Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future. ~Paul Boese

Forgiveness. It’s been my divine homework these past few years. I don’t think I really understood how to do this, and certainly didn’t recognize its power.  Recently,  I’ve read about it, dreamed about it, meditated, prayed, and waited impatiently for it to arrive.  I've used every tactic the experts suggest to rid myself of accumulated venom: a nasty, byproduct of unkind acts from people I care for and love. I tried visualization; placing my offenders in a canoe, on a beautiful forest stream, gently shoving them off, into the waiting arms of God.  But, before they reached those Arms, I found myself wading into that stream, oar in mid-air, chasing the canoe and screaming obscenities.  No tender release for me!  I've tried burning significant mementos in my fireplace. This suggested ritual of visualizing the pain, and the people responsible, spiraling up the chimney in ribbons of smoke, was to be taken a step further as I kindly let go. All would be swept up into the hands of a God who was better equipped to deal with them than I obviously could. Sometimes that didn’t work so well as a more voodoo’istic ceremony would play out in my head.  Regrettably, all I really managed to do was eliminate a few tokens, I, at one time treasured, that might later serve as reminders of how much I’d grown, a few loving moments, and happier times.   Wiping out the evidence doesn’t ever really obliterate the crime.  Lewis Smedes writes, “Forgiving does not erase the bitter past.  A healed memory,  is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future.”  And, that is precisely how I managed to perform the difficult, cleansing process of forgiving.  Serene streams and fire be damned.  I  chose to heal, rather than forget.  Healing is a process.  So is forgiveness.  

It doesn’t serve us well to forgive too freely with our voices, something I often did. That style of forgiveness doesn’t stay forgiven.  It’s usually not genuine, or healthy. It's like trying to slam the door shut with a broken jamb.  It just keeps creaking back open.   Sometimes I  forgave, because that is what my unhealthy, people pleasing behaviors dictated.  Often with those that weren’t worthy of pleasing.  The forgiveness “process” is like the grief process.  First, the offense is denied. Thoughts whirl... “They couldn’t have really meant to do this to me, could they? I'm sure it is all just a mistake. ”  That coping mechanism helps crowd out the reality of the immense harm done.  Second, anger sets in and the “lunatic karmic judge of the universe” (me)  reigns down all kinds of imaginary retribution. Paybacks become a sick, subconscious prayer. At this point the quote, "resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die", applies.  Only no one dies, you just become sicker and sicker. After awhile, the inability to tolerate the injections of "rage cyanide" you are mainlining directly into your carotid artery;  becomes so toxic, it is spilling over onto everyone and into every area of your life.  No one can stay that pissed off and vengeful, and function. Your mind shifts into the bargaining phase.  You still can’t assimilate what has happened, and of course, someone needs to be blamed, and you have already blamed everyone else, living and dead.  So, the anger is now directed at yourself and the faulty choices you make.  You pick yourself apart, unearth all your defects, identify your role and begin to bargain. "Maybe if I hadn't said this, or done that.  Maybe if I 'd been more patient.  Maybe I deserve this."  Your prayers, at this stage are along the lines of "let's make a deal, God".  Then the worst (and the best) as well as the loneliest.... depression sets in.  The recognition that, no matter what I think or do, this HAS happened and nothing can change it.  It’s painful.  It’s sad.  I can barely move. Go away. This phase can be a relatively positive, quiet time to process some of that information gleaned from the denial, anger, and bargaining phase and potentially become more in tune with our own defects, attributes and needs.  Finally (and there is no timeline to this),  acceptance sets in.  Acceptance of the betrayal. Acceptance of the loss.  Acceptance of the pain.  Acceptance of the harm done. Acceptance of your role.  Acceptance that you have survived.  Acceptance that somehow, you MUST set yourself free.  And, the only way to do that, is the thing you least want to do, forgive. 

Forgiveness is not something you simply make up your mind to do, and then get on with it. At least not the kind of forgiveness I am seeking.  It comes in waves, like the tides, but with every cycle, it brings awareness and healing, closer and closer to the shore. I’ve learned it can’t be done perfectly. Just because we have forgiven someone who has hurt us, does not mean that we need to invite them over for coffee, or into our lives again.  Forgiveness simply allows us to get on with the business of living, owning our power, rather than letting someone else diminish our inherent light.  Forgiveness  evicts the moocher who lives rent free in our heads, and makes room for creativity and enlightenment.  Forgiveness unlocks the chains binding us to the past and sets us free to move into a promising new future. 

Forgiveness.  Impossible for us to do with our heads.  It needs to begin in that spot inside our heart where our Creator lives. His loving hand solders the broken parts together with precious gold, making us more beautiful and capable of moving closer to a purer kind of love for humanity.  Able to see others, if we squint very carefully, as our Creator sees them. 

 The Bible speaks of faith, hope and love, with love being the greatest of the gifts. I hesitate to differ with such a Holy book, but I think, the greatest of all is forgiveness.  Without it, we remain trapped inside our custom made prison right alongside the perpetrator.   It’s impossible to extend love, create, or have an adventure when all locked up.   I believe the greatest Grace we will ever receive, arrives when we accept and forgive.  Without it there can never be genuine joy, peace, or real growth. 

Forgiveness has been my big assignment this past year. The journey has been mine, and mine alone, based on my experience.   One morning, I awoke;  the sunlight was brighter, the world was just a little fresher, and I was just a bit softer. As I stretched and breathed in the sensuality and  purity of those long missed, tender, feelings,  I noticed a warm energy  surrounding my heart.  I wanted to share it. Without conscious thought, my prayer that morning was for the life of one who hurt me so badly, to be blessed . I intuitively knew, the only way for any human being to really heal is by spreading the salve of Love.    And, for the first time in a very, long time, sincerely, I meant it!  The process, had come full circle.  

You will know that forgiveness has begun when you recall those who hurt you and feel the power to wish them well. -  Lewis Smedes

"What I've learned is to celebrate every decade for what it gives, not for what it takes away."- Marge Champion - 91 year old Dancer/Choreographer

Happy Birthday to Me............Humbly! 

My  Personal Goddess...
A custom made gift from a good friend 
on my last Birthday.
A reminder of my resilience and power.

