Debbie Does 50!

Seven Miracles

2012-01-17T21:25:00.000-08:00

Today I started reading thebook, Make Miracles in Forty Days. The author asks that we make alist of miracles we’ve seen. I’vethought about this, but the only real miracle I can think of is children. As a person, an adult, it’s miraculousto me that children ever come into our lives. And it isn’t just the “miracle of birth”, though that’spretty miraculous. It’s that thereare children at all. Regardless ofhow they come into our lives – birth, adoption, osmosis – it seems somewhatmiraculous to me that they are here. That I am their “leader”; that they learn from me; that who they becomeis, in large part, based on what I teach them, what I show them. When I was younger, the miracle ofchildren was based on the incredible biology of two people creating one new,separate being. Later, I realizedthat there was also a miracle in being granted the responsibility of beinggiven a child to raise. And, still later, I learned that a similar miracle happens when a child chooses you. Have I seen other miracles? I can’t wrap my thoughts around anyothers right now, but the sounds of laughter and teasing coming from my kitchen, as several of my miracles clean the dinner dishes, is pretty miraculous initself.

Now THAT was a Hot Flash!

2012-01-11T08:44:00.000-08:00

For more than a decade I’ve experienced the perimenopausalsymptom of night sweats and I’ve also noticed that my body no longer regulatestemperature as efficiently as it used. I’ve even had a few of what I would call “mini hot-flashes”. Then this past weekend I was awakenedin the pre-dawn hours to a fiery heat that I at first thought was emanating frommy bed. Still not fully awake, Ijumped out of bed hoping to escape the fire. I made a whining, crying noise and then, worried that I’dwake up my sleeping husband, I ran into our bathroom but the fire stayed withme. I jumped around the bathroomtrying to escape the fire, fanning myself with my hands and still making thewhining, crying noise. Not findingany relief in the bathroom, I ran out, through our bedroom and into thehallway. I was still fanningmyself and still making the nonverbal noise, but there was no relief in thehallway, either. Sometime duringthis little predawn jaunt, I fully woke up and realized that the fire was notin my bed, it was not following me, it was IN me! Night sweats, temperature deregulation, mini hot-flashes –pshaw! This was a real, honest-to-goodnesshot flash! Maybe I need to get alittle yellow caution sign, not for my car, but to wear around my neck, thatreads, “Caution – Hormones on board!”

I Have a Plan

2012-01-08T07:38:00.000-08:00

Here we are again, into a new year, and I realize once againjust how much I want to do and wonder how I can ever manage to fulfill all ofmy dreams. How do some people getbored with life when I can’t even manage to do much more than scratch thesurface of my wish list?

With every new year, for as long as I can remember, comesthe renewed desire to lose weight. As I age, that desire includes a lot more than just the number on thescale. Yes, that number needs togo down, but I also want to make sure my innards are staying healthy, mymuscles are not atrophying and my body, in general, retains (or improves) itsflexibility. This means settingaside time to exercise, which I’ve done for the more than a decade, but alsomeans that exercise needs to include more than just the treadmill –weights, yoga, stretching, a walk outside for exercise, fresh air and peace ofmind. Speaking of peace of mind, Ialso want to find time to think about “stuff” – life, karma, spirituality,dreams, mental expansion, i.e. learning. Thinking, reading and writing give me a feeling of fullness and joy,much like the “high” I feel at the end of a good workout. Both physical and mental pursuits leaveme feeling aware. Aware of my bodyand all it can do; aware of my mind and heart and all there is to learn andunderstand. Aware of the joyfulnature of life that is often forgotten in the need to just get through the day.

Yesterday and today I was up early, as I usually am, butinstead of heading for the exercise room, I’ve taken the extra early-morninghours to read, think and, now write. I still got in my workout yesterday – I walked/ran a 10k, and today Iwill take the dogs for a walk once the sun is up, but this quiet time, thismental workout, is, oh, so precious. How do I fit this into my regular there’s-so-much-to-get-done days? Victor Hugo said, “He who every morningplans the transaction of the day and follows out the plan, carries a threadthat will guide him through the labyrinth of the most busy life.” Sure, my life is busy – isn’t everyone’s? But I have learned to make time forphysical exercise and it now seems so obvious that I need to make time formental pursuits as well. Timeeveryday. Time that is committedto my calendar as one of the “transactions” of my day. Tomorrow, when the alarm goes off at4:45, I will rise, workout, walk the dogs – all part of my physical fitnessroutine, then I will read, think and, perhaps, write – absolutely necessarycomponents for my mental fitness. And I will do the same the next day, the day after that and, again, thefollowing day. I have a plan.

Mature Panties

2011-12-29T08:25:00.000-08:00

I went into a Victoria’s Secret store recently to buy somepanties for a gift. I explained tothe salesgirl (she wasn’t old enough to be a saleslady or a saleswoman) that I was looking forsomething cute that would be appropriate for a young teen. She took me to a display of brightcolored panties in styles ranging from thongs to hip huggers. She explained to me that the pantieswere on sale for “5 for $26” – a good price for Victoria’s Secret panties. She then went on to say, “…and the bestpart is that you can mix-&-match! You could buy three pairs for your gift and then get two pairs foryourself. I can show you the area inthe back where we have our mature panties.” Maturepanties!?!? What exactly doesa mature panty look like? Is it wrinkled? Does it have wisdom? Has it been around the block a time ortwo? Obviously, that wasn’t whatshe meant by mature panty, but still,do I really look like I wear maturepanties? A few years ago ourniece and two of our daughters got into a conversation at dinner about pantystyles and they laughed hysterically about grannypanties – you know the ones they were talking about: white cotton, full cut, fit at thewaist. Now, I won’t go into thetype of panties I wear, but they’re certainly not granny panties and I wouldn’t even call mine mature panties.

I recently learned that in Italy it is thought that you willhave good luck in the coming year if you wear red underwear on New Year’sEve. No granny panties or maturepanties for me, but red...I can deal with that!

Santa -- Still Alive and Well

2011-12-25T07:59:00.000-08:00

Last night, as my family sat around our family room openingpresents, laughing and talking, I found myself sitting back and just enjoyingthe scene – taking true pleasure in simply having everyone together. I know there will be a time when wecan’t all be together for Christmas so I want to completely embrace andtreasure what it means to have our entire family together and enjoying eachother.

This year, as I worked on an ornament project that involvedtwenty-seven years of Santa photos, I had the opportunity to do a lot ofreminiscing. With every photo Iworked on, I was reminded of how small our children once were and about howtrue it is that they do grow up so quickly. However, even as I nostalgically reminisced about theirchildhoods and Christmases past, I also realized that the more adultChristmases we are now having are also special. Decorating the house is easier with a houseful of grown-uptypes to help. Grown children shopfor Christmas gifts on their own time, with their own money and with their owngift ideas. Christmas Eve dinnerisn’t just a mom’s responsibility; it can be prepped and cleaned up by adultchildren. And yet I believe thechildhood joy of Christmas still lingers in each of their hearts. Helping with decorating, they appreciatethe work that goes into creating the magic. Planning for and selecting their own gifts is an exercise innoticing and valuing who each of their siblings are. Christmas traditions take on the varied personalities of thepeople they have become. And lastnight, when our dinner had been eaten, our Christmas program had been performedand all our gifts had been exchanged, there was no childhood dawdling withthe hope of catching a glimpse of Santa, yet I think each of them – each ofus, went off to bed with Santa in our hearts.

Rockin' the Sexy Look

2011-12-22T08:59:00.000-08:00

At a party a few days ago, I had my trusty bedazzled readingglasses perched on my head so that I could easily slide them down onto my noseand read small print – actually, it’s allsmall print these days. Throughoutthe evening I spoke with many folks who were also finding it necessary toresort to reading glasses. It wasa fun, age-deprecating topic that many of us understood. In fact, when I first went looking forthis particular pair of reading glasses in the bowl where I keep my glasses, aguest chimed up, “Oh, sorry, I have a pair of your glasses right here. I needed to borrow them to read thequiz.” No worries – I have lots of reading glasses.

While many of the adults among us commented on and laughedabout my bedazzled reading glasses, my youngest kids seemed embarrassed that Iso blatantly flaunted my visual infirmities. Not only was I wearing a pair of reading glasses atop myhead, but they were bedazzled. They stood out. I wastrying to joke with the teens about my “sexy” glasses, but all I was gettingwere eye rolls – that is until one young lady, a friend of my son, gave myglasses a good look, smiled at me and said, “Oh, yeah, Debbie – you’re rockin’the sexy look.” Now, some of youmight think she was being sarcastic or perhaps even sucking up to her friend’smom, but I decided to believe she was being sincere and revel in my sexylook. After all, it didn’t hurtanything to believe her and several of my friends and I felt a moment of joy atthe thought that our need for reading glasses could actually be interpreted assexy. Several years ago I wroteabout men wearing reading glasses and looking sexy, now, I’m happily rockin’ myown sexy look.

MamaVision

2011-12-09T14:33:00.000-08:00

After being in Korea for a week, yesterday afternoon I hadthe chance to Skype with my two oldest daughters. It was late night for them; my middle daughter was doinghomework and my oldest daughter was just keeping her company I guess. We talked about what they have been upto this week and what their brother and I have been doing. It was great to see their smiling facesand hear their laughter. Abouttwenty minutes into the conversation a thought hit me and I blurted out, “Wow! You two look really Asian!” That brought on a round of laughter;even my youngest son sitting next to me snickered. My middle daughter, through her laughter, said, “Mama, weARE Asian!” while my oldest daughter, also through her laughter, said, “Yeah,well that’s a big surprise.” Aftera week of seeing almost nothing but Asians, suddenly their Asian-ness – theirlooks, their expressions, their beauty – jumped out at me from the computerscreen. We all laughed about myobviously silly statement, but the reality is, while I know they’re Asian,while I’m thrilled that they’re proud of their Korean heritage, when I look atthem on a daily basis, I don’t see “Asian”, I just see my kids.

Am I Glowing?

2011-12-08T14:24:00.001-08:00

This trip to Korea with the Holt Christmas Gift Team isalways a wonderfully uplifting, emotional trip that is a roller coaster ride oftears, laughter and smiles. Yesterday was no exception. Yesterday we visited Holt’s Ilsan Town. This year marks the 50^th anniversary of Ilsan; 50years ago Harry Holt and David Kim began building a community on a hillsidenorth of Seoul that would house children waiting to be adopted as well as thosewho were, most likely, not adoptable. Today it is home to almost 300 mentally and physically handicappedresidents who live in group homes, go to school, work, establish relationships– basically live a real life. Our team’s arrival is always thesource of much excitement and joy as we bring, and receive, Christmas joy. (seemy entry, Folks This is Why I do This)

Yesterday we visited the newly remodeled Memorial Hall whereexhibits tell the story of Harry and Bertha Holt and their mission to findfamilies for the world’s orphaned children. I know the story. I’ve read about it, watched videos about it. I’d been to the “old” Memorial Hall, but yesterday’s visithit my emotional button hard. Ibarely made it through the door before the tears starting flowing. The pictures of children in need; thestory of one man who gave of himself beyond what most of us can evencomprehend; the woman who became Grandma to thousands of children – the words,the images filled my heart and, yes, I cried.

The visit ended with a trip into the workshop area whereresidents do piece work for local businesses. This employment gives the residents purpose, experience andspending money. As we walked downthe window-lined hallway we could see people working on their projects,chatting with their co-workers and, when they saw us, there were oftenenthusiastic waves and smiles. Wewent into the large room at the end of the hall and three young women, allapparently with Downs Syndrome, came up to us to shake hands, smile, hug andtalk. One young woman, whoactually spoke a little English, even showed us how she does her job and, whenone of our team members tried to emulate her task, she quickly made it clearthat he was not doing it properly. As we prepared to leave, one of the three women came to give me anotherhug. Then another one came and thethree of us hugged. Finally, thethird woman came over and we had a full-blown group hug – what we call a familyhug. It felt wonderful!

As I walked out of the building I realized that I’d startedthe morning with tears – tears that washed my face and cleansed my spirit, andI’d ended the day with one of the best hugs of my life – both my face and myspirit glowed.

Today They Will Hold Their Son

2011-12-05T12:26:00.000-08:00

Yesterday our Christmas Gift Team group of 30 was joined bya couple who is adopting through our agency and who had arrived in Seoul thenight before to pick up their 3-year-old son. They were supposed to have had a little tour with acollege-age volunteer, but since our group was already planning a tour of theHolt offices and the city of Seoul, the agency sent them along with us. They were introduced to the group and theyexplained that they were in Seoul for the week and would be meeting their newson on Tuesday (today) and would hopefully be able to take him with thempermanently on Wednesday before flying home to their other two boys on Friday.

Our Christmas Gift Team was still getting to know each othersince most of the team had only arrived in Seoul the night before, but we’re anenthusiastic bunch, here to learn about Holt’s programs and bring Christmas joyto those Holt serves. I spent sometime talking with this couple who were plopped down in the midst of ourmerrymaking. I especially wantedto connect with them about our shared experience of adopting a little bit olderchild since our youngest daughter was just shy of three-years-old when she camehome. We had a couple of shortconversations and one longer one over lunch. I know they were pleased to be with our group for the day,but as I watched them, I realized that it was quite clear that their reason forbeing here is very different from ours. While we were laughing and enjoying the camaraderie of a shared mission,they were anticipating, with both eagerness and nervousness, the meeting theywill have today with their son and his foster mother. They were no doubt thinking of the months of paperwork andwaiting they have endured; of the love they feel for a child they’ve never met,of the hopes, and perhaps even the fears, they have for the coming days, weeks,months and years.

When we arrived back at the hotel last evening, as the restof us headed in different directions for dinner, I saw the couple in the littlelobby convenience store. They lookglassy-eyed with jet lag and, no doubt, a big case of nerves. I’m on my normal Christmas Gift Team“high” and, when first seeing how tired they were, was glad that my emotional“high” staves off any exhaustion (that will come when I return home), but as Isaid good-bye and wished them well for today, I remembered, with tears in myeyes and a tug at my heart, just what they were going through – in their mindsand in their hearts. I realizedthat, regardless of what a memorable, meaningful day our team has today, itwill not even begin to measure up to the memorable, meaningful day this couplewill have. They may be exhausted,they may be sick with nervousness, but today they will hold their son.

Bulgogi in an Earthworm Pot

2011-12-04T11:23:00.001-08:00

The title doesn’t really have anything to do with what I’mwriting about; it was simply too good to pass up. When I read the English description of a Korean dish,“Bulgogi in an earthenware pot,” my son thought I said, “Bulgogi in anearthworm pot.” Needless to say,he was a little appalled at the idea.

Over the last fourteen years, during seven trips to Korea,I’ve noticed slight, but consistent changes, specifically regarding commutingaround Seoul. The streets of thecity used to buzz with ultra-small compact cars, much like the Smart Cars thatare cropping up in the US. A sedanwas an anomaly. Now, the streetshum with luxury sedans and the ultra-small compact car is an odd sight. Traffic signals and signs used to be a“suggestion” for drivers and pedestrians were cautioned to always watch beforestepping into a crosswalk because cars had the right of way. Now, there seems to be a much higherexpectation that drivers will follow the rules of the road and that pedestriansin marked crossing lanes should expect to be able to cross safely. Motorcycles and scooters used to takeover the sidewalks whenever it was to their advantage. Now, pedestrians seem to expect thatmotorized vehicles will stay on the streets, within the lanes of traffic. It doesn’t feel as much like Seoul, butthere’s still bulgogi in earthenware pots.

Have Guts - Will Travel

2011-12-02T23:52:00.000-08:00

Just as I’ve made great changes over the years in how I feelabout football, I have also changed my thoughts about flying and traveling. While I always loved the idea of traveling,I was so afraid of flying that I preferred to keep my feet on the ground and tolimit my travels to those that could be reached via cars, buses andtrains. At one point during mybanking career, I had been promoted to the newly created position of complianceofficer for the bank’s trust department. The department head wanted me to visit a couple of other banks that hadestablished compliance departments to see how they functioned. The problem was, the other banks werein San Francisco. When my bosscalled me into his office to discuss the pending trip, I explained that Ididn’t fly. He responded, “Well,what the hell do you think you’re going to do? Take the train?” That’s exactly what I did.

I did fly occasionally, but I never enjoyed it and with eachflight I was convinced that I would die. I envied friends who could hop on a plane as if they were getting intotheir car. I knew the statisticsabout the safety of air travel. Iknew that my horizons would expand if only I’d fly, but it was souncomfortable for me that I avoided it whenever possible. Then, fourteen years ago, my oldest sonand I flew to Korea to pick up my youngest son – the same son who is sittingbeside me on the plane right now as we head back to Korea.

That first trip to Korea was eye opening for me. The differences in culture, food, art,lifestyle were so surprising to me that I knew I wanted to experience more andI knew I’d have to fly to make that happen. My ease with flying didn’t happen overnight, but Ieventually realized that I no longer walked onto the plane expecting tocrash. My stomach no longer turnedin knots as the hour of takeoff approached. If someone said, “Let’s travel,” I found myself ready to hopon board.

And now, several years and many trips later, I have attainedthe ultimate “I’m a traveler” feat. I have gone from needing to check two fully loaded, to within ounces oftheir weight limit, suitcases to packing for this trip in the one, now allowed,checked bag and that bag weighed in seven pounds under the limit. I know that’s still not the same asthose who travel with nothing more than a duffel bag on their back, but for me,the transition from not flying to flying and now being able to pack efficientlyand lightly makes me feel like I am truly an experienced traveler.

Almost Magical

2011-11-19T05:39:00.001-08:00

My husband’s grandmother grew up, and lived most of herlife, in the Midwest. She lived afairly hard life raising a large family and eking out a living in harsh NorthDakota, yet she was also a joyful, loving woman with qualities we’d all like toemulate. She, too, was a writerand somewhere in her writing she talks about how, if one wants to be happy, itis necessary to find beauty in the small events that occur in our everydaylives.

I have been purposefully working on positive, productiveattitudes and goals and, partly as a result, this past week has felt joyful tome, even though there have been challenges and issues to deal with. One day in particular left me feelingas if I would explode with joy, fulfillment and happiness. In a Facebook post I described that dayas “almost magical”.

On this day I had a long list of errands to run; so longthat I’d actually written them out on a Post-it Note so that I wouldn’t forgetanything. My suburban was full,ready for stops at the drycleaners, the consignment store, Goodwill and the computer-recyclingcenter. I’d gathered togethercoupons, grocery bags and shopping lists and I’d taken pictures of our frontdoor handles so that I could order new ones at the hardware store. When I arrived at the store I wasgreeted by a woman about my age who offered to help me figure out which handlesI needed to order. With the ordercomplete, she said the handles would be available in about two weeks and askedif she could call me when they arrived. I told her I needed to give her an alternate phone number because Iwould likely be in Korea by then. She asked why I was going to Korea and I explained that I was taking myyoungest son on a trip with our adoption agency. She looked at me in surprise and said, “Oh, you have adoptedchildren?” She then leaned acrossthe counter and said, in almost a whisper, “I placed a child for adoption manyyears ago.” A birth mother! Yes, I know there are birth mothersrunning around all over, but we rarely know that they’re birth mothers. For many of us who have adoptedchildren, especially when we don’t have the opportunity to meet our children’sbirth parents, there is a feeling, somewhat akin to awe with a little bit ofthankfulness mixed in, toward these women who made a sacrifice that, as aresult, brought us such joy. Shewent on to tell me that she’d been searching for her son, who is now 40, andthat she’d located him but that he wasn’t yet ready to meet or talk toher. Being the open, chatty personI am, we went on to talk about adoption – her story, our stories. She expressed both grief and hope asshe told me her story. Forty-fiveminutes later, as we said our goodbyes, she said, “I have your phone number onthe order form. Would you like meto call you if I hear from him?”

I’d walked into that store ready to simply check off an itemon my to-do list, but I walked out with a smile, some tears and a fullheart. The unexpected connectionbetween this woman and me was a little bit of beauty that helped me get throughthe rest of my errands, not with a feeling of chore and drudgery, but with joyand an eye to what else might hold another little bit of beauty. When I described my day as “almostmagical”, a friend asked if I was in Disneyland and I’d responded, “No, justmaking my own magic.” I didn’trealize it at the time, but I was following Grandma’s advice – I’d found beautyin the everyday.

