Croutons and V-8 Juice Make a Fine Dinner, Right?

After 29+ years of having dinner every night with my husband...and then children, too...here I am eating croutons out of the bag, downing a V-8 and calling it dinner.

It's not that I was ever Martha or Rachel or that Barefoot Contessa chick in the kitchen. But I could somehow scrounge around the fridge...or call for take-out...or run to the neighborhood market...and put DINNER on the table, and we'd sit, together, for a bit, and fill our tummies, and touch base with one another.

I'd make them "co-muuuuuu-ni-cate", as my son called it. Give me highs and lows of the day. Ask crazy questions. Be silly. Whatever. But we were all in one place. Daily...or close to it anyway.

We'd hold hands, say the prayer from kindergarten lunchtime, squeeze to say "I love you", and then dig in, quickly, until homework, swimming, the phone, or the computer called the young-ins upstairs, leaving my husband and me to pour another glass of wine and talk....and talk....and talk.

Someone asked my husband recently the secret to a long-term marriage. His answer was, "We talk a lot."

A young mom shared with me the trials of staying emotionally connnected to her spouse during the crazy chaos of parenting young children. My best advice was, "Talk to each other. A lot. Every single day."

So it is quite the new situation to have this empty nest...AND a husband traveling for work.

We still talk a lot...every day...maybe even more than before. It's a conscious effort. We "co-muuuuuu-ni-cate" still. A lot. And with our now-grown children, too, although never enough. Thank God for the Verizon Family Share Plan.

But what I'd give to do the "I love you" hand squeeze every night before my croutons and V-8.

Just When You Least Expect it

Just when you least expect it.....

the special moments happen.

I tucked my mother in. I kissed and hugged her, turned off the lights, and said a prayer.

She smiled and drifted off to her dream world...while I thought about how random the loving and important moments are, how unexpected, how little we can predict when our hearts will be struck by the lightning bolt of raw love.

There is no more raw love than that of mother and child. I have been blessed to experience both.

No relationship is more primal.

My mother can drive me nuts. I drive her nuts on a regular basis,too. Just ask her. She will tell you lots of detailed, long stories about how I drive her nuts. I've probably bored my loved ones with a few myself.

But let me tell you this: I love my mother. I am grateful for my mother.

She reminded me tonight that I wouldn't exist if she hadn't had a miscarriage....that sometimes the disappointments in life turn out to be conduits to the blessings.

To know you are completely, unconditionally loved by your mother is one of life's greatest gifts. To know you are perfect in someone else's eyes (even if you know it's not true)is a rare chord that is recorded in your head and resonates in your heart when you need it most, when no one else is playing that music in your life.

And to love others that way---spouse, children, the occasional pet---is a gift of equal value. It makes sense of why we are here. Or it makes nonsense of the world outside of unconditional love.

I used to think there was no such thing as unconditional love. I mean, come on, doesn't love need to be deserved? Isn't it the sum of the equation? The reward for actions? What's left over after the subtraction of mistakes and disappointment?

Nope.

Love is in the core of our hearts, bypassing our heads altogether perhaps, imprinted on our DNA like the color of our eyes, our hair, our skin.

I am loved--perhaps irrationally and undeserved---by my elderly mother. And I love--rationally, irrationally, and completely deserved---my children, husband...and my mother. Others, too. But that's for another blog.

For now, let me say I am grateful for the unexpected, blessed moments of the last two days. Watching my 87-yr-old mother do her "Happy Dance" at rest stops on our 9-hr. drive to a new home....sunbathing in 40 degree weather...dancing to the country western music video channel because it's good exercise...

I am unconditionally in love. And somehow I am unconditionally loved back.

OK, God. I'm getting it. A little bit anyway.

I'm Still Here. Kind of.

It's been a long time.

I could bore you to death with the details. (I will spare you.) So here's the short version.

My best friend and husband of 29+ years (same person, just in case you are wondering) and I have done something...unpredictable, outside-the-box, wild, totally-not-like-us-at-all.

We relocated. Moved. Changed the address. Packed up and left. Forwarded the mail.

