Instead of the normal overeducated coffee baristas that normally man the counter, two older ladies who seemed transplanted from Jersey took our orders and had plenty of wisecracks and Christmas cheer to spare.

I must have looked miserable as I moved to the pickup counter to grab my white chocolate mocha, Tina looked at me and said "Are you okay hon?" She stepped out from behind the counter and gave me a hug and without even knowing what was bothering me gave me a squeeze and said "you know everything is going to be okay." I quickly gulped in a deep breath of hair, grabbed my to go cup and blindly ran out of Target. The kindness of a stranger was again overwhelming and I lost all composure - everything I had been trying to hold in for the past week came pouring out.

I called the manager later in the day - I'm sure he was rushed and harried - but I had to impress on him how much it meant to me that at 9:00am the customer service at my favorite store was over the top - they probably think that lady in the red sweater is whacked - but I don't care. I got weepy again trying to stress how much it meant to me. His impatience finally broke and he said he would make sure he would pass on my sincere thanks. I hope he did - the wisecracker from Jersey had the biggest heart and the warmest hug.

I Want to Be a "Rock Star" Mom

2006-11-29T08:08:00.000-08:00

I always find comfort when I hear movie stars, professional athletes, physicians and others in the public eye (who have demanding jobs and schedules) say that their most important job is that of being a parent. Julia Roberts (she's my age : 0 ) went on Oprah recently to tout the most important role of her career, motherhood. I guess it makes me think - wow, a person living a privileged life - wants exactly what I do - to be the best mom or dad. If they accomplish that all these other accolades fade away. I realize that maybe I'm not missing out on anything after all.

A few months ago, I dropped my daughter off at school on a Monday morning. She skipped off to the front door wearing a zippy white, brown and plaid skirt, her Mary Janes and an Old Navy t-shirt that said "My Mom is Rock Star". I felt like a rock star that day... the night before I had prepared her snacks, filled out permissions slips and water bottles, ironed her clothes and laid out her lunch money, library books & ballet bag for the entire week. We arrived at school on time and I felt good about myself. We had our act together and were both prepared for another week in the world.

Four hours later, I was eating lunch at my desk and got a phone call from the school nurse. My daughter had thrown up in the school cafeteria! Did she have any other symptoms? Could it be strep? Has anyone else in her class been sick or gone home early? My mind raced to calling the pediatrician's office on my speed dial, getting someone to cover me at work for the rest of the day and thinking of what would I do about the next day - she couldn't be at school in a 24 hour period after getting sick.

I drove to her school quite dejected thinking of the shirt she was wearing and how what a joke it was - a mockery now because I was feeling quite unlike a "rock star" super mom at the moment. When I arrived she confessed that she had eaten ranch dressing on a chocolate chip cookie. Maybe it's a stomach bug and the combination she had eaten was too much to take I thought, but I still worried about the rest of our week and how it would unfold. I couldn't bear to look at the sassy shirt any longer.

We went home and changed out of school and work clothes and she was imprisoned on the couch for the rest of what would be a low-key afternoon. I had to talk myself out of beating myself up from worrying about my boss and job, and slowly began to realize that it's okay to come out of overdrive and just simply be mom for the afternoon.

As a parent, I worry everyday over parenting her - that I don't get to spend enough time with her - that I don't read to her every night, that she is living in a single parent home, that she eats a good breakfast and enough fruit and vegetables each day, what would happen to her if I died early, not having $$ to have decent life insurance to leave behind if something did happen to me, making sure she goes to college, not having a father figure in her daily life, that she lives a good, moral life with me as a role model, that I don't have enough $$ in my bank account for an emergency fund, that if she could she would be a night owl, that if I accept a movie invite from a friend that I feel guilty spending time away from her. Sometimes all that alone is so overwhelming to me.

So to hold it together I try to keep everything moving forward in one direction at a safe, speed. Try to keep us on a routine so our family life runs smooth and we don't notice the person missing from the picture. We had to paint a new photo of what our family looks like and we are both finally getting used to it.

Who doesn't want to be a "rock star" mom that has fun with their child and makes super parenting decisions. I do. I want to be on top of everything in her life, give her piano and violin lessons, get her a math tutor, be involved in her community and set a good example at all times and want the correct words to come out of my mouth in teaching moments. But in a total "rock star" mom fantasy world, I would love to fly her to Chicago and treat her to lunch at the American Girl Place and spend the afternoon looking at the dinosaurs at the The Field Museum. Or take her to Serendipity's in NYC so she can have a Frrrozen Hot Chocolate and jump on the piano at FAO Schwarz. Or watch her swim with a dolphin on a Disney cruise.

Like any parent, I naturally want to give my daughter the world. But naturally all she needs is a mom who is loving, patient, and kind (especially after hearing chocolate chip cookies dipped in ranch type confessions). It's intrinsic that we know this, but good to remind ourselves that your child doesn't care if you are a rock star or a person of privilege to be able to provide the basics - love, boundaries and a happy home.

The Kindness of Strangers

2006-11-13T12:38:00.000-08:00

There have been many instances in my journey where I have had to rely on the kindness of strangers. In all of the instances, as the receiver of these acts of kindness, the acts directed towards me always touches me to my very soul.

In the months that followed our separation, my car started a rapid decline in health. The Jeep Grand Cherokee, which had once been a status symbol of our financial union, had over 270,000 miles on it. It had served me well. The SUV was medium sized not monster sized and I loved to drive it.

At 270,000 it started having some minor aches and pains and in a car like this they were not always the most inexpensive fixes. I found a local dealership that would help me. The car and I would limp in, I would drive it through through the service bay and get out and hand my keys to the assistant service manager. Over the months that ensued I found myself driving the familiar route once or twice a month and a few times, AAA would be summoned for transport.

I'm not sure how the service manager found out, but somehow he knew I was going through some hard times. Once I arrived at the end of the day to pick up my Jeep, walked up to the window to collect my bill and all the service fees had been waived and I had only been charged for the parts. Knowing the bill was wrong, I asked for the service manager. He quickly appeared inquired if everything was alright with my car and I told him my concern. He laid a hand on my shoulder and told me that "Yes, the bill is absolutely correct." Trying to hold back tears to save us both the embarrassment, I could barely mouth my "Thank you so much" out to him before blindly walking to my car. This happened more than once.

Once one of the mechanics said in passing, the black Jeep is back again? And I saw the Service Manager cut his eyes at him and I'm sure that later he got a good dressing down. How did this service manager get to be me and my Jeep's personal guardian angel?

One morning with my 4-year-old belted into her car seat, I pulled into the familiar bay and I saw him give a nod to the mechanics and they surrounded my car. I hadn't even turned off my engine yet. Two young men had opened my car doors, taken my keys, filled out my service report, gently unbuckled my daughter, removed her car seat and back pack and upon seeing my eyes water with grateful tears they quickly shuttled me and my belongings to the front of the Courtesy Car line ahead of many those waiting. It was like I had my own personal pit crew everytime I arrived. I could almost hear the paging system blaring "Woman about to cry in service bay - take care of her fast!!" If I wasn't so desperate at the time, it would have almost been comical.

It meant so much to me at the time, because I did need the extra help, but I didn't understand why they were helping me and not the next person. Needless to say, thanks to the continual breakdown of my car, the men in the service department didn't stay strangers for long. However, their kindness touched and humbled me in a way I can't describe.

It doesn't end there - I have had gift cards appear mysteriously in my mailbox, help with odds and ends and a group of nameless friends at church knitted me a prayer shawl. My family supports me in a never ending fashion. I have been stripped and humbled in ways that I didn't know possible; maybe this is the lesson in all this for me. I once had been hopeless and I found my way out. Through the help of my family and the kindness of strangers, my faith and hope have been miraculously restored.

Continuance

2006-10-24T21:58:00.000-07:00

Stuck in limbo
Caught in between
So much legalese
I don't know what it means.

My BP is rising
Anger is spiking
Hopes are dashed
Emotions splashed

I'm so disheartened
Feels like no one cares about my plight
my futile disgusting one woman fight

So much of my life feels at stake
Lady Justice is not only blind
but on a prolonged coffee break.

My Grandmother's Quilt

2006-10-24T13:18:00.000-07:00

I automatically reach for my quilt every morning when I wake up. To ward off the coolness of the morning I cover my shoulders for a few more minutes. The quilt gives me physical and emotional comfort that no other covering can. As I feel its softness and the worn pieces of material that hold it together, I always think of the love that was put into making it. Every morning it's like I get a hug from someone that loves me.

You see the quilt was made expressly for me by my grandmother when I graduated from college. She brought it all the way to Knoxville from Big Rock, Tennessee. I remember her handing me the bulky package to unwrap and although I knew what was inside I was surprised when I opened it and saw how beautiful it was. So many quilt pieces and so many sweet stories from the clothes that made the blocks upon blocks of my quilt.

It would have been a surprise, but during one weekend visit my grandfather swore my to secrecy and tiptoed into the room and pulled back of sheet and my quilt was revealed. He grinned sheepishly, I think he even giggled mischeviously - loving that he let the cat out of the bag and that I was so thrilled. It wasn't until years after he had died that I told my grandmother that story. She loved hearing about his trick and she smiled and called him a rascal. Just another piece of the quilt that made it so special.

