Achy Heart

Ralph died last week and was buried next to his bride.

Every day, I look at his house across the street.

It is the same, and it will never be the same.

(Ralph reading Stegner to me, in the car)

Ralph's son, Ron, read a little verse by Edna St. Vincent Millay, one of Ralph's favorite poets, at the service. 

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you."

Grieving and Gratitude

Sometimes you want to write about something for a long time, but every time you try words fail you. 

Such has been the case for me over the last while when I've tried to come up with the right words to talk about my friendship with my neighbor, Ralph.

We’re 50 years apart, he and I, and the dearest of friends.

He is dying of bone cancer, and I’ve been swimming in tears this last week.

Tears of sorrow, yes, but also tears of gratitude, for they reflect the richness of the friendship that exists between us.

As I said to him earlier this week: 

How does one adequately express appreciation for a friendship that has meant so much? 

You can’t; all you can do is take a stab at it.

This man has been a beloved grandpa to my kids and like another father to me. We have laughed hard together, cried together, sworn together, shared calories together, gone to church together, talked about life and death and love and gardening and faith and poetry and books and ideas and our families. We've had a lot of good times.

He has taught me so much by his example.

He has encouraged, listened, blessed, understood, taught, cared, taken the time for, loved, and served me and my kids again and again and again in the most kind and thoughtful ways. 

I appreciate him more than I can say and I will dearly miss him.

How do you tell somebody what a difference they’ve made in your life?

Once in a while God blesses you with a friendship that forever changes you. 

Dear Ralph, I love you so.

Letter Writing on Thursday

Last weekend the kids and I drove to Southern Utah to spend a couple of days at a friend's parents' ranch.

Can I just say how much I love that wide open, rugged landscape? I felt so happy and light as we drove along. 

I've got the West in my blood and bones.
(I also heart this picture of Mia.)

And every time I travel with these peeps, I'm amazed at how easy they are.

They read, sometimes we listen to audio books, we talk, listen to music, and sometimes we dance.
They are the best travelers.

While there, we rode 4-wheelers,

the kids got to help feed the cows,

and despite the fact that Lisa's mom has cancer and her hair just started falling out, she loved on all these kids and taught mine how to ride the 4-wheelers on their own.

Coop shot a little bird when the boys were out on the 4-wheeler by themselves. He and Benj pulled off the wings and feathers, cut it open, salvaged the meat, grilled it up, and ate it.

 (Claire wanted to try it too.)

I want the kids to write thank you notes to send to Lisa's parents, so after Claire and I ate breakfast this morning, we worked together on hers. (I write the letters on one paper, and she copies them on her own.)

I've said this before, but 

I'm not sure there's anything I love more than learning-to-write-your-letters handwriting.

(See this post and this post and this post, for example.) 

I love her little tongue poking out in concentration, and the amaryllis on the table (see that little green spear just beginning to emerge from one of them!).

 After the note was done, we did her first reading lesson.

(I've taught all my people how to read, and I'm not about to miss out with this one--even if she does decide to do public school for kindergarten this year.)

Then we listened to some tunes, danced the "Boot Scoot N' Boogy" together in the front room, and I cleaned up the kitchen.

She's watching The Nutcracker now (her request--we have a DVD of it by the San Francisco Ballet), I'm sitting beside her on my bed about to plug in to work, and I've got meat thawing on the counter for meatloaf and baked potatoes for dinner.

I love these simple, quiet, ordinary moments of day-to-day life.

They are special.

Have I told you how much I love being a mom and how I wouldn't miss it for the world?

#truth

So far, this Thursday is giving me alllllllllll the good vibes.

Happy Thursday to you too--whoever you are, and wherever you are.

xoxo

Embracing Mystery

A few weeks ago, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, the kids and I walked around the block at night holding lit candles in our hands.

Over the last several weeks, I've had many conversations about life and faith with various friends of mine -- talking about what it is, what it has meant as part of our life journeys, asking questions, trying to puzzle things out.

One dear friend shared his personal journey on his quest with faith --- how it has changed, how he isn't moored as he once was, how that change surprised him, and that he's not sure where that's headed or what it looks like for the future. There was so much beauty in that conversation: in its possibility, in its connection, in its honesty. 

There's something really lovely about honoring those journeys -- all of ours -- and being able to talk about life -- and questions -- so openly, and in very candid ways. It's freeing, and makes me feel more open and connected and full of love for everyone I meet.

And just today, I had the blessing of talking with a whole room full of folks about the idea of faith. And I shared a quote from a fiction novel I'm reading, about a man who goes as a religious leader to a small Indian village. Everyone in the village attends their worship services except for the schoolteacher, and this excerpt is a conversation between the two of them (the schoolteacher and the vicar). 

These words leapt off the page at me when I was reading one night, and they've stuck with me ever since:

“There was one more thing he felt it his duty to inform the vicar. The vicar might as well know right now that as for himself, he was an atheist; he considered Christianity a calamity. He believed that any man who professed it must be incredibly naive. The young vicar grinned and agreed. There were two kinds of naiveté, he said, quoting Schweitzer; one not even aware of the problems, and another which has knocked on all the doors of knowledge and knows man can explain little, and is still willing to follow his convictions into the unknown. ‘This takes courage,’ he said, and he thanked the teacher and returned to the vicarage.”

(from I Heard the Owl Call My Name by Margaret Craven)

I LOVE this idea that man can explain little. 

I think I love it so much because, the older I've gotten, the more mystery there is: in life, in the journey, in the joys and sorrows, in the questions, in the people that come into your orbit, in the whys and hows and I don't knows.