Well, he does jump on a plane to work 24/5 in the big city. And then he comes home to the country, to the mountains, to the rivers, to the slow life...to me. (He might work 24/2 when he's here,too, but that's okay. We're here, together, in a place that has mysteriously moved us from the day we first-by accident-arrived. A place that teased us, whispered in our ears, pulled our heartstrings with the promise that something was waiting for us here. Here in the shadow of snow-capped mountains, by the river, near a forest of trees....where the sun shines, it snows, the sky changes by the minute, reminding me of how quickly life changes, how every view is a snapshot of a moment that will never be repeated.)

I am still a bit stunned myself.

We have surprised our friends. Our family. Ourselves.

We've always told our children to scratch their itches. They are there for a reason, not to be ignored. Now WE are scratching a longtime itch. Our now grown children have given us an incredible gift--they have encouraged us, the way we have encouraged them. Their support has been a kiss upon our dream, a blessing upon our faith that life happens the way it should when you trust that inner voice, when you truly listen for the answer to your prayer.

Sometimes you just have to pay attention to the small voice inside, the one that whispers at you when you finally quit listening to the chaos of routine and repetition.

So far I have befriended a bird who jackhammers our metal roof, I have mourned his unexpected death, I have welcomed his replacement. I have seen deer duck into my yard, wondering why I'm here. I have seen a chipmunk run toward the music of my piano and sit,listening. I have awakened to snow on the ground and wondered how things could change so much while I slept. I have watched the sun hide behind a mountain range that makes me gasp at its quiet magnificence. I have listened to...real silence...and realized how thick and rich it feels in my ears.

I said I wasn't going to bore you with details. So I'll stop now.

But let me say one more thing: I am glad I'm here. I am glad we took an unexpected leap. I am glad we don't know what happens next. I'm glad we're making it up as we go along. I'm glad. Maybe this is what faith is about. I'm not sure,but I'll let you know. I'll keep you posted. :-)

A Nontraditional Tradition

I have a love/hate relationship with "tradition".

Nothing feels better than traditions that bind our memories to people we love. Those traditions, large or small, are usually some of our best memories and the joyful fuel of anticipation.

Traditions give us common bonds with the participants. Formal ties to the people involved. They define our relationships in noticeable ways: "We have a tradition together. This means I will always have you in my life in this special way."

But here's the rub. Traditions tend to be based upon consistency-- things staying the same, needs staying the same, circumstances being the same. Doing the same thing in the same way with the same people.

I love that kind of stuff. I actually used to say frequently, as my children were growing up, "I wish I could stop the clock right now and keep everything the same." (I tried pretty hard to do this. Just ask my now grown children. I was pretty committed to letting them grow up as slowly as possible. Their friends probably saw me as the most protective and old-fashioned mother in the universe. They might possibly have been correct. I remember my husband suggesting our daughter just say she was raised Amish to explain some of her innocence when she went off to college...)

There are many moments in life like that. Those times of acute awareness that the moment is pure joy, could not be improved in any way, and you wouldn't change a thing.

But so far no one has figured out how to push the pause button on life. It just keeps on taking us farther down the road, and I must say that is a good thing. Who is ready to relinquish future possibilities? Not me.

Most of the good stuff in life results from change of some sort, if you think about it. Certainly there can be no new experience without change. Imagine a life like that. (I've had several close relatives with dementia. Perhaps memory loss in the aged is a blessing. Every experience is "new" all over again. And again! A little gift to keep life from being horribly boring....!)

So what happens to traditions? Well, one of two things, I think:

Either: commitment to the tradition overrides the need for change...and eventually it becomes stale. Someone moves or grows up or dies, and the fabric of the tradition has a hole in it. Life changes a bit and the tradition doesn't feel the same. Traditions can become burdens when devoid of meaning...and terribly sad when they mark our losses.

OR (and this is a lot cheerier, I promise): our traditions are fluid, evolving, embracing change rather than recoiling from it. Those kinds of traditions can go on forever. They will not become dated, irrelevant. Their elasticity allows room for my favorite friend, Serendipity, to come to the table and surprise us.