Mrs. Jones, the Doctor Will See You Now

2011-11-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

I’m at the point where I have to admit that I am gettingolder. For the last few decades, Ihaven’t changed that much physically (other than the slight or not-so-slightfluctuations of my weight). But,basically, my body has held to a pretty straight line throughout my 20s, 30sand 40s. Now, in my 50s, there aresome changes. In 2008 I wrote Changing Faces about the differences Isaw in my face, but now, three years later, I’m feeling similar changes in mybody, specifically stiffness, inflammation and pain. I’ve realized that it’s time to get serious about my medicalcare. After having a wonderfulfamily doctor from our late 20s throughout our 30s, for the last several yearsI’ve had the equivalent of medical speed-dating when it comes to my personal doctors. One left the area, one didn’t returnfrom maternity leave, one wasn’t available to me after a change in myinsurance, one thought medical care equaled pill-popping care and one yelled atme in front of her staff and other patients because her receptionist hadscheduled the wrong type of appointment for me. This revolving medical door hasn’t really been a problem,though, because I haven’t had any serious issues so I really don’t go to thedoctor very often anyway. Now,however, I feel the need to establish a relationship with someone who will walkwith me along this path called aging. I want someone who will help me dawdle on the path at the slowest ratepossible. Someone to whom I cantalk about the little aches and pains that prevent or limit my physicalabilities. Someone who will get toknow me and will look at the entire package, not just the joint or foot that iscurrently causing a problem. I’mnot asking for hour-long appointments, just a little personal attention and anopen dialogue and, for me, that means a degree of friendliness that has beenlacking in much of my medical care.

I’ve spent some time recently researching doctors with thehope of finding someone new with whom I could begin to establish arelationship. One particular doctorcaught my eye – female; similar age; new to the area, but loving our brand ofliquid sunshine and interested in preventive care and education as importantparts of the healthcare process. Imade a get-to-know-each-other appointment and was further encouraged when thescheduling person said, “She’s new to our clinic, but people are saying verygood things about her.” I prepareda short one-paragraph bio about myself, a list of my other medical careproviders (OB/GYN, podiatrist, chiropractor, etc.), a list of my current medications,supplements and vitamins and a brief rundown of my recent medical issues andcurrent concerns. I went to theappointment with excitement and anticipation. Everything went well with checking in, establishing myrecords and talking with the medical assistant, then the DOCTOR walked in. She smiled, put out her hand andintroduced herself. I said I washappy to meet her and asked, “May I call you by your first name?” A simple question, asked politely witha smile. For me, callingsomeone by a title presumes a certain interpersonal distance or reserve – notthe type of relationship I’m looking for in the person I want to walk with onthis path of aging healthfully and gracefully. I had determined that being on a first-name basis was goingto be integral to developing the type of relationship I was hoping to establishand, frankly, I thought that it was a pretty innocuous request. Our society gave up using mosttitles a long time ago. Mostpeople do not refer to each other as Mr., Mrs. or Miss. When I was growing up in the 60s it wascommon for adults to introduce each other using their social titles and lastnames; I haven’t seen that done recently, except in some foreign countries. So why do we continue to use titles fordoctors? I don’t get it and Ididn’t think it was a big deal to ask to be on a first name basis. I was shocked at this DOCTOR’s reply,“No I’d prefer you call me Dr. So-and-So.” She then went on to say that she also prefers to call herpatients by their social titles and last names. Really? I felta flashback to the 60s coming on. I may be 53, but I am NOT Mrs. Dunham – that would be mymother-in-law. My name isDebbie. I’d even prefer Deb or Debrato Mrs. Dunham. Heck, someone oncewanted to call me DeDe (the initials of my first and last names) and, though Iquickly squashed that idea, I’d prefer DeDe to Mrs. Dunham.

Needless to say, that was the end of that appointment. My excitement and anticipation weresquelched, my current concerns are still unaddressed and I am still searchingfor a doctor who will walk my path with me.

Not the Girl He Married

2011-10-30T07:14:00.000-07:00

One evening last week, as I was puttering around the kitchenin my apron preparing dinner and setting the table, my husband commented thathe’s seen me in an apron more during the last two years than in the previousthirty-two years put together. Ilaughed at that, but his observation is probably not too far off. Up until recently, cooking wassomething I did plainly (as in, What can I throw together tonight?) and out ofnecessity since there always seemed to be little mouths to feed. When we entertained or had a largefamily dinner, my husband always did the cooking. Now, we work together in the kitchen for those biggeroccasions and I’m actually planning and enjoying the preparation process forour regular dinners.

After the comment about the apron, he went on to say,“Cooking, college football…you’re just not the girl I married.” True, along with a change in myattitude toward cooking, my thoughts on college football have also taken a 180-degreeturn. I went to exactly onefootball game while we were in college. I know this because there’s evidence of it in a picture of me in thestands, wearing sunglasses and an awesome brown suede jacket, looking totallybored. If you’d taken a picture ofme at yesterday’s Oregon Ducks’ game, you’d see me wearing a bright yellowshirt and hat (no sunglasses, though I’d wished I’d brought them from the car),standing up cheering and clapping – anything but bored.

So, am I not the girl my husband married and, if not, isthat a bad thing? We married whenwe were only nineteen; we weren’t yet adults and we had a lot of growing up todo. We have both changed indramatic ways, but fortunately the basis we started with has allowed us to growup together, not apart. I picturein my mind those trees where the trunks are entwined, each growing on its own,but still growing side-by-side. While I’ve grown I’ve not only learned to enjoy cooking and collegefootball, I’ve successfully pursued a career and followed that up with a secondvolunteer “career”, I’ve raised a houseful of kids, I’ve cared for my motherand his through their last days and sat with them as they left this world, I’velearned what I like and don’t like in clothes, furnishings, music and moviesand I’ve realized that all of this growth was created and made possible by thegirl I was. The girl who didn’tnecessarily know where she wanted to go, but knew she was smart enough to getthere once she figured it out. Thegirl who wasn’t afraid to give a graduation speech that made her senior advisorcringe. The girl who already knewthat her heart was terribly tender, yet stubbornly strong. In those basic “this is who I am” ways,yes, I’m still the girl he married, but I like to think that, in addition, I’m nowreally so much more!

Hot-Flash Seats

2011-10-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

When my husband chose a Lincoln MKS as his new car this pastsummer, he endured more than a little teasing about the switch from a BMW7-Series to a Lincoln. Dubbed an“old man’s car” by more than one person, one friend laughed and said, “Geez, mydad drives a Lincoln!” Well, thetruth is, the Lincoln is really a nice car and has many great features (I’dtake one myself – in red, not black) and it really isn’t an “old man’s car”though I’ve come to believe that it is, perhaps, an “over-50 woman’s car”. As a woman over 50, I find that my bodydoes not regulate heat as efficiently as it used to. I don’t like to call this lack of regulation a hot-flash,though I’m sure that’s actually an appropriate moniker. I find that this lack of heat regulation,aka hot-flash, often comes about when I’m running around trying to get ready toleave the house. I often findmyself over-heated and sweaty by the time I get out the door. However, I have discovered a lovelyfeature of my husband’s “over-50 woman’s car”: the seat-cooling system! The opposite of a heated seat, this feature actually coolsthe seat and the body of the person sitting there. My husband recently broke his shoulder, so I’ve been doingmost of the driving, and I’ve come to love the relief when I can slide myselfbehind the wheel, push the little blue seat-cooling button and slough off thestress and resultant heat emanating from my body.

Maybe I should send the marketing folks at Lincoln a letterto let them know they’re missing out by not advertising this valuablefeature. I can see it now: an adfeaturing two cars, a Lincoln and something else that doesn’t have aseat-cooling system, both driving down some beautiful road. Both cars look good, handle well, butthen they come to a stop in front of some luxurious-looking building and anover-50-year-old woman steps out of each car. Both women are dressed to the nines, but the woman who stepsout of the Lincoln looks refreshed and lovely while the woman who steps out ofthe other car has wet sweat marks on her clothes and her damp hair is droopingacross her face. Wouldn’t that bea strong marketing campaign in this Baby Boomer era?

Donuts, Ice Cream and Music

2011-10-02T08:05:00.000-07:00

One of the benefits of gaining maturity is knowing that there are some things you like: some styles, some foods, some activities that are simply your personal preferences, regardless of current fashion, style or trend. I have found this true in myself when it comes to donuts, ice cream and music – or so I thought.

There’s a nationally known, local donut store in our area that carries bizarre donuts: bacon maple bars, raised donuts topped with Captain Crunch or Fruit Loops cereals – and those are the mild combinations. I have never been to this donut store and have no desire to go. Give me a good maple bar, with creamy frosting (not the hard, glazed type) and I’m happy. Ditto with ice cream. In an effort not to be outdone by the donut stores, we also have a new ice creamery with flavors such as brown ale with bacon, lemon basil sorbet and honey balsamic strawberry with cracked pepper. Again, give me a classic, rich luscious coffee flavored ice cream and I’m happy. Then there’s music. I have listened to various versions of rock my entire life. I’m not embarrassed to say that the classic rock station, along with the “oldies” station, is hardcoded into my car radio. I do listen to other types of music occasionally (quiet times or when I’m working at my desk), but normally I prefer to rock out. Recently a friend told me I should check out Pandora and I was appalled. Why would I want an electronic jukebox to pick out music for me when I already know what I like? I like music I know with words I can sing along with (even if my version of the words if often way off from the actual lyrics).

So, I’m set in my ways. I like my maple bar sans bacon and with creamy frosting, I like coffee ice cream or even just plain old vanilla and I like my music to rock -- as I said, “or so I thought.” Two recent developments have caused me to question my set-in-my-ways beliefs: my husband bought a new car and I drove six 16-year-olds to Seattle and back. My husband’s new car has premier radio programming available and one afternoon, while scanning through channels, I came across a jazz station that took my breath away. While I enjoy jazz as background music when I’m working, I’ve found that this station’s music draws me to it every time I get in his car. While I normally like to rock out and sing along while driving, I’m finding that I am truly enjoying the calming sounds of this jazz station. I can feel myself physically relax as I listen. I dread the day when his free trial ends. On the other end of the music-style spectrum, while driving to Seattle and back with the six 16-year-olds, I listened to what I would call rap and dance music for several hours straight. The suburban looked and sounded like some souped-up hot rod with music blaring and girls dancing in their seats. While most of it didn’t appeal to me, there were two songs that kept running through my mind over the next few days. I found myself on the iTunes store downloading not only those two songs but also a couple of others of the same genre.

So, maybe I’m not so set in my ways. Maybe there’s music left to learn. I did go back and try the sea salt caramel ice cream. It was okay, but won’t be on any of my favorite playlists. The bacon maple bar, though? I don’t think so.

Just an "Off" Day?

2011-09-19T09:02:00.001-07:00

Last Thursday, as I glanced at the calendar, I realized that I had double-booked myself for that morning. Then, to my astonishment, I realized that I had also double-booked myself for that evening! As I ran into my physical therapy appointment a half-hour later (after quickly dropping the dog off at the vet’s), I rambled out my apologies for being a few minutes late and explained how I had double-booked myself. The receptionist, a sweet young thing still shy of the quarter-century mark, said, “Oh, Debbie, you’re just having an off day.” That evening at a social engagement (which I managed to breeze into after picking the dog up from the vet’s), I lamented about “off” days to a woman who I took to be a few years older than me. She looked at me with a look something close to pity and said, “Unfortunately, it’s probably not just an ‘off’ day; it’s probably what your norm will be like. That’s what happens as we age. It’s all hormonal.” As I thought back on the last few months, heck, the last few years, I realized that she’s probably right. My super-organized brain just isn’t functioning the way it used to and I frequently find myself messing up schedules and feeling fuddled by the numerous activities of our family. I used to be the Queen of organization and juggling schedules; now sometimes I feel more like the Court Jester. Perhaps that’s the answer: laugh at myself as if I am the Court Jester and at least the rest of my body will benefit from the laughter, even if my brain is still working in hormone-mode.

Oh the Games People Play

2011-09-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

Recently someone made the comment that I’d given up on writing my blog. I was shocked! I know I haven’t written much of anything in the last few months, but I certainly never looked at it as having given up on writing. I’ve made the excuse that I’m giving myself some down time after having handed off most of my volunteer responsibilities. I’ve said that I feel a little brain dead and need time to recoup. But, when I assess my actions honestly, I have to admit to myself that I’m actually participating in a little procrastination. I’m playing a little game with myself. Sure, this was a busy summer and, now with school back in session, there are new schedules to become familiar with. Excuses, excuses and more excuses. The reality is, I have now freed myself to pursue other goals and objectives – specifically, the goal of pursuing writing in a more professional manner, i.e. getting published, and that’s more than a little bit scary. So, if I don’t write, I don’t have to worry about that – I can just be “busy” with other activities and ignore my dreams. But, here I am, pushing into my mid-50s and I don’t want to ignore my dreams. GI Joe says, “Knowing is half the battle,” and, yes, now I know that I’m procrastinating, and now I need to conquer the other half of the battle – doing. No more games. No more procrastinating. It’s time to organize myself around my new reality and DO!

Sometimes it's Easier to Read

2011-07-01T03:43:00.000-07:00

It’s been a month since I’ve written anything more than a shopping list. That’s not entirely true, I wrote a three-page instructional paper on the last of my volunteer jobs, but that paper was purely factual – no inner-thought involved. It seems somewhat strange that, at a time when I’ve handed off most of my volunteer responsibilities in order to have more time to write, suddenly I’m not writing. I have been reading, though. I’ve begun to catch up on my stack of magazines and I’ve read a couple of books. I’ve completed the daily crossword puzzle more days than not. I haven’t given up on words, but the fact is, sometimes it’s just easier to passively read. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend the thoughts and feelings rumbling around in my brain simply aren’t there. Sometimes it’s easier to just dip into someone else’s story and ignore my own. I’m confident that I haven’t given up on writing, but for right now, there’s this book on my nightstand…

53 and it's NEW Me

2011-05-31T07:49:00.000-07:00

I’ve always liked the idea of reviewing my life – what’s wrong, what’s right and planning for what I want to have happen. Even if most of plans don’t actually come to fruition, at least by the act of planning, there are some goals that do become realized. I’ve been thinking about today’s birthday for several weeks, thinking about where I am and where I want to be. During the process, I read in a magazine about a woman who, when she hit 54, looked in the mirror and was amazed at how frumpy she’d become. She kicked her exercise program up a notch, refined her eating habits and now, at 60, looks and feels fabulous. What a timely, inspirational article for me to pick up and, hey, I’m only 53 today – I’m a year ahead of her!

With that inspiration in mind, I thought about this upcoming year and what I want to work on in order to be the best 53 year-old I can be. There are four areas that came immediately to mind: eating (as in less quantity and more healthy), exercise (continued cardio, more strength and flexibility), writing and time for me to do those things that I’ve only been dreaming about. I like a catchy phrase to remind me of my goals, so I played around with the words and came up with NEW Me: Nutrition, Exercise, Writing and Me.

So, what is the NEW Me going to be doing this year? In the area of Nutrition, I’ll be asking myself three H questions whenever I’m confronted with food or the idea of it: Am I hungry? Is the food healthy? Have I had enough? Hungry? Healthy? Had enough?

The NEW Me will also be working on becoming pain free. For the last year and a half, I have had pain somewhere in my body. With continued cardio exercise, more strength training, increased flexibility practice and physical therapy I hope to get my body back to feeling good, not just putting up with pain as a symptom of aging.

The New Me will begin to formulate my thoughts and writing into something publishable. I love the mental process of preparing what I will write as well as the act of actually writing, but the idea of marketing my writing in any form scares the words right out of me. This will definitely be an activity that is out of my comfort zone, but that’s okay; I’m not ready to stop growing.

Finally, or perhaps as a first step, NEW Me will make time for me. I have a laundry list of activities I’d like to pursue, chores I’d like to get accomplished, and goals I’d like to reach. In some ways, the ME portion of this acronym is contained within each of the other pieces, but there’s also more to ME than just what’s NEW.

So, with seven years to go until sixty, but with a one-year head start, NEW Me is already ahead of schedule; NEW Me is excited and NEW Me is going to do just fine.

I'm Walkin', Yes Indeed

2011-05-29T06:51:00.000-07:00

I used to be a runner. Actually, first I was a walker, then I was a runner. Now, post-foot surgery, I’m back to being a walker and the Fats Domino song runs through my head as I walk. I miss the movement of running; the action, itself, feels physically freeing. However, I am finding that the action of walking feels mentally freeing.

I’ve walked and/or ran on a treadmill for years in the predawn hour when my husband and I exercise in our basement, but for the last couple of months – ever since I decided that I needed to head in a new direction (see Something’s Gotta Give), I’ve wanted to walk outdoors. No, it’s more than “wanted”; I’ve needed to walk outdoors. I need the fresh air, I need the movement that actually goes somewhere and I need the time for my mind to roll around ideas as my feet roll with each step.

I had planned to go on a long walk this morning, but I woke up feeling unrested and achy, so I’d bagged the idea of a long walk. Now, having written this and imagined my walk as I’ve written, I’m ready to head out the door. I’m walkin’, yes indeed!

Why Did I Open My Big Mouth?

2011-05-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been somewhat liberally opinionated, especially about social issues. I’m not sure why; my parents believed in equality – to a certain extent, and certainly they believed in fairness, but I don’t think of them as having been very opinionated or liberal. Perhaps it was the reading material I chose as I grew up. This sounds a bit absurd, but I read Ann Landers regularly as a pre-teen and teen and, though she had some “old-fashioned” viewpoints, her advice was pretty open-minded. Then, just as I entered high school, the Boston Women’s Health Book Collective came out with Our Bodies, Ourselves – it became my Bible. I have no doubt that this book played a big part in forming my basic foundational opinions about many social issues.

During my teens and twenties, maybe even into my thirties, I was somewhat vocal about my opinions, but I’ve recently realized that, while the passion of opinion is still strong within me, I’m no longer very vocal. This realization has been eye-opening to me and has caused me to give a lot of thought about why I have become a quietly opinionated person. This all arose when a friend posted a plea on her blog for support of a cause that I didn’t agree with. My initial reaction was to simply close the blog and move on to something else, but the topic was one that I’m particularly passionate about, so I gritted my teeth and typed out a comment, “Sorry, I disagree.” This simple sentence has spurred additional requests for discussion from my friend and, while I like a good conversation as much as the next person, what I have realized over the last two weeks since I gritted my teeth and typed, is that I no longer care to engage in debate-style discussions. I know that a lot of people love to discuss hot topics: politics, religion, social issues, but I don’t and I realize now that this is something that has changed within me as I’ve aged. In my twenties I would have loved a hot discussion – setting out my opinions and attempting to get the other person to see that my way is the right way. Now, and this is all part of this new realization, I’m pretty comfortable with my opinions and, while I’m happy to state them when asked, I no longer feel the need to try and convince others that I’m right – just as I’m comfortable with my opinions, I assume others are with theirs.

I have a great many friends whose opinions on sensitive subjects differ from my own, but I don’t think that’s an impediment to our friendships – perhaps it even enhances the relationships. More than having similar opinions, what I want in a friend is someone with the same basic moral values regarding loyalty to family and friends, kindness and giving, intelligence and interest. When my friend first asked me for more information on my comment, my first thought was, Why did I open my big mouth? Now, I’m glad I did and I’m glad she asked. I’m sure we’ll have a good conversation on this topic and this short little internet exchange caused me to really take a look at myself and how I’ve changed over the years on the subject of voicing opinions. In my opinion, I’m comfortable with who I have become.

Well, That Was Interesting!

2011-05-14T10:43:00.000-07:00

I’ve been working out regularly for the last twelve years and I consider myself to be in pretty good shape. I had a bit of a setback last year because of my foot surgery, but since then I’ve been working at getting back to where I was. It was months before I could walk at all and my surgeon advised against running. Once I began walking I noticed that I couldn’t walk as fast on the treadmill as I had in the past. My normal treadmill walking pace was 4.0 to 4.2 miles per hour. After my surgery I had to turn it down to 3.5 and have just recently graduated to 3.8. When walking outside, I have not worried about mileage or pace – just walking. Now I am signed up for a 10k next month and a couple of half-marathons over the following months, so today I pulled my Garmin Forerunner out of the drawer for the first time in a year. I leashed-up the big dog and headed out for a 5-mile walk. In the past my outside training and racing (I don’t really race anyone, just myself) pace for walking was 12-13 minute miles. I was shocked today when I had to push like crazy to get my first mile in at a 15 minute-per-mile pace! I felt like I’d forgotten how to walk. My foot flapped down with each step, I couldn’t remember how to get the heel-toe-push-off movement going. I felt like a big oaf! Finally, somewhere around 2.5 miles, my feet started moving with a nice rolling motion, my body naturally leaned forward a bit and my arms started pumping. I could feel the change and it felt good! I finished my five miles in 1:14 – one minute under an overall 15 minute-per-mile pace. Not as fast as I’ve been in the past, but I don’t think this is the beginning of an age-related decline in pace – I’m not yet to that point. I know I’m still able to improve my pace. I’ll be back out there tomorrow and I expect my body to cooperate well before 2.5 miles! I will however, leave the running for another day…or week…or month.