I have slept under the quilt now for 17 years. Sometimes when I'm away from home I just don't rest as easy without it covering me. The weight of the materials against by body is perfect. When I fled my marital home in fear, it was the only possession besides my contact case and solution that I took with me. I slept through many restless nights in the days, weeks and months that followed but the quilt gave me a comfort that nothing else could.

Today, I treat it gingerly. I spot clean it. Each morning I fold it up carefully and put it on the cedar chest at the foot of my bed. I reach for it everynight when I finally decide to let go of the day and lay down. Some of the quilt pieces are loose and the edges are becoming frayed. I probably should have taken better care of it and appreciated it more.

A few months ago, I realized that the quilt had become fragile like my grandmother. It's not holding up as good as it used to but I do what I can to piece it back together. The maker of this beautiful quilt has suffered a stroke and heart attack in the past weeks and we had to make the painful decision to move her into a long term care facility. She has a few items in her room, remembrances of her family to give her comfort, but nothing as special as the quilt she made for me.

Every weekend when I change my bedding I examine my quilt and I notice a little bit more wear and tear, a few more pieces trying to break free and wonder how much longer it will last. Every time I visit Grandmother, she's a little bit more confused. She's always happy that I'm there and I always make sure I take the time to just sit with her and hold her hand, and I'm always comforted by her warm and loving touch.

Andrew's Bald (elevation 5860 feet)

2006-10-10T14:22:00.000-07:00

The day I spent hiking up to Andrews Bald was one of the best days of my life. How could I consider this short hike in The Great Smoky Mtns. National Park one of the greatest days of my life and place it on my personal best list? It's wasn't a momentous occasion like the birth of a child or a wedding or a job celebration or even finishing a marathon. Just simply a day spent in the quiet company of a good friend in a place with the most spectacular views.

Have you ever had a day that you would like to relive? Do it over to make the memory last? I haven't gone back to this trail but I think about it, and the day spent on it, often.

We both needed a break from school and had made a last minute decision to go to the mountains for the day. We entered the park and drove by the Sugarlands Visitor Center. As we headed up the mountain we cruised by the visual landmarks - The Chimneys, Mt. LeConte, Newfound Gap - we had briefly discussed hiking to Alum Cave Bluffs, but decided to head as high as we could and see what we could find.

We found the trail leading from Clingman's Dome on a lazy fall day. The mist that normally surrounds Clingman's Dome eluded us here. The Red Spruce and Fraser Firs that lined the trail and ringed the bald artfully framed the bottom of the beautiful vista. The trail was relatively easy - a four mile round trip hike - two miles in we came what I can best describe as a meadow on a mountain top. Not rough or rugged but grassy and smooth - no trees that blocked the views of Fontana Lake and the North Carolina mountain range that faced us. The day was sunny, the wind was light & both gently brushed our faces.

We didn't talk about anything earth shattering rather I think we were both aware that my friend was graduating the following spring and we both knew that our joined paths would soon branch away from each other. We talked about nothing in particular. At times we sat in silence and just took in the view. We pointed out things the other didn't notice. For a while we sat back to back propping each other up. I looked at the wildflowers and wondered how this place existed without my prior knowledge to this day? It was so beautiful. I soaked up my Vitamin D quotient for the rest of the year.

I don't know why I get so nostalgic when I think of the day. Maybe it represents the transition my life was getting ready to take. Maybe it just simply represents the happiness that I was experiencing in my life.

Andrews Bald is definitely one of my "Wide Open Spaces" - a place in the clouds / a foundation of stone / But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed.

In my journey to find the pieces of myself I have lost - I'm finding comfort in returning to the places I have loved the most. The beach - the mountains - old friends I have lost touch with - letting new friends into my life. If I could relive that day - I would pay more attention to the path that led me to the meadow - the stones I stepped on - the protectiveness of the trees. And I would have opened my eyes wider to path that led me away from this mountain top that I have always loved.

Andrews Bald - elevation 5860 feet - the memory of this day helps me to revisit the elevations of my life and find the simple girl who I used to be.

2006-09-27T08:32:00.000-07:00

Where you stumble and fall there you will find the gold.

Sam Keen

I AM A RHINOCEROS

2006-09-26T08:41:00.000-07:00

To dream that you see a rhinoceros, foretells you will have a great loss threatening you, and that you will have secret troubles. To kill one, shows that you will bravely overcome obstacles.

The nature of the rhinoceros is to be alone, walk alone, live alone, intent on its own affairs and more or less oblivious of what does not concern these.

__________ __________ __________

Last night I dreamed of my father. I have not dreamed of him since the week of his death three years ago.

I tried to follow the jumbled pieces of the dream and I finally allowed myself to just be a spectator. I was working in a school, preparing a classroom. The setting changed to the Leatherwood United Methodist Church in the Land Between the Lakes area where my father grew up as a boy. I was sitting in a pew on the right side of the church with my daughter and sisters and we were watching the tragic comedy of his wedding to his third wife Annie unfold. She looked grotesque, she was wearing an overdone wedding gown too young for someone her age to wear and her face was painted with Tammy Faye Baker makeup that was running down her face. The acolytes were friends of theirs. They were drunk and promptly fainted with the backs to the altar. One was holding a large gold cross, the other a candle snifter. I remember thinking how inappropriate the whole affair was when sensing this my father turned to us. He looked like Orson Welles in "Citizen Kane" and he addressed us by succintly stating "I am a rhinocerous." I heard him say it twice.

I woke up confused. I was relieved that I was able to dream about him again. Since he died I feel like I haven't been able to fully accept his death. In the beginning this feeling was unpalpable as if his dying was yet another long absence from my life that I had experienced since childhood. As I drove into work, I realized that this dream was not about my father but something my psyche was trying to communicate to me. My father had merely been the messenger. I went to a dream interpretation site and typed in rhinoceros. I gasped when I read it's interpretation. No mistruths lie between me and my psyche.

I do have issues troubling me. I find myself in legal limbo in this never ending custody case involving my daughter. I have this unrealistic fear and anxiety that the police are going to pull up at my doorstep and take her away or serve me with legal papers. I keep my blinds closed and the sunshine and unknown intruders out. He has caused me to live in fear again. And yes, I want to kill that fear and overcome this obstacle. He has threatened to take away the one thing I treasure most. I know it's unrealistic. I know his words are false. I can't voice these fears to anyone and make them understand.

Right now I walk alone.

I am a rhinoceros.

Nightmare in Shining Armor

2006-09-02T04:48:00.000-07:00

He left a message on my cell phone.
His tone acidic.
More threatening, ugly words.
Venom spewing.
Spoken solely to cause intentional hurt.
Attack her weakness, he thought.
Try to scare her and inflict more pain.
He would always say to me...
"The Opposite of Love is Hate."
He meant all these words as a threat.
It was all he ever did.
Threat, threat, threat.
Bully, bully, bully.
Brag, brag, brag.
He told me he was getting married.
To a woman with 4 kids.
She would be our daughter's mother he said.
They would be her brother and sisters.
Our daughter would be flower girl at their wedding.
I was not invited.
As if I would want to witness another unsuspecting woman walk onto his battlefield.
I feel euphoric. Please make it to the altar.
What's "The Opposite of Indifference?"
The target will slowly be moved from my forehead.
Onto hers.
A heavy burden is lifting.
The fog is slowly fading away.
I'm finally awakening.
He will become someone else's worst nightmare.
A nightmare in shining armor.

He was never patient. Never kind.
He was envious. He would always boast.
He was proud. He was rude.
He was self-seeking. Always angry.
He kept records of my wrongs.
He is evil. He speaks no truth.
He never protected me from himself.
He never trusted me. I lost my hope.
He did not persevere.
Love can fail.

When I left him I gained back the three that will forever remain: faith, hope and love.

Because the greatest of these is love.

He will never take that away from me. No one will. Ever. Again.

Safe Landings

2006-08-22T13:07:00.000-07:00

On the day the unthinkable happened, I watched the news coverage in horror with the rest of the world. However, when I heard that two of planes that had crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon & a field in Pennsylvania were American Airlines, I quietly panicked.

The first night I couldn't sleep. My eyes wouldn't close and I couldn't lie still. On September 12th, I desperately searched the internet and the newspapers and watched CNN for any reports that contained the names of the crew lists of either flight.

I had been walking around my house in a daze masking the near hysteria I felt. I told no one that I had been holding my breath that someone I deeply cared for was not behind the controls on either American Airlines plane.

On the 13th, I walked my dogs at midnight and I made countless deals with God in the dark via endless, quiet prayers for his safety, for his family's love and peace of mind and to please just let him be safe and grounded somewhere. Heat lightning towards the west freaked me out and I had a panic attack in the darkness with only my dogs to calm me down. I came back inside and watched CNN for hours until four in the morning.

The crew lists were published on the 14th and as relieved as I was not to read his name - glad that he was safe, I was also extremely disheartened to read the bios of the pilots who had been taken by surprise that day, because I could tell from what I read that they were good family oriented guys like him.

I wanted to write him a letter and let him know how thankful and relieved I was that he was safe , but I hoped that if I crossed his mind he would know that I felt that way. I didn't write the letter because I have always wanted to respect the boundaries of his marriage and not be intrusive in his life in any way.

Watching the coverage again five years later, I still find myself wondering where he was that morning. Was he on a flight that was unexpectedly brought to the ground? Was he preparing to leave home for a three day trip? Maybe he was off and on a lake somewhere doing what he loves to do best. I knew that he was safe and my panic was unfounded, but it came from a place of caring. How he was effected was my next concern.