This holiday season, I propose "the nontraditional tradition." I will consciously seek to update our traditions where the need exists. Where it doesn't, where the tradition still serves a meaningful purpose, we will take note. And perhaps talk about that.....an interesting conversation, I'll bet.

I think I'll make a tradition out of this. :-)

Comfort in the Familiar

There is comfort in the familiar. And where there is comfort, there is rest. And where there is rest, there is rejuvenation. And where there is rejuvenation, there is growth. Which is what life is all about.

I've spent a lot of time with 20-somethings who have left the nest, left college, left the familiar. Stretched themselves in new directions, in new locales, new lifestyles, new company.

It's exciting! (And exhausting.)

After college, life comes at you like a freight train---and you don't know where it's going. You either jump on board or let it run you over. It can feel kind of terrifying.

It also feels exhilarating. (I remember.) The same lack-of-a-definite-game-plan that leaves you wondering how the heck you're going to weave a life also holds the promise for unlimited potential---for surprises, for opportunity, for greatness, however you define that. For making your mark. For finding your path under all the overgrowth of the past.

Things work out, one way or another, and the path reveals itself when you look back at it. But while you're out there choosing direction, putting one foot in front of the other just to keep moving, it can feel like you're not getting anywhere, or lost in unfamiliar territory.

That's when you need to find comfort in the familiar.

It is surprisingly easy to do.

Touch base with the people who are most familiar to you.
Go somewhere that feels familiar.
Whether it's a food, a place, music, activity---recreate it where you are. Give yourself the gift of the familiar when life feels strange.
Let yourself be a little kid again for an hour. The real world will still be there when you return.

And I'll bet you feel a bit more ready for it when you do.

Things I've learned about being 50...or so...

• Those "Over the Hill" cards that were funny when you turned 30 or 40 aren't funny anymore. Give me something sappy that makes me cry. Which is easy when you're hormonal.

• Ditto for funny gifts containing hemorrhoid ointments, wrinkle creams (sometimes the same thing), laxatives....They are now considered "Care Packages" and taken seriously.

• Your face reveals whether you've smiled or frowned more in your life. I like to think there is still time to reverse the trend.

• If you manage to get to sleep and stay asleep at night, God forbid anyone wake you for any reason. I mean that literally. God, please forbid it.

• You have little patience for people who seem to think they know everything because the older you get the more evident it is we know very little.

• You don't care what people think of you. Unless they criticize you.
  

• Facial skin becomes magnetic...food particles cling to it for long after the meal is finished.

• You realize you chew with your front teeth. How else could salad get lodged right there in front? You probably don't even need those molars your dentist is so anxious to crown (no coincidence his 4th child is going off to college either.)

• As a result of the above, everyone needs a meal buddy to check 'em out after meals and make sure we won't go off into the world to humiliate ourselves.

• You can still learn new things! But the learning curve is much longer, steeper, and more painful.

• The job you always wanted doesn't exist anymore.

• About the same time you realize your own limitations you also realize that God (all that is Good) is limitless.

• Your hairdresser suggests "lowlights" instead of "highlights".

• The clothes at Chico's start looking cuter.

• You wonder why people sneer at "mom jeans." I mean, I AM a mom. What the heck?

• Your kids wince when you talk about your thongs (and you're talking about footwear.)

• They also wince when you tell them you just hooked up with an old friend. I mean, when did hooked up get to mean something sketchy? Who hijacked our language?
  

• It's easier to forgive and forget than to hold a grudge, because, well, grudge-holding requires more memory capacity than you have to spare.

• It's a good idea to gravitate toward people with happy attitudes because attitudes are contagious.

• Open minds are far more interesting than closed ones.
  

• Tolerance for arrogance goes out the window. By this time you realize that arrogant people are too nearsighted to take seriously anyway. It's just another form of vision impairment.

• It feels a lot better to laugh than to...well, do just about anything.

• You don't mind that extra 10 lbs anymore because it fills in some wrinkles. And, besides, all clothes are pretty stretchy these days.