When I decided to post a blog acknowledging my 57 years of life, I briefly questioned whether I was becoming a narcissist. Even writing this blog, sharing my experiences, strength, and hope, gives one pause; is this grandiose?  It’s been a long road, a lifelong struggle for me in determining what is selfish, and what’s self care. A therapist friend laughed out loud when I relayed my concerns about contracting a fatal (to those who love me anyhow) case of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Lack of empathy for others and selfishness are two of the prominent traits for those who are inflicted with the energy sucking disease of me, me, me’ism. Narcissist are deceptive, manipulative, confusing, and exhausting little critters.  Even I had to admit, while I still have a number of glaring character defects, on the attribute side of the ledger,compassion, generosity, and unselfishness are pretty obvious....sometimes to a fault.  I had a wonderful mentor who determined, early on, I leaned a bit towards the codependent; a sacrificial lamb kind of martyr. Ewwwwwwwww..... Character defect #xxxxx!  In the earliest days of my recovery, when I apologized constantly, for even breathing in too much air, she exasperatedly said to me, “For God sake, our Program teaches us how to live and honor our lives.  It does not say we need to bend over and hand the world the Vaseline! You are one of the kindest people I know. Now start being kind to YOU.”  Yikes!  A bit graphic, but she knew sarcasm was an effective mode of shock therapy!  That style of ripping through dysfunctionally reinforced walls of denial, works amazingly well on me. This “in your face” (with love in your eyes of course) approach has frequently changed my direction on a yellow brick road, which occasionally had me aimlessly walking around in circles. Humility IS something my 12 step program suggests and I’ve struggled with the meaning of that as well. I used to think humility meant, I come last, my needs aren't important, go right ahead and minimize me because I do!    I finally came to a happy place with my definition of humility about a year or so ago.    I see humility as acknowledgement without judgement, compassion without self depreciation and wisdom without righteousness.  In a nutshell, which I rarely say anything in.....(humility in action here) I see it as the generous, loving-kind, act of acceptance, of our weaknesses and our STRENGTHS. Only by exposing and knowing these things, are we open to change and enlightenment.  With all that being said, It is perfectly okay to toot my own birthday horn, and not wait for others to bring me flowers! So, I will. I am humbly, and joyfully singing HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME out loud!!!! 

 What a glorious day to celebrate my full life!  A good part of that life has been spent, scampering through a maze, trying to find that one pot of gold at the end of the rainbow that will change everything.  As time has placed wrinkles into my face, my soul has been etched with some wisdom as well.   I try these days to slow down, enjoy the view and stop looking for anything. There are so many treasures along the path, we just need to recognize them when we see them. In my twenties, I couldn’t identify them because I was too preoccupied with how I looked as I sashayed down vanity road.  Later, in my thirties, I was so busy racing down that same road pushing my cart, trying to beat the clock in accumulating stuff, recognition, and other things I thought were gifts of “the great life”.  All it managed to do, was leave me exhausted and cranky, wondering if I was having fun, and, now what?” My forties brought to me a tremendous, unconditional love, and because of it, pleasure, serenity, and confidence blossomed.  Mid-forties, conditions were right for a tiny spark, ignited by downsizing, illness, death, and uncertainty.  I questioned many things. Surely there must be more to me than a Size 2 ass and a nameplate on my office door? That spark burst into a blazing fire of desire in my early 50’s.  I tested myself on many levels.  Could I go back to College?  Could I try on new career paths?  Could I date like a teenager, minus braces and acne? Could I let my heart open to the possibility of love again? Yes, I could. These past few years have left me with a commitment to stoke that fire inside, burning brightly with the passion to continue  “whooping it up into my nineties”! No matter what. Detours like unemployment, lack of funds, loneliness, or broken hearts, will no longer be tolerated as an excuse for not living well.  It's been possible this decade to jump out of airplanes, para-sail the Riviera, ride bareback in the ocean, strut my "50 some year old" naked body into a sauna in Italy, and dance in the streets of Nice at night, with joy, and a Frenchman. And, write a blog.   Just think of the things to be done at 60, 70, 80 and 90! 

As ee cummings writes, “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”  It’s only by experimenting, balancing living out loud and quietly venturing within, that we find out, who that is. Every decade’s pleasures, insecurities, beliefs, accomplishments and rejections have brought me closer.  I have outlived my own mom’s age, by 6 years. That in itself, is cause for gratitude.  I’ve conquered many demons that looked pretty intimidating in my younger days.  I am comfortably settling into life, without settling for. I am done constantly trying to retool the perfection that already exists. My vision is predominately 20/20 now and I see so many authentic delights.  I’ve no need for the rose colored glasses.  Life makes me chuckle.  Many things have changed.  My body isn’t as small and firm as it used to be, but it’s healthier than it’s ever been.  My mind isn’t as quick as it once was, but it is undeniably purer and less cluttered with nonsense. My heart doesn’t swoon so dramatically like it once did.  But, it has grown larger. All the wonderful love I have experienced, accumulated, stretching it out, expanding its capacity to hold and give back even more.  

I am patting myself on the back this Birthday, cracking open the non-alcoholic Brut, eating the corner piece of cake with the biggest glob of icing, and composing next year’s dream board while shouting WOOHOO... Hey.... a thought....I ‘ve never been to Monterey California!  Look out little brother, guess who's coming to dinner!

Happy Birthday, you delightful, “young” broad! 

The man who views the world at fifty the same as he did at twenty has wasted thirty years of his life.  ~Muhammad Ali

If only I could throw away the urge to trace my patterns in your heart, I could really see you. -David Brandon (Zen in the Art of Helping)

Friends..... A Patchwork

I had dinner tonight with one of my dear friends.  To see us together, you’d never guess we had a thing in common, let alone such a deep respect and love for one another.  She is a jeans and tee shirt earth mother,  phenomenal gardener, makes the best darn salsa east of Texas, prefers Yoga to action sports, has never set foot on a tennis court, watched a golf match, or been to an Art gallery. She is not into travel, although she vicariously lives through mine and makes me want to become a more descriptive travel writer, just for her!  Fashion is not her thing.  When her daughter married a few years ago she vehemently let everyone know she would not be wearing a dress. Live theatre and the ballet almost induced a permanent comatose state. We’ve tried this a few times, a girls night out and still joke, today, about the pain and suffering endured for those few hours of her life that she’ll never get back!  Her venue for appreciation of the Arts, is her beautiful landscaping in her own backyard. A summer evening, well spent in her mind, would be on the back of her hubbie’s Harley, racing off into the sunset with him. For me, attending a Harley convention would be like entering prison for a weekend. Scary!   Frankly, I wouldn’t know a Harley from a scooter. And, she wouldn't know a Jimmy Choo from Manolo Blahnik.  Nor, would I enjoy breeding dogs, canning food, or putting manure anywhere. I have a passion for the Arts, love fashion, travel, socializing, adventure and new endeavors, as often as I can indulge.   What we do share, is a love of our God,  the methods we use to process feelings, the spiritual path, Eastern practices, dancing for fun or to be silly, or to show our joy.  And, we both are crazy in love with our grandchildren.   Despite her life’s “simple pleasures” attitude, I think she has a secret wild side.  We are both “Sex in the City” groupies.  We’ve been known to enjoy marathon sessions watching old episodes, from my beloved complete boxed set. Most of all, she has one of the kindest hearts and gentlest spirits of anyone I know, or, have ever met.  I love her, and the times we can get together.  Her simple vision has the capacity to lasso me in, hog tie me gently, and allow my racing mind to slow down enough, to leave some space for reason to settle in. She pulls out a real mirror when she finds me using the distorted one from the funhouse.    