Forty-seven Years to Go

2011-05-09T05:53:00.000-07:00

A woman, age 100, was asked if she had any regrets about her life. She replied, “If I had known I would live to a be a hundred, I would have taken up the violin at forty. By now I could have been playing for sixty years!”

In my mind I had pinpointed today as the day I would seriously set myself on my new course, begin moving toward my new goals. I set the process in motion more than a month ago when I wrote Something’s Gotta Give and I sent out word that I would be stepping down from several of my current obligations. With a three week trip to Italy shortly after that announcement and knowing that plans needed to be made to determine who would step up to take on those responsibilities, I knew that I needed to set my start date out a few weeks. Today is that day.

Last night, after a wonderfully busy, crazy houseful-of-kids Mother’s Day, I looked through my stacks of books for a new book to read having finished my last book on the trip home from Italy. My eye was caught by the title on the spine of one book, Defying Gravity. I had a bit of a “woo-woo” moment when I pulled out the book, looked at the cover and saw the full title: Defying Gravity: A Celebration of Late-Blooming Women by Prill Boyle. I don’t remember where or why I bought this book (I’m a book-a-holic), but it felt magical that this would be the book I would pick up on the eve of my new life course. Last night I was only able to read the introduction before falling asleep (I hit the jet lag wall), but when I woke up too early this morning I took out my reading lamp to read a chapter while I tried to go back to sleep. I was shocked to find myself weeping through the first story of a woman who became a doctor at the age of 50 and the corresponding discussion of the physical phenomenon of inertia – objects at rest stay at rest; objects in motion keep going in the same direction unless acted upon by some outside force. I wept because I was hit by the truth of this phenomenon in my own life and by the inspiration of knowing that others have either managed to be their own “outside force” or have had an actual outside force thrust upon them and have then gone on to achieve great goals and to see their dreams come true. I wept because I have now released myself from the direction I have been on for years and, though it has been a fulfilling direction, I am so very ready to head in a new, albeit somewhat scary, direction. I’m excited to think about what I will do with my next forty-seven years!

I Wanna Be Like Mike

2011-04-29T01:51:00.000-07:00

P.S. (Pre-script): I really want to learn Italian. I’ve tried two different language programs at home, but haven’t had much success. Now, while I’m here in Italy, I’m trying to pick up some of the nuances of the language and I find myself reading words and saying them to myself (in my head) over and over trying to figure out the correct pronunciation. Yesterday, as I was saying the word biglietto (ticket) over and over in my head, I suddenly remembered the topic of the blog I couldn’t remember yesterday! Here it is:

There was a commercial several years ago with a jingle that went something like, “I wanna be like Mike,” that all the little Michael Jordan wannabes used to sing. Little boys who wanted to grow up to be Michael Jordan or at least to be rich, famous and athletically gifted like him. They made layups with their tongues stuck out, they wore red shirts emblazoned with number 23 and they played basketball and more basketball. But for most of them basketball would end up being a sport they could enjoy watching, perhaps even playing in some gym rat fashion. They were really just pretending that they might grow up to be Michael Jordan. Friends of mine took their 8-year-old daughter back to her birth country and watched as she walked along the sidewalk saying jibber-jabber words in the local cadence in an effort to sound like she was speaking her native language. Of course, she wasn’t really speaking the language, she was just pretending. My own daughter, on her earlier trips to her birth country, worked at “blending” whenever we were out in public. She’d sit in a public area or walk down the street mimicking those around her. She was thrilled when nobody seemed to take much notice of her – as if she’d blended right in. Her shining moment was when she was sitting in a crowded waiting room at a train station and an old Korean lady came and sat down next to her and started speaking to her in Korean. She smiled at the old lady, said, “American. Adopted,” and jumped up to come tell me (who was standing out on the platform – a safe distance away so as not to taint her Korean-ness) that she’d blended! She’d blended! Then she laughed at herself because she really had just pretended. As I walk around Italy, I try to say the basic greetings and requests in Italian. I sit at a café and hope that I look like I belong there, not like just another tourist infatuated with this beautiful country. From the moment I stepped on this soil several years ago, I’ve felt like I somehow belong here. For years before that I knew that the one language I’d really like to learn is Italian. But, just like the little boy who dreamed of being MJ or my friends’ daughter or my own – both trying out what it feels like to fit in with their birth cultures, my feeble attempts to appear Italian are really, in the end, just another form of pretending. But, just like childhood make-believe, pretending is fun; it transports me to another world, another life. I feel myself slowing down to the rhythms of the local community. So, for now, “Ciao Baby!” – I wanna be like Michelangelo!

Little Reminders

2011-04-27T22:37:00.001-07:00

As I started to write just now, I realized that the blog I’d written in my head yesterday has now gone AWOL. I had a title and everything and now – nothing. This is a perfect segue, though, into another topic I’ve been intending to write about and that’s the little issues, the little reminders of aging. Last night as my mother-in-law and I climbed the long, steep flight of stairs from this Italian city’s main piazza to our apartment, my mother-in-law stopped to catch her breath and said, “I guess the problem is that I think I should still be able to do things the way I did when I was your age.” You have to understand that my mother-in-law is not a doddering old lady. She’s active and interested; she plays golf, exercises, travels and has an extensive circle of social contacts. I think she’s a good model for positive aging, but she, obviously, feels she should be able to do more. I’ve thought about the little things that change as we age. Like my mother-in-law, perhaps we have to stop to catch our breath when walking up a long flight of stairs. Like me this morning, perhaps the thoughts that were so concrete in my mind yesterday have simply decided to crawl into a hole in my brain – maybe never to be seen again, but more likely to pop up in the middle of some completely unrelated activity. I’ve noticed even smaller changes. When I get into or out of a car now, I no longer jump in or hop out. I now sit down completely before swinging my legs in – the opposite when getting out. If I don’t, I feel twinges in my back that I know too well can lead to much bigger pains.

Regardless of what I want to believe about how young I feel, the signs are there that the years are marching by. I don’t want to fall into the hole of “getting old”, so perhaps the right path is simply to acknowledge and accommodate these little reminders – stopping for a breath, taking a few more seconds to get out of a car, but to go on living with the excitement and inquisitiveness of my younger self.

No -- Not Pizza

2011-04-25T04:45:00.001-07:00

Over the course of five decades I’ve learned a few things about myself: I’m an optimistic person by nature, I like to be in charge, I’m a visual learner and I don’t do well with languages. Being in Italy right now, the language issue has come up a lot. My husband always studies the local language before we travel and he does an admirable job of communicating. I rely on him, hand gestures, a smile and English speaking locals. Most of the time I do okay. Yesterday was not one of those times. Yesterday, my husband, my mother-in-law and I sat down to lunch in a quaint little restaurant on Via Nazionale in Cortona, Italy. We had been there before and the headwaiter spoke lovely English; however, our waiter this time was a much younger, mostly Italian-speaking waiter. My husband ordered first and asked for bruschetta con olio y aglio, toasted bread with olive oil and garlic, as an appetizer. Because I didn’t want to try saying the garlic word myself (Italian g’s are tough for me), I simply indicated that I, too, would like that appetizer. This apparently gave the waiter the impression that my husband and I were sharing lunch. My husband went on to order a pizza, but the waiter seemed concerned about something. I thought he was concerned that the one pizza would not be enough for the two of us to share so I waived my hands and, pointing to myself, said, “No, caprese, per favore.” At this point I thought we were okay. My mother-in-law placed her order and then the waiter looked back at me and said something in Italian about caprese pizza. Thinking he was confused about what I really wanted I said (and these are the critical words), “No. Not pizza. Insalata caprese (caprese salad).” The waiter smiled, nodded and made a few scratches on his notepad. Another successful English-Italian encounter.

A little while later, the waiter returned with my mother-in-law’s food, my caprese salad and an empty plate for my husband. None of us thought this strange since an empty plate is often provided when ordering pizza – in the United States. We should have realized that this is not usually the case in Italy where pizzas are ordered, and served, individually. My mother-in-law and I began to eat our lunch, reveling in the wonderful tastes (Italian food is amazing), while my husband waited for his pizza. He waited…and waited…and waited. Finally, when I had finished my lunch I said, “This is crazy! There’s no way it can take this long to make pizza.” I think the light bulb went off for both of us at the same time. My husband and I looked at each other and said, “No. Not pizza.” I picked up the folded order ticket the waiter had placed at the edge of the table and, sure enough, there was my order and my mother-in-law’s order and then the word, pizza – scratched out. There was no pizza coming for my husband’s lunch. The waiter obviously thought that my, “No. Not pizza,” referred to my husband’s order, not to some confusion about what type of caprese I was ordering. I wondered what kind of man the waiter thought I was married to. He must have thought him to be a complete wimp since my husband had clearly just ordered his pizza and the waiter was willing to let my direction of, “No. Not pizza,” override that order.

A friend suggested that if I lived in Italy for a year I would likely be able to pick up the language simply from immersion. The thought is tantalizing – a year in Italy with the outcome of being able to speak Italian. I’m not sure, though, that a year in Italy with me botching our lunch orders is my husband’s idea of an equally tantalizing way to effectively diet.

The Last Bite of Bread

2011-04-19T00:58:00.000-07:00

In preparation for our trip to Italy, I’ve been reading A Thousand Days in Tuscany, by Marlena de Blasi. She’s written four books about living in Italy, starting with A Thousand Days in Venice – I’d recommend them all! In the book she describes sitting around with two friends late one night and the woman, an older woman, talks about eating bread with olive oil and a glass of wine. She talks about how satisfying it is to eat and drink in such a way that one ends up using the last piece of bread to sop up the last drop of olive oil and then to wash it down with the last swig of wine. She says that we should try to live our lives that same way. In the song Jack & Diane, Jack says, “Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of livin’ is gone.” I’ve seen this happen and it’s sad. When my husband and I renewed our wedding vows almost four years ago, we made a commitment to each other to continue growing, to continue trying new activities, to continue looking for adventure and to do what we can to make sure we’re taking care of our bodies so that we’re able to fulfill that commitment. Part of my decision to venture off from some of the activities I’ve come to love is to make sure that I have time to discover new activities, new loves, new passions. I want to be sure that I have enough olive oil and wine left to wash down that last bite of bread.

Imagery

2011-04-10T06:42:00.000-07:00

It’s said that help comes around just when it’s needed or that information drops in our lap just when we we’re searching for answers. Back in February I wrote a blog titled, “Welcome Back, Me” about my return to joy and learning to compartmentalize those issues that had been weighing me down. My last two blog entries were about the need to step aside from some current responsibilities in order to move forward toward my goals and dreams. Yesterday I opened up a book I recently found, The Book of Awakening, by Mark Nepo and the entry I opened to detailed the imagery of carrying our burdens to a door we want to go through, but we can’t open the door with all that we carry. So, in order to get through the door, we must set things down, open the door and then pick up just those items we need before proceeding on through. Just as I used the imagery of stuffing and closing a drawer to compartmentalize some issues last February, I now have this lovely image of a door in front of me – and, let me tell you, it’s a beautiful door – but I’ve been so far away from it and so weighed down that I haven’t even been able to approach it. Now, with my drawer full of issues shut I have managed to approach the door and last week I sent out an email giving notice that, within the next few months, I’m resigning from the most time consuming of my volunteer commitments. I’m preparing to set down that burden (and some others) so that I can stretch out my arm to the handle and open that door.

Paring the Bucket List

2011-04-04T05:11:00.000-07:00

Now that I’ve reassessed my responsibilities and committed to pursuing those activities that have been in my “later” file, aka my bucket list, I’ve also realized that I can actually pull things out of that file and simply shred them – things that are no longer goals or that no longer hold an interest for me no longer need to be on my bucket list. I discovered one such activity yesterday. My oldest daughter is participating in her college’s crew team and I’m really impressed with the work she has put in to train for the team and with how much she seems to be enjoying it. I always thought that this type of rowing was something I’d like to take up at some point. I could see myself out at dawn, silently gliding across the water by myself or in sync with my team.

Yesterday I watched my first regatta (that’s crew-speak for competitive event, i.e. game, match, etc.). The temperature was chilly, the skies were gray with off and on rain showers and I have to believe the water was cold and, quite possibly, dirty. I watched the young men and women wade in and out of the water, getting wet up to their hips and knowing that they wouldn’t be changing their clothes immediately afterwards and I watched them stand around for hours waiting for their eight minutes of rowing excitement. As I watched them I suddenly realized that I have no desire to crew – this is an activity that can be tossed from my bucket list. I’m not sure if I would have enjoyed it when I was 20 or if the reality, even then, would have dissuaded me, but I certainly know now that I don’t want to stand around for hours waiting for a few minutes of fun. I don’t want to get cold and wet under almost any circumstance and definitely not if I can’t immediately change into warm dry clothes and sit beside a nice toasty fire (preferably with a glass of good red wine).

My oldest son teased me about glibly paring down my bucket list, but he’s not yet 30; he’s young enough to believe that he can do everything on his list. While I have no intention of throwing out my entire list, I know that it’s not likely, even with good intentions, that I’ll do more than scratch off the topmost items, so why leave an activity on the list that I now know I am no longer interested in pursuing. I’d rather pare my list so that I can more easily focus on what I want most. Knowing what I don’t want to do is almost as important as knowing what I do want to do.

Something's Gotta Give

2011-03-30T16:46:00.001-07:00

Several elements have been working together lately to encourage me to reassess my priorities, to look at where I am and where I want to be. My husband’s own reassessment of his professional goals, the two Celebrations of Life that we’ve gone to recently and my own aches and pains that remind me that, regardless of how I feel inside, my body is no longer in its prime, all have been causing a muddling in my mind. What I once thought of as my known path now seems to have branched off in some indistinct direction where I don’t know my surroundings and I’m not sure which way to turn. As I’ve thought my way through this I’ve realized that, at 52, it’s time for me to look at how I spend my time and use my energy because if I’m not doing what I want to be doing now, the advancing years necessitate that changes be made before more years fly by and my dreams and desires continue to sit in the file labeled, “Later”.

When I started writing this blog over three years ago I wrote in my profile that I was a drummer and writer wannabe. Well, three years have come and gone and the drum set which sits outside my office door has remained untouched – if it were in my bedroom, it would have become a clothes rack – and the only thing I’ve written has been these entries into my blog. There are some responsibilities in my life that are non-negotiable – our children’s needs, our family’s finances and related bookkeeping. Time spent on kids and family cannot be dismissed; this is time that comes with having the title of “wife” and “mom”, but other responsibilities, particularly those labeled “volunteer” can be eliminated and, after much thought, I realize that it is time to take that step. From the age of 19 to 37 I was a banker, a professional, a working mom. With the addition of the fourth child to our family, I realized that it was time to make the tough decision to do something different; something that would allow me to spend more time with our children. I left the bank and decided to take six months off while I figured out what would come next. That was almost 16 years ago and what did I do next? I stayed home, I took care of my family and I became a volunteer. Now it is time for me to focus on my own dreams. It is time for me to step back from my volunteer commitments in order to free up time for those dreams. This has been a really tough decision for me to make; I like my volunteer jobs. I feel as if the work I’ve done has made a difference. However, I could go on doing these same jobs for the next 20 or 30 years and my drum set would still be sitting there unused and my writing would still consist only of short little entries in my blog. Rock on! Write on! Here’s to new beginnings.

A Celebration of Life

2011-03-26T07:56:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago we attended a Celebration of Life after a friend’s dad had passed away. It was a beautiful event with a great display of pictures and memorabilia depicting this gentleman’s life – his childhood, his education, his family, his professions. Friends, family and neighbors crowded into the room enjoying the camaraderie, sharing memories and catching up – the only thing missing was the honoree. I remember looking around and thinking, Wouldn’t he have loved to be here? I was saddened, too, because that day I learned more about his work and his passions than I’d ever known when he was alive. Wouldn’t it have been nice to be able to discuss some of that information with him? To hear his version of the stories being told?

Last night we attended another Celebration of Life. Like the other, this event was complete with a display of photos and memorabilia from the person’s life, with family and friends gathered together – including some who came long distances to be there. The difference between the two, though, was that the honoree was not dead. No, far from it! This honoree threw the party herself in honor of entering her octogenarian years and with the idea that if there was going to be a celebration of her life, she wanted to be around to enjoy it! I like her attitude.

We’re admonished to live life in the present, to use the good china, to enjoy the day we’ve been given, but what about also enjoying those around us, those we care about now, today? I know I did this well with my parents and I do it well with my very immediate family, but I don’t think I’ve taken full advantage of those who it’s more difficult to connect with because of time or distance or what seem like higher priority commitments. I think I’ll make this term, a celebration of life, a mantra of sorts to remind me to not only enjoy each of my own days, but to also make the effort to enjoy, to connect with, to celebrate life, with those around me, those I care about, those I would like to know better – now, today, while we’re all around to enjoy it!

Welcome Back Kotter

2011-03-06T07:43:00.000-08:00

My husband and I both went to high school in Ilwaco, a small community on the Washington coast. For my husband this was just a place his family moved to before his freshman year, but for me, it was my family’s hometown. Ilwaco is situated at the base of a peninsula that comprises the entire community. Both of my parents were born and raised on the peninsula and my large extended family lived, and many still live, on the peninsula.

Once we went away to college, my husband and I did not go back very often and, when we did, it was always with the sense of familial obligation. While I loved seeing my parents, the visits were not recreational and then, when parents began to ail, the trips became even more obligatory. At some point both my husband and I felt the rotting nature of the peninsula. It’s a damp environment where buildings rot and, it seemed, even people rot. My husband and I ran the opposite direction and fell in love with the dry air of central Oregon. For years, that was our destination of choice. No rotting there.

Even given the negative feelings we had about the peninsula, I have always loved the beach. Because it was my family’s hometown, we visited regularly when I was growing up. I spent countless hours playing on the beach with my cousins and later, when we had moved back for high school, I spent hours walking on the beach, reflecting on the beach and writing on the beach. The ocean draws me in much the same manner that Mt. Hood does. Once there were no more parents to visit and take care of on the peninsula, whenever I wanted to go to the beach we simply went to the Oregon Coast where the ghosts of rot did not follow us. Last fall some dear friends invited us to spend five days with them, celebrating their anniversary at a house they’d rented at the beach – our beach, the beach of the peninsula. We agreed, of course, but we both realized that this would be our first recreational trip in, literally, forever. Even though I still have family here, I decided that, for me, this would be a trip devoid of familial responsibilities. I would go to the beach just to enjoy it. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel “going back”, but my anticipation grew as we drove across the coast range and I began to realize just what this place means to me. It’s not just the ocean. I can get the ocean on the Oregon Coast. It’s this ocean. This ocean that stretches along 26 miles of beach. This ocean that has roared in my ears since I was a child. This ocean that caressed my teenage wounds. This ocean that, I now realize, is at the core of my being. Coming back here has filled me with a mixture of emotions that just about knocked me over by their unexpectedness. I feel a sense of awe, joy and inner peace that I had not expected. I walk outside, letting the salt air wind hit my face, and I physically feel something wonderful happen inside of me.

It’s said you can’t go home again, but maybe the point is that home is never really gone from within you.

Solitude

2011-03-03T07:00:00.000-08:00

A few days ago my youngest son asked me what I do all day when they’re at school. I went through my list of chores, errands and “work” (our own family bookkeeping and scheduling as well as a couple of volunteer commitments). He then asked if I wished that they were home with me all day and I responded with a resounding, “No!” I love my children, but the truth is, I love my time alone and I crave solitude.

Growing up I would sit for hours by my bedroom window just looking outside and thinking. I loved walking on the beach and thinking. At night, I would gaze up at the stars contemplating the universe and thinking. As an adult, I don’t feel like I have time to think. Not the type of thinking needed to arrange schedules or balance checkbooks, but the type of thinking needed to calm one’s mind. My nephew recently posted on Facebook that he loves walking beside the Columbia River and reflecting. I was jealous of his ability to take the time for that sort of solitude, for that time to think. One of the reasons I like to write is because formulating my thoughts around a topic forces me to think, forces me to contemplate something more than just who has what appointment today.

I saw a quote in the paper last week that really summed up my need for solitude.

“When we get out of the glass bottle of our ego and when we escape like the squirrels in the cage of our personality and get into the forest again, we shall shiver with cold and fright. But things will happen to us so that we don’t know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in.” --D.H. Lawrence

I want, I need to let life rush in!

Eau de Bengay -- Tres Sexy!

2011-03-01T19:14:00.000-08:00

In my teens I loved the musky heaviness of patchouli oil. Later, in my 30s I leaned towards White Shoulders and, after my mother died, I liked wearing her scent, Emeraude. Now in my 50s, I’ve discovered a new scent. It’s strong, distinctive, has a lot of staying power and is relatively cheap. My new favorite scent? Eau de Bengay!