And sure, there's a part of all of that that can be really difficult: stubbed toes still hurt. Fear can be immobilizing. Life can jar you, and suddenly you don't see things like you once did, and maybe you're unsure of what you thought you knew. You might wonder who the hell you are. Obstacles may seem insurmountable. Sometimes broken hearts still ache and feel...broken. Piercing questions don't just go away. Pain sometimes has a way of going slow. 

I get all that. I do.

I mean...life happens, right?

But maybe -- because life happens -- these ideas take my breath away all the more.

Reflecting on these conversations over the past couple of months leaves me feeling grateful for what has been shared with me, and for the beauty of friendship and love and hope.

I love the mystery of the journey: its gentleness and ambiguity, its sometimes harsh realities, the endings, the beginnings, the hush and go. 

These days I have a lot more respect for it -- and for whatever that looks like: from my vantage point, or yours. There's something really lovely about putting our arms around each other for this walk, sharing our lights as we hold our hearts in our hands.

There's something about embracing possibility, choosing hope, living in faith.

It has made all the difference for me.

And there's something really beautiful about taking your little light and stepping forward into darkness, in whatever facet of your life---even when you don't know where you're going, or how it's going to go.

But you step anyway.

Sometimes Miracles Happen

I have wanted something for years, and it just happened.

Sometimes miracles happen.

At the beginning of April, a friend (who is really my brother) and I tackled the last corner of my yard that has been an eyesore forever.

We turned over the ground (with Mia and Benji, too) so it could be the new home of the garden.

We (that's the royal we, cuz it was Brian) dug out the slate pavers that ran along the back side of the what-was-currently (then) the main section of lawn and replaced them as a border along the side of the new garden plot.

Then began the process of rebuilding the new lattice (Brian again), and we began leveling the old garden space to make way for sod.

Last week we spent three evenings doing prep work: getting out all the spring weeds, digging back a whole section of crabgrass and shaking as much of the dirt out as we could, and then raking.  We relocated the rhubarb plant, and my was that an experience.  I had never seen the underside of a well-established rhubarb plant before, and in a disturbing way it kind of reminded me of an octopus.  The root system that plant had was incredible, and in just six short seasons since I planted it, its rich roots were thick like huge, spongy, orangish-red carrots.  

It was a bit freakish.

Then, last Saturday, we finished the prep work of raking and leveling, and then put the new sod down.

And I haven't been able to stop staring at it whenever I've been in the yard since.

It seems surreal and somewhat miraculous that I no longer have a big, weedy patch of earth in my backyard that totally overwhelmed me.

And the real thing of things?

I've decided that miracles are the hands and hearts of those who love you.

They give, when there was no way it would have happened if you'd tried alone.

They offer without expecting a thing in return.

They ease the burden.

They make you laugh.

They help you create something beautiful.

They are the miracle.

The baffling, beautiful, surprising miracle.

And I feel completely undeserving, along with a whole heap of gratitude in my heart every time I look at that little piece of green out there.

And also, rhubarb makes a yummy pie.

Just sayin.

Just Two Things

Just two things today.

Last night, the kids had a late night with a friend down the street.  At one point, referring to me, he called me "Mom," and then realized what he'd done and started to laugh.

I responded by saying that I didn't mind, that I was one of the moms of the neighborhood, just like his mom was a "mom" to my kids, too.

It actually kind of made my night.

And then...today.

I was just finishing getting ready for the day...finally, and saw a bunch of emails had come through on my phone.

They were from another friend of mine that lives in my neighborhood.

Their family took my kids fishing this week for their first time, and the emails were full of photographs from the other night --- the kids being instructed on what to do, chilling on the side of the reservoir with poles in hand, other shots with fishes dangling from lines, gorgeous sunset pics over the water.

I sit here looking at these photos and my heart feels like it might pop from gratitude.

I'm grateful for friendships and community, for living in a neighborhood with people I love, folks that bless my life with kindness and care.  For people that love and invest in my children, and me.

It always surprises and humbles me, filling me with joy.

People are good.

Life is good.

Blessings are all around.

Be Kind

(leaf in my driveway, November 2014)

This morning I lay in my bed, my girlies snuggled in on either side.

I thought of something that happened last night, and a quote I discovered in the last couple of years that I love.

After we read a chapter and said prayer and the kids were settled into bed, I knelt on the floor in my room, folding laundry.  I am better these days at letting that wait, but it had become a mountain in the corner of my room, and I wanted that mountain gone.

I folded a while, and then got up and noticed (again) the super full trash bin in the downstairs bathroom.  

Decided it was time to tend to that.

I gathered all the trash in the house and headed outside to put it in the trash can.

As I opened my back gate, my trash can had already been taken out to the street.

Instantly, I felt love.

There are a couple of elderly gentlemen that live across the street from me.  

Without me asking, without a word, they have begun to do these types of things for me.

They take my trash cans out, and they bring them in.

On the few snowy mornings we have had this winter (it has been such an odd year!), I've found my driveway cleared, opened my front door to one of them shoveling my sidewalks up to my door.

One of the books I read a couple years ago was I'm Proud of You, a book about the author's friendship with Fred Rogers and I loved it.

Then, some time later, stumbled on this quote.

It has stuck with me ever since; it's one of my favorites.  

"There are three ways to ultimate success:

The first way is to be kind.

The second way is to be kind.

The third way is to be kind."

(Fred Rogers)

The kindness of my friends warmed my heart as I walked out to the street in the dark last night.

Never a word to me.

Always quiet, and I miss them most times.

They come and give love, and then they go.

But their gift isn't wasted.

I feel it deep inside.

I am stirred by their simple service.

Makes me recommit, in my heart, to wanting to live a life of goodness, of sharing love.

I fall short, and I mess up, but Fred Rogers' simple words inspire me forward.