My best friend, is several decades older than I.  Sometimes, I view her as a second mom, but mostly she is my closest friend and confidante; the one person who knows all of my secrets, the shameful ones as well as my hopes and dreams. I trust her explicitly and she always tells me the truth.   We do share the same love of the Arts and she is the one I call to attend an Art exhibit, Phantom of the Opera, or a concert.  We navigated widowhood together.  Being a widow is unique with a whole new set of issues that the divorced, or single, just don’t understand.  Foremost, being a widow, is not a choice. The death of a spouse plants a whole bunch of other obstacles along the path, besides grieving.  We held hands and cheered each other on, as we crawled over the hurdles and celebrated when we spied them in the rear-view mirror, traveling forward into new beginnings. She is a like-minded adventurer, and we have done a bit of traveling and exploring together.  That has changed some over the years, with her own aging process and the entrance of a sweet and wonderful, new man, in her life. One of her new beginnings.  We also share in our love of God and the spiritual path, although her manner of navigating life is profoundly different.  I have to keep wrestling the alligator to try to gain control, understand it, or change it. After it rips me up a bit, I shout, “uncle.”  She doesn’t enjoy a wrestling match and simply doesn’t care why it is, what it is.  She lets the alligator be an alligator, turns it over to God to deal with, and gets on with the business of living.  That’s probably one of the qualities that attracted me to her light many years ago. 

I have another very special friend, who is “a profile in courage”.  We were professional acquaintances; worked together for many years. The friendship moved out of the board room, into each others kitchens, families and lives.  Outside of her career, she has also played the part of housewife, mother, grandmother, gardener, crafter, traveler, adventurer and caretaker. All quite beautifully.  She is truly one of those women who does it all, and still finds time to sweep the world up into her loving arms, She makes you feel special and important.   Genuinely.  No agendas. She is more generous with the time she gives to humanity, than anyone I know.  I think she does this so freely, because she has walked through many dense forests in her life. She’s learned it’s so much easier to find your way out of them, when you are holding someone else’s hand.  She is the best at hand-holding, hugging, championing, and listening. Throughout her very full life, she has experienced the loss of a stillborn baby girl, battled breast cancer, suffered through the sudden illness and death of her ten-year old grandson, and the subsequent trauma of her own daughter’s immense grief; every mother’s worst nightmare.  Very shortly after, she lost her soulmate, the man who was the central part of her life.  They met in grade school and had been married for many, many years.  She knows sorrow and she believes the best way through it is to help someone else. She has learned empathy through her own suffering, and has taught me, it’s often those who suffer the most, understand the best. 

My  friends are divergent, each one a unique patch of colorful fabric. Their ages, interests, tastes, religions and heritages are as vast as my appreciation for their differences.  Many of them have arrived in my life in the unlikeliest places, but always at divine moments. I have been blessed with the ability to appreciate their diversity; absorbing, enjoying, and  learning. Like quilt pieces of various color, dimension, and texture, lovely just as they are. But,when I  sew that variety into my life quilt, my world becomes more beautiful;  fuller, and more joyful.   Sometimes it has been the patches that I thought were too different, too colorful, or too dull, that have added the most meaning to my days.  Those patches, are the ones that I may have cast aside,  if I chose to look with my eyes rather than my spirit.  Sadly, I am sure that has happened from time to time. It can be discomforting to accept others, who are unlike what we are accustomed to.  These days, I try to allow my Creator, to be the coordinator of my sewing circle knowing best what is important for my life quilt.  It would take volumes to pay tribute to the variety of friends who have profoundly touched my life, changed its direction, my character and my heart.  When I not only accept, but  savor the uniqueness of others, suppress the urge to clone me, my life is enhanced by you. I give myself a huge gift by opening up, stretching, and allowing others to live THEIR patterns and share them with me.   My heart is warmed and expands within my beautiful quilt of diversity. And that, is a beautiful thing. 

My I-Pod Fitness and Me....

 Today was the day I tested my brand new, shiny, Ipod Nano, complete with the  Nike Ipod fitness tracker.  It was a gorgeous, cooler day requiring a long sleeve shirt with my shorts. Perfect.  I don't have the Nike tennis shoes with the little pouch to stick the sensor in, which engages the tracking of  your miles, calories burned, and time, but I tucked it inside the tennies I own.  I guess there is so much more I can do with this teensy gadget. It will keep track of my workouts and hold me accountable to the commitments I make to the Nike website.  I can run cyber races with other "50 somethings", challenging and keeping each other motivated.  What's next?  Cyber poker, cyber dating, cyber sex, now cyber exercise... Maybe Cyber dining?  Calorie free with all the make-believe pleasure of gourmet meals! Technology has been a wonderful invention in time-saving, accuracy, accessibility and information. But, I also think it has robbed us of so much. It can be a double edged sword. Its design is efficiency, and we find ourselves spending more and more time on the computer and cell phone and less time interacting in real life. We've forgotten how to use our five senses, spontaneously entertain ourselves, and connect with others in meaningful fashion. The isolation of connecting with an LCD monitor or cell phone screen for our entertainment, socialization and gratification, has taken so much genuine pleasure, authenticity, and true intimacy out of human interaction. We are now bonding with avatars, words, and illusions. I'm drifting here, and I need to set aside my soapbox about the cons of "social media" for another day. This particular piece of technology is designed to hold me accountable and turn my fitness fantasies into measurable accomplishment.

So, I put my tracker in my Shape-Ups, the tennis shoes I bought last winter that promised to eliminate my need for the gym. Thinking I was saving mucho money, I dropped my membership.  The makers of these shoes promoted tightening and toning the butt, the calves, and the tummy. They promised to improve my posture, give my skin a rosy glow, get rid of dandruff and lead  Prince Charming to my door!  Save your money.... Rumor has it Prince Charming has ridden off in the sunset with that over zealous, annoying  Denise Austin,  and my buns look a bit worse for wear without my daily gym visits.  The shoes are pretty worn already as well, the bottoms all black and pitted.  C'mon, it's not like I burnt rubber in my fitness efforts this past year.  I won't promote them or buy another pair.  Giving up the gym membership for the shoes, has not served me well.  More reinforcement that there are no quick fixes in life or body.   God bless my beautiful family who have gifted me with my father-in-law's brand new, barely used, commercial grade tread mill, a perfect companion to my I-pod fitness gadget, especially when the snow flies!   I've only been on it a few times since the weather is far too beautiful outdoors to be treading indoors, but I have had a couple of heart to hearts with my father-in-law while crying and trotting.  I asked him to put a good word in for me with the fitness angels as well as the employment fairy.  I'm hoping with all the connections I have up there, something will burst open soon and pray it's not the seams of my pants.