Remember the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding? The dad in that movie uses Windex for all sorts of ailments and mishaps. In a similar manner, my grandpa used Absorbine Jr. for everything! Scrape your knee? Apply some Absorbine Jr. Muscles hurt? Apply some Absorbine Jr. Ear pain? Drop in some Absorbine Jr. (and blow in a little cigarette smoke just for good measure). My memories of my grandpa are tied up with the smell of Absorbine Jr. just as my memories of my mom come flooding forth every time I smell Emeraude. Now, I’m afraid that my kids might begin to associate me with the smell of Bengay. With chronic shoulder pain in one arm and tennis elbow in the other, I have taken to smearing my upper extremities, morning and night, with Bengay. This morning, when I visited my ophthalmologist, I felt I should apologize for what I know was an overwhelming aroma of Bengay. Portland has a new policy for city workers discouraging wearing scents in the workplace – would the scent of Bengay be included in this policy? A few nights ago, my husband got into bed and cuddled up next to me – ever the gentleman, he whispered, “Oh, Bengay! That’s so sexy!”

There are many adventures that come with being in my 50s; I hadn’t expected that learning to love the scent of Bengay would be one of them.

Late

2011-02-25T12:32:00.000-08:00

PS (as in pre-script): Guys, the following may be TMI for some of you, so you may want to skip this one. Better yet, read on and possibly gain a better understanding of women.

There are two ultra-important sentences in a woman’s life that we females all understand: “My period started,” and “My period is late.” They both have a number of meanings. The first, being said by a pre-teen or teenage girl, can mean that she’s getting her period for the first time – a monumental event that changes one’s outlook on who you are. It can also be a flat statement that means, for some, that activities need to be adjusted or curtailed. Finally, it can be said in disappointment during those years when a woman might be hoping to become pregnant or in relief if, during those years, she really doesn’t want to become pregnant. The second sentence can, again, be related to a possible pregnancy and is either a joyful statement, if pregnancy is desired, or a worried statement, if a pregnancy is not then wanted. For women my age, the sentence, “My period is late,” can be the clearest indication that menopause has actually begun.

There are many indicators of peri-menopause that women can experience for years before actually entering menopause: night sweats, hot flashes, dryness, but the absence of a period is a pretty good indicator that one’s hormones have made that big dramatic shift. With the exception of the onset of menstruation in a girl’s early teens and, possibly, pregnancy, the end of menstruation and the beginning of menopause are probably the most significant bodily changes a woman experiences during her lifetime. All three of these events, onset of periods, pregnancy and menopause carry with them enormous changes, both physical and mental. Physically, there are shifts made that one cannot control (at least without supplements) and mentally there are not only the myriad of emotional upheavals that happen because of the shifting hormones, but there are also the inevitable changes in self-perception and social definition – Who am I now?

I don’t know of any woman who won’t understand what I just wrote about in those last two paragraphs and, I thought, most men probably understand as well. I happen to be married to one of the all-time best men around. He’s understanding and patient; he considers my little foibles to be endearingly quirky; I would offer him up as an example for other men who want to be good husbands. And yet, two nights ago, when I cautiously confided, “My period is late,” his response sent me into a total tailspin. He looked at me, seeming somewhat confused, and said, “So what’s the big deal?” WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?!! For me, this confession was laden with meaning. For years, I’ve anticipated this event; I’ve thought about what it will mean. I'm already past the average age for the onset of menopause. Now, possibly, here it is and I’m feeling very emotional and my husband, my best friend, my man asks, “What’s the big deal?”

Once my tears had dried (yes, his question lead my emotions to overflow through my eyes) we had a little conversation about the importance to women of these kinds of changes and I think he better understands what this all means to me so that next time he won’t be asking me that type of uninformed question. Next time, because, well, my period started.

Welcome back, Me!

2011-02-20T07:56:00.001-08:00

I am an optimistic person by nature. I distinctly remember the Aha! Moment when I realized that not everyone goes through life with the same outlook I always have. In my previous life as a bank trust officer, I was even nicknamed Pollyanna. Even during periods of grief, I always felt that my most basic inner-self was happy and joyful. However, for the last year, my optimism has faded and my joy receded. Even though I so wanted to feel my heart sing, the music just wasn’t there. As month followed month, I began to believe that I truly had changed – that I was leaving the Pollyanna end of the spectrum and heading toward the Rosanne Barr end. This perceived change was playing havoc with me. It’s tough when you suddenly have to see yourself as a different type of person. I remember when a friend’s husband died unexpectedly and much too early (a much more serious event than any that’s happened to me). She told me that it was hard to now have to look at herself as a single person, not as part of a couple with the dreams and plans that couples make.

As I wrote in my last entry, I recently, unwittingly, found myself taking extra special care of someone in need – myself! Then, I took some advice from my husband about mentally compartmentalizing those thoughts and emotions that have been weighing me down. I mentally put them into a drawer, tucked in the edges that were trying to sneak out and I shut the drawer! Thursday afternoon, as we were driving to our youngest son’s basketball game and listening to the radio, I suddenly felt the music move within me. I felt the joy pushing itself out, creating a crack that grew bigger and bigger. Holding back tears I said to my husband, “I feel like dancing.” I think he knew that I didn’t mean the kind of dancing where you stand up and move your feet. On Friday the crack became a chasm and my inner joy spewed out. I drove around town on a mission of errands wearing a stupidly silly smile on my face. Welcome back, Optimism! Welcome back, Pollyanna! Welcome back, Me!

P.S. Lest this sounds too syrupy-sweet, this past year has changed me – you know, older and wiser and all that, but it’s good to know that deep down, I am still the optimistic person I always believed myself to be.

Taking Care of Baby

2011-02-12T06:37:00.000-08:00

I’ve been a wife for 33 years, a mom for almost 30 years. I was an employee for 17+ years and I’ve been a volunteer for 15 years…then there was my mom and my mother-in-law who I took care of through their last days. I run the “family” business: scheduling, driving, shopping, cleaning, bill paying and record keeping – sometimes cooking. I’m currently in the middle of several projects along with thinking about what new path our lives might take as my husband plans his next professional steps. As I’ve mentioned here, I’ve been a bit stressed lately, but I’ve experienced a turnaround (see A New Year by Any Other Name). Sometime throughout this turnaround process, though, I realized that, even before my mind took a new direction, aka a new attitude, my body had already begun the process. After two weeks of what I thought was lethargy, I realized that what was really happening was that I was taking care of ME! I didn’t go into my office except to add the daily mail to the piles of projects and paperwork already there. I worked out more. I took walks and then took naps. I did the things that had to be done – kids to the orthodontist, watching their games, keeping a basic level of food in the house, but I didn’t do anything more. I worried that I was turning into a flakey person, one of those people who commits to doing something, but then doesn’t follow through. Then, late last week, after I’d already experienced my “new year” attitude and was back at work catching up on all that I had let slide, I had one of those Aha! Moments when I realized that I hadn't been in danger of becoming a flake; I hadn’t turned into a lazy person – I was simply giving myself time to renew. No longer having a mother to take care of me, I babied myself and I feel better for it.

Buy the Red Car

2011-02-07T14:04:00.000-08:00

Saturday evening my youngest daughter and I went out to dinner at her choice of restaurant – Panda Express. As we sat down at the table, I picked up the two fortune cookies off the tray and placed one in front of her. Then, I retracted it and put both in the middle of the table. I’d had a strong feeling toward one of the fortune cookies, so I wanted her to be able to choose the one she would like. She chose the one that wasn’t calling to me. When we finished eating, my daughter opened her fortune cookie. I don’t remember what it said, but it was a typical fortune cookie fortune: You’re grandest dreams will come true – or something like that. I then opened my fortune cookie and read out loud, “Buy the red car.” My daughter looked at me with a questioning expression and said, “Buy the red car? What does that mean?” I was stunned! Not only was this not a typical fortune cookie fortune, but also ‘buy the red car’ actually has meaning for me. My favorite color is red and I had always wanted a red car – until two years ago when I bought one, without much forethought, on my own (well, I actually had quite a bit of encouragement from my friend Jill, but I did the buying without my husband doing the negotiating for me) and I did it just because I wanted to; because I wanted a red car!

So, what stunned me about the fortune is that the term, ‘buy the red car’ means so much more than just ‘go out and purchase a new red vehicle’. Right now, when I’m struggling to figure out what happens next in my life, where my story goes, ‘buy the red car’ says to me that I need to follow my heart’s desire; I need to jump in and let the water splash around me. The problem is, I haven’t yet figured out what my heart desires or how I’ll find the time to follow it once I do figure it out. In the meantime, maybe I’ll give myself some time to think by taking a drive in my red car.

A New Year by Any Other Name

2011-02-05T08:20:00.000-08:00

2010 was not the best year for me (and for several other folks I know), so I eagerly looked forward to the arrival of 2011. I knew that 2011 would be better. I knew that I would feel renewed. I knew that life would take an upward turn. Then, during the first week of the year, we got some disturbing news and a dear friend’s dad died. The following week my Ducks lost the National Championship game and I had to put down my dear dog, Czar. 2011 was not shaping up to be what I had expected. I haven’t exactly been wallowing in the lack of turnaround evidence, but I have felt just a little twinge of sadness that 2011 didn’t come in with the big bang of goodwill I had expected.

Then, this past Thursday, I had a revelation about some of the “stuff” that’s been going on. I felt a sense of gratitude for residual effects of some of that “stuff”. My heart and mind took a new direction. I then realized that it was Chinese New Year! January 1st wasn’t the New Year I had been waiting for – I should have been waiting for February 3rd! I know that the reality is that any day can be the first day of a New Year when that year is defined by our attitudes, thoughts and actions, but it’s nice to be able to give the New Year a name. Heck, if my insights had occurred on a nondescript day instead of on Chinese New Year, I could be entering the It Rained Outside and I Wore Red New Year.

Big Dog Down

2011-01-12T10:47:00.000-08:00

“Big dog down!” That’s been a common announcement in our house the past several months as my beloved black lab, Czar has struggled to deal with neurological issues that prevented his brain from sending reliable signals to his back legs. This neurological problem, in addition to the arthritis in his legs that he has dealt with for years, has caused him to slip and fall; often making him unable to get up without assistance – assistance that’s tough to give to an 80 pound dog who is hurting.

Czar joined our family as a ten-week old puppy in the summer of 1999. My husband and I had talked about getting a dog once our house was built and we were settled in, but no specific plans had been made. I had dreamed of having a black lab for more than twenty years, ever since I’d fallen in love with my husband and his big black lab named Czar. So, one week while my husband was out-of-town for work and the kids were home for summer break, I decided the time was right. My son Troy and I checked the newspaper for dogs for sale in the local area and found a family selling a litter of black lab puppies in a nearby town. We called and then headed off to check out the dogs. There were two puppies left but the decision wasn’t hard, we immediately fell in love with one of them. He seemed more joyful and fun loving than the other – this was the dog for us. The owner said that was a good decision because the other dog had been a bit sickly. We took Czar home and introduced him to the rest of the kids. Our oldest son immediately started calling him Czaravich, meaning Little Czar since Czar seemed like such a big name for such a little puppy – he would definitely grow into his name.

That night, with Czar in a crate beside my bed, I woke up to barfing noises. I got up to check on the puppy and saw that he had thrown up what looked like spaghetti – it looked like spaghetti, that is, until I realized that the mound was moving. My puppy was full of worms! So much for picking the dog who hadn’t been sickly! The next morning I started calling vet offices until I found one who would see us immediately. The doctor gave Czar medicine and warned me that it would “cleanse” him of the worms over the next day or two. So, here we were with a ten-week-old unhousebroken puppy whose little body was being “cleansed” of worms. You can imagine the scene in our house that day. I spent the next several hours running around after him scooping up little piles of eliminated worms. I had an appointment that afternoon to get my hair fixed, so I left Czar with the kids, giving them instructions on how to clean up the messes and assuring them that I’d be home before Dad returned from work. Brian’s flight was scheduled to arrive mid-afternoon, but he always went straight to the office when returning from a trip. About halfway through my hair appointment, my phone rang. It was Brian, not unusual since he always calls me when he lands. This time, however, he’d saved the call for when he arrived home because he wanted to surprise me by going straight home – the surprise was on him! The first words he said were, “Why is there a dog in our house and I mean the kind that is spelled D-A-W-G, and why is he pooping piles of worms everywhere!” Now, I have to give some history here because you have to understand how Brian’s Czar came into their family when Brian was a teenager. Brian’s mom and dad and siblings were out-of-town, but Brian had stayed behind because he had a summer job. Sometime while they were gone, Brian had the opportunity to adopt a black lab puppy that he named Czar. Everyday, when he went to work, Brian put the puppy in the wood box in their family room. You can probably figure out where this story is going. Brian’s parents arrived home early to find a surprise in their wood box! There were no cell phones then, so Brian’s dad simply met him in the driveway when he arrived home from work with the question, “Why is there a dog in our wood box?” You see the connection, I’m sure. Twenty-some years later, when I hung up from the call with Brian, I immediately called his dad and said, “Vern, I think you should call Brian right now and just see how he’s doing.” Vern tried to get me to explain more, but I laughed and said, “No, just call Brian.” So, Vern called Brian saying simply, “Hi Brian. What’s up?” Brian knew immediately that I’d set him up and his dad, once he found out what was happening, loved that he had a part in paying Brian back for the surprise puppy from so many years ago.

Czar was a family dog, but he was also definitely MY dog. He loved everyone in the family, but I was his special human. He slept by my bed, looked to me for walks and puppy pets and followed a morning and evening routine with me that rarely varied. These past few months as his back legs have given out, I’ve been conflicted with the need to provide him a quality life while also maintaining my reliance on his constant presence. The last two days were especially tough, with more falling and less patience with those of us trying to help him. Remember, this is a big dog; he can’t just be picked up and set upright. Yesterday I made another appointment with the vet for late in the afternoon so that both my husband and I could take him in and see what she had to say. Brian was concerned that my emotions may have clouded what she’d earlier said about his prognosis, so he wanted an opportunity to ask the questions himself; an idea I welcomed. However, as the day progressed and I realized what suffering Czar was going through, I began the process in my mind of figuring out how one decides to take the steps to put a wonderful pet out of his misery. Brian said to me that he believed I would make the decision when the time was right, because that’s just what I do. Well, yesterday afternoon, about two hours before our appointment and after a couple of Big Dog Down incidences, Czar came to me twice. Both times I was in places he does not usually go and both times he simply came and leaned against me, a foreign action for him. Both times I gave him puppy pets and talked to him; both times, he simply wagged his tail and leaned into me. As I petted him, I could feel tremors going through his body. I believe something was happening inside him and he was confused and afraid. I believe he was releasing me to make this horribly difficult decision. I’ve only had one other dog that had to be put down and that was the dog I grew up with from the time I was six. When I went away to college at 18, she simply faded away – she quit eating and the last time I was home to see her that fall of my freshman year, she couldn’t even get up out of her bed. The following week my dad made the decision to end her life and I am forever grateful that he simply took over and took care of her so that I didn’t have to. Well, my dad’s been dead for almost 25 years and I’m now the adult – sometimes it sucks being the adult. I am heartbroken and empty. Last night when I got out of bed because I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t have to watch where I stepped; this morning when I got up to go work out, there was nobody waiting for me to open the bedroom door; when I went to the basement to workout, no big dog followed me; when I left our exercise room, there was no big dog jumping around waiting for his puppy pet. We have other dogs and I love them dearly, but Czar was my dog, my dream dog that I waited twenty years to get. He was a companion and a protector. He was somewhat independent and wasn’t always well-behaved, but I kind of like my dogs and kids that way. Big Dog Down now takes on a whole new meaning.

Game Day Ready!

2011-01-10T09:31:00.000-08:00

Never having played on a competitive sports team, I’m not personally familiar with the rituals teammates go through to prepare for a big game; however, I’m intimately knowledgeable about the rituals this fan goes through before a big game. Tonight’s National Championship game is the biggest game ever for my favorite team: The University of Oregon Ducks football team. Leading up to this game, my cars have sported Ducks flags, my theme tree for Christmas was an Oregon tree and my house is now decorated, not only with red for Valentine’s Day, but also with green and yellow for tonight’s game – we even have a Duck soap dispenser in the bathroom. For the last several days I have worn nothing but Duck clothing: t-shirts, hats, fleece, jewelry. This morning, however, it wasn’t enough to just slip on a Duck shirt; today, I went through my Game Day ritual. First, the shirt: I have worn the same black “I Love My Ducks” shirt this entire season. I didn’t plan on it becoming my “Game Day shirt”, but when something works, you don’t mess with it. Next, my jewelry: the beaded green and yellow “O” bracelet made for me several years ago by my friend Tami, my green and yellow Nike (have to give a nod to Uncle Phil) watch and my green and yellow beaded earrings made for me this past summer by my friend Sally’s mom. Then, the purse: I switch my “stuff” from my daily purse to my little Oregon Ducks backpack purse. This is a great purse for going to games because it’s compact and was cheap enough that I don’t worry about someone spilling soda on it. Finally, the jacket: I’m not as particular here. I have several Ducks jackets and I wear the one that best fits the weather. This morning it was cold and I considered also wearing my yellow fleece Ducks scarf that I came across last night (found after a year of being MIA in our guest room which has been occupied by one kid or another for more than a year and which is now back to being a guest room), but I couldn’t bring myself to put it around my neck – it has not been part of my Game Day ritual this season.

Once I’m dressed and ready to go out (or leave for the game if it’s a home game – with an 0-5 road record, I’m barred from away games), I then text my Game Day message to a regular group of family and friends. During the regular football season I include wishes for my kids and their soccer teams and sometimes I give a shout-out to another Pac-10 school (never the Huskies), but the essence of the text message is simple: It’s Game Day! Go Ducks!

As I go through the motions of getting dressed, putting on my jewelry, preparing my bag and sending my Game Day text, I feel at-one with the team. This is my Game Day ritual and, while not a single player on the team knows who I am, I know that the team, other fans and myself all have our own ways of preparing for and supporting the team. We are all Ducks and I do feel Ducky today!

Acceptance

2010-12-20T16:10:00.000-08:00

I’ve been having trouble finding the Christmas spirit this year. I struggled a bit last year, but nothing like this. It’s been a tough year and it hasn’t left me with much in the way of magic feelings. I’ve pined away the days leading up to Christmas, feeling like the Grinch and lamenting my lack of internal joy. I’ve watched Christmas movies and cried, not because the content made me feel sentimental, but because I “used to” feel the joyful, nostalgic feelings expressed in the movies and this year I don’t. Well, at least I didn’t up until late last week. Late last week I had an appointment for a massage and I was whining to my massage therapist (there’s a reason they’re called therapists) about my lack of Christmas spirit when Nicole said to me, “Well, Debbie, I think the first thing you need to do is practice a little acceptance.” Acceptance? What the heck did that mean? She went on to say that perhaps I needed to just accept that the Christmas spirit thing just wasn’t happening for me this year. Just accept it; quit fighting it.

Immediately after my massage I went for my 52-minute walk (a minute a year) and I thought about what she’d said. I realized that I had, in fact, been enjoying the holiday activities happening outside of me – enjoying each as they were happening. However, leading up to each activity I stressed about my lack of holiday joy and following each activity I stressed about my lack of holiday joy. So, the majority of my time was spent worrying about this internal lack instead of appreciating those things that were going on around me. As I walked along the waterfront trail on an unusually cold, sunny day, I decided that I would focus on enjoying that which was happening around me and just accept that, internally, something was lacking. I enjoyed the sunshine and the crisp December air; I enjoyed the squirrel that ran across the path in front of me; I enjoyed waving to the engineer of the freight train that went by parallel to the trail. I thought about each of the holiday activities I had participated in this month and each that was to come and I enjoyed the thought of each of them. And do you know what happened? As I focused on enjoying and feeling grateful for the people and events external to me, I uncovered the joy inside of me. By the end of my walk I felt that my attitude had made a 180-degree turn. I’d gone from feeling like the Grinch to realizing that it is a wonderful life.

Storytelling

2010-12-13T05:51:00.000-08:00

Humans have been passing down stories for as long as we have roamed the earth. However, during the past few decades, as life has sped up, we’ve found that we often don’t have the time to share stories. Older generations usually don’t live with younger generations and there isn’t time for talking around the dinner table or on the front porch. Several projects have been started to encourage people to document the stories of their elders. Starbucks even has stories as its theme this holiday season: Stories are Gifts – Share. For Christmas several years ago I gave my uncle a tape recorder and blank tapes, asking that he use them to tell me the stories of his and my father’s youth. They had a harrowing story of leaving their hometown in their teens to return to Finland, their parents’ birthplace, and finding themselves, instead, in Russia, starving and cold, with no money. They eventually returned to the U.S. without their mother, who had not yet become a citizen. I’d heard bits and pieces of the story as I grew up, but I really wanted to hear from him the entire story, with more details. When my uncle died, I found the tape recorder and tapes – untouched.