• You notice that most people who live to be really old admit to having a cocktail every night for decades. And you embrace the wisdom of the elderly and drink from the fountain of youth daily at 6:00 p.m. Because it's important to take care of yourself.

• You forget what you were going to do when the kids got older. Heck, you forget what you were going to do after lunch.

• You overhear two young moms planning a class party with complicated spreadsheets and timelines and think to yourself, "Hey, ladies, get a LIFE!" Then you go home and spend all day blogging about it. hmmm ;-)

OK, now, get back to work. You have a life. :-)

Right Where I Want To Be (for the next 24 hrs. anyway)

I've wanted to live on the coast of Maine, on a lake in Vermont, in the Berkshire Mountains, in the Texas Hill Country, in the boulder formations of Arizona high desert, on an island in Puget Sound, on a river in Central Oregon, in lavender fields in the Willamette Valley, on the red cliffs of the Colorado Monument, on a farm in the Amish country......for starters. Just in the last few years.

Almost every time I visit a new place, I want to live there. Within 24 hours I have memorized the local Homes and Land Magazine and scouted out the best views, coffee, and places to eavesdrop (which is the only good way to get to know the local vibe. It's like visiting colleges---forget the formal presentations and head for the bookstore and cafeteria. Alone. And listen.)

You'd think I live in a miserable place. I don't. In fact, I live in a place so close to perfect that finding fault with it is like trying to find the wrong side of the tracks in Heaven itself.

So what's up with that?

I mean, roots feel good. They hold you in place when the weather gets rough. They feed you from down deep when pickings are slim on the surface. They spread out and define your place, your breadth, your mark, your territory. They tell you who you are. Right now, at least.

We're all a bit territorial, let's face it. Like Robert Frost said, "Good fences make good neighbors." Partly because they help define our turf. Our edges. Our tribal land. Our comfort zone.

Yet I know few people (admittedly, there are some) who don't try on the idea of change, dream of new kinds of community, imagine different ways to live. Simpler lives, perhaps. Or more focused ones. Perhaps more open to serendipity. Or just...different.

I love my life. I have been blessed with people and experiences that define my little mark in this world, however modest, and the opportunities to pursue them with unfettered passion. But there is more to come. Different things.They will all, in the end, weave the fabric of my own unique existence here.

My fantasy is to live a year in every place that pulls at me. Four seasons in every little world that has teased me with promise. Which is completely unreasonable, hence the term fantasy. But how great would that be?

Those who love to travel know that it is transformative---sometimes in big, gut-busting ways and sometimes in small, measured whispers. The places and people you discover in locales different from home plant their seeds in your brain and go with you on to the next place, and return home with you, marking out a new spot in your soul.

So don't you just get curious sometimes? What parts of yourself would erupt from latent hibernation? There is such promise in open-ended journeys. So much room for my favorite friend, serendipity.

I guess it's not practical to take risks that big. Perhaps not completely pleasurable, either.

But somehow it seems that we humans are here on this earth for no other reason than to love and learn and to encourage the learning of others (which is really what love is, in many ways.) There is so much to learn, and let's face it, you can't keep growing in the same school, library, class, etc. forever. It is the unfamiliar that points us inward, makes us find our own inner yardstick with which to measure the world around us.

And learning means change. In fact, learning cannot exist without change---it is both the process and the by-product.

So even when we live in a perfectly sunny climate---we long for seasons. We live in a city and long for open spaces. We live in the country and long for urban vigor.

It's not that we're unhappy. It's not that we're unappreciative.

It's just that we're born to be somewhat discontent. It's a good thing. It makes us keep moving, in one way or another, toward new experience. And new perspectives.

This doesn't have to happen in the context of a geographical move. Sometimes just identifying the lure of a different locale can give us the tool to transform life right here where we started.

But stepping away gives us fresh eyes. Stripping away routine gives us a clean slate.

Unless you empty a bucket that's full, you can't get anything new into it. Vacations are like dumping out the bucket contents and collecting new perspectives to take home with you.

I'm shopping for a big new bucket tomorrow. I feel another road trip calling.