Off I went to the track, sensor in my tatty old shoes, cool, peppy tunes blasting from my new Nano. All I needed was a pair of shorts with some verbiage (maybe Chica?)  on the rear end  as my fanny swung back and forth to the salsa sounds of Beethoven's 5th, performed by a group called La Charanga Cubana. Da, Da, Da, Da.......... Even Ludwig would be inspired to shake his booty!   I had lofty goals.  I set the workout for a 500 calorie burn.  Lap one around the track, 6 calories.  This can't be right?  Fifteen minutes into the work out I had burned off the top half of my Oreo cookie, minus the frosting.  I thought I was going at a pretty good clip.  At the hour and five minute mark, I was certain I must be nearing the 500 calorie goal I had programmed into my tracker pre-workout.  Tired and winded I peeked.... 131 measly calories. The Lean Cuisine from lunch was still clinging to my thighs.  I'd like to think perhaps the sensor wasn't working properly since it wasn't inserted in "official" Nike shoes, but I fear it would just be denial.   I had this vision of Jack Nicholson standing nose to nose with me, screaming, "You want the truth... you can't handle the truth. You need to step it up cupcake."

It was a reality check. I never think I eat so much.  A handful of pretzels here, four pieces of cheese there. Those of you who read my cheese blog know I am lying here. Four pieces simply isn't in my realm of control. And, oh, yeah, let's not forget the fat free coffee cake from Starbucks. And, of course I justify my consumption because I work out!   This new technology has been like an intervention for me.  The only way it could be better is if Nike and Apple got together with Weight Watchers and created a mouth sensor that recognizes every morsel I shovel in, and responds with a running caloric total.  When I reach my limit for the day, and try to shovel in a few spoonfuls of Cookie Dough ice cream, the little robot voice will gruffly say, "Hey, chubby, are you SURE you wanna eat that?"

Oh, well.  Another ten months until swimsuit season!

IMPORTANT UPDATE: My drive and confidence were restored when I discovered I wasn't using my I-Fit properly. The sensor inside my miracle shoes, is not "read" properly by the receiver. My research on the internet the other day revealed, you need the sensor on the OUTSIDE of your shoe. I guess I need to purchase a little pouch which will attach to my shoe laces. But, in a pinch, I saw a picture of a sensor, bound to the top of the shoe with packing tape. It worked! Lance Armstrong's voice came on at the end, congratulating me on my 50 minutes. At a pace of 14.50 min/mile, I traveled 3.73 miles and burned 329 calories! I was thrilled! Until my son-in-law looked down at my shoe in horror and threatened to disown me if I ever left the house with the packing tape flapping again. Tomorrow's mission.... Shop for an I-Fit pouch!

Mothers and Daughters

The Caricature Mom Who Grew  Up
to be a Real Mom

Of all the relationships in my lifetime, none has evoked stronger emotion than the connection between mother and daughter.  The range, from despair to joy is never nearly as intense when it involves a husband, boyfriend, significant other; or really any other intimate connection I’ve had.  There is something about the mother-daughter kinship that tugs from the past, colors the present, and projects into the future. And this all gets tangled up in your heart strings.  When I gazed at my little “mini-me” many years ago, all covered with blood and goo, there was an indescribable, electromagnetic attraction that bonded us, even after the umbilical cord was cut. Whether either one of us wanted it or not.  It was replaced by an energy, stronger than both life, and death. 

These thoughts are precipitated by a recent, intense, misunderstanding with my own grown daughter.  Honestly, these happen very infrequently, maybe once every few years or so, but when they do, they are the “crack your chest open, and pulverize your heart into an unrecognizable mass” kind of hurt. I crawl away, gasping for breath, hoping I will simply drop over dead rather than having to walk around with the blinding pain inside what is left of my flattened heart.  No other human being has had the capacity to do that to me!  These incidents generally happen when I step out of the role of mom, and try to walk into best friend status, with my daughter.  Mostly, when I freely share my own insecurities and fears.  She doesn’t want to hear my recitation of defects.  She already knows every one of them and while I have a tough time dealing with them myself, for her, its even harder.   Probably because the older she gets, striking similiarities encoded in our DNA, frighten her.  After all, what daughter truly wants to be just like their mom? Really.  More likely, when I open up to her, and show her the woman I am, I fall off of the imaginary pedestal constructed in her mind. The spot assigned to Perfect Mom.  Sadly, I think the pedestal has always set empty.  I have beat myself up over that, but through the years I realize Perfect Mom would have nothing of substance to pass on. No tools when life gets too tough to handle on life’s terms, and it will.  Example is always the best teacher; positive and negative.

 She is a young middle aged woman, a wife and mom herself. Usually, these days, that is who I see.  Another woman, with a younger, fresher, perspective, not my baby girl. Unless, someone hurts her, and instinctually, the claws come out to protect my young.  From her perspective, she sees her “mother”  always.  And, often I think she would have preferred Stepford Mom.  Unfortunately (for her) I have never been able to wear that apron very well.  Ever... Nor, have I been Jane Fonda mom, Erma Bombeck mom, Betty Crocker mom, or Hilary Clinton mom.   It’s not that I haven’t tried to slip into all those Moms.  They just didn’t fit well, and I was either intimidated, or outgrew them, almost as soon as I tried them on. It was like squeezing into a pair of two sizes too small jeans.  Uncomfortable as hell, and I couldn’t wait to take them off.   I was young (19) when I got pregnant with her, stepping into  my own mom’s "teenage mother" footprints.  I tried very hard to be anyone but my mom, and give my own little girl everything I thought I didn’t have. I had a vegetable garden we tended together, made home-made jelly, meals from scratch, sewed dolls, her Halloween and Easter outfits. I decorated her room with hand made curtains, stuffed animals, and bedding. She had wonderful kids birthday parties with homemade cakes, treats and games.  I was Martha Stewart mom, only nicer.    It’s so much easier when daughter’s are little. They unconditionally love you, no matter what.  Maybe it’s because they’re still fresh from heaven and spiritually grateful to the lady whose womb protected and nourished them into life.  Later, the bond becomes stronger at the recognition, I am more like mommy than daddy.  I recall my small daughter’s shock at seeing her daddy step out of the shower. This was back in the day of one bathroom households and an emergency, “ I need to go potty” moment.  As she looked him up and down, in surprise, and she asked, “Daddy, did you wash your tail?”  In her innocence she made the observation, wow, I am really not like Daddy.  I am my mother, and she is I. And, perhaps, even then, she felt cheated.  