It's been disappointing for me to see the profession he chose so radically changed by hurdle after hurdle, flight interrupted because of security breaches. I'm sure he have managed to pull good from this and apply it to what he is doing. Through those dark September days, a few people knew my fears and understood my concerns.

Those people remember when I put my hand in his without hesitation and stepped up in the cockpit of a few Cessna's and flew to the Lakefront Airport in New Orleans, Dothan, Callaway Gardens, BNA, BHM or landed next to the river at Downtown Island Home. I trusted him with my life - completely. Many years have passed, but when I think of flying I immediately associate it with him. Watching him take flight has been one of the greatest privileges in my life.

Every concourse I walk through - Baltimore, Chicago, San Francisco, Minneapolis, Orlando, Nashville, Dallas - I look for him, wondering if one of the guys in uniform carrying a flight bag and wearing the airline pilot cap will be him - hoping that if the guy turns around or if I catch up it will be him.

I know - that just happens in the movies. But in real life we just hope for safe landings.

2006-08-18T09:57:00.000-07:00

"Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over,

it became a butterfly..."

Anonymous

One on One with Sakhmet

2006-08-16T12:28:00.000-07:00

Over the years my sister (personal life coach - everyone should have one) has given me affirmations to say each morning to boost my self-esteem. In the midst of a debilitating child custody suit, my self-esteem hasn't plummeted but it hasn't been totally where it needs to be. So she suggested that I pick out a power symbol to identitify with to get my mind where it needs to be - thinking positive and feeling courageous and strong.

"Pretend that you are a Mama bear", she said to me. "Playful and cuddly, but fericous and fierce when needed".

"That's the problem, I don't feel like a Mama bear." I said, "this situation makes me feel wild and on guard and ready to pounce."

"What kind of image do you see? she asked.

"Oh that's easy" I replied, "I rather feel like a mother lion - on alert, ready to scratch someone's eyes out if they mess with my cub."

So I went online and found some images of lioness' and their cubs and saved one as wallpaper to remind myself everyday of the lioness' role I play in my current life. The photo I found (at right) shows a lioness and cub gazing eye to eye. When I see it each day, I'm reminded of my role as caretaker, coach, protector, teacher, hunter, gatherer, soother, and best of all mother.

It's the best image I could have identified with and it seeing it and being reminded of these multiple roles does give me an inner strength. It's reassuring at best for this weird place I find myself in but it's good to have a hand or toe hold, a spot to anchor myself to and this image is one I have quietly imprinted on my brain.

Once I identified this image, my life coach began telling me about Sakhmet. A fiery and destructive Egyptian goddess associated with war and divine vengeance. Her name means "the Mighty One" and she was depicted as a woman with the head of a lioness. She pointed this out not to focus on the divine vengeance - because we both know that I'm not about that, but rather "the Mighty one, the goddess".

I can identify with Sakhmet's mythical fury. The untruths that have been launched against me has caused an earthquake of emotions from within. But I ask myself "Have I finally gotten to the point of fury?" Some days, yes and some days, no. Sometimes I feel quiet strength and calm. To which this surprises me, because I have never felt a calm like I feel these days. This custody case is my personal battle that not many people know I am fighting. I have elected to not discuss it with my small world, mainly to protect the cub from too many people talking about it.

I do not feel as if I deserve the injustices that have been served upon me, however, divine vengeance will hopefully arrive in the form of not letting this break me down, holding my head up and succeeding in my new life. For me, this would be the best personal victory I could achieve.

My birthday arrived in early July and as a present my other sister (let's call her my life cheerleader and spiritual advisor) took me to the Frist Museum to see the Egypt exhibit "The Quest for Immortality" focusing on the New Kingdom (1550-1069 BCE) through the Late Period (664-332 BCE) and this period marked the beginning of an era of great wealth, power, and stability. This time was also marked by a burst of cultural activity, much of which was devoted to the quest for eternal life.

It didn't encompass the treasures of any of the major dynasties like Ramesses or Tut, but ancient treasures to behold and lessons to learn from them.

Separated from my group, I turned a corner and found myself face to face with Sakhmet. I had no idea she would be there as part of the exhibit and my first reaction was to stand back and get a good look at her. I had to smile. She looked so pleasant and regal sitting on her throne, hardly the venomous goddess metting out divine punishment and destruction on Ra's enemies.

It was a nice birthday surprise to be one-on-one in museum with your personal power symbol. Did the smile I found myself wearing mean that I identified with the calm and pleasant mask she wore? Can I really fool the world with this calm persona that masks the hurt, disbelief and anger I've been feeling inside?

One on one with Sakhmet - not a bad way to spend a hot birthday afternoon - inside a dark cool museum hoping the Goddess smiles on me with her mighty powers to survive this extremely personal battle I have found myself in the midst of. Walking away from Sakhmet I felt myself walking a little taller and totally identifying with the lioness first who shall ever protect her cub and Sakhmet second, the mighty one because the power I misplaced is coming back to me.

2006-06-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

"Do one thing everyday that scares you."
Eleanor Roosevelt

A Box Marked Confidential

2006-06-19T11:14:00.000-07:00

I found the box of letters and old pictures in my grandmother's attic. Their discovery could only mean, a melding part of the long journey back to my old self and the unknown road ahead to the new self I am uncovering daily. I found them in the last place I told myself they could possibly be.

Finding them wasn't easy, I had to pry nails out of the attic trap door and unusual duct tape just to lower the stairs. Plus I had to do this with the precision of a safe cracker in MI:2 - if my grandmother knew I was breaking into her attic vault she would freak.

I climbed the stairs and when I reached the top, the box marked "Sabrina Confidential" was sitting at the top waiting for me (screaming READ ME! for anyone else to discover). I reached into the box and pulled out the first piece of paper that my hand touched. It was a letter. From him.

I sat down on the attic floor, my legs dangling into the ceiling of the hall below. I pulled the string and switched on the bare light bulb above. With my head in the rafters, I read one of the last letters he wrote me wishing me well. Confirming our break-up. It was like he were speaking the words to me that very day. I could hear his voice, his earnestness. I could see his eyes.

From below, my sister asked "Did you find it?". My daughter asking "Mommy, Can I see?" I put the letter back and didn't even pause to inspect the rest of the contents of the cardboard enclosure. I would save opening the rest for some quiet time. I had waited this long. I could wait a few more hours until I could find some alone time.

Driving back to Nashville, the box brought to mind the play "Love Letters" by A.R. Gurney that traces the lifelong correspondence and untapped relationship between two friends/wannabe lovers(?) and the unfolding of their lives via the written word. I remember that I wept when I saw the play at TPAC with Stefanie Powers and Robert Wagner.

Always a hopeless romantic before, but with my heart hardened due to sadness, mistrust and death of a few of the dreams I had for my life I wondered - would I weep when I read the letters in this box marked confidential? How would reading them make me feel? Our correspondence stopped when we both got married. I wanted to respect the boundaries of our marriages especially knowing that the feelings I still have are far greater than friendship.

For we were lovers in the greatest sense and we held each other's dreams in our hands and kept those dreams safe for each other. We believed in each other and always wanted the best for each other. And when we broke apart - it was peaceful with nothing else to say - no ill will - and the love I had for him the day we broke up still lives in my heart, in my mind and my memory and it is the gift that I carry with me. That I was loved by this wonderful person and how lucky I was to have had that kind of love.

Arriving home I left the box in the back of my car. As if it were a fragile artifact, I didn't want to move it again until I could pull all the contents out inspect each treasure in the right setting and with me in the right state of mind. I also realized that in these high-tech days of text messaging, e-mail and digital photography, that this box contained a preserved history - these letters, matchbooks, ticket stubs were little gifts waiting to be opened again.

As it turned out the opportunity to read the letters and look at the photos again presented itself that very evening. My daughter was going to hang out with her Aunt Dawn, I was alone for the night.

I took the time to slowly read each letter. I took note of when his stationary changed and remembered even the smell of the pages. How comforting it was to see the grid of the familiar graph paper, remembering his thought process and the emphasis of the things I remembered to be important to him. I read of trips we were planning to take together, the blossoming of our romance and relationship, rehashed phone discussions, chronology of the week's classes and study schedule, flight plans, career plans, true communication of our feelings, declarations, notes asking how my family and friends were doing. It was interesting to read the parts of the letter that pointed to the strife in our relationship. When he was into the relationship I wasn't and vice versa. Petty jealousies and immaturities aside we did a lot of growing up together.

The box held a cassette tape that contained songs we would record back and forth for each other. Don Williams, Phil Collins, Jimmy Buffett, Kenny Rogers - the dated music told the story of our feelings for each other also. Hidden messages when we were over the moon in love, mad, playful etc.... I gasped when I heard the first song on the tape, because after we listened to it for the first time he told me that he loved me. We were sitting in his car and as he hugged me, I felt him slip off his class ring from his finger while his arms were around me.

The insides of the box held some of the greatest treasures my life has known; poignant and funny greeting cards, matchbooks from restaurants, ticket stubs from movies and plays, postcards from far off places, photos of us from various stages of the years we shared with one another. But the tangible items also contained love, the promise of the future, happiness, photographic memories of hiking and camping in the mountains, road trips, the beach, sitting on a swing quietly smiling because you are next to the one you love, an extraordinary dog named Charley.