Stories are part of the root system we pass on to our children. I’ve always understood that the stories I was told as a child helped me to know who I am, but I’ve always looked at the storyteller as being the elder, the one with the experiences. Last week, as my daughter-in-law and I were discussing the Christmas tree she and my son had picked out. My daughter-in-law said, “Debbie, I would like it if sometime you’d come over and explain to me all about Jarrod’s ornaments because he doesn’t know their stories.” Each of my children has their own Christmas tree as they grow up and ornaments are added each year. When my oldest son married, we no longer put up his small tree and, instead, passed his collection of ornaments on to him and his wife. I was thrilled that my daughter-in-law wants to know the stories behind the ornaments, but this was definitely an OMG moment. Like it or not, feel like it or not, I am the elder! I am the keeper of the stories.

Just Call Me Old-Fashioned

2010-12-04T05:50:00.000-08:00

On our drive back from the last Oregon home football game, we were desperately looking for someplace to get a quick, late dinner. We had hoped to find a Burgerville, since that is our fast food stop of choice, but the Albany Burgerville was packed and we couldn’t find the Salem Burgerville. Finally, we decided to just pull into McDonald’s. Once inside, we found a line of two people waiting to order and two people waiting for food – not bad. However, the place was dirty. Napkins were strewn around the floor, tables were left unbussed and garbage was flowing out of the containers. The woman behind the counter was busy putting together orders and did not acknowledge the people waiting in line to order. When she finally handed out food and then went on to take orders, she never made eye contact, never apologized for the wait, never even smiled. She obviously felt overworked and it was clear that each new order was just seen by her as additional work she would have to do.

After a lengthy wait for our food, I realized that she was finally assembling our order, but it was on a tray, not in a to-go bag. I went up to the counter and said, “If that’s our order, we’d like it to go.” Her snarly reply: “Well, you didn’t say you wanted it to go,” to which I replied, “You never asked.” (That’s supposed to be the first or last thing they ask when taking an order). At that point, I could no longer contain my disgust with her attitude and suggested that it wouldn’t hurt for her to trying being polite. She then went on a tirade about being busy; doing the best she can, blah, blah, blah.

While I’m sure this McDonald’s, just off the freeway halfway between Portland and Eugene, had, in fact, been busy throughout the post-game period, it was no longer all that busy and I counted at least five people working in the restaurant (all of whom had the same sneer as our counter attendant) and none of whom seemed to be making any attempt to be pleasant or to clean up the dirty floors, tables and garbage cans. On the way out of the restaurant, one of my sons said to me that I shouldn’t have said anything to her because she’s in a dead-end job, being paid minimum wage and can’t be expected to be nice under those circumstances. When I responded that I’d had similar types of jobs in my youth, he said, “Yes, but that was thirty-some years ago.” Really? Has it become old-fashioned to do a good job? To be polite and welcoming as an employee at a public establishment?

My parents taught me to always do my best, regardless of the situation. Have a class you don’t like? Get through it and do your best. Teacher’s unreasonable? Do your best. Job boring? Do your best. The summer I turned fifteen I found a job at a small café in the coastal tourist town where I spent my high school years. It wasn’t a popular place and didn’t have much curb appeal, so business was often slow. I had to be at work by 3:30 a.m. all summer and, often, there would be only a dozen customers throughout the day (except for weekends when we sometimes had people standing in line because of the tourist business). I hated the job. I was bored most of the time, the hours were terrible and, because of the light level of business, the tips weren’t great. I remember complaining to my dad about it, but he just said the usual: Do your best. He suggested that I find things to do when I was bored: sweep the floor, clean the shelves below the counters, polish the pie displays. I took his advice and made it through that summer and the next year, when I applied to the manager of the local “hip” drive-in, I had a great reference from the café’s owner. Later, when I worked at as a teller at US Bank, busy days were my favorite. Sure, it was hectic and exhausting, but it became a game to see how many people I could serve and, of course, I did it with a smile because I had to “do my best”. I went on to a management-training program within the bank and was a Vice-President when I “retired”. I have to believe that “doing my best” had something to do with my career success.

If it’s true that it’s now old-fashioned to do one’s best, regardless of the circumstances, how do people ever expect to advance? To ever have opportunities? To ever feel self-satisfaction? If this is the current state, just call me old-fashioned.

When Does an Anomaly Become the Norm?

2010-11-21T06:28:00.000-08:00

A year ago I wrote a blog titled Fake It ‘Til You Feel It about trying to put joy back into my life. Well, a year has gone by and I’m still trying. This year has been an emotional roller coaster ride with a lot of downhills. Now, as we enter the holiday season, I’m reminded anew that I’m still not feeling the joy and awe that I would normally say is a part of my persona.

As I’ve sat thinking about this lack of joy this morning I’ve realized something. Lately I’ve been busy – busy, busy, busy! Laundry, housecleaning, shopping, cooking, volunteer duties, bookkeeping – busy, busy, busy! I’d even considered writing a blog about going through life being busy, getting things done and how good that feels. This morning I realized that I’ve kept myself busy, busy, busy because it’s easier to be busy than to open the door of my soul to check on what’s going on inside. When I opened that door I found that I’m no farther along the path to joy than I was a year ago and I’m worried – when does an anomaly become the norm?

Yesterday, while my husband and I were out for a walk, an old man came toward us on the path. As he approached, he tipped his hat and, with a huge smile, said, “Good morning! Have a wonderful day now!” I said to my husband that there was an example of how I used to be and how I want to be again. My husband responded that the old man had probably not always felt that way; he’d probably had down times, too.

I’m not willing to accept this “down time” as my norm. I wish I could put the busy, busy, busy behind me and just go sit on a mountain top for a few days to figure out where I’ve misplaced my joy. That’s not entirely possible, but a few hours of quiet this morning to think and reflect have done wonders. I will continue to consider this current frame of mind an anomaly, not my norm; I will open the door to my soul and clean out the cobwebs; I will go out, smile and tip my hat; I will fake it ‘til I feel it – and I will feel it!

Homecoming -- More on Perspective

2010-11-11T09:14:00.000-08:00

A friend posted on Facebook yesterday that her son (who is in the military) and his wife will be arriving home today for a week’s stay. When reading her post, I could sense my friend’s excitement at the anticipation of this upcoming visit. This post came on the heels of my oldest daughter’s arrival home from college the day before for a six-day visit, so I completely understand the joy of having an adult child return home.

We have three children who no longer live at home and one more that is only home on a temporary basis. Should the need arise, any of them would, of course, be welcomed back home, but I understand that they need to grow up, move on and live their own lives. However, I also know that I love to have any of them come for a visit; it doesn’t matter whether it’s a six-day visit from out-of-town or just a visit for dinner (or free lunch food) from across the river – my “mommy feathers” plump up at the news that a visit is upcoming.

As I’ve acknowledged this feeling of joy at having a grown-up child return home I’ve thought back to my own childhood home and the feelings I had in going back as a young adult with the knowledge I now have of how my mom must have felt whenever I’d return home. I always loved going home for a visit and I loved having my mom take care of me, even though sometimes I felt smothered by her care or obstinate in my belief that my way of living – in many ways different from hers – was the really true “right way”. I know now that I probably hurt my mom’s feelings a time or two either by not being as gracious as I could have been about her desire to see me or by changing my plans last minute so that a planned visit either didn’t occur or was cut short.

This understanding of the two perspectives: going home as my young-adult-self and anticipating my children coming home as my adult-mom-self, is a new realization for me and I have to admit that it leaves me feeling a bit vulnerable. I realize that I’m vulnerable to the possibility of hurt and disappointment should an adult child decide not to visit home but I remember that I might have done the same thing so, hopefully, I can just growl to myself and move on (something I’m really not very good at). However, on the flip side, I can now fully appreciate my own great joy and satisfaction in having an adult child walk through the front door.

Perspective...Again!

2010-11-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

I had foot surgery six months ago and I realized recently that I feel pretty good. Looking back, I find myself thinking that it’s great that in just six months I’m back to regular workouts (no running yet, but lots of walking), my foot feels okay most of the time and I can even wear some, not all, but some cute shoes. But then I remember how devastating I felt after the surgery and for the first several months. During that time I worried that I would never again feel good, that I’d never again be myself. I let myself dwell in a hole of pain, fear and self-pity. Now, when I look back at that time, I’m amazed that I allowed my perspective to be so skewed. When will I learn, really learn, that so much of how I feel, how I react, is just a matter of perspective? So many events in life could be handled more easily if I could just remember to think about perspective.

Quack! Quack!

2010-11-01T09:41:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago I was in Eugene for a Ducks’ football game. We’d gone down the night before the game in order to be at ESPN’s Game Day show bright and early the next morning. Upon arriving in town we went to dinner at a restaurant just off campus and then, on our way back to the hotel, we walked through campus. The UofO campus is really beautiful with lots of trees and grass – even a cemetery! Spirits were high on campus that evening in anticipation of Saturday’s ESPN show and the big game against Stanford. As we walked through the dark, we suddenly heard a band playing the UofO fight song off in the distance. Not having anywhere we had to be, we decided to follow the sound, even though it took us off course from the hotel. We soon found a portion of the UofO band holding an impromptu pep rally in the courtyard of one of the dorms. We stood on the sidelines and clapped along. Then, when the band moved on, we followed them. It was great fun – the music, the clapping, the energy. As I looked around at the crowds of students, I realized that it has been thirty years since I was a student there! Thirty years?!? How did that happen? But, then I realized something else: While I loved my time at UofO thirty years ago, I realized that I have enjoyed being a UofO alumni member much more than I ever enjoyed being a UofO student. As a student I was focused on the jobs at hand: studying, graduating and getting a job. Did I miss out on something by not getting involved with sports, extracurricular activities and Duck pride? Perhaps, but I did do well in school, I did graduate and I did get a job and, for the last thirty years, (actually it’s only been the last fifteen years – it took me awhile to discover my inner-Duck), I’ve been able to revel in the joys of being a Duck. Quack! Quack!

What Comfort Zone?

2010-09-06T09:40:00.001-07:00

We all have our little fears and foibles. I sometimes like to think I’m nearly perfect, but I’ve realized that part of growing up is acknowledging our own weaknesses. I found out, while still in high school, that I am claustrophobic. I was at a school carnival when someone suggested we try out the cardboard box maze the junior class had made. It was actually made out of everyday cardboard boxes, so we had to get down on our hands and knees to crawl through it. About halfway through I panicked. I was in this small crawl-through box, there were people in front of and behind me and I had no where to go, so I took the only option – I went up – right through the top of the boxes, ruining that section of the maze. I also have a fear of heights. I cannot remember the first time I realized this fear, but I do remember an experience when my husband was in Korea picking up our first daughter and I thought I’d surprise him by hanging a new curtain in the alcove above our front door. I climbed up the ladder, got onto the little shelf and, again, panicked! I managed to quickly hang the curtain and make my way back down the ladder, but my entire body shook for a full ten minutes afterwards.

Having learned that I’m not actually perfect, I’ve tried to avoid heights and closed in spaces. I’ve still had a few episodes that have taken me by surprise (ask Drew about California Screamin’ when I bolted out of my seat just before the ride began and he later told me, “I was so embarrassed! I tried to look like I didn’t know that crazy white woman.”), but for the most part, I just accept that heights and small spaces are better left to acrobats and miners.

Today my husband and I visited St. Peter’s Cathedral in Rome. We’ve been there before, but it was so awe-inspiring, we wanted to see it again. As we stood underneath the main dome looking up, we realized there were people on a walkway, high up at the base of the dome. You have to understand the dimensions of this beautiful building to get a feel for how high up this is – up near the base of the dome there is a piece of art (there’s art everywhere), but in this piece, a man in is holding a pencil and the pencil is actually six feet long! So you can imagine just how high up this walkway is. My husband immediately pulls out his guidebook and looks up information on the walkway. It turns out visitors are allowed to climb up there, so off we went to find the stairway.

We found the entrance to the stairway and found out that you can either walk up all 500+ stairs or pay a little extra to take an elevator and then walk up only 300+ stairs. Given that I’m still recovering from foot surgery we opted for the elevator. When we reached the top we were surprised to find that there were only a few stairs to climb to get to the dome walkway. It was amazing! I admit that I stayed against the wall and just peeked over and that I didn’t stay for very long, but it was still amazing and I was quite proud of myself for having gone at all. Then, while I waited on the exit stairs for my husband to finish viewing the basilica from this bird’s eye view, I noticed a little door with a sign that read, “Ingresso Cupola” and further went on to say something about discouraging the old, the sick and those with cardiopathic problems from climbing the 321 stairs. I showed the sign to my husband when he finally exited the walkway. We were both confused because we thought we were at the top. Then my husband realized that the 300+ additional steps we thought we’d have to climb to get to the walkway were actually the steps to get us to the cupola – we could climb to the top of the dome and be outside! Woo-hoo or something like that. My husband was very excited, but all I could think about was being even higher. However, I’d already shown my bravery by walking around the walkway; I wasn’t about to wimp out now, so up we went.

Since I’m recovering from foot surgery, I knew I’d be slow going up and down, so when my husband asked if I wanted him to wait for me or if he could just go on, I said, “Just go ahead. You’ll want to spend more time at the top than I will anyway.” Bad decision! About ten steps after this bold statement, the straight stairway turned into a closed-in spiral staircase of the very, very small variety! I couldn’t turn around (there’s one stairway up and one down), so I kept on climbing, telling myself that it would be okay – it wasn’t. I began to panic as the walls closed in on me and I kept climbing upwards. I started to hyperventilate (not good when climbing stairs) and I called up to Brian to wait for me. I found him a few steps later waiting for me by a small window cut into the wall. I sat down on the ledge of the window and breathed the fresh air coming through as I tried to quiet the turmoil going on within me. We eventually made it to the top with Brian leading the way, holding my hand and talking me through it, but I was soaked with sweat (from both the heat and the panic) by the time we got to the top and I spent my time on the cupola plastered against the wall trying to regain my sense of sanity.

The trip down wasn’t as bad (worse on my foot, but easier on my brain) but I was thrilled to walk through the final door out to the terrace where we’d gotten off the elevator. This was an experience that was so far outside my comfort zone I couldn’t even fathom what my brain was doing to me, but I was proud of myself for being able to suck up the fear and follow through (and forever indebted to my husband for his unwavering strength). I know I have a fear of heights and closed in spaces and, for today, I conquered them. Well, conquered is probably too strong a word – for today, I didn’t give in to my fears.

Am I glad I went? You bet! Would I do it again? Never!!!! After all, part of growing up is learning to acknowledge your fears and foibles and, in this case, accept them rather than try to conquer them.

Lighting a Candle

2010-09-02T14:02:00.000-07:00

I’m not Catholic, in fact I’m not particularly religious; at least not in the conventional sense. However, European churches leave me in awe and with a sense of that which I don’t understand. (See my blog entry from March 26, 2008, European Vacation, Day 3: A Religious Experience) Today my husband and I visited the Basilica of St. Mary of Health in Venice. I wanted to go to this church because of a story I’d read about it in the book A Thousand Days in Venice by Marlena de Blasi. We arrived at the church late in the afternoon -- a long walk through Venice’s streets, but located almost directly across the Grand Canal from our hotel. There were musicians playing and singers performing on the steps of the church when we arrived. After listening for a few minutes, I motioned to my husband that I was going to go inside. I was afraid that the church doors might soon be closing since it was getting late. I walked around the inside of the church, again in awe not only because of this sense I get from these European churches, but also because of what I’d read in de Blasi’s book about an annual celebration held in this church. As I approached the exit to the church, there was a place set aside to light a candle. The candle costs 1 Euro – you supply your own prayer.

I know someone who is currently dying. She has ALS, Lou Gehrig’s Disease. I wrote about her last fall (September 26, 2009, ALS) and now, less than a year later, her prognosis is not good. Today, in the Basilica of St. Mary of Health, I paid my 1 Euro and lit a candle for this woman. I know that physical health is not a possibility for her, but my prayer was that she knows mental and spiritual health. I stepped away from the altar and had to find the tissues in my purse (and then I put on my sunglasses).

This church was built as a “deal” with God in the 1600s in an attempt to stop the plague. Today, in 2010, no deals were being made, I was just making a simple gesture of hope, but I was filled with emotions of grief, gratitude and, surprisingly, peace.

African Time

2010-08-25T13:05:00.001-07:00

Since arriving in S. Africa five days ago, I’ve been keenly aware of the cultural differences between rural S. Africa, where we are staying, to life in the US, rural or not. There are of course language differences. Even though English is the official language of S. Africa, most S. Africans speak some sort of local dialect. There are clothing, housing and food differences. But I think the most prevalent form of cultural difference has been what is referred to as “African Time”. I know there are other cultures around the world that work off a slower clock than we do in the US, but to see this pace in action is amazing. There’s no hurry to get work done. There is no hurry to get anywhere. Even the waitress in the dining room walks at an extremely slow pace. At first I thought she was old or crippled because her gait was so slow, but then I realized that she just moves slowly, as do all of the staff people we have encountered. I’d equate their gait to the slow ambling gate of many gas station attendants in Oregon – usually the younger guys who just stroll out to the car, but those guys have a seemingly lazy, insolent attitude and that definitely does not seem to be the case here. Life is just lived a bit slower and that begins with the slow pace of the body’s movements. Maybe that’s because it is so often hot and it’s hard to move quickly in the heat. Maybe it is because animals are all around and quick movement calls their attention. We were told that the only thing that runs in S. Africa is food. As I think about what I want to take away from this trip, it’s not the souvenirs or the photos and memories of the animals, though we will have ample amounts of both. No, what I want to take away is a memory of African Time and I want to try to internalize a bit of it in myself.

Best of the Day

2010-08-23T09:29:00.001-07:00

For years, when we’re on vacation, our family has followed a tradition of doing “Best of the Day”. We almost always do this tradition in the evening, usually during dinner. During Best of the Day, everyone takes a turn at telling what was their best part of the day; duplications aren’t allowed. There have been very few times when we’ve had to enforce the duplications rule because, almost always, everyone sees the day’s activities a little differently. Even when more than one person picks the same event, there are specific nuances for each person that make each Best of the Day unique. This has been a great way to reinforce the wonderful activities, sights and events that are part of our vacations and it’s also an eye-opening way to find out what is meaningful for each of our children.

Today, our safari group headed off to a neighboring game reserve with the hope of seeing elephants. Those who know me know that seeing elephants in their natural surrounding would definitely be a Best of the Day. We did find the elephants and watched from several different viewpoints as they drank from a river and wandered its banks. I was awestruck! Just as with watching the elephants at the zoo, I could have stayed much longer than those I was with. While seeing the elephants was an incredible experience that moved me in much the same way Michelangelo’s Pieta moved me when we were in Rome two years ago, I realized that this was not going to be Best of the Day for me. Earlier, as we’d entered the game reserve, we’d seen two giraffes off in a field beside the road. We’ve seen several giraffes over the last couple of days, so seeing them was not, in itself, that spectacular, but then, they ran! The grace and beauty of these strangely large creatures galloping across the field was amazing! Again, I was awestruck! This, I thought, would be Best of the Day.

Our group picnicked beside a small river (in the Pacific Northwest we could call it a creek) and then prepared to leave in order to see if we might possibly be lucky enough to find the lions given that we’d already found the elephants. We all loaded up into our 11-person open-air jeep-type vehicle and then our guide noticed that one of the back tires had gone flat. No problem, there’s a spare underneath the jeep. However, the long metal rod that is used to loosen the spare from its mooring was missing. Our guide tried using a similar instrument from another tour vehicle parked nearby, but it did not work. Our guide’s cell phone was out-of-range and we did not have a radio, so we were forced to wait while the other vehicle’s guide went to the nearby (and that’s a relative term) lodge to ask them to send assistance. Our guide quickly mentioned that he hoped they would not be on “Africa time”. Well, they were. Three hours went by before the tire was patched, pumped up (by hand) and ready to drive on. Three hours with nothing to read, no cell phones, no Internet – nothing! Nothing but the silence of the African countryside, a bird lover’s bevy of exotic birds flitting around, baboons wandering back forth in front of us and a level of peace and internal quiet that I have not known in, dare I say it, YEARS! Three hours where I was content to just sit, listen and watch (and smell, too – I could smell the baboons before we could see them). Three hours of peaceful satisfaction that I’d almost forgotten could exist – definitely Best of the Day.