When she started kindergarten, Bring Home the Bacon Mom entered.   My daughter was forced into a life of shared custody, spending alternating weekends with mom and then dad. I am sure this added to the already oversized baggage from my own dysfunctional childhood that I monogrammed her name on as well. The divorce rocked her young world as much as mine, and “BHTBM” would morph into, newly single, Pamela Anderson Mom, without boobs, and no full moon needed to howl.   Later, Grace Slick Addict Mom entered and frightened her for a few years. Again, I followed in my own mother's footsteps, a defect I swore as a child, I could never inherit.  Fortunately, Gracie didn’t last long, left the premises permanently, many, many years ago, but not without scarring my little girl some.  The memories from those days still torture me and sometimes I can see a bit of the residue from that period clinging to her own insecurities and esteem.  

The carbon footprint from mother to daughter in my childhood was toxic. Although I have worked hard to change that legacy, some of my old behaviors could well cause mine and my daughter’s personal global warming, those times when misunderstanding and resentment places a wedge between us. Everytime that happens, I sense I have, once again, failed in not being the kind of mother she wants. Not enough, nor a good example.  And, yet, my mother wasn’t the one I wanted either.  She never taught me to cook or sew, and rarely even cheered me on. She didn’t hold a powerful position, run a company, or even run a household very well.  She didn’t even make it to my first wedding. She continually “let me down”.  And, then, to top it all off, when she finally got her act together, she died!  I was furious.  She was fifty-one years old and I was a motherless daughter.  She died before I could even begin construction on my mom pedestal.   

However, she was the mother I needed.  She was the mother who first introduced me to a simple program that would teach me how to live my life.  Perfect Mom lives in the box  of black and white television. What Perfect Mom brings to a daughter, can be hired.... a cook, housekeeper, or a nanny. While it’s important to provide a clean, safe, nurturing environment to a child, I have come to believe,  that is not a mother’s primary purpose.  Real Moms equip their daughters with the tools to live a life that can be confusing, heartbreaking, and riddled with mistakes.  Real Moms show their daughters, by example, it is okay to leave the path for awhile, as long as you come back a stronger, better human being. That's how we grow.  Real Moms show their daughters its okay to love, lose, and grieve, but it’s not okay to shut down our hearts to the future. Real Moms allow their daughters to see,  they too get scared, and feel like a failure sometimes, but the grace of God shines through the darkness of those periods, and infuses us with new courage.  Real Mom’s let their daughters see their tears.  It is by sharing our humanness, our daughters  learn  compassion for others. Real Moms teach their daughters to take care of themselves too; for it is only through self-love they will ever be able to truly pass it on and become Sacred Mom.  

A Beautiful
 Example of a Sacred Mom

Many of us spend most of our lives trying to run from the influence of the mom God gave us.  In actuality, as time passes and we grow more into our spiritual skin, we recognize God really did give us Perfect Mom.  Perfect for us.  We learn from our mothers, where we came from, who we are, why we are,  what we want to be, and what we don’t want to be.  My mom has been gone for nearly 22 years.  She still continues to lovingly meddle, and pass on her wisdom. Always when I need it (or not).  Recently, on a particular weepy day with my mind whirling about the what-ifs in my life, I was cleaning out a stack of old books.  In one of them was a bookmark with a poem about "Broken Dreams" printed on it. As I was getting ready to dismiss it and put it in the  “toss pile”, my eyes caught the haunting, undeniable, handwriting on the other side.  It said, “Becky, Let Go and Let God. Love you, Mom”.  

 I love my daughter more than life itself and the times she breaks my heart, or I break hers, only proves to me the miracle of the bond between mother and daughter. It is the closest I will ever come in this life to touching the face of God.  And, that holy umbilical cord, is eternal. 

Would you keep a chive on your tooth just because you enjoyed last night's potato? ~From the television show Boston Common

A hiking trail reveals a
Fall surprise

Summer is winding down and signs of Fall are everywhere. I noticed during an early walk today,  it was darker this morning, fewer birds were chirping, and there was a chill in the air requiring a sweat shirt my first few laps. Heading home, I could see my flowers are looking slightly brownish around the edges, and the luscious tomatoes I have been savoring from my patio plant in the past month, refuses to hand over anymore fruit.  It looks a bit raggedy too.  Where did our summer go?  I rejoiced (probably squealed) when I caught the first healing rays of sun, mid April, after the long stretch of my icy isolation last winter. The sunshine alone was enough stimulation of electro-shock therapy my brain needed to nourish my half dead cells! But, oh, that first tickle of warmer air on my skin, made me shiver in delight.  Summer represents to me, a time of illumination and clarity. It’s a chance to stretch your body in the natural world and an opportunity to quickly connect to God’s love, in His outdoor mansion. Flowers are feng shui to the spirit,  green, lush trees provide cool respite.  Sandy beaches beckon a mindless stroll. Soothing shoreline waters stimulate meditation and awaken our senses to the power of His willingness to baptize our broken hearts and help us write on them a commitment to new dreams.  


 My daughter, on the other hand, loves Fall.  It is her favorite time of year... For her it’s all about fluffy sweaters and jeans, open windows, and blankets to cuddle under. The trees turn red, yellow and orange and fire up the horizon: It’s about bonfires, harvest moons that dangle in the sky like a prop from a stage production, juicy new apples, freshly picked; and the return of routines as kids go back to school, vacations come to an end.  I understand her delight in Fall’s flavors, sensations, and traditions.  Truth be known, really, my only problem with Fall is that it precedes Winter.  I hate being cold almost all the time.  I don’t like the feeling of being trapped by the treacherous road conditions and mounds of snow.  I also don’t like the heart pounding fright of precarious driving conditions, should I decide to put my down-filled brave vest on, and venture out. 


So, in the chill of this morning, I thought about this coming winter, and managed to stop myself cold (pun intended) in curling up my nose.  I said to myself, “Self, you’re projecting and that’s hardly living mindfully”.  It lead me to the recognition that our seasons were created for our purpose as well as the agricultural world and animal kingdom.  We all come from the same energy. Beyond the allegory the seasons represent our life cycle, there is clearly a time and purpose for everything under heaven. A time to sow and a time to reap. A time to mourn and a time to dance. A time to keep silent and a time to speak. Would it be fulfilling to be in a constant state of mourning, silent all the time, or dancing my little legs off?  I enjoy summer immensely, but, would I really enjoy it all that much if it was a permanent state, year round?  Especially with my tendency towards boredom.  More important, if there was only one season, would I make any new discoveries, learn to snow ski, create new soup recipes to warm the bones, crochet an afghan (my first attempt looked like a giant diaper)?  Would I find I am stronger and more competent than I ever imagined in digging my car out from under four feet of snow?  I would miss my roaring fires, long lazy Sundays, too treacherous to do anything but lounge with the latest bestseller in my lap, dozing and sipping mint tea, the smell of homemade chicken noodle soup simmering on the stove.
  