I saved the photos for last because I thought that when I looked at them it would make me sad for the love I had lost. Instead, I saw something in the photos that surprised me. I saw Sabrina, happy, having fun, eyes luminous - the girl I had forgotten - the girl who had so much self-confidence that it was intimidating to some - the girl who was loved by an exceptional guy. I wept when I saw the photos - not out of sadness but out of shock and recognition - there was the guy I loved with the girl I had loved. In addition to my feelings of missing him, I realized how much I had missed her, because I never realized I had how much of myself I have lost along the way.

It was a quiet evening that I will always cherish. I felt like I had spent the evening catching up with a very dear friend. Reading his letters again made me realize why I think of him so much when I listen to the rain hitting the windows, smell the honeysuckle while driving down a backroad and pause when I see the dogwoods bloom for the first time in the spring and why when I go to the Smokies to hike or camp I feel like I am coming home. Why when I hear John Waite singing the verse "Everytime I think of you, I always catch my breath" that it ushers back some wonderful feelings I haven't felt in a long time.

So what do I do with all this? I feel fortunate to even have these old fashioned love letters tied carefully with a ribbon, hiding in a box marked confidential, locked in a closet waiting for me to shed some light on them again (maybe when I'm feeling a little bit nostalgic for that exceptional person and that extraordinary dog). With the internet, IMing and text messaging do people even send love letters anymore? I feel providential that I had this my "first love, true love" experience with him.

I can only hope that someday when my daughter experiences this that it is with someone just as wonderful. And hopefully, I will have the grace to reach back to the girl I once was and recapture that confidence and belief in myself and never lose sight of her again. I've lost touch with him over the years, but "I hear his name in certain circles, And it always makes me smile."

Putting on the Primer

2006-06-11T07:07:00.000-07:00

While my daughter was out of town I decided to tackle a home improvement project. Painting my kitchen.

Before I could begin painting I had to prep the walls and this meant one thing. Removing the wallpaper. It started easy enough, one pull on the border put up in 1985 caused it come off in one roll. This was going to be easy.

Borders removed, I tugged on a corner of the wallpaper and the whole section came off in a huge sheet. Underneath it revealed a pattern original from 1975 when the home was built. I was surprised, it was a quaint yellow floral pattern with a zippy stripe. I tugged at its corner it wouldn't come off.

Oh my goodness, what have I gotten myself into? Two alternating layers on the wall - I had to move forward and finish the job.

I removed as much of the second wallpaper layer that I could and realized that I was going to need professional help. The first layer was never going to come off. Three walls were cleared and I took down the out of date lace curtains and threw the sheets of wallpaper and unwanted curtains in the trash. For some reason, it felt good to know I was never going to see those curtains again that had blocked the sunshine from coming into my windows.

After interrogating my sister and friends who have found themselves at the successful end of similar projects. I sought out their advice. Great recommendations abounded so I used the best of the best and was on my way.

A trip to Home Depot ensued and I wandered back to Floors and Walls and found some heavy duty spray solution to saturate the stubborn layer of wallpaper.

One thing my sister told me that would make the project go faster ... put on some good music. I started out with Billy Joel "Songs in the Attic". I realized listening to the music that it was probably written before all the wallpaper in this room was applied. When I finally psyched myself up to try the spray, I read the instructions, sprayed the solution and waited for 15 minutes and went at it again. Most of it came off in sheets but some unyielding remnants remained.

I was standing in a chair working on the area above the closet that houses my washer and dryer when I realized how winning the struggle over the resistant wallpaper and peeling off the final shreds felt reminscint of my inner conflict over my marriage that had ended and how I felt like somehow I had lost part of my soul.

But I realized as my head was close to my ceiling and reaching for the final pieces of tattered wallpaper that the first layer of paper that was hanging firm on the wall was my authentic self. The second layer I was struggling to peel off the walls was akin to my married persona I had taken on and even the sad surrender I had given in to during those years. Some of it I had to spray a second time and come back later and examine if it's ready to give yet and break free from the wall- that piece wasn't ready to give yet - much like my psyche not yet ready to relinquish that part of my fractured soul.

I listened to the Billy Joel CD so many times my portable CD player had gotten hot, so I switched to my stereo and put in a cassette tape of Kool & The Gang's "Emergency". Wow, memory lane of my girlhood self ... songs like Fresh, Mislead, Celebration, Emergency, andSurrender were playing. As I was jamming and peeling wallpaper my dog was looking at me as if I lost my mind. I think I was scaring her gyrating so close to the ceiling while standing in a chair and picking wallpaper strips off with my fingernails.

And while I have been blabbing that I miss the old me so much and what I wouldn't give to reclaim that girl I used to be, I realized that like the cheery, quaint yellow zippy striped wallpaper that I had a fondness for - I wasn't going to let it stay up on the walls. It was time for a new coat of paint, one that matches the swatch I taped to the wall that proclaims this is the new color for my kitchen, this is the new color for me.

It is time for my home (i.e. self)-improvement project undertaking to capture what I like about both the original wallpaper and remove the parts of the second layer that I didn't like. I might have to get my hands and fingernails sticky along the way to remove those layers, but that's okay - the end result is going to be worth it. Not an extreme home makeover, but a fresh new (out)look.

After the wallpaper is removed, I'm washing down the walls and getting out my primer.

Jesus Called

2006-06-05T12:39:00.000-07:00

Sometime during the last years of my friend Martha's struggle with breast cancer, she made all of her girlfriends promise her that on the anniversary of her death we were to meet at Calvary Cemetery and pour a vodka martini over her grave. We diligently promised her, "Yes" we would do this.

You see Martha had faced death for so long that she could easily joke about dying. She not only wanted her life to be celebrated, but for her death to be celebrated as well. Sometimes it was hard to laugh at her jokes about dying or accept her shocking bluntness about her diagnosis. Her brothers and sisters faced it with her and could joke at death's expense also. The seven kids had faced the death of their parents together.

Sometimes I had to ask myself "if she can laugh about it why can't you?" Most times it was hard watching her suffer both publicly and privately and I couldn't do it, I couldn't laugh at the off-color jokes no matter how brave the face she put on.

Year after year, she won the costume contest at my annual Halloween party. The first time, bloated by chemo therapy and bald as a cue ball, she simply wore a black graduation gown, painted her entire head white and after putting a light bulb in her mouth was transformed into the Addams Family's Uncle Fester. From the way she laughed and carried on - most of the people at the party did not know she was in the midst of her treatments and living with cancer.

She died a few years ago. It was August. She had progressively gotten sicker from the drugs she was taking and she had run through her nine lives. We knew this was going to happen - it was inevitable wasn't it? But, it was hard when the time came to say goodbye to her.

We laughed and carried on at the wake - drank shots of Jagermeister in her memory and told "Martha" stories that left us all shrieking with laughter. The next day reality set in and we cried and held on to each other at her funeral. She had planned her funeral months, perhaps years before and knowing Martha she would have been extremely proud of the fuss made with all the Pomp and Circumstance that only a sister of a beloved priest could muster at the Cathedral of the Incarnation in downtown Nashville.

When I heard the shovel full of red dirt hit her casket with a muted thud and smaller pieces of dirt scattering, I again was stunned into realizing that she was finally gone, finally free of living life with her cancer. When I made her acquaintance ten years before, she had just celebrated her no-more chemo party. I guess you could say her funeral was her no-more cancer party.

So on the anniversary of her death a year later, on a hot, humid August day we made plans to meet after work at Calvary, the Catholic cemetery in town, and pour the ceremonial martini like we had pledged. She had threatened to come back and haunt us if we broke our promise. Some of us took it us a joke, others took it a bit more seriously.

I arrived before everyone and since the area bordered on the iffy side of town I decided while I was waiting in this enormous expanse of hallowed ground to cruise around and see if I could find where the circle of priests were buried. To no surprise, I found it on top of the highest hill. I got out and walked around the circle pondering the mysticism and majesty of the Da Vinci Code-like symbolism that you could see every where you looked. Dramatic crypts and beautiful statues abounded in every direction. My gaze fell on pewter colored crosses and marble angels that had faded to the color of putty. I couldn't help but notice the little lambs and sweet cherubs on the smallest headstones that adorned the children's section of the cemetery. I paused and said a silent prayer for all who were buried here.

I climbed back in my car and headed back down the wooded, cement filled hill and saw something big and bright pastel yellow flash at the corner of my eye. I stopped and looked out the car window. Nothing. All I could see were trees and drab grey headstones. I put my car in reverse. Coming into my peripheral vision I saw it again.

Oh my gosh! That doesn't spell out Big Momma does it? An enormous flower arrangement spelling out the words "Big Momma" in yellow carnations. Who in the world would do something so tacky at a funeral? Well, obviously in this case it was Big Momma's family.

Thinking of how much Martha would love this I glanced down at my watch and discovered now I was late for my meeting at her graveside. I put the car in drive and headed off down the hill again.

The rest of the gang had arrived, we laughed told "Martha" stories and finally at the end poured that martini over the ground that covered her. "Martha, wherever you are - I hope you are smiling." I thought to myself.

As we disbanded, I mentioned my discovery and piquing my friends interest they asked me to take them to see Big Momma's grave. We drove up the hill and as I was passing the area and pointing out my window the other cars started pulling over and parking. I didn't mean for us to get out!

As we walked towards Big Momma, more arrangements were coming into view. The pastel yellow carnations had lots of colorful company.