I Used To Be Cool

2010-08-21T05:30:00.000-07:00

I wear sunglasses – often, and I have for years. My eyes are fairly sensitive and it just feels better to wear sunglasses rather than to squint. They’re also great for hiding tears during emotional moments as my friend Kim and I know so well. My standard routine, when I wear sunglasses, is to place them on top of my head when they’re not in use. Over the years, having my sunglasses on or having them on my head has become sort of a signature look for me. When we visited China several years ago, my sunglasses and long black coat garnered me movie star status with locals who wanted their picture taken with me. I’ve always felt pretty cool wearing my sunglasses or walking around with them on top of my head; however, this summer, I’ve realized that I’m no longer cool. Now, I usually have a pair of reading glasses at hand and, when I take them off, I habitually put them on top of my head, often without realizing that my sunglasses are already there. Then I have two pairs of glasses on my head – not cool, dorky! Or, even worse, I hook one pair or the other inside the neck of my shirt. So then I’m walking around with one pair hanging from my shirt and one pair on my head, but it’s a toss-up as to which pair is where, so I find myself walking out into the sunlight and accidentally putting on my reading glasses or trying to read a label with my sunglasses.

When I started wearing reading glasses my husband asked me not to wear the librarian-style reading glass necklace, but a friend recently suggested that I get the neoprene-type of eyeglass straps that are used for kayaking and other sports. Her theory is that this type of “nerd strap” doesn’t look as dorky – it makes one look sporty or athletic. I actually checked out the “athletic” straps at REI last weekend and, frankly, I had trouble envisioning the look as either sporty or athletic – it still said, “Dork!”

The final straw was when I found a pair of my beloved Maui Jim Cabana sunglasses available on Ebay. They’re a discontinued style that I’ve worn for years and I love the way they look and how they fit. I have them set-up for a “watch” on Ebay so I’m notified whenever a pair becomes available. Imagine my surprise, perhaps disgust, when the most recently available pair was listed as “Vintage”.

I’ve come to the realization that I am just no longer cool (a fact my kids would say has been true for at least a couple of decades), but I’m okay with that. I may not be cool, but I can balance two pairs of glasses on my head at one time – there must be some benefit in talent like that!

Embrace the Inevitable

2010-08-11T14:31:00.000-07:00

A year ago I, along with my friend Jill, volunteered to take over the planning and organization of the Holt Family Campout that we have attended for the last sixteen years (not including 1998, when we had to cancel the day before the campout and for which my children will never forgive me). This campout hosts almost 100 adoptive families, is a week long and is packed full of activities, potlucks, socializing, friendship and fun. When I agreed to take over leadership, I knew that we were coming upon a busy year: our oldest daughter’s senior of high school, a foreign exchange student for the fall, the finalization of my mother-in-law’s estate, but I was excited and eager.

Since that time, one year ago, in addition to the expected “busyness”, we have also had major work-related stress, an additional foreign exchange student for the entire year (which was great!), two cancelled international trips, now combined into one on which we depart five days after this campout, my oldest daughter’s fourth knee surgery, my major foot surgery and then back problems – it hasn’t been a good year! In fact, this has pretty much been the worst year of my life!

Six weeks or so ago, when Jill and I spent three days working on the planning for this campout, I was in a foul mood – exhausted, stressed, in pain from my surgery and frustrated by the impossible desire to make everyone attending this campout happy with their site assignment, the schedule, etc. I had lost the joy of the campout. Jill tried to tell me that I would feel better about the campout once my body felt better and…she was right! My surgeried foot is healing, my other, plantar fasciatis, foot has been shot full of cortisone and feels better, my back issue has resolved and I am now sitting by my campfire with a hot cup of coffee early on the morning of the first “official” day of the campout (we came a day early in order to be set-up and ready when everyone arrives this afternoon).

Over the last few days, as the kids and I have prepared for the campout, the joy returned. I not only feel better physically, but also mentally. Instead of feeling frustrated about changes and requests generated by those attending the campout, I just said, “Thank you for letting me know.” Instead of dreading nine days of camping (two days longer than we normally stay), I am looking forward to the additional time to sit by the fire, read a book, even listen to the crows. The campout was inevitable, the international trip scheduled for five days afterwards is inevitable. I have embraced the inevitable and it feels so good!

Mt. Hood

2010-07-27T07:51:00.000-07:00

Friday night my husband and I drove to Sunriver via the pass over Mt. Hood. As a native Portlander, I grew up with Mt. Hood always off in the distance. When I learned directions, it wasn’t with north as the keystone, but with east – because that’s where Mt. Hood is. As we drove along Hwy 26 with the light of the day quickly fading to twilight, there are a couple of places where Mt. Hood looms up over the road – and each time I saw it, massive against the sky of fading light, it took my breath away!

When I was 13 my family moved from Portland to the Washington Coast. The first time I returned to Portland, as we crossed the I-5 Bridge into Oregon and I glanced to the east and saw Mt. Hood – that’s when I cried. I had come home to my city, to my state, to my mountain. Jonathan Nicholas, a Portland journalist, once wrote:

Whether they are flying in from Bali or Bora Bora, Tacoma or Timbuktu, even the most jaded travelers press their noses to the windows as planes bank for the final approach to PDX. Newcomers are lost for words as the face of Mt. Hood looms into view. But Portlanders know exactly what to say, “Ah, home!”

Whenever I glimpse the mountain, whether it’s close up against the twilight as it was Friday night, or peeking through the clouds as I cross the Glenn Jackson Bridge, I feel like Pocahontas when she sings the song, Colors of the Wind:

Can you sing with all the voices of the mountains?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

Somehow I am connected to Mt. Hood. I don’t understand it; actually, I don’t even try. I just am, and it’s a connection that gives me roots, satisfaction and wonder.

Child to Adult -- Three Weeks to Catch Up

2010-07-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

Three weeks ago our oldest daughter was still our “child”. Sure, she’d turned eighteen and had just graduated from high school, but in the eyes of her dad and me, she was still a child. Curfew was the biggest source of contention. She’d tell us that she was an “adult” and shouldn’t have a curfew; we said that she was still a child living in our home and we should be able to say when she should be home at night. Now, there are, of course, two sides to this story, as there are to most. On her side, it was true, she is, technically, an adult and it is true that with the fall, she will be away at school and we won’t have control over her comings and goings. But from our side, we still look at her and see the little girl with her index finger stuck backwards into her mouth. As I explained to her, we need time to adjust to her changing status, just as we did when she entered her teenage years and wanted more freedom to go with friends to the movies or the mall. What we’ve always asked, during these times of transition, is that our children give us advance warning of their new found status (or the new status they believed they should be accorded). What had been happening with our oldest daughter, from our standpoint, was that she was pushing the status on us at the last minute. 10:30 curfew? She’d call at 10:20 to ask if she could stay out later – No! Then, three weeks ago, she went away. We sent her to Norway with our foreign exchange student who was returning home after living with us for the school year. Not only is the teenage lifestyle more relaxed in Norway, but we had no way of knowing what type of hours she was keeping – we just relied on her host mom to set the appropriate parameters and to keep her safe.

Now, our daughter is home and, when she asked about the ever-nagging question of curfew, I responded, “I don’t think it’s a big deal any longer.” During the last three weeks her dad and I have come to grips with the fact that, yes, she is growing up and, yes, she will soon be leaving the safety of our ever-watchful eyes and, no, there’s absolutely nothing we can do to prevent either of the first two facts from happening. So, three weeks – not so much a matter of her growing up as it has been a matter of us catching up.

Bottom of a Dip in the Road or Sliding Down the Slope to Old Age?

2010-07-08T17:36:00.000-07:00

As I’ve been whining about for the last few months, this past year has been the toughest of my life – in addition to excess stress from a variety of fronts, I had my first “real” surgery followed by five weeks without putting any weight on my surgeried foot, then three more weeks walking around with a big “boot”, two trips to the ER for surgery-related problems, thrown-out back from walking like a gimp with the boot, no exercise, weight gain – shall I go on?

This definitely hasn’t been my best year and, as it’s gone on and hasn’t gotten better, I’ve honestly worried that I’m just beginning to slip down a slope that leads to “old age”. The stress has taken its toll on my body and I look older. The surgery and back problems cause me to walk bent over and I look older. While my foot recuperates I have to wear “sturdy” shoes that only go with frumpy clothes and I look older. Add that all up and I feel not just older, but old. However, this morning I woke up and was able to stand upright for the first time in over a week. Then, as I began to walk around I realized that my foot wasn’t screaming with excruciating pain for the first time in over two months. I have always promised myself that I’d go kicking and screaming into “old age”, but, for the last few months, I haven’t had any kick or scream in me – only whine (along with some wine), but now I’ve decided that this slope I’ve been slipping down just goes down into a little dip in the road and that this must be the bottom of the dip because I’m now on my way up the other side. It will be a tough climb, but I will get out of this hole and I’m just so thankful that I can now see that it’s just a hole, not that “old age” slope that I’m not yet willing to slide down.

...and the Foot Bone's Connected to the...Brain Bone?

2010-06-15T09:59:00.000-07:00

I had surgery on my foot, so I understand why my foot hurts and why other muscles hurt from using crutches, walking (hobbling) differently, etc., but what I don’t understand is why surgery on my foot has affected the way my brain works! It’s true, I’m getting older and brain function does decrease a bit with age. It’s also true that the stressors of this past year have caused some issues with how my brain works. But for the last six weeks, ever since my surgery, I’ve been almost dingy – I’ve messed up on our family’s scheduling (more than once), I’ve written a check for different amounts in the numerical and written-out sections, I’ve missed deadlines, I’ve forgotten special events, I’ve thought I’d conveyed information that I hadn’t. I’m normally a very organized person and these brain lapses really bother me. I’m used to being on top of all that’s happening; I’m used to being right. Now, I’m just not up to par. My foot is recovering, but will my brain recover as well?

Honeymoon: 33 Years and Counting

2010-06-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

I just woke up from a little mid-afternoon nap – I fell asleep on a chaise, in the sun, on a deck overlooking Haystack Rock on the Oregon coast. There aren’t many coastal days more beautiful than this, but there was one that I remember vividly thirty-three years ago – the day my husband and I were married just a few miles north of here. When I woke up from my nap, I stretched, reveling in the heat from the sun, then sat up to look around at the beauty surrounding me and there, just below my deck, I saw a small group of people gathered around a man in a black tuxedo and a woman in a white dress. A wedding in progress, a marriage just beginning and all I could think to wish for them is that their honeymoon lasts as long as ours.

I’ve read the articles that state that couples have to learn to accept their lives after the honeymoon ends. I’ve seen the movies and TV shows depicting couples going through the rote of living their days. Blah, blah, blah! Sure, there are stages of a marriage, many of them, but you don’t get to thirty-three years feeling happy, passionate and in love without bringing with you some of the honeymoon feelings. You remember the honeymoon – the kindnesses, the love, the quiet talks together, etc., etc., etc. Those feelings, those niceties, those intimacies that we experience on our honeymoon are, I believe, what carries us happily through the years ahead…if we hold on to them.

Our wedding photographer told us that we should pick out photos from our wedding collection to put on the wall of our bedroom. His theory was that whenever we might have an argument or fight we would enter our bedroom and there we would be, the portrait of us on our wedding day and we would be reminded of how we felt on that day. There have only been a couple of times that I’ve actually had to take his advice and look at those pictures in the heat of anger, but when I did I was humbled to find myself remembering the bigger story, seeing the bigger picture. In fact, whenever I look at those pictures, whether it’s in an angry moment or just when I wake up in the morning, I am reminded of how I felt on that day and how, while it was truly wonderful then, it doesn’t even compare to how I feel now.

Pristine Arteries

2010-06-04T18:20:00.000-07:00

Pristine arteries – that was the information we received after seven hours in the emergency room – oh, wait, it’s no longer known as the emergency room or ER, now it’s the emergency department or ED. I had my middle son drive me to the ED yesterday morning after experiencing chest pains that came on quickly and strongly and then began to radiate up my neck. At first I thought I just had heartburn (a condition for which I do take medication), but I quickly realized that the pain had progressed beyond typical heartburn. I sat for a few minutes in one of my old lady chairs, sweating profusely and trying to convince myself that nothing was wrong. However, it was very clear to me that I was experiencing the types of symptoms common to women heart attack victims. I considered sitting it out, but remembered hearing that it’s better to head to the ED and be a little embarrassed than to sit home and be sorry. So, off we went. My husband met me at the ED door and we were quickly ushered back for monitoring and evaluation. I won’t go in to all the details, but throughout the next seven hours, the staff performed several different tests to be sure that I hadn’t had a “cardiac event”. The end result was that, while they couldn’t tell me what had caused the pain, they could tell me what hadn’t caused it – I had not had a heart attack and I found out that, in fact, I have pristine arteries. That’s nice news to hear.

As I sat in the bed throughout the afternoon yesterday, waiting to find out what had happened, I was scared. I was afraid that this was, in fact, a “cardiac event”. I feared that this was a blatant statement from my body that I had reached a new stage in my life – not one I’m anxious to admit or succumb to. I worried that healing from foot surgery would be nothing compared to the healing that would be necessary after a heart attack. Instead, I learned that I have pristine arteries and I feel a renewed sense of excitement over finishing this foot healing and beginning the process of rebuilding my muscles and fitness level after this surgery-induced hiatus.

For a lot of people, having a heart attack is a reason to improve their lifestyle. I’ve had a pretty healthy lifestyle for a long, long time and, even though I’m on the bench right now, I know I will go back to the lifestyle – and having had this heart attack scare really helps to remind me of who I am and what type of lifestyle I want to lead.

Jack 'n Diane

2010-05-31T06:30:00.000-07:00

Today is my 52nd birthday – it was two years ago today that I proudly wore my tiara with the declaration, “50” on the front of it and celebrated by having 50 girlfriends join me for lunch at my favorite restaurant. A lot has happened in the last two years – some good, some bad, but through it all, I still feel pretty good about “being in my 50’s”. Sure my body isn’t what I’d like it to be. Some of that I can change, but some of it is simply a matter of aging. It’s also true that my brain gets a little rattled sometimes and I know people look at me differently – I’m now often considered “older”. But, overall, being in my sixth decade is pretty cool.

Last night we stopped by Michael John’s performance again – well, we’d planned to “stop by”, but ending up staying for all of it. Anyway, one of the songs he regularly sings is Jack ‘n Diane. As I listened to the words last night, on the eve of my 52nd birthday, I had to disagree with the line, “Oh yeah, life goes on long after the thrill of living is gone.” I mean, here are two American teenagers making a statement like that – heck, they probably thought that line applied to anyone over thirty. As someone more than two decades beyond thirty, I can certainly say that I haven’t lost the thrill of living. How sad would that be? No, there’s a lot of thrill left: places to go, people to see, things to do, lessons to learn, beer to drink…(that last one’s for my daughter-in-law). Will I still feel that way when I’m seventy or eighty? I’m not sure, but I know a few people that age that are wonderful examples; who give me hope and show me what is possible. No, Jack is, I hope, simply wrong.

House at Pooh Corner

2010-05-30T07:14:00.000-07:00

Last night we went to the Sunriver Mall for an outdoor performance by our friend Michael John. Michael is a musician with a flair for singing songs that touch our hearts or make us laugh. Last night he sang House at Pooh Corner, a song made famous by Kenny Loggins. This song always brings a tear to my eye and last night was no different (thank goodness for sunglasses). But last night the lyrics resonated with me more than usual:

Christopher Robin and I walked along
Under branches lit up by the moon
Posing our questions to Owl and Eeyore
As our days disappeared all too soon
But I've wandered much further today than I should
And I can't seem to find my way back to the Wood

I’ve been struggling with the effort to find the “old me”, to regain a sense of myself as person filled with joy and last night I realized that I had let myself wander much further than I should have into stress, worry and despair and I really need to find my way back to the Hundred Acre Wood – to a quiet life of joy, friendship and adventure. Thank you Pooh (and Michael).

Ooh, Ooh!

2010-05-26T10:10:00.000-07:00

Two days ago on Facebook I declared, “Ooh, ooh, I gotta new attitude!” and I’m happy to report that the new attitude is still hanging around. I’ve been trying for months (and especially the last three weeks) to change my attitude back to the positive, happy frame of mind I am used to, but up until now, I haven’t been successful. What’s different this time? Well, I found inspiration in some surprising places.

First, my whine, whine blogs and status updates on Facebook brought in a slew of comments and emails that were so encouraging and that helped me to remember that we all go through tough times and we do come out okay on the other side. Second, this past weekend I finished reading a book that my friend Jill gave me the day after my surgery. The book, The Pulpwood Queens’ Tiara-Wearing, Book-Sharing Guide to Life by Kathy L. Patrick, is a combination memoir, book list and inspirational self-help. Kathy’s upbeat attitude, her self-described Queenliness and her penchant for wearing a tiara reminded me of myself. I read this book thinking, Wow! That sounds like the “old me”; I want to be that “me” again! And then, third, I found inspiration in the most surprising place of all – in me! Sunday evening I read back through some of the blogs I’d written in late 2008 and early 2009 when I was caring for my ill and dying mother-in-law (another tough time in my life). I was amazed by my perspective and the calmness I felt throughout that time. I was surprised to remember how much I liked the slower, quiet pace forced on me by having to be with my mother-in-law 24/7. While I’ve been happy with the amount of work I’ve been able to do during this surgery recuperation period, I forgot to look at this quiet time in a positive way. Heck, I’ve forgotten to look at life, in general, in a positive way. Hearing from friends, reading a book that sounded like the “old me” and then reading words actually written by the “old me” helped push my attitude right back in the direction from where it originally came. Ooh, ooh, I think I’ve rediscovered my old attitude!

I am Presently Struggling with _____________ (fill in the blank)

2010-05-23T11:03:00.001-07:00

My husband has a new exercise video in which the director admonishes against saying, “I can’t,” as in “I can’t do pull-ups.” Instead he suggests saying, “I am presently struggling with pull-ups.” With the stress we’ve experienced this past winter, with my foot in pain and inaccessible for walking, with a generally poor attitude, I feel like my use of that statement would be, “I am presently struggling with… everything.” This kind of attitude, this negativity, this whininess is so against my normal outlook that it adds to my struggle. I feel as if I am wallowing in a murky mess of pain, fatigue, discouragement and self-pity. So, while I’m not expecting any miracles or immediate attitude turnarounds, I’m trying to keep the word “presently” in mind. All of this: stress, pain, immobility, is a temporary situation. I am presently struggling; I will not always struggle.

It's Hard Needing Help

2010-05-17T11:15:00.000-07:00

I’m not very good at accepting help, even though, over the years, I’ve told others that they have to learn to accept help when it’s needed. I’ve told my mom, my mother-in-law and friends that we all do what we can to help others in need and then, when it’s our turn to be the one in need, we must graciously accept the help of those who offer. I’m normally the caregiver, the helper, but now, following surgery and unable to walk for five weeks, I must be the one to accept help – it isn’t easy and I’m not very good at it. However, what I’ve found is that the help is not only very necessary, but when it’s offered, I’m so appreciative – even as I butt my head against the need for assistance. The friend who checks in with me regularly and offers up ways she can help, the neighbor who brought a real homemade dinner for our family, the friend who is doing more than her fair share of carpooling, another friend who has her hands full with her own family’s needs, but still offers her help, my family who constantly checks in with me – “Do you need anything, Mommy?” “What would you like me to bring upstairs for you?” “Do you need fresh water?” “Can I give you a ride for errands?”

I find myself humbled and grateful for these offers of help. It’s not easy accepting, but I’m learning to graciously say, “Yes. Thank you.” And, I’m also learning that those forms of help that I most appreciate are not huge or onerous – the small things really do mean so much and I think that after this experience, I can be an even better caregiver and friend until it is, someday, inevitably my turn to again be the one accepting the help.

Running Girl Wannabe

2010-05-14T09:53:00.000-07:00

I think of myself as an active, healthy woman, yet during the last week and a half I have felt old and tired. A week ago this past Wednesday I had foot surgery to repair a bunion. I now have a plate and screw in my foot along with two incisions. Beforehand, I’d spoken with many people who’d had bunion surgery and, while there were varying reports of pain levels and recuperation, based partly, I believe on the type of bunion surgery, I felt that I was pretty well prepared mentally for how this would affect me – hah! To begin with, the pain the first day was worse than I’d anticipated, then I fell during the night trying to use crutches to get to the bathroom by myself – silly me! And my throbbing foot has meant that I’ve spent most of my time these past ten days lying on the couch with my foot propped up on a pillow. My brain hasn’t been ready to read (or write), so that has left television as my only entertainment. I swear I’m beginning to feel my brain cells numb with every minute the TV is turned on. So, today I decided to force myself into a better place. I decided that I would start the day out by getting dressed, doing my hair and make-up and spending more time in my office being productive – throbbing foot be damned! As I was picking out jewelry to accessorize my basically sweatsuit-type of outfit – it’s all that will fit over my foot, but at least it’s not pajamas – I spotted a silver necklace in my jewelry box that I haven’t worn in ages. It’s a pendent of a woman running that I received as a finisher’s “medal” for Vancouver’s first Girlfriends’ Half-Marathon 2-1/2 years ago. I’m signed up to run (or walk, we’ll see…) this same half-marathon this October with my daughter-in-law, but right now, while I’m hobbling around on crutches, the reality of being able to do that seems like some kind of distant dream. But, given that I’m trying to make today the beginning of a new attitude, I decided that was just the right piece of jewelry for me to wear today. I’m hoping to have an outing to the grocery store today (woo-hoo, it’s sad when that’s an exciting proposition). I’ll probably take along my little knee scooter or else I’ll use the motorized scooter at the grocery store. Either way, I'm hoping that my “running girl” pendant will help me feel younger, healthier and full of hope.