I’ve lived in year round sunny, warmer and dryer climates in my young years. Returning to visit relatives in December was excitedly anticipated back then.  My brother and I loved whopping it up in the snow.  Our cousins would slink away, embarrassed by our zealousness... the crazy relatives from out of state. We were used to our aerosol snow, straight from the can, coating the windows to lend the illusion of a White Christmas. It went well with our silver tree with blue bulbs and the rotating light box changing, color every 5 seconds. When our cousins came to visit us, they thought our spray snow and silver tree was very chic and cool.  Those worldly, 60's cousins..... Why is the sunshine/snow always brighter on the other side?

What happened to my appreciation for life on life's terms, one day at a time, savoring each season, complete with the different pleasures each brings?  When I was a child, I longed for what I didn't have, and tried to capture it artificially.  It never brought near the satisfaction as relaxing into the  awe of what was unfolding, in God's world.   I think it may be just like using a tanning bed, in the dead of winter in order to keep that summer glow.  It’s unnatural.  Why not look for the beauty where we are, and recognize all good things must come to an end in order to make room for other good things?  Why not use the winter as time to give our skin a break, use our minds and souls more, and our bodies just a little less?  Hibernate. Regroup. Nurture. Learn. If you can't change the world you're in, change your inner world, and the world you're in, will change.

 Hmmm... I thought as I walked in the crisper air. I think I'm onto something here. I will try to take each season as it comes, and enjoy whatever presents itself.  Whether that be the smell of the leaves I rake, the taste of a great pumpkin pie, a snowflake on my tongue, or the take your breath away beauty of the first nighttime snowfall.   Besides, its a chance to try my hand at a new afghan!  And, there's always a quick trip to Ft. Lauderdale late January.......

“What you resist, persists”. Carl Jung

I'd rather be WICKED!

I’m still on a “green cloud” this week  from seeing the play Wicked. For those of you unfamiliar with the premise of this production, the story is about the land of Oz and its many colorful characters, pre-Dorothy and Toto. It's a tale of  Elphaba, The Wicked Witch of the West; Glinda the Good Witch; and the Wizard in all his narcissistic splendor.  All the characters transport you on a realistic journey down the yellow brick road.   If you're debating on whether it is worth the $100+ (and those are the cheap seats)  to attend, it is.  It's a fun, humorous, poignant tale, with a twist.  "Glinda the good", is blonde, beautiful, ditsy, and shallow.  She fits right into the superficially lovely Land of Oz and refuses to peek at the the "man behind the curtain".  To do so might burst the bubble of security she finds in her looks, popularity and the comfort zone of a world she knows well.  So, Glinda doesn't dare  look.   To see the great and powerful Oz, as neither great nor powerful, would force the question: what else is illusion? Elphaba, on the other hand, has green skin, is already unpopular and has been since birth.  What does she have to lose by ripping back the draperies and exposing a frail, wizened old man, as he screams, "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain"?   She pays attention.  Her dreams are temporarily shattered. She finds herself staring into one of many faces she's allowed to direct, limit, and define her, and recognizes it isn't even real, and hardly intimidating.  This revelation opens up a new world for her.  She's freed to explore suppressed talents and resourcefulness in changing her world.  The costumes, set design and special effects are not only yummy eye candy; the music is inspirational. My ears perked up at the words: 

        Something has changed within me

Something is not the same

I'm through with playing by the rules

Of someone else's game

Too late for second guessing

Too late to go back to sleep

 It's time to trust my instincts

Close my eyes: and leap

It's time to try defying gravity...............

I'm through accepting limits, cause someone says they're so

Some things I cannot change, but till I try, I'll never know!

Too long I've been afraid of , losing love I guess I've lost

Well, if that's love, it comes at much too high a cost.

I think I'll buy defying gravity........

Wow......and, this is where the story gets really good!

It's one of those fables that slowly unfold layers of  insights, unearthing the golden key, which unlocks authenticity and its by-products........serenity and happiness.  It speaks loudly  of accepting and proudly wearing who we are and honoring that, although others may not. It reminds us to do it anyway, because the price of trying to become something we aren't, steals the beautiful bits of our character that God implanted in us individually, empowering us to fulfill our unique destiny.  It's also about hearing truth pounding so loudly, inside your soul, and learning to defend it, no matter what.  It's recognizing that sometimes you can't  make others happy, and perhaps, it's time for them to learn to be happy with themselves. It's learning, if you need to worry about losing love, it wasn't the real deal anyway.  Yet, true love blossoms in the play.  The kind of love where you fall  head over heels with another's soul, rather than their perfect skin. You recognize real beauty is deeply embedded beyond the normal five senses.   A person's  true character and value is revealed, by watching with your heart, not your eyes.  


My husband had a saying which I find myself trying to apply today.  He said, "We can't judge.  We don't know the rest of their  story."  Wicked tells the rest of their story.  A bucket of water is thrown on that wicked old witch of the west. It's meant to eliminate her, but it also douses the platitude, "perception is reality".  No it's not!  Perception is our personal delusion and always will be.  Perception resides in the mind.  Reality, is truth, and can only be known from the place God resides, our hearts.

I left the theatre smiling big.  I was entertained for sure, but also comforted.  My choice to stop being afraid of losing love I never had in the first place, and selling off pieces of my soul for so many things I thought I needed, has been a good one. I am no longer limited by my self-imposed fear of moving out of my comfort zone into the wild and beautiful unknown. And, while my exterior may be perceived as blonde, baubled, stilletoed,  and moderately shallow, the reality is, I have the heart of the Wicked!   And, that makes me happy!

Eat, Pray, Love Lite - The story of a rural woman with an urban heart: Journey with her as she travels from her own fridge in the kitchen, to pre-meditated, meditation in the den. Final stop... the bathroom mirror which whispered sweet affirmations into her ear. A happy ending.... She fell head over heels, crazy in love, with the person standing right before her eyes!