Some of the arrangements had fallen over and someone righted one. Someone picked up another until soon all of the arrangements were standing up again. The flowers were still fresh. Big Momma had lots of tribute arrangements and her family had a dark but delightful sense of humor. I mean I grew up in the South and I have never seen anything like this display of adoration and affection.

White carnations were molded into the shape of a cake and the banner read "Angel Food Cake." Another baby blue arrangement formed into a telephone - the dial pad spelled out what could have only been Big Momma's phone number and the banner read: "Jesus called." At the bottom another banner read "Big Momma Answered"!

Oh my gosh, who was this woman?

A tangerine carnation purse was labeled "Shop Till You Drop." The "Gates of Heaven" were represented in mint green carnations as was the off-white carnation chapel that Big Momma and Mr. Big Momma must have gotten married in. Another sweet arrangement in the shape of an angel proudly wore a baby pink halo with the label "Precious Angel."

Someone in our group jokingly, but seriously inquired if our examination of the flowers was a sacrilege. But I think not. Big Momma couldn't help but get our attention. We delighted in the love that was shown to her by these colorful flower arrangements. Her family was obviously able to let go and honor her in death by the way she must have lived her life.

A few days later I searched the online obituaries for any mention of this woman who had an Irish name which I read off the tin temporary plate at the foot of her grave. I wanted to learn more about her. I hadn't missed the irony of her heritage because Martha was Irish also. I couldn't find anything that would tell me how old she was, when she was born, how many children and grandchildren she might have had or anything about this person who had to have a fabulous sense of humor. I just knew one thing - she was loved.

So was Martha, and I realized that although they were strangers they had a lot in common. It is my hope that somewhere in heaven they were up there together laughing at us. I was proud that we kept our promise to her because I could finally understand why Martha wanted us to remember her in death by the way she lived her life - joking, her gang of girlfriends together, raising a glass in her honor and reminding us that when "Jesus Calls" it's not supposed to be sad - I learned from Martha and Big Momma that it's meant to be quite a joyous occasion.

Bird Flu Fallout

2006-05-18T11:19:00.000-07:00

WARNING! In an attempt to thwart the spread of bird flu, President George W. Bush has bombed the Canary Islands.

Turkey is next.

Blogger's Note: Not an essay but I couldn't resist!

Election Day

2006-05-16T13:57:00.000-07:00

This presidential election will be our family’s first without our father who died suddenly last November. Not just an armchair politico, our father was a man of action. He was campaigning long before it was the politically chic thing to do. From sign painting to driving folks to the polls and just plain outspokenness on the issues, no doubt, he would have had strong opinions about this election. The issues facing our country today are issues that he felt strongly about and believed in.

As the breakneck speed of the final days of the election draws near one of the more lasting memories I have of him grows stronger and stronger and I can’t stop thinking of it. I know that he would have been watching the pundits and non-stop campaign reporting. I know he would have been active in his local community, talking politics, distributing the necessary signage, bumper stickers, buttons or direct mail pieces. Also, he would have maintained an open phone line to our cousin, his niece, the political activist in the family who would keep him abreast of any of the latest campaign buzz she was privy to. But phone conversations were sometimes uncomfortable with him as he most likely get worked up about the latest issues or news report. But then true to form, the day before the election would be upon us and we could always count on the phone call to admonish to his children the same message every time: “Make sure you vote!”

Growing up in Nashville, our neighborhood precinct also happened to be at our neighborhood elementary school. When this day rolled around, we knew that no matter if it were the local, state or national election, it was an important day in our house. Our dad would take his three daughters to school on that day – an exciting event in itself and park far away from the front door of Margaret Allen Elementary in Donelson.

Then we would walk through the gauntlet of the encampments set up by the candidates’ representatives who were handing out buttons and bumper stickers and begging for your vote. I often wonder now if it really makes a difference this late in the game, but traditions are traditions and sometimes maybe it is that last push for some that gets the vote. Once, I noticed a smile on his face as he walked confidently ahead of us as if he were the candidate himself and he knew his man was going to win. Folks on both sides of the school yard knew him and stopped him as he passed and many times he worked both political parties glad-handing and bantering about the issues and candidates and most times he knew more about the candidates and their platforms than the folks sitting in the November sun campaigning ever knew about them.

We stood quietly beside him and he loudly greeted the election volunteers who registered him. He introduced us to them (he knew them too) and he thanked them for being there. My sisters and I were 7 years apart so by the time he took me to school to vote – they were off to Junior High. I felt like a big shot alone in his presence, so important. Because he took this so seriously and believe me, it was honor to get a personal civic lesson from you father. He taught each of us that you take your right to vote seriously and you never ever miss that opportunity.

While waiting our turn for a booth, he again was talking to the kind gentlemen taking the white slips of paper – he was careful not to talk about the election itself – but instead would talk about the voter turnout or the college football scene.

When our turn came, he would escort us in the voting booth and instruct us to close the curtain. I can still remember the gentle but strong touch as he put his strong hand over my little one and help me pull the heavy arm to close the curtain behind us. Then he would pick me up, hold me in his arms and take his time to carefully explain the choices in a low voice. It was no secret to anyone who knew our father how he was going to the vote- he was a dedicated member of his party and totally proud and outspoken about it. Although we knew he was going to vote the party line and not cross over the divide delineating one party from the next, he still took the time to tell us about the candidates and any referendums on the ballot.

He would whisper in my ear and point towards the lever to pull and I proudly did it for each choice he made, knowing that somehow each vote counted towards something hugely important beyond our safe haven of our little neighborhood. When we finished, he would again help me pull the metal arm to open the curtains and to lock in our votes. I always felt a feeling of great accomplishment that I just helped my father do something extremely important in not only his life but for the life of our country.

After he walked me back to my third grade class one year, I watched for him through the classroom window to emerge outside and walk back to his car. His swagger was full of purpose, I could see him as he walked back to the candidates’ encampments and again argued some issues, shook hands, gestured wildly to make a point (political I’m sure) and laughed along with members of both parties. I’ll never forget how proud I was of him.

Once in college I had the exciting experience of being an election pollster for a local radio station for the 1988 presidential election. We stood at the polls and waited as they closed to the voting public. Then as the precinct officials closed the school doors after the polls closed, it was exciting to watch them huddle amongst themselves and then listen with the other pollsters and campaign reps as they called out the results to us. Afterwards, we literally ran to our cars and squealed out of the parking lot in search of a phone booth to call in the results! After I finished that call, I immediately called my father to tell him how the precinct had voted.

I minored in political science and thought briefly about a career path in that arena, but now I watch the campaign from afar, yet still try to stay informed the best way that I can and read the news on the internet and watch the debates. I have been involved in one national campaign, but I’m not as politically loud as my father or other members of our extended family have been in their parties.

Whenever I have moved out of my voting precinct, one of the first things I do is to change my voter registration. I would feel so guilty if I didn’t vote. I would feel as if I would be letting myself down and probably letting my father down too. I learned early from those days by my father’s side in the voting booth that voting is not something you take lightly. It is a privilege that in his words “you should never, I repeat, never take for granted.”

I’ve only participated in early voting opportunities once; I admit it was a time saver and a great tool in modern day elections. However, I prefer to go on Election Day because it’s a family tradition. There is something unique and exciting about participating in the buzz and rush that the whole nation is experiencing together.

I don’t care if Tim Russert is projecting Tennessee as a red state or a blue state on Meet the Press, or what way it is being counted towards the Electoral College. It’s simple – I have to vote. Whether I’m voting blue, red, gray, (never green - Daddy would have had a cow) or otherwise, my vote counts and you’ll see me at the voting booth.

This year I’ll be a brand new face in my voting precinct and I will not know any of the faces of the election volunteers who register me or show me to the booth. I will, however, thank them kindly and be patient if there is a long line because that’s what my father taught me to do. They are giving up a day in our lives for us to exercise our right to vote. I will only smile and wave at the diehard campaign volunteers trying to sway my ideology to the bitter end of my very important vote, but I will not stop and debate any of them.

I’ve decided that the best thing I could possibly do to honor my father’s life and this important family tradition on Election Day on the anniversary of his death is to take my five year old daughter with me to the polls. We will walk through the gauntlet of politicos, stand quietly in line to register and hopefully she will notice how many other people are doing it. It is my wish that the magnitude of it all makes an impression on her like it did for me and my sisters. When it’s our turn to enter the booth, I’m going to let her push the button to close the curtains and lovingly hold her in my arms like he used to do with his daughters and let her push the buttons and cast our votes.

On November 1st, the day before Election Day, which is Tuesday, November 2nd, I’ll hope you’ll remember my father’s famous words “Make sure you vote!” Because I know, my daughter, my sisters and I will loud and clear.

Author's Note: This essay was written in October 2004.

Enemy of the Neighborhood, an innocent story

2006-05-16T11:55:00.000-07:00

To observe my husband and I communicating late at night, you would think you were watching a scene from Will Smith’s flick “Enemy of the State”. The movie, a high tech thriller, features sophisticated listening and tracking devices planted in Smith’s character’s home. Although no one has planted any sort of device in our home, we discovered by accident that we had by using a simple baby monitor in our infant daughter’s room. These days it leaves my husband and myself gesturing in sign language and sneaking off to a far corner on the front porch to discuss household and financial matters long after she has gone to sleep.