What is Brave?

2010-04-08T19:26:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about a day when I cried off-and-on throughout the day (ESP of the Heart). We were traveling to Sunriver that day and had stopped for dinner at a restaurant in Bend. During dinner, I again started quietly shedding tears. My almost-18-year-old daughter was sitting next to me and I was sure that she would be mortified that I was crying in public, so I apologized for being such a wimp. Her response surprised me, “I don’t think you’re a wimp. I think you’re brave for being able to cry in public. I wish I was that brave.” Now, this is a young woman who has weathered four knee surgeries in the last seven years, who intimidates people with her 5’2” toughness, who isn’t afraid to do silly things in public or call attention herself – I think those attributes are brave. Someone else I know is going through a tough time and is taking it all in stride, displaying the utmost dignity and professionalism. I look at this person and think, “Wow! That is so brave. “ As someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, I think I’d be venting my anger and whining away my sorrows. So, maybe when we behave in a manner that is authentic to who we are and when others see in us that which they don’t see in themselves – perhaps that is when we appear most brave.

The Real Problem With Pets

2010-04-07T08:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I wrote about some of the day-to-day problems with pets; today I want to write about the real problem with pets – and that problem is that pets normally do not outlive us. I was reminded of this recently when my daughter-in-law’s 18 year old dog died. She had had him since she was in high school and, during the last few years, we got to know him and care about him. He wasn’t my pet but I loved him just the same him – I was Grandma to a dog.

When we first met Caesar he was still able to go for a run with us around the lake in Austin. When my son and daughter-in-law lived with us for nine months when they first moved back from Texas, Caesar was still able to get up and down the stairs in our home. However, his health, eyesight and strength had declined dramatically over this past year. I often looked at Caesar and realized that as he aged, the rest of us also age. He was less able to participate in day-to-day activities, but he still relished a special event when he could be at the center of the activity. A trip to visit us for Sunday dinner perked him up, even though he was only able to lay on his bed in the family room. It was difficult for him to get up and move around, but when the other dogs or the cats ran around and played, Caesar would perk up his ears and sometimes even try to get up and romp around for a few minutes. His was a gentle nature; like most dogs he just wanted a little attention, a good pet now and then and, in return, he would curl up his tail in delight when someone he loved came near, making that person feel that they were very special, indeed. As I said yesterday, we have lots of pets; they are all part of our family and, when one leaves us, it leaves a small hole in our hearts. I found a quote recently that said something to the effect that having a pet will bring great joy into your life, but the pet’s ultimate death will also bring great grief. That’s the way it is with so much in life – we get the great joys, the happiness and love only because we are willing to accept the pain that comes with the finale.

Poop, Barf and Things that go Bump in the Night

2010-04-06T10:02:00.000-07:00

We have pets – lots of them and, in the last week, I’ve experienced many of the problems with having pets. Last Thursday morning, as we were scurrying around getting ready for my oldest daughter’s senior project garage sale, my youngest daughter came into my office with a horrified look on her face. “Mommy,” she choked, “I think Reggie (one of our big dogs) had a problem in my room last night.” Truly, she looked like she was ready to throw up! I followed her back to her room, opened the door and was horrified at the sight – to put it delicately, Reggie had had a lower digestive system gastric problem…in circles, all over the room! An immediate call to the carpet cleaners got us an appointment for first thing the next morning. In the meantime, I cleaned up what I could, and then we opened the windows and shut the doors.

Last night I was awakened by Czar (our other big dog) making a funny sound. Assuming he was just cleaning himself, I told him to stop, but then he got up and went to the other side of the room and it soon became apparent that he, too, was having a gastric problem, this time of the upper digestive system, if you know what I mean. I flipped on the lights and saw that half his dinner was now sitting on the clean carpet of my bedroom. I quickly ushered him out of the room with the intent of getting him downstairs and out the door, but he only made it as far as the top of the stairs before the other half of his dinner was deposited on the clean hallway carpet. I finally got the dog outside and went back upstairs armed with gloves, paper towels, rags and carpet cleaner. Awhile later, with the carpets reasonably clean again, the dog back inside and settled back in his bed, I started to drift off to sleep only to hear what sounded like someone rummaging around in our garage, which is right below our bedroom. I got up and went to listen at our bedroom door – nothing. I went back to bed and it started again. I decided to go investigate in the garage, but, as I reached the top of the stairs, I realized that the sound was coming from my daughter’s closet, which abuts our bedroom. Could my daughter possibly be up at 3:00 a.m. cleaning out her closet? I quietly opened the door to her room, turned up the light enough to see that she was in bed, sound asleep, but the noise was definitely coming from her closet. I sneaked over to the closet and swung it open – the light was on, but nobody was in there. Then the noise started up again and I looked down to see that my son’s hamster, Dixie was running around the closet in her play ball. She would run till she hit a wall – bump! Then she’d turn and run the other way. I have no idea why she was in the play ball, locked in the closet at 3:00 a.m. and, when questioned, this morning, no one has any knowledge of why or how she got there -- yea, right…

A friend with three small children recently told me that her husband and daughter really want to get a puppy. Even though I love my pets and can’t imagine not having at least some pets in the house (though we don’t really need as many as we have), I say to her, “No! Not now! Kids already provide enough poop, barf and nighttime noises!”

ESP of the Heart

2010-03-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday someone very special to me was going through a very emotionally painful experience – and I grieved and cried throughout the day. I was not only sad because of the cause of her pain, but I was also feeling her pain. I don’t mean to diminish what she was going through by saying that I, too, was feeling it, but I have no doubt that my feelings yesterday were somehow mirroring hers, even though they might not have been at the same level of intensity. This, I know, is empathy -- the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another (dictionary.com). I’m not sure about the “intellectual” part – I’ve always thought of empathy as being ESP of the Heart and I’ve known, since I was a little girl, that it is strong in me.

I learned early that I cannot watch, read or hear about events that are painful, sad, demeaning – basically anything negative – without having my heart twist and turn with the horrible emotions I attributed to the victims of the painful, sad or demeaning experience. I soon realized that not everyone “felt” with the same level of intensity. Somewhere along the line I learned the word “empathy” and I clearly remember thinking, Yes, that’s me! Over the years I’ve come to believe that somehow I receive information – emotional information – in a way most people don’t. I think this is, perhaps, some sort of “gift”. As I write this, I’m thinking that some people will read it and say, “Wow! Debbie’s a little woo-hoo,” or “Debbie’s a little crazy.” I don’t think I’m crazy, though; although, isn’t that what all crazy people think? Anyway, I’ve given this a lot of thought over the years and I do believe that we all have ways of communicating that we simply don’t yet understand. Perhaps someday scientists will discover that there is, in fact, a mental radio signal that we all send out and that some of us are simply equipped with more sensitive signal-receivers. In the meantime, I will continue, as I have my entire life, to avoid that which causes me to feel undue discomfort. The problem is, there are times in life, like yesterday, when I cannot avoid the discomfort because it is happening to someone dear to me – it’s not a movie, book or news report. At those times I think of this “gift” of ESP of the Heart and I think…..This sucks!

Beach Therapy

2010-03-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

As a kid I loved the beach – not just any beach, but our beach, the Long Beach Peninsula in Washington. My parents were both born and raised in that area so we spent many weekends there visiting relatives while I was growing up and then, the summer before I entered high school, my parents moved us back there so that I could attend the small local high school while they prepared for retirement. In many ways, the beach itself had a terrific impact on helping me negotiate my high school years. I walked on the beach when I needed to think; I sat on a piece of driftwood and wrote when I needed to be creative and I screamed and cried into the ever-present wind when I was upset. After leaving the peninsula for college, we went back mainly to visit family, but our trips became less and less frequent. Over the years our tastes turned more toward the dry warmth of Central Oregon’s high desert rather than the damp cold of Washington’s Coast. After my mother-in-law’s death last year, my husband really didn’t want to go back to the Peninsula – too many memories, too much dampness, too much rot.

Last week I had some business that I needed to take care of in Long Beach so I asked my husband if he’d please accompany me there for the day. The weather that day turned out to be unseasonably warm and sunny for mid-March. We had a lovely drive down, quickly took care of the business and then headed out to find someplace to have lunch. We settled on an inn that has been there for more than one hundred years. The restaurant was closed for refurbishing, but the pub was open and we were the first to venture out onto their small garden deck. We ended up relishing a lovely lunch while sitting in the sunshine, sipping beer and wine and talking – for two hours! When we finally left we headed to the beach for a little walk that lasted for 1-1/2 hours!

The two hour lunch had been wonderful, but the walk on the beach was just what I needed. As we walked, hand-in-hand, me carrying my shoes, we talked, laughed, reminisced and I remembered why I love the beach. As I look out to the horizon, I gain perspective as I realize the immensity of the earth. As I watch the waves roll in, roll in, roll in – never stopping, I feel the possibilities of all that can be done. As the wind blows and the ocean roars, my worries are carried away and I feel peace. A simple walk that gives me perspective, helps me see the possibilities and brings me peace – beach therapy!

Dammed

2010-03-17T08:51:00.000-07:00

I haven’t been able to write lately because my mind feels like it has been dammed. Normally I have topics rolling around in my brain, taking shape and developing into complete thoughts and sentences. Lately, however, I have felt that I’ve had too much on my plate and the stress has created a log jam that has dammed the river of my thoughts.

I really don’t like writing these kinds of entries because it just comes across as sounding whiney and I’d much rather sound upbeat and positive, but the fact is, life isn’t always upbeat and positive. I strongly believe that we can all determine how we react to life’s events and I usually choose to react in a positive manner. However, I’ve had many talks with myself lately about my negative reaction to the stressors in my life and I’m simply not listening. I’m not yet ready to put on a happy face and move forward. So, I hope that by writing this out, I’ll at least loosen the dam and allow my thoughts to flow to friendlier, warmer waters – perhaps my attitude will follow close behind.

Needed and Needy

2010-02-25T08:21:00.000-08:00

As a mom and a wife, heck, as a woman, I’m used to being needed. Whether it’s my kids, my husband, or my volunteer commitments, I definitely feel needed and, frankly, I like being needed. I like that my husband looks to me as his confidant. I like that my family needs me for tasks and support, great and small. I like that they look to me to “keep the ship running”. However, sometimes I am needy. Sometimes my positive outlook slips into the “hole without joy”. Sometimes, my body doesn’t function perfectly and I feel sick or achy. Sometimes I need the figurative hug of comfort. My husband and my children are usually pretty good about appreciating me and making sure I am taken care of when I need that, but, lately, there’s just too much neediness. Kids with major bumps and bruises (one requiring surgery), other “growing up kid stuff” that needs to be dealt with, a husband with some major stressors, paperwork and tax preparation that seem never ending – no lack of feeling needed for me. But during this “needed” time, I’m also feeling quite “needy”. My body has aches and pains that seem to just keep springing up. The level of stress I’m feeling, from being so needed, has reached an all-time high. Stress keeps me up at night, no doubt adds to the aches and pains, and then the downward spiral begins. If my mom were still living, I’d tell her I need her to come take care of me for a few days. This clash between being needed and needy is tough and I know I’m not alone. I can think of at least half a dozen friends who, I have no doubt, are caught in this same place with me. It would certainly be easier if we could all just separate the times we’re needed from the times when we’re feeling truly needy and not have the two happen at the same time, but life doesn't let us make those choices. So, what do we do? We go on. We do what we have to do: we take care of our families, we complete our work and chores and we make it through the day by always looking for that little smile, hug or bit of support that assuages some of our own neediness.

Post-Script: After I posted this I realized that I should have ended with, "What do I need today? I need to spend the day in bed...and I'm going to!"

My Parents' Legacy

2010-02-19T08:03:00.000-08:00

I had wonderful parents who were loving, giving, honest and hardworking. I know that much of who I am today is because of my parents. Recently I have discovered another area in which my parents left me a legacy: my feet! Each of my parents has claimed a foot. In the last couple of years I have developed a bunion on my right foot. My dad had bunions so bad that for the last several years of his life he wore Birkenstocks every day, everywhere and, even then, he had to cut a piece out of the side of the cork footbed in order to accommodate his bunions. I have also had on-going problems with an in-grown toenail on my left foot. My mom had such bad problems with in-grown toenails that she had had the toenail cut way back on both sides of her big toes. As a little girl I always thought her toes looked so funny – big wide toes with little skinny toenails.

I am so grateful to have had parents who set a good example and who fostered strong morals in me, but I’d be completely happy to not share in their podiatric problems. Too bad we don’t get to pick and choose what legacy we receive.

The Perfect Gift, Part 2

2010-02-14T07:55:00.000-08:00

As my husband and I were talking about my last post, The Perfect Gift, he pointed out that I had missed one of the “gifts” we give each other – the gift of shared dreams. As I’d mentioned, I had heard early on in our married life of older couples who didn’t give each other gifts and I had been determined not to let our relationship get so boring that we wouldn’t give each other gifts. I said that I now realize that the gifts we give each other of commitment to our relationship, friendship and accumulated memories were much more important that any physical item we could give. With my husband’s addition of share dreams to this list, I realized that it is those dreams that keep our relationship from becoming boring. So, on Valentine’s Day, to my lovely husband I give the gifts of commitment, friendship, memories and dreams.

P.S. And to my friend with three small children, I wish for you the gift of relaxing sleep.

The Perfect Gift

2010-02-12T09:41:00.000-08:00

I’ve always loved giving gifts; they are an expression of my feelings toward and my desire to please those I love. Over the years my husband and I have each searched and searched for just the right gift to give the other for any gift giving occasion. I remember, in the early years of our marriage, hearing of older long-married couples who didn’t give gifts to each other and I remember thinking, I will never let our marriage get dull enough that we don’t even want to give the other a gift. Well, here we are, an older long-married couple and, frankly, I don’t give a hoot about gifts. In fact, for the last few years, I’ve asked my family not to get me gifts for Mother’s Day and my birthday (I still like to have a few things under the Christmas tree, though), but I’d much rather receive kind words or a family activity. This weekend is Valentine’s Day and, while I’d love to present my husband with a gift that truly expresses the love, devotion and gratitude I feel toward him, the reality is that no physical item can do that and anything less seems trivial. The real gifts are the on-going commitment to our relationship, the friendship we share, the history we’ve accumulated. Those are the perfect, lasting, most-meaningful gifts in a relationship. Of course, if my husband wants to visit the jewelry store…(just kidding)

Who's Off Base?

2010-02-01T08:47:00.000-08:00

My two older daughters play high school basketball. After the games were over Friday evening, the younger of the two told me that the boys in the student section of the bleachers (this was an away game) were awful and that they were yelling at her, calling out her name and referring to her as Mulan and Pocahontas. My daughter is Asian (S. Korean), but she is neither Chinese nor Native American. She was obviously upset by their behavior and name-calling and my mommy-feathers were immediately ruffled. I told her that if people ever did things like that in the future, she needed to let me or her coach know immediately, not at the end of the game when everyone was gone.

Later, on the way home, my oldest daughter said something about the rude remarks made by the boys on the bleachers and I said, “Yes, your sister has already told me that they were yelling inappropriate things and referring to her as Mulan and Pocahontas.” Much to my surprise, my oldest daughter (who is very clear and proud of her Korean heritage) said, “Oh, well at least that’s sweet – Mulan and Pocahontas are both princesses.” I was shocked! To me, these comments were racially motivated and were intended to single my daughter out from the other girls on the team. Yet my oldest daughter obviously didn’t see them as racially inappropriate comments, even though she is very aware of racial issues, having grown up in a predominately white community. I began to wonder which of us was off-base… Were these inappropriate racial comments or was I just being extra-sensitive about a topic that can, with our transracial family, be an issue with which we do, occasionally, have to deal? I’ve thought about this a lot over the last two days and I think that we were both right. These were racial comments, they were inappropriate and they did disturb my middle daughter. However, I think my oldest daughter’s attitude was so wonderfully positive and appropriate –there’s sometimes nothing you can do about the idiots in the world who don’t know better than to single people out based on racial attributes – and I’m glad that my oldest daughter could look at them and, instead of feeling anger, hurt or hatred, turn their comments around and call her sister a princess – which she is!

Living in Whoville

2010-01-29T10:04:00.000-08:00

Whoville, the Dr. Seuss creation where all the little Whos are struggling to be heard, struggling to just let others know they exist. As a woman married to a successful man, I sometimes feel like I live in Whoville. This isn’t the fault of my husband, of course; it’s the fault of individuals in our society – and often they are women, too – who fail to look beyond Horton the elephant to see that there are also Whos. This happened again yesterday. I received an email from the UofO Duck Athletic Fund regarding our recent deposit for seats in the new Matthew Knight Arena. Our Duck Athletic Fund account is in both of our names (though that took years to happen since they initially set-up the account in only my husband’s name, even though everything sent in to them contained both our names), the seating application form had been filled out by me, I had signed the check and, guess what – I’m a UofO alumnus, too! Yet, this woman in the DAF office sends an email expressing gratitude for the deposit, but the email is addressed only to my husband. This wasn't a form email that just picked up the first name on the account; it was a personal email – addressed only to my husband, but in reference to our joint account.

I had a previous professional life and, I will admit, when I first quit my job to stay home, it took awhile to become comfortable with my new identity. I often wanted to introduce myself to people saying, “Hi, I’m Debbie. I used to have a professional position.” In the years since I’ve come to appreciate my contribution to both our family and society and I no longer struggle with the need to justify myself. However, when someone so inconsiderately overlooks my handwriting, my signature, indeed even my name, to focus on just my husband, I revert to feeling like just a little Who in Whoville.

P.S. I sent this woman back a stinging note about this subject – I don’t think she’ll overlook a Who again.

A Cat Under the House

2010-01-18T08:48:00.000-08:00

A friend told me a story with a tag line that has quickly become a “saying” in our home. This friend let her cat out for the day recently, but the cat did not come home in the evening. She called for the cat; her husband called for the cat; the kids called for the cat. They finally gave up and everyone in the house went to bed except for my friend who sat up in her office. Late in the night my friend heard the cat meowing and went outside to investigate. She found the cat (a large, roly-poly cat) stuck in a vent opening while trying to get out from under the house’s crawlspace. Afraid of hurting the kitty, my friend went to get her husband who was sound asleep. “Honey, the cat is stuck in the vent opening of the crawl space. Will you come get it out?” Her husband sleepily asked if she seriously expected him to get out of bed to rescue a fat cat that got itself stuck under the house. She, of course, responded that she did expect him to do that – he bundled up and headed for the large crawl space opening on the opposite end of the house, flashlight in hand. The light and sounds underneath the house spooked the cat enough to encourage him to get himself unstuck and out of the vent opening without harm.

Some of the women listening to this story were amazed that the husband had actually gotten up to rescue the cat. I wasn’t amazed; I know my husband would do the same thing. He might look at me funny, but he’d get up and do it. Little chores like this are, in my opinion, one of the things that separate a good husband from a great husband. Again, this is my opinion, but I believe that when a man does a chore, even one he thinks is silly, because his family asks it of him, he is showing his adoration for his family.

Friday night coming back late from an “away” girls’ basketball game, two of the players found their cars had been “pranked” – one had the battery removed, one had been put up on blocks. There was one dad in the group at the parking lot (the dad of one of the girls with a “pranked” car) and, even though it was late and the rain was pouring down, he got out, jacked up the one car to remove the blocks and put the battery back into the other. As I watched him (I had my car turned so that my headlights were illuminating the work areas), I thought, “This is a cat under the house.”

I’ve often thought that a man is sexiest when he is doing something for his family. Show me a dad comforting a crying child, changing a diaper, coaching a sports team –that, to me, is a sexy man! Now, in addition to those family-oriented visions, we’ve also added the vision of the man who does what’s needed when there’s a cat under the house. A man who may roll his eyes at his wife’s request, but who gets up and does what’s needed regardless of what type of situation it is that can be called “a cat under the house”.

P.S. Lest you think that this is a one-way path, stay tuned for the next blog that will flip the “doing” in the other direction.

OMG - It Happened!