Yippee! The movie, based on Elizabeth Gilbert’s smash book, Eat, Pray, Love, came out this weekend. The hype this book created had to be good for tourism in Italy, India and Indonesia!   Everyone could use a good Liz Gilbert experience just once in their lifetime.  If done as well as she did it, one lifetime is probably all you’d need! Three unique destinations.  Three life altering experiences.  1) Cultivating a healthy relationship and genuine appreciation for the sensuality of food as one of life’s pleasures, rather than a means of control, deprivation, medicating, or eating away emotion. 2) Connecting with your true self and reaping the benefits of forgiveness, and, 3) Meeting your perfect fit... the love of your life, in the most beautiful location on earth;  a fairy tale come true. All in one single year!  C’mon...what are the odds? I’ve spent a lifetime just trying to find any old self, true or not. It’s possible, this year, a reunion has finally taken place.  “Helloooooooo, Rebecca.... nice to finally meet you.  I’m Becky!”  Now that we’ve met, we’re working on best friend status. I really like the old broad.  I asked her, “Where you been all my life?” She said, “Right here. You didn’t have time for me.  You were trying so desperately to insure others liked you, you couldn’t see that I already did.”  I digress.  Back to Elizabeth Gilbert’s book. I am not a big fan of the Nicholas Sparks genre, love conquers all and everyone lives happily ever after...... sigh.....This  is just not a realistic gig for me.  Perhaps, I have a deep seated envy of the population that believe in that kind of innocence. My daughter is among them.  I feared this book would be like that. Girl experiences double heartbreak, goes to Europe to heal and wait out her divorce. While waiting, she swears off men, eats her way through the best pizza known to man (really substituting food for man). She decides to go to India, as her pants are now too tight and perhaps, being locked in an Ashram indulging in the brown rice diet program, will be the ticket to finding weight loss and herself. While in the Ashram, she drops two sizes, and discovers she must forgive, in order to clear her karmic airspace.  Emerging an enlightened, skinnier, human being, she is open to new beauty and potential frolic on the beautiful beaches of Bali.  Fade out.... final chapter, there she goes, walking hand in hand, on the beach toward the land of milk, honey and commitment, with some sexy, worldly, foreigner. Flash forward to her new book, ten years later, Purge, Rage, Hate.... Stripped of her money, again, divorce pending, she can’t afford to work through her issues this time gallivanting across the globe.  She spends a weekend in a cheap hotel room in Soho, meditating to the sounds of the local hooker and her parade of Johns in the room next door. Is this all too cynical of me? Am I writing my own story here?  

I know I am being wildly irreverent and I apologize.  That was the mindset I had when I opened the book initially, two years ago.  When I closed the book, I was sighing and clutching it to my heart, hoping to shove some of her wisdom into my own soul.  I did. She changed my perception on a number of things and I annoyingly quote her fairly often these days. I fell in love with this book, and Elizabeth Gilbert.  She has the confidence (and humility) to strip bare, expose herself, and invite you into the bedroom of her vulnerability.  Right where all her secrets are kept.  You feel her suffering, see her revelations, and experience her joy.  She is the kind of person you want for a best friend. Your secrets would be safe with her because they mirror yours, and it’s creepy and not much fun, to be with someone who has none.  And, this is what made her story beautiful, and believable, rather than just another glorified love saga.  Yes, she found her grand love. But, before that, she took your hand and let you walk that painful path with her, peeling back the layers in each country, as she moved forward into her happily ever after.  

The buzz her story created is pretty amazing. Interest in Buddhism has skyrocketed as well as “spiritualcations” (spiritual vacations).   I recently read an article in a woman’s health magazine of a group of young women, who quit their jobs, as well, to travel and “marvel” at something.  I am not discounting the bravery and faith it takes to venture out into parts unknown.  But, I do know that making a geographical adjustment isn’t necessarily the path to enlightenment, forgiveness and love.  Can be a heck of a lot of fun while doing it, but we all have to come home, and guess who comes along home with us?  

Two years ago, I was blessed to travel, for two months.  I became immersed in each culture and savored every moment and morsel. It was my adventure of a lifetime. The final days of my trip, I reflected on many things. Three countries, eighteen accommodations, many more destinations, witnessing snatch your breath away majesty, in its natural form, as well as man-made Art that made me weep.  I still felt this  urgency to return home.  I discovered that enlightenment can also be found in our own surroundings and in the eyes of the love we encounter  in our daily connections. 

This last year has been an Eat, Pray, Love journey for me as well.  The majority of my enlightenment has arrived, quietly, within the four walls of my own home.  I have rediscovered the pleasure of good food. Not only the taste, but the serenity of the preparation.  Somehow, over the years, I must have decided I wasn’t worthy of the time it took to prepare lovely, nourishing, meals. That was reserved for friends,family, and special occasions.  Food was fast and furious, kind of like my life, consumed most often standing up at the counter! I didn’t think that same pleasure, I so freely gave my loved ones, was mine to enjoy.  How lovely it is to now sit at a table, cloth napkin, pretty dishes, nutritious, delectable food, filling my belly as well as sustaining my soul. My Pray took place in my personal Ashram, my favorite spot in my house.  It is a holy place by nature, because so much of life has played out there.  Hearts have broken, tears have been shed, secrets revealed, joy shared, intimacy savored, comfort provided, and a blessed life passed on to begin a heavenly life, all in this small, solitary room. It’s as beautiful in its meaning as Bali could ever be.  The shelves reflect photographs of happy people and times, meaningful trinkets and treasures.   Windows overlook God’s playground, glorious year round, but especially so when the trees are frosted with the white stillness of winter.  A fireplace, roaring,  acts as a fire Mandela in losing conscious thought and slipping into  the space inside, where God resides. Over sized comfy chairs welcome sprawling into childlike poses. All the while, listening to instruction from some of the inner work greats; Jack Kornfield, Jon Kabat-Zin, Dr. Wayne Dyer, as they help me slow down my mind enough, to allow stillness, prayer, healing and Love, to enter.  Back to back days spent in my haven, pried open  the door to forgiveness and allowed it  to  finally swing wide open.   And, lastly....my love.  I discovered her in my bathroom mirror.  I had seen her around for many years, but never really paid much attention to her.   How could I miss those bright, happy eyes and joyful smile?  I am happy to report she is everything I always dreamed of.  I accept her as she is, flaws and fluff, because those are the things that make her special to me.  And, I made a commitment (perhaps for the first time in my life) to always treasure her, never leave her, and unconditionally love her, forever.  

Don’t wait for the time, or the money, to take your Eat, Pray, Love journey.  Begin where you are, with what you have.  Venture into parts of yourself that are yet unknown.  I promise, you will discover there is so much to "marvel" at, right where you stand. 

Poem of the Day....

This poem touched something deep inside as I was getting ready to write today.  This encapsulates my journey in this last year and says it much better than I can.  When I heard this "new voice"(I'm not sure when exactly that happened) and discovered it was my own, everything changed.  I actually trusted and rejoiced in the sound of it. It spoke authentically, kindly, with forgiveness, compassion, and great wisdom.  It is no longer silent, blended with the voices of others in order to fit in, be loved, nor quieted by fear of rejection.  I'm sure I  jumped when I heard it.  It's been docile for many years.  It said, ever so softly, "The sentence is served, and it's your time."  Do it now, do it for you, do it your way.  Do it because it's your destiny. Trust.  Love yourself." 

The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Alex “Bug” - Angel of hope and healing....