Everyone on our street began having kids at the same time. While at a neighborhood gathering we were all cheerily endorsing baby products and in particular, a brand of baby monitor we all use to pick up the breathing and every lovable coo and goo our new babies made. Little did we know that the monitors would be picking up every sweet sound she made and every sound we made, (and you can guess which ones they were) and broadcasting them all over the neighborhood. We had a full listening audience unbeknownst to us.

When one of our neighbors first mentioned hearing me sing over the monitor, I thought it was funny, hoping against hope that I had sung on key and actually knew all the words to the song. I told my husband about it and he remarked that maybe we needed to be more careful talking in her room when the monitor was on.

Months passed and we thought nothing else of it. A few times, when we turned off the transmitter, the receiving end of the monitor would pick up bits and pieces of our neighbors conversations, cordless phone calls and the occasional CB radio rumblings. We always laughed at the transmissions, sometimes we were a bit surprised, but usually we would decide to switch off the monitor.

A few weeks ago, one of my close friends Sharon* (who is also a neighbor), called me and told me that one of our other neighbors Vicki* had overhead (yes, via the baby monitor) my husband and myself having an argument. Much to Sharon’s horror (and especially mine), Vicki was telling everyone in the neighborhood association about our fight. At first, I was stumped, I was trying to remember the last time my husband and I had a really good one. Sometimes when we fight it could be compared to a New England Nor’easter so I reassured Sharon not to worry. No one needed a baby monitor to hear our arguments, and if they wanted to, they should just open their windows.

My first reaction was to kick myself for not turning Vicki and her husband into the proper authorities for the time we overheard one of their transgressions (yes, via the baby monitor). Upon hearing their plan to steal a set of steak knives from a popular Australian themed eatery that they were going to turn around and give as a Christmas gift, we decided to turn off the receiver and mind our own business. After all whom would we call? The baby monitor police?

We promised ourselves that someone should immediately buy a brand new monitor, but then a new baby was born down the street and after much subtle inquiry we couldn’t determine which brand of monitor they were using and decided this could go on forever.

We decided to tough it out and take lessons from movies like “Enemy of the State” and “The Firm”. We now talk in code, crank up the stereo and whisper to each other. We sneak into the garage to discuss the really important things that’s only our business and of course there is always the option of simply unplugging the monitor. And whenever I sense a Nor’easter coming on, I just make it easy on everyone and crack open the windows.

Author's Note: This essay was written during my former married life.

Looking through the Viewfinder

2006-05-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I was asked to be the birthing partner for one of my girlfriends, Nicole, a single mom at the time, to help keep her calm, feed her ice chips and hold her hand during the birth of her first child. Not having any children, nieces, or nephews myself, I had no idea what to expect, except of course, the common misperceptions that pop culture puts forth to us about water breaking and driving 90 mph to the hospital. All of this is happening while the expectant mother screams for you to drive faster because she is about to deliver the baby on the back seat of her red Nissan Sentra.

When Nicole called to tell me to meet her at a pre-scheduled time at a local hospital, (6am) I have to admit I was a tad disappointed when the doctor decided to induce her into labor. However, I’m sure she was happy it was going to be a controlled situation, (and frankly so was I!). Being a novice birthing coach but experienced cheerleader, I wanted this to be a textbook delivery for her and the baby’s sake (and mine).

So the day after Thanksgiving, I arose early on that dark November morning, showered, packed my video camera, left my sleeping husband and met Nicole and her family in the hospital. We walked through the quiet, tan corridors to her birthing room and helped her settle in. She changed into a hospital gown, the nurses hooked her up to the monitors and we began to wait. After the doctor broke her water, I started checking the battery to the video camera every five minutes and looking through the viewfinder and began interviewing everyone who entered the room about the immediate, impending birth. Finally after hours of sitting on ready, a nurse told me to save the battery that the baby wasn’t coming out for a long time.

I have to admit Nicole made childbirth look easy. I had braced myself for all the agony the women portrayed in the birthing class film. (I swore to myself right then and there, that if my time ever came, I would try to be as strong and courageous as she was being. Anyone who knows me knows how hysterical I can get, should be proud of me for saying “TRY”). Nicole never let on that she was feeling any discomfort, but the nurses knew. One look in her eyes and they would help her change positions. I never even got to dole out any ice chips either; she was pretty self-sufficient and doled them to herself.

Mainly, I just sat on a stool next to her bed and read aloud the latest and greatest issue of our favorite People and Glamour magazines to her. We had some good laughs when the nurses came in to help Nicole move the baby in the right position. Her long legs were being pushed and pulled in every unimaginable position and I outloud I had to praise her mom’s foresight of forcing Nicole into 12 years of tap dancing, Pointe and especially for the time being, acrobatic training. At this moment, it was all paying off I told her and she begged me not to make her laugh.

She lay there looking so beautiful and composed, her long brown hair flowing over the pillow, and she was totally calm with the fact that in a few hours, her life was going to change forever, and in so many wonderful ways I knew it would never be the same.

What an honor it was to be her friend that day, when I was allowed the privilege of watching her become a mother. Not only was I honored that she was sharing such an awesome event in her life with me, but that she was allowing me to witness these precious moments as she was transforming into a new person. She was walking over the bridge to womanhood while I was standing over on the other side wanting to yell, “Nicole, wait for me!”

Then after hours of waiting, the magical moment of birth came, the cozy “birthing” room transformed briskly to the DELIVERY room. I’ve never witnessed anything so efficient. In a matter of seconds the stirrups came out of the table, the bottom of the birthing table disappeared, a closet door opened to reveal shiny silver instruments. And where did all those blue sheets come from? Someone was putting a surgical gown on me and Nicole’s mom asking if we felt okay (we? What about Nicole?) Lamps were switched on and the obstetrician appeared right on cue. Then, the plastic baby isolet was wheeled into the corner.

Somehow in the midst of the excitement and the crowd of nurses gathering into the room, I couldn’t get to my video camera, but it really didn’t matter at this point. I stood at Nicole’s side and then took one step back and found myself standing next to Nicole’s mother Debbie and we just held each other and cried tears of what I can only describe as pure joy.

There was a sensation in the room, a pulse I could feel that something wonderful was about to happen. The nurses looked happy that the baby had turned, they had done their job well. The doctor, self-assured with the heart monitor results, began to gently pull the baby’s head out, and Nicole was still amazingly at peace. This was going to be an easy birth.

And then the moment we had all been waiting for, for so long it seemed all day, happened so fast . . . Nicholas appeared turning and twisting so naturally into the open hands of the doctor, crying, dark hair matted to his head and so, so beautiful. Someday when he’s grown into a young man, I know that I’ll still be able to remember that first wonderful glimpse of him.

The doctor put him on his mommy’s stomach (she became a mommy in the blink of an eye – how cool!) He cried the cry that baby’s emit when they enter the bright world, but the moment Nicole took his hand in hers and spoke softly to him, his crying ceased in an instant and he looked up at her. I’ll never forgot that moment, like borrowing a line from the popular children’s book by J.P Eastman, Nicolas seemed to proclaim in that glance, “You are my mother!” For a few more moments in time before the umbilical cord was cut, they were still one.

My Thanksgiving happened to come on the day after that year, when I was lucky enough to be there when this sweet and special child came into the world. I was a willing eyewitness to one of life’s most magical, most precious moments. I didn’t need a viewfinder or a video camera, just my eyes and my heart to register, record and most importantly, remember the magic and magnitude of his birth. For that I will always be thankful.

I Try to Think About Elvis

2006-05-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

I’ll never forget the day that Elvis died. I was ten years old and lying down in the front seat of my daddy’s black 1976 Lincoln Continental on the way to Biloxi, Mississippi. It was a hot August day, but cool inside the car on the plush red leather seats. The radio announcer broke into the song that was playing and announced it. We were just south of Jackson and I sat up right immediately and said “Mother is going to be so upset!”

Does every girl born in the 60s think her father reminds her of Elvis?

The Shooting Stars

2006-05-10T08:36:00.000-07:00

Most parents look forward to the day when their child takes the first steps into kindergarten. The transition for their child is exciting and some parents have been known to shed a few tears when this day comes. When my daughter enters elementary school this fall, I know without a doubt that I will be attending the "cookies and cry" session kindly hosted by the principal in the library there. My eyes run over with tears when I allow myself to think about this exciting first day of school that is coming soon.

Before that day approaches, I know some other tears will be shed when she says goodbye to her friends and teachers in the Shooting Stars preschool class at the Child Care Center. Chatting with the site director is part of our daily routine when we sign in each morning. How do you say goodbye to caregivers who have been partners with you in preparing your child to take on the world? How do you give an appropriate thank you that articulates your deep appreciation? How do you say good luck to the other families with whom you have celebrated numerous birthdays, field trips, potlucks and shared other important milestones?

The Shooting Stars have soared to some exciting heights this year. They traveled across the solar system when they learned about the sun, the moon and the Milky Way. They learned about how the Space Shuttle works and why its missions are important. They presented group oral presentations about an assigned planet and made paper mache models of each. Their colorful planets still hang above their heads every day as they play, nap and learn.

The Shooting Stars learned about safety rules and now in our own home, safety rules! My daughter has demonstrated how to stop, drop and roll in case of fire, and I get weekly lectures about buckling my seat belt when I get in the car. They sing along with Clair while she plays the guitar and they've discovered that Tonya gives the most lovable hugs.

They even traveled back in time to the Crustaceous period and beyond to learn about the mighty dinosaurs that made our planet their home. They have discovered reptiles and how to take care of Newt, the class salamander, and Sparky, the class guinea pig. Insects, our own physiology--you name it, they covered it! They journeyed across campus to the university greenhouse and to the downtown library to enjoy a magical puppet show. I have marveled at how much Katie has learned and how much I have also learned in the past year.

Besides writing their names and other interesting words in their journals and expressing themselves in the Art Center, they have learned how to be good citizens, how to listen, how to serve their own lunch at the lunch table, how to raise their hand and how to be a good friend.

When anyone inquires about where my daughter goes to school, she proudly announces, "I go to University." And our university ties do run deep. She was a patient at Children's Hospital when she was six months old. She had surgery to repair a tethered spinal cord which was extremely successful. And she recently told an aunt that she wants to come back someday to go to college here. I can only keep my fingers crossed.

One morning when we arrived at CCC, we discovered one of her classmates (following in her mother's footsteps who is a physician at UMC) presiding over an operating room theater. The procedure was being conducted on a classmate/patient on a sleep mat/surgical table and the mini head surgeon was being assisted by numerous surgeons and OR nurses. Everything was draped, plastic makeshift surgical instruments were laid out and all were wearing scrubs with their hair covered appropriately. She was allowed to quickly scrub in. This was another uniquely Vanderbilt moment, one that's hard to forget and wonderful to picture!

I'll miss the diversity of the CCC. My daughter's friends are citizens of the world and when you are only 4 and 5, you don't see differences, you only see your best friends. The teachers in the preschool have prepared the Shooting Stars well for any challenges they may encounter in kindergarten; sharing books and supplies, raising their hands for their turn, celebrating traditions and practices of various cultures and learning about worlds beyond the one we live in.

I will shed more than one tear when we say goodbye to Rhonda, Clair and Tonya and the other teachers, Jesse and Ashli, who have helped in the caregiving of my daughter, and I strongly emphasize care. I'll miss our daily routine of driving north on the lookout for VW bugs and playing the "Punchbug" game. I'll miss arriving on campus together for a day of work and pre-school. I'll miss the ability of being able to leave my desk and walk over to the VCCC to check on her if she is sick. And I'll miss enjoying an entertaining lunch with her and her classmates and the sunny walk back across Campus. I'll miss the alliances I have formed with the other parents who arrive on the same schedule as we do. I'll miss the sweetness of the many children that my daughter has been lucky to have as friends.

I'll miss the security of knowing my daughter has spent her day in a place where early education and the well-being of its charges is a number one priority. Of the many benefits the employees of University have available to them, it's the one that I have benefited from and enjoyed the most. Hearts and Minds have a slightly different context here, but the meaning is as extremely important.

At the recent Shooting Stars end-of-the- year picnic and celebration, the students and parents feasted on a great cornucopia of food and enjoyed a sunlit evening at Dragon Park filled with a few last hours to spend together as a class. Teachers Clair and Tonya, the wisest stars in the classroom, handed out awards for Reading, Math, Paleontology, Art, Friendship, Sports, and Science. Each Shooting Star student was delighted to receive an award that celebrated the achievements of their young hearts and minds. Our group of parents clapped and cheered as if the students had walked across a graduation stage with honors. One parent voiced the thought that many of us shared: "I hope that after being in this classroom, kindergarten won't be a disappointment."

Thanks to CCC, the Shooting Stars are well on their way to the brightest of horizons because they've helped not only the students, but this parent, prepare for the journey and entry into the elementary school stratosphere. I can in a minute way relate to the parent of an astronaut who must shed tears of pride, joy and grateful remembrance of teachers and instructors who made a difference, the subject that may have planted a seed and sparked a dream when they watch their child take the first steps onto the launch pad. The teachers and caregivers at the CCC have been part of our mission control, working as a team with the parents of the Shooting Stars, as we closely monitor these bright lights that streak across the nighttime skies of our lives.

Originally published in the VUMC, House Organ, August 2004.

It's Gives A Whole New Meaning to the Phrase "Swimming with Sharks"

2006-04-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

The Courage to be Called a "Single Mom"

2006-04-06T12:54:00.000-07:00

"Are you a single mom?" the woman sniffed while first glancing at me up and down and then at my daughter. "No," I said awkwardly, "I'm, uh, divorced." She had appeared at my door on a campaign blitz for a local judical seat, but the selling of her candidate was simply lost revenue in the voting sales margin because I heard nothing that she said after she asked me that question that was extremely too personal and frankly, none of her business.

My daughter had a puzzled look on her face, she had never heard her mom referred to in this manner. After the burn of humiliation had left my brain and moved down to my heart, I finally managed to say to the woman who by now had invited herself in to my condo, "Does it matter if I'm a single mom or not? Why does that matter?" I barely listened as she finished her spiel, lied to her that I would consider her candidate so I could politely shut the door and turn out the lights.

After she left, I sat on the couch and discussed the phrase with my seven-year-old daughter. "Mom," she said, "that lady was kind of rude to you." She continued "I'm glad your my mom" and she gave me the kind of bear hug that will erase any injustices done to a mom's heart. Still fumbling for words, I told her and realized it at the same time "For you, it would be worth being a triple mom or a quadruple mom!"

Personal affront aside, the comment has caused me to examine how society loves to put labels on everyone and everything - in my case single mothers. "Single Mom" is still something I'm trying to get used to. This isn't the first time this has happened.

My oldest sister once called me a "single mom" in front of her sister-in-law and nephew. She was totally unaware of the embarrassment it had caused me. Confused about how it made me feel, I found a reason to leave shortly thereafter. The comment stung, it hurt especially coming from my sister.

At church I feel invisible, no one knows what to do with me. When it comes to Adult Sunday School classes at church, I find myself in no woman's land. I'm stuck between the Contemporary Couples Class or Singles With Friends (none of them have children).

Recently, I was looking up a devotional on a popular Christian website that has single parents included in a listing for outreach minstries targeting: prisoners, CEOs, addicts, and those with HIV/AIDS. I didn't know if I should feel desperate or empowered.

The label feels like a tattoo that sometimes I try to cover up and sometimes as if the whole world can see it. My divorce has left behind a grief and sadness so deep it swallowed the pain of my father dying. After three years of getting used to my new skin, new identity and ripping off the scarlet letter and shame of divorce, now I have discovered that somewhere along the way I became a "single mom."

As head of household and a mom to a child who plays soccer, my working status disqualifies me from being called a "soccer mom". There's also "Working Mom" - would I be happy with this label I have asked myself? I belonged to Mothers Against Drunk Drivers when I was just single and not even a mother. I've always been envious of the "Stepford Moms" of my daughter's classmates and my friends who are fortunate enough to be "Stay-at-Home Moms". Nonplussed at their labels, some don't seem to be happy with their lot in life either. As I think of all these labels for the moms I know, another one comes to mind "Super Mom," because most of the moms I have mentioned are super when it comes to juggling their responsibilites at home, at work and with their children.

In discussing this with one of my college roommates, she candidly asked me if I had a chip on my shoulder. Honestly, I could answer "Yes." In the midst of my divorce, another friend loaned me a copy of the book "The Courage to be a Single Mother". I tried to read it, but wasn't quite ready yet to open the door on self-help and self-discovery. After seeing that the author had remarried and had more children, the book has been collecting dust under my nightstand. At this point in my life it seemed the choice to remarry would take more courage.

When some think of the term "single mom" does it bring to mind women who dump their kids off on baby-sitters and head off to "singles" bars? This "single mom" can't even afford a babysitter nor would I want to employ their services. The only bar you will find me near is at my daughter's dance studio picking her up from ballet lessons. You can also find me standing behind the chain link fence on Saturday's at my daughter's tee-ball games, because I'm her cheerleader. You will find me trolling the aisles at Target for household goods, because I'm also a consumer. You will find me teaching Sunday School to kindergarten and first graders, because I'm also a Christian. And you will find me in jury box of my "peers", because I am also a voter (Although guess which local judical candidate I won't be pulling the lever for?)

So next time you disdainfully label a single mom and pity her or discount her because she isn't married or is divorced, forget about it and while you are at it - don't treat her as if she is a second-class citizen. She may be an administrative assistant, a sales manager, a waitress, an executive, a college professor, or even a physician. She's more like you than you think, washing dishes, cooking dinner, helping with homework, paying the bills and trying to make her mark in this world by being a good mother to her children and working hard to insure that they have a great life.

I like to think of myself as just a "mom". I know that when I die, my headstone will not be emblazoned with that of what society has decided to label me, but instead defined by how the one person I love the most chooses to define me. And that would be simply "Mom".

If My Life were an American Express Commercial ...

2006-03-28T08:55:00.000-08:00

My Name ..... Sabrina

Childhood Ambition ..... elementary school teacher.

Fondest Memory ..... Hiking on the back country trails in the Smokies with Chris Iddins and Alan Helfer. Seeing the glow of lights of Fontana Dam in the skies over the mountains.

Indulgence ..... Reality TV shows (o.k. Survivor, Apprentice, Project Runway, Amazing Race and yes, the Bachelor).

Last Purchase ..... T-Ball Bat and Batting Helmet.

Favorite Movie (only one) ..... Pride and Prejudice, Serendipity, When Harry Met Sally, Out of Africa, The English Patient.