Ten years ago today, God sent the tiniest messenger to remind us of His immense love.  This little bundle came to us in the form of a baby girl, swaddled in dreams, new beginnings, and kisses from heaven. I think she may have been a bit reluctant to leave the comfort of her heavenly home, as her momma spent 24 hours in labor!  But, then, she had no idea how wanted and loved she already was.  I don’t think there could have been a more eagerly anticipated child.  For a number of reasons.  First, the previous year had been one of heartbreaking grief with the death of two very important members of our family.  Second, her poor momma suffered horribly in the summer heat and signs of toxemia, led her doctor to sentence her to the sofa for the last weeks of her pregnancy.  The days prior to  our little one’s birth, I sat with her during the day, watching over my own child like a lioness protecting her baby cub. I waited on her, made her lunch, watched others babies being born on A Baby Story presented by the Lifetime channel. We talked about her own birth,  all the new gadgets available for mom and baby these days, and, the importance of names.  When I asked my daughter what name they had selected, she sighed and said, “Mom, we need to see what our baby looks like in order to pick the right name.”  I laughed, “Don’t babies all look alike?”  Several times a day I would climb the stairs and enter the wonderland nursery decorated in “John Lennon Collection” accessories; fairytale animals, soothing blues, greens and yellows, the words of John’s tune, Imagine, in my head as it sprung to life and dreamed of the day when our baby cried the sweet sound of possibility into the room and our lives. 

The evening arrived and so did our baby girl.  As, she encircled her tiny hand around my finger, she wrapped herself around my heart, forever.  When her parents announced her name, Alexandria Catherine, they were right.  She WAS an Alex!  Often, when I was privileged to baby-sit my new granddaughter, her parents would leave, she would be in my arms.  When they returned home, much later, there we’d be, in the same position.  I’d spend hours staring at her sleeping face, sniffing the freshness of her little fuzzy head, and kissing the teeniest rose bud lips, over and over, resuscitating with her oxygen and filling myself with healing.  She was a reason to move out of the sadness, and leave a new legacy... one of courage, happiness, love, and joy.

As a baby, she was sensitive to her environment as well as the moods of those around her.  She was affectionate, loved to cuddle, and was the best at “eskimo kisses” and “snuggle-buggys”.  Perhaps this is where her mom came up with her nickname, “Bug.”  At an early age, she showed signs of this ethereal love of mankind, religion and God.  Every night she slept with her rosary, given to her by her great-grandma, often seen during the day as well, clutching it in her little hands, and praying!  I recall a time when she was 4 years old, she overheard a conversation between her mother and I. Tugging at my shirt, she said to me, “Mimi, I will pray for you.”  She dropped to her knees, grabbed her rosary and offered up a plea to God, for her grandma!  This love of God, spills over in her compassion for others.  She cannot stand to see her friends in trouble, her sisters hurt, or any living thing suffer.  She is quick to pitch in and defend, help and support.  Curious about everything, at 5, she studied her book of the Saints, knew their names and what they stood for (great-grandma again).  At 6, King Tut was a fascination, and I promised her, someday, I would take her to Egypt.  Age 7, it was dinosaurs and land animals;  8 brought an interest in sea animals and marine biology.  Until she learned she would have to move near the ocean. This was just too far away from her family!  Her family is the most important thing in her world, and I think it just might always be.  Recently, she is fascinated by disasters, and real-life mysteries.  She can site every detail of the Titanic’s demise, personal tales of human loss, and all the particulars of this cataclysm.  She is obsessively curious about what happened to Amelia Earhart and will tell you, rumor has it, a makeup case was found on the ocean floor in the South Pacific.  She questions everything about the Lincoln and the Kennedy assassinations and cross-examines every theory.  She reads, researches, and her thirst to figure it all out is unquenchable. As I glance at my own bookcases, I see this desire to find the answers to life’s mysteries, a genetic trait, inherited, from her Mimi (me).  Her mom encouraged her to pick up a fun fiction book at the library the other day.  Not for our Alex.  Her selection was a book about Katie Couric, her life and career in journalism.  She also, delightedly shares a love of writing with me.  Her written project, last school year, produced a ripple effect in dropped jaws at the imaginative nature of her assignment.  In school she is smart; elementary age, summa cum laude status.  Her curiosity is not limited to learning though, and she participates in dance, basketball, baseball, cheerleading, choir, and this year has expressed a desire for swimming and Girl Scouts. Whew! 

She is also very much her mother’s daughter.  Emotional, a sap for the sentimental stories of life, a classic girly-girl.  Although, she never was much interested in Barbie Dolls, or traditional girl toys, preferring books, science oriented toys and craft projects.  But, like her mom, she can put together a trendy outfit just glancing through a closet, has an eye for design, and inherited her mother’s voice and love of music.  When her great-grandma asked her to sing a solo at her great-grandpa’s funeral this Spring, this brave little girl, stood before the crowd of mourners at our church, and in her perfectly pure voice, sang, You are Mine.  Again, jaws dropped at the priceless gift she gave her grandpa, of not only her talent, but also the bravery in walking through her own grief and fear, to honor him and her family.  This integrity, ethics and understanding of the Golden Rule,  comes from her daddy as well as inheriting his honesty.  She can be counted on for the truth!   

Ten years old...she is growing up.... Sometimes that makes me sad, but mostly I feel excited to witness the evolution of this already awesome human being.  She makes me smile in her explorations and I can see she is torn between the two worlds of being a little girl and having fun with her sisters, and acting like a big girl with her friends.  Happily, the frolicking in the water at the pool, beats out the walking around the perimeter, gossiping with the older girls about the little 13 year old dudes.  She did share with her mom, one “hot” little 13 year old had a “four-pack”!  Guess the six-pack doesn’t sprout until about 16 or so!  Thank heavens!  

Today is so special.  Her god mother drove all the way from her home in Chicago, a whirlwind trip in one day, returning to work tomorrow, just to celebrate this birthday with her! A very unique and caring lady who is important to all of us as well, and we love her so much.  Alex seems to be surrounded by that kind of unselfishness and love.  I think that has contributed to her own tenderness and desire to pay it forward. Currently, she has this affinity for the Peace symbol.  It adorns her clothing, her back pack, her folders, and her walls.  Perhaps, she assimilated that from her “give peace a chance” John Lennon nursery, ten years ago.  Or, it’s another genetic thing from her Mimi’s late 60’s hippie experiences during the height of the Vietnam War. Wherever it comes from, a desire to be fashionable or a part of her genetic make-up, to me, she symbolizes, peace, love, healing and hope. 

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention one of my favorite things about Alex. Her voice.... Truly, it is like receiving a call from an angel.  The sound is so incredibly melodious and soothing.  When she calls and leaves a message, I have been known to save it for those times when I need a reminder of the blessings in my life.  The drive to become a better person, instigated by such a tiny being, has never been more apparent then when I reflect back today, on the birth of my first granddaughter, a true gift from God.   Happy Birthday, Alex Bug!