Soundtrack .....Serendipity and Pride and Prejudice.

Retreat ..... Cades Cove in the Smokies and Long Island, Maine.

Wildest Dream ..... writing/publishing a novel and traveling through Europe - riding a gondola through the canals of Venice, walking down the steps of Montmarte, pub crawling in Dublin, getting lost in the Museum of London for an entire day.

Proudest Moment ..... becoming KK's mom.

Biggest Challenge ..... putting TK and his Vulcan Mind Melds behind me.

Alarm Clock ..... Heidi Hopkins, a long, albeit short alarm clock who wakes me up when the day breaks.

Perfect Day ...... Beachside - sunny day, searching for shells, playing in the sand and waves with KK. Twilight - catching fireflies, seeking out Orion in the winter sky.

First Job ..... waiting tables at Godfather's Pizza (first and last food service job).

Inspiration ..... the brown-eyed girl who lives in my house. In the spring when the dogwoods bloom.

My life ..... is about starting over and seeing what's around the next corner.

My card ..... Tar'get ( no seriously - I am credit card free - sorry AmEx)!

Happy Anniversary Baby, Got You on My M-ind!

2006-03-26T11:25:00.000-08:00

Today would have been my 12th wedding anniversary. Am I sad? A little. But all it brings to mind is the effort I would have put into the day and afterthought given to it by him. Going into my 3rd year of being divorced I still grieve for the loss of this relationship - do I grieve over him? Hard to tell but maybe I grieve more over the fact that I failed in the relationship to make it great - that I couldn't do enough to make it successful. My failings are hard to bear. But instead of hide from the day, which I haven't mentioned to anyone, I'm trying to treat this like a normal day and move forward with my life.

I recently read something written by columnist Rabbi Marc Gellman in Newsweek as he wrote about the grief of his dog - I related also to to the loss of a beloved pet but could feel the depth of his words in my grief over my divorce:

"I tell people I counsel through their grief to try to give thanks for the pain they feel, because the pain is a measure of their love. Buddhists teach that the first Noble Truth is that suffering (dukkah) arises from our attachments to the beings of the world. Unlike Buddhists, I do not seek the removal of attachment (tanhakaya). I am happy to be a mess of tears now because I was, and my family was, loved by Miles unconditionally, and I savor this grief as the way the gift of unconditional love is painfully but properly repaid."

I do not regret my tears or my period of grief in regards to my marriage - in someway it honors my relationship with him. I'm glad to have loved him and have that extension of myself out there in the world. However, the pain that came from the relationship and the pain that has come from parting has been harder than grieving a death - maybe because it's like the death of a part of yourself?!? I want to grieve it, measure that love and put it in its proper perspective so I can move forward in my life in peace and never look back with regrets.

Playing Possum

2006-03-22T16:29:00.000-08:00

My father grew up in a place called Possum Holler. This is not a joke, it's really called that by the locals. Incorporated? No, you will never find it on a map! Inhabited by Opossums? Yes! So named because sometimes while traversing the forest lined roads leading to this hard to find hollow near the Tennesse side of the Land Between the Lakes you come across opossums whom when unable to flee in the path of an oncoming car, extreme fear places the opossum into an involuntary coma . This is where the "playing possum" part comes in.

After researching this fact, I equated how many times I have involuntarily "played possum" in my life and been paralyzed with fear by unexpected situations - such as hearing a pediatrician tell you that your newborn baby needs surgery on her spinal cord or standing up in front of a judge when your divorce is granted. Both times I literally couldn't move, I had to have physical and emotional support to go forward. There are other times I encountered that I should have played possum and didn't realize it at the time and forged ahead unaware of the fear that should have immobilized me.

Possum Holler is the place I retreat to in my memory when I think of my childhood, because it was in this safe place of Possum Holler that filled my life with those unforgettable memories that everyone should possess. Swinging on grapevines, swimming and bathing in Miss Janie's creek, pretending you are Indians on lookout on the bluffs, charging lunch at Carl and Millie's Bait Shop and watching the minnows before you head back to your grandmother's for another afternoon of unexpected exploring. falling into bed with sheer exhaustion and sunburn from playing outside the entire day. Here you not only could hear the song of a whipporwill each night, but we learned to mimic it's cry. Possum Holler for me is the place where love lives.

The Great Outdoors were wonderful in those days in Possum Holler, but at nights the Great Indoors were equally as inviting. When the day ended you could find all my 9+ cousins, siblings and three aunts coming and going at my grandmother's house - her living room served as headquarters and stage for many talent shows, gossip sessions, birthday celebrations, dramatic interpretations and the drop-in site for neighbors & characters from up the road or from afar. If Mama made a phone call we would all stop talking and eavesdrop on her conversation. Her three bedrooms were always full. The screen door was always slamming, a wrong was always righted. Her house was full of love and the lessons of life she handed down. You didn't want to miss anything by not being a part of the living room sessions and most importantly, none of us had to play possum there. In her home, there was nothing to fear and you were encouraged to be yourself.

To this day, I miss the amber glow from the lamp that sat by her chair. You could see it in the lower right hand corner of the picture window when you pulled in the driveway and you knew you would find her sitting there when you walked in the door. Her crochet needles and Bible was always out in plain view along with the pictures of her favorite grandchildren (usually the first born and the boys in each family - the rest of us knew we were special and loved, however, just not on the fave list). I think out of necessity she slept in that chair, keeping watch over her loved ones that gathered there through the night with her little lamp emitting it's comforting glow.

I know that many times in her life Mama had setbacks where she must have temporarily "played possum" or wanted to at the very least - when she lost her 10 year old (and oldest) son to a blood disease and spent many nights at Vanderbilt Hospital at his bedside. Shortly after losing him, her sweetheart of a husband died after going to bed one night. When she woke up the next morning she discovered he had passed on to the other side. So instead of playing possum and growing stiff and laying down with her sorrow the rest of her life, like a mother opossum she gathered my father and his three sisters on her back, faced her fears head on - because with four small children she didn't have time to be comatose - she moved forward, found ways to support her family in this rural lakeside community and lived her life. At an early age, I learned from her that love doesn't die when a person dies, the love you share with that person lives on in your heart and your memory. As her grandchildren we grew up knowing every aspect about our Uncle and Grandfather's lives as if they had spent many evenings in that living room with us.

Lucky for me in my times of struggle I can escape to my recollections of Possum Holler that were stamped on my childhood psyche - jumping off the dock into the Kentucky Lake, wading up the creek driving crawdads into collection nets for our fishermen uncles, weenie roasts under the navy blue skies and ultra white stars, running from black racers that ventured onto your path, finding Indian money in the creek beds, standing at the piano singing at the top of our lungs while our cousin played our favorite songs over and over, being afraid of what might happen if you went forward during the altar call at the Leatherwood United Methodist Church, and the icy cold sensation in your throat of drinking water from the Spring Branch.

Today, when I confront my fears, sometimes I feel paralyzed and want to play possum in the face of the adulthood responsibilites that have come my way, but I have learned to face my fears like she did and find the strength to gather my daughter on my back, remember all the love in my life, stand up tall, move forward and live my life.

SabHop

952-MOMM

2006-03-22T12:48:00.000-08:00

She’s the one who chartered the waters before the rest of us. She had the first baby on the block. The first to have her heartstrings tugged in the delivery room and to share those intimate moments with all of us neighbor mommy wannabes. The first to discover what works best and what doesn’t. The first to hear that wonderful name “Mommy” called so sweetly in her direction.

She’s the first to pick up the phone to check on the rest of us, the first to bring dinner to us, tell us about the latest consignment sales. She’s the one whom I call in the middle of the night to ask “Uh Karen, how much Tylenol do you give a child with a fever over 102’ that weighs only 22 lbs and oz.? She’s the one I call to tell of my daughter’s first tooth peeking through the gum, first potty success, and first step, second, third and fourth ear infection and how worried I am about it. She’s the one who cried with me when I had a miscarriage and the first one to cry tears of happiness with me when I got pregnant again. She’s the one who called a neighborhood prayer group when my baby was having surgery. She’s the first one I trust outside of my family to watch my little girl, because I know that when she watches her, she treats her like a member of her own family.

She bakes bread, she teaches her sons to pray. She invites all the kids on the block over to play. She is the first to volunteer to watch another’s newborn when his mommy became too sick to care for him. She’s the first to share a new recipe, new paint scheme, new parenting trick. And she shares all this with us with enthusiasm and grace. She’s proud to be a mom and doesn’t hide it. I’m proud to say I have learned so much from her about being a mom.

In my heart I know that when we’ve all moved away from this bend in the road, that she will be the first I call when I face a teen dilemma to get her advice on how she handled a certain situation. She’ll be the one I call when my daughter leaves home to go off to college. I’m sure she will cry with me, well knowing the mixture of pride and pain because her son did it the year before. She’ll be the one I smile and cry for when her sons get married and have children of their own. Someday she’ll be the one I share with and learn about the joys of being a grandma.

She’s the one friend I’ll always think about when I reminisce back to the days when our children were young.. She’s the one mom I admire on Mother’s day more than any other (besides my own mother and grandmothers). She’s the one who has the phone number I have jokingly reassigned: 952-MOMM, because when we call and ask her something she always has a comforting answer. She’s my neighbor, and best friend. And she’s one of my favorite moms that has rightly earned the title: First Mom!