2010-01-14T11:14:00.000-08:00

In this process of aging there are markers and events that remind us that time is moving along: the first gray hair or wrinkle, children reaching milestones, parents with declining health – some are serious, some are just vain, but they all scream out, “You’re getting older!” I’ve come to grips with the fact that I am getting older (not old, just older) and I’ve welcomed many of the signs of aging: celebrating my 50th birthday almost two years ago, my oldest child getting married this past summer – gray hair? Hah! I conquered that concern years ago (with the help of my hair color guru, Joelle). But last night an event happened that really stopped me in my aging tracks! Last night I gathered with my group of neighborhood women friends for our monthly Pokeno game. Pokeno is similar to BINGO – everyone gets a Pokeno card which is filled much the same as a BINGO card except that instead of numbers, the Pokeno card has pictures of playing cards in each square and a deck of cards is used instead of the typical BINGO balls. During the second game last night, as the woman sitting next to me was “calling” the cards, I suddenly realized that my brain could not connect the card she was calling with the pictures of the cards on my Pokeno card. I panicked a bit as she called out and showed us three different cards and I found that I could not make sense of those cards in relation to my Pokeno card. Finally, I said out loud, “Well, that’s just weird!” and I went on to explain what was happening. The friend on my other side said, half-jokingly, “Maybe you are having a stroke or maybe you have a brain tumor.” Frankly, that’s sort of what I was worrying about myself, but as she spoke I realized that was not the case. The truth was, I COULD NOT SEE THE DETAILS ON MY POKENO CARD BECAUSE I NEEDED TO USE MY READING GLASSES! I’ve used reading glasses for computer work and for reading books, menus, etc. for several years; I have glasses lying around all over my house (in fact, twice I’ve had a little boy whisper to me, “Debbie, someone left their glasses on the back of the toilet” – yea, we know who those belong to…), but the Pokeno card is not small, there is no small print and, up until last night, I have not needed my glasses to see my card. Last night my brain said, “Enough!” It refused to make the effort to discern the shapes, numbers and letters on my Pokeno card from the blurred visual message that was being sent to it. Last night I had to retrieve my reading glasses from my purse and do the Granny-glasses head tilt where I looked at my card through the glasses, but then had to tilt my head down to look over the top of the glasses whenever I looked at someone across the table. This may seem vain, but this was an aging event that I have dreaded, that I have denied was coming and that I’m still not sure I can accept. Maybe my eyes were just tired, maybe the lighting wasn’t good…maybe I’m just getting old(er)!

Holding On To The Upward Spiral

2010-01-11T09:16:00.000-08:00

I love the look of our home once we have all our Christmas decorations up – the house feels so rich and festive! I revel in the beauty and light throughout the holiday season; however, once the season is over, I’m so happy to have the house back to normal. This weekend we put away the last of the holiday decorations and our home feels new, clean and refreshed again. January is a time for making resolutions and starting over; it feels as if my home experiences the same renewal. When the house is clean and organized, I feel more organized and in control myself. I’ve been lighting candles and turning on lamps throughout the house during the darker hours of the day; I’ve been cooking dinners for my family; and I’ve felt peaceful even amidst our hectic schedules. Nothing external in my life has changed during the last few weeks – same work, same schedules, same stressors, but I have made an internal shift that has created a feeling of peace within me. I feel better internally, which creates a more organized living environment, which makes me feel even better, which makes me want to continue with the plan that is keeping the house nice and my mind organized – it’s a nice upward spiral – now the trick is just to figure out how to hold on!

I'm a DD; You're a DD; We're all DDs

2010-01-03T07:31:00.000-08:00

I have just spent four of the last five days at Disneyland with my husband and the “older” half of our family. When we enter Disneyland the first day, we always stop to read the plaque above the entrance gates: "Here you leave the world of today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow and fantasy." Then we hustle under the gate and come out in a new world. As we went through the gate this trip, I was messing around with my 20-year-old son and we sort of put our hands out to the side like we were flying through the gate. We were laughing and, as we reached the other side, my son said, “Next time you need to twirl as you go through.” My husband laughed at me and said, “You’re such a dork! You’re a Disney Dork!” I took that as a compliment.

Throughout the four days, my husband and the kids teased me about being a Disney Dork. They laughed at me when I told the cast member on the Dumbo ride about my youngest daughter’s concerns that I would not have anyone to ride with (and then proceeded to ride Dumbo with my arm to the side as if I were embracing a child beside me). They laughed as I conversed with little kids throughout the park (my son said that I’m not allowed to ever again go to Disneyland without my own small children because it’s not right that I keep “borrowing” other people’s children – I didn’t actually “borrow” them, that could be construed the wrong way, I was just engaging them). They laughed at me when I cried trying to say hello to Walt and Mickey (the statues); when I cried at the castle-lighting ceremony; when I cried coming out of Small World (decorated for Christmas with a Peace on Earth theme). Well, I guess my response to this teasing is that I’m proud to be a Disney Dork (I’m thinking of getting a t-shirt that says so) and, to my family, y’all should look in the mirror when you say, “You’re a Disney Dork!” There was my daughter-in-law in the Winnie-the-Pooh ride, bopping up and down in her seat in time to the Winnie-the-Pooh music, there were our grown-up “boys” playing with bubble-guns all day under the guise of making other people happy with their bubbles. And there was my husband who texted me at the end of the day yesterday saying that, instead of heading out of the park with the rest of the group, I should turn back down Main Street and join him at W&M (the Walt and Mickey statue) so that we could say a proper goodbye before leaving. Yes, I’m a Disney Dork, but I’m not alone. If our family ever starts our own rock band I have the perfect band name: Debbie & the Disney Dorks.

A Beautiful Year?

2010-01-02T06:36:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting in a hotel room watching the sun rise over L.A. (we’re here to watch the University of Oregon Ducks play in the Rose Bowl today) and I wonder if this beautiful sunrise can be an omen of a beautiful year.

Frankly, I’m feeling a little whiney about last year. I know it was a tough year for a lot of people, my family included. I feel whiney because I usually believe that we make our own happiness and I have trouble feeling happiness about the last year (even though there were many happy events and occasions) – the overriding feeling in my heart is one of burden and feeling beat down. So, I’m sitting here watching this beautiful sunrise and giving myself a pep talk about sloughing off the weight of last year and moving into this new year with an open heart – reinstilling my belief that we do make our own happiness. Things happened last year that were out of my control but, like a snake, I can shed that skin of doom and let a bright new outlook shine and New Year’s Day is a great time to start anew. 2010, I’m ready for you!

Post-script: I wrote this yesterday, but was unable to get it posted to the internet (don't even get me started on hotel internet connections and costs). Also, we now know that the Ducks did NOT perform well in the Rose Bowl, but I want to state that, even so, I love my Ducks! As I look forward to 2010, I'll also be looking forward to the 2010 Oregon Football Season!

Chicka-Chicka-Boom-Boom

2009-12-13T07:13:00.000-08:00

I love reading. In fact, reading is one of the distractions that gets in the way of my writing. When I have a free moment, I’m often torn between the need to write – creating the raw product, and my love of reading – consuming the finished product. As a little girl, I loved trips to the library. I loved poring through the stacks of books, always looking for that perfect treasure. As an adult, I have come to love bookstores as well. I love the abundance of books and, just as with a Starbucks coffee shop (see Pure Luxury), I love that most bookstores have places for people to sit and relax with their books. I love that other people in a bookstore are also readers; even if we don’t speak, there’s a shared camaraderie. But most of all, I love the possibilities – every aisle, every topic invites me to learn, to try, to discover.

Yesterday, my husband and I visited the granddaddy of bookstores – Powell’s City of Books in downtown Portland. I’m not normally a fan of Powell’s because it overwhelms me; it is literary sensory overload. However, we were in the neighborhood and there were books we needed, so in we went. We were looking for a couple of children’s books, so we checked out the directory and headed for the Rose Room. We quickly found the first book and began looking for the second – a book I’d heard about but I’d forgotten the title. We looked in the sections that we thought made sense, but we didn’t find what we were looking for. I’m not a fan of asking for help, so I sent my husband in search of a bookseller and I began to wander the stacks. I came out in a children’s reading area full of parents reading to their small children. Around the area, books were displayed upright on shelves. I scanned the titles, recognizing many from my years of reading to my own small children (who are no longer small) and then, there it was, my favorite book to read to my children – Chicka-Chicka-Boom-Boom. I was already feeling nostalgic after seeing the parents and children snuggled up together reading, but seeing this book on display, just about put me over the edge. I immediately retreated to find my husband, while trying to keep the welled-up tears from spilling down my cheeks. My husband was busy talking with two booksellers, trying to locate the second book, the one without a title. He wasn’t having any luck and had me go over with them the information I knew about the book. They were coming up blank, when one of the booksellers walked away and came back with a book – the book we were looking for! She said she had an idea of where to look and had gone to browse through that section only to get there and see the book sticking out from the others – the magic of a bookstore! That magic was all it took for the tears to spill over. I’m a sucker for nostalgia; add magic to it and I’m gone!

We headed toward the cashiers’ area, me with tears running down my cheeks and my husband looking at me with a look that questioned whether he’d married a treasure or a dork, when I realized that I was succumbing to the other magic of a bookstore – the magic of possibilities. I’d pointed out a vegetarian cookbook I’d like to have and then there was the quilting section – maybe I could learn to quilt. Or gardening – wouldn’t it be great to have our own garden? There’s a book for every topic and they all dance around my head inviting me to look inside, to consider the possibilities. I love the idea of having possibilities, of knowing that there’s more to learn about and discover, but I also know that I have to be somewhat realistic about what I have time for and what innate abilities I bring to the table (or the book), so as happens so often when I visit a bookstore, I had to force myself to head toward the cashier. I had to put on mental blinders so that I could get through the remaining stacks without stopping to browse and consider.

Once outside, I breathed a sigh of relief and contentment – relief that we’d made it out with only a half dozen books, when we went in to get just two and contentment because I’d experienced nostalgia, the excitement of discovery and magic, all by walking through a bookstore. I think I’ll go home and look through our bookshelves. When I find what I’m looking for, I’ll curl up in one of my old lady chairs and I’ll read Chicka-Chicka-Boom-Boom just for me.

Sing Loud, Sing Proud

2009-12-05T07:11:00.000-08:00

I was raised to feel pride in our country. My parents came from a generation that applauded patriotism and, as a young man, my dad had a taste of another country that did not have the privileges, justices and rights that ours has. I learned early to put my hand over my heart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I’ve known the words to the Star Spangled Banner for as long as I can remember. As a child, we said the Pledge of Allegiance every day in school. I still enjoy being in a classroom first thing in the morning in order to have the opportunity to put my hand over my heart and say, “I pledge allegiance to the flag…” There was a time, too, when it was common to sing the Star Spangled Banner; now, usually, we just listen to it. We listen to a recording star or wanna-be recording star or just some local talent sing the National Anthem while we listen and then hoot-n-holler at the appropriate place towards the end of the song. I like to go to sporting events so, over the years, I’ve heard the National Anthem sung in a variety of ways and I guess I’m a purist because I really don’t like all the fancy variations so many singers seem to think necessary. One of my favorite versions was sung by an opera star in town for a performance. His rendition was pure talent, not hoopla, and he sang as if he meant the words. When he finished, there seemed to be a moment of silence as we all took in what we had just heard. However, throughout the years, my all-time favorite version of the National Anthem is that heard at each home game of University of Oregon football. At Autzen Stadium, we don’t listen to the Star Spangled Banner, we sing it! The band plays the music (and they do it nicely enough that we’re able to sing along) and the crowd is invited to sing the words. The singing at the first game after 9/11 was one of the most moving experiences of that time period – we put our hearts together and truly sang loud and proud. While the level of participation varies from week-to-week, there are still many of us who obviously relish the opportunity to actually sing our National Anthem rather than just listen to it. Pete Seeger said, “When you sing, you feel a kind of strength; you think, I’m not alone, there’s a whole batch of us who feel this way.”

I don’t sing well (as my section neighbors at Autzen would surely tell you), but I sing. I sing with passion, I sing with gratitude and I sing with pleasure. In this time when we’re trying to live more simply, I wish we could get rid of the fancy singers and their often-butchered versions of the Star Spangled Banner. I wish we could move back to simply singing it ourselves; to feeling the strength that comes from singing together. I wish we all had the opportunity, on a regular basis, to remember our patriotism and to stand up and sing loud and proud.

Pure Luxury

2009-12-02T06:23:00.000-08:00

My husband and I and several other family members ran in last week’s Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning. It’s a grueling 4 mile run – actually, the first two miles aren’t grueling, they’re downhill; it’s the last two miles, when you turn around and run back up the hill, that are tough. As is common, the morning of the run was cold and wet. I said to my husband that, if I were Oprah, I’d have personal assistants waiting for me back at the car with hot Starbucks coffee – now that would be luxury! We’re not Oprah, so we had to drive to a Starbucks to get our warm caffeine fix, but that was okay; having coffee delivered to my car isn’t really within the realm of my definition of luxury. However, there are a couple of activities that, to me, reek of luxury and, strangely, coffee is often involved.

I am a bit of a coffee addict and I run through Starbucks on a regular basis. Sometimes run through means drive through, but I also get out of the car and go inside regularly. When I do go inside, I’m always envious of the folks sitting in the lovely overstuffed chairs chatting with a friend, reading a book or working on a laptop. I look at those people and I think, That looks so wonderful! How do they find the time to just sit and relax like that? Well, there have been a few times when I have had the opportunity to sit at a Starbucks, slowly drink my coffee, chat with a friend and enjoy the atmosphere and that really does feel like luxury to me.

Another luxurious activity for me is getting up early, when the house is quiet, to either read or write (with my coffee, of course). Right now, that’s what I’m doing and the feeling is made even more luxurious by the addition of our Christmas decorations and the twinkling lights on our tree. Sitting here in the quiet, with my coffee and my laptop, feels almost decadent.

I’ve realized that my definition of luxury has nothing to do with the monetary cost of the activity, the real luxury is having the time –the time to stop in Starbucks and sit down rather than run in and run out; the time to sit in my family room and enjoy the quiet and beauty of our Christmas tree; the time to simply stop. Right now, I’m creating my luxury by taking the time. I have rearranged my day so that I can luxuriate in this atmosphere in the only time it is available. It will probably mean that I get less done today, but that’s okay; I’ll have a warm memory of a little luxury to start my day.

Potato Potahto, Tomato Tomahto

2009-11-26T05:05:00.000-08:00

When I think of the Thanksgiving holiday and its origin, I think of the Pilgrims and their harvest celebration. I’ve always sort of thought as the holiday as a reminder to think about the Pilgrims, their hardships and all they did to forge a life in a harsh wilderness. In today’s society, Thanksgiving has become many things: a holiday to gorge oneself with food, a holiday to watch football, a holiday that marks the beginning of the holiday season (and its shopping) – basically it’s a holiday, a day off from work and school. At our house, we always spend a few minutes before our meal going around the table and each saying what we are thankful for, but the overall idea of thankfulness has, I believe, taken a backseat to the Pilgrim images and today’s eating/football/shopping mentality. Even when I think about the reason for the holiday, I again go back to remembering the Pilgrims. Yesterday, my friend Rose sent an email saying, “We are certainly lucky to live in a country that dedicates a holiday every year solely to being thankful for all that we have and enjoy.” No reference to Pilgrims, food or football; just thankfulness (aka gratitude). So, today I am going to celebrate Gratitude Day. We’ll still do our Thanksgiving Day traditions: early morning Turkey Trot, hot croissants for breakfast afterwards, maybe some football on TV, traditional turkey dinner this evening and a mention before dinner of what we are each thankful for – and maybe this is just a matter of semantics: thanksgiving vs. gratitude, but the words evoke different emotions for me. So, today I’m not going to think in terms of Thanksgiving Day; I’m going to think in terms of Gratitude Day. I am going to go through the day truly thinking about all that I have to be grateful for. If you are here at my house, you probably won’t even know that I’m having my own special experience – except, perhaps, for the goofy little grin I’ll be wearing on my face. Happy Gratitude Day!

Midnight at the Oasis?

2009-11-24T01:26:00.000-08:00

For the second night in a row, I rolled over, looked at the clock numbers projected on the ceiling and, AARRGH, it’s the middle of the night. Whenever I wake-up in the middle of the night with the feeling that it must be morning, only to find that it’s 1:00 a.m., 2:00 a.m. or, as was the case tonight, 12:15 a.m., I feel a helpless, irritated sigh rise within me. Sometimes I wake-up, look at the clock, roll over and go back to sleep; those times I’m not really awake – and I know it. Other times, like last night and tonight, I know as soon as I feel consciousness that I am really awake. I’ve tried simply staying in bed – that rarely works; it usually becomes a rock-n-roll tussle with the sheets. I’ve tried reading in bed – that disturbs my husband who rarely struggles with middle of the night consciousness. I found sleeping pills to be quite helpful – and gained 20 pounds while using them. I found a CD called zMusic that helped lull me back to sleep, but – husband, again. So, I usually just get up. I try not to do anything overly exerting or exciting; the idea is, after all, to try to get to the point of sleepiness again. I usually make myself a cup of decaf tea and then I either read or play computer games (Freecell is my favorite). Tonight, I had the song Midnight at the Oasis running through my head. Maybe I need to look at my house as an oasis to be enjoyed in the middle of the night. I looked up the lyrics – something about camels, sheiks and a cactus pointing the way – that starts to sound like a Salvadore Dali painting and isn’t what I need to get myself back to sleep. I’d blame this on the “M” word, but this has been a lifelong affliction for me; I’ve prowled the house while everyone else slept for as long as I can remember.

Actually, I sort of enjoy the quiet in the middle of the night. Even though I’d rather be snuggled into bed, fast asleep, I feel a sort of peacefulness at this hour. Maybe this is just my normal rhythm and the only reason it’s a problem is because the alarm clock that goes off too early when I’ve spent a couple of my sleeping hours not actually sleeping. I guess the day will come when it won’t be necessary to set an alarm clock, when it won’t really matter that I’ve been up in the middle of the night. Maybe that’s one of the ways that aging will feel comfortable to me; I’ll be able to accommodate my own rhythms rather than fighting them. Maybe I’ll just enjoy this time right now and turn the alarm clock off in the morning. Maybe this really is an oasis in my busy day.

Fake It 'Til You Feel It!

2009-11-21T06:37:00.000-08:00

I’m not the originator of that phrase, but it certainly has been my mantra for the last two weeks. This fall has been amongst the most stressful times in my life; two weeks ago I found myself ground down to the point where I wasn’t feeling joy – and that’s not like me! I had begun my holiday preparations (I like to be organized so that I can enjoy the holiday season), but I was just moving through the process; I wasn’t feeling the spirit of the season. That’s when I decided to just fake it ‘til I felt it. I grabbed my red and green reusable shopping bags and I headed to the mall with a fake smile on my face. At home, I squeezed out some fake creative juices and began working on our Christmas cards. I planned and cooked dinners (real food, not fake) so that our family could sit down together in the evening and I faked it ‘til I felt it!

The stress isn’t gone and I have had moments, hours, half-days of slumping back into the hole without joy, but then I repeat my mantra (usually in my head so that people don’t look at me funny, but if I am with my husband I say it aloud because he is working on faking it, too) and I must say that faking joy feels better than no joy and the more I fake it, the more I feel it.

Early Morning Wake-up Call

2009-10-24T08:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve taken a hiatus from writing; actually, I haven’t taken the hiatus, my brain just turned off and a hiatus happened. As in the past, this break in my writing indicates stress, sickness and a not-up-to-par frame of mind. I’ve been keeping a list of topics I want to write about, but the right side of my brain has been MIA – there haven’t been any creative juices flowing.

I woke up early this morning hoping that once I’d made the coffee, planted myself in my old lady chairs (click here to see my blog about my chairs) and turned on my laptop, I’d be able to force the reticent right side of my brain into action. Then, as I was making the coffee, my daughter’s dog started barking so I went to retrieve him from her room (if we leave him in there once he is awake, he uses the bedpost as his potty spot). That meant that I also had to take him outside to do his duty, even before finishing the coffee preparations – not exactly as I had planned. I put his leash on and out the front door we went into the dark morning. We had barely stepped off the front porch when I heard the hoot of an owl from the trees to my left and then, seconds later, I heard another hoot coming from nearby on the opposite side, near the street. Unlike the area to my left, the street side does not have any large trees to welcome an owl. So, as soon as Thurman (my daughter’s dog is named after Thurman Munson, the Yankee catcher and Team Captain who died in a plane crash in 1979; he was my husband’s favorite player – that’s one way to get Daddy to accept your dog) had finished his business, we walked toward the end of driveway. I was hoping to hear the owl again so that I could figure out where he was hiding. Just as we reached the corner of our house, there came another hoot. I looked up and perched on the peak of our roof, silhouetted against the night sky, was a huge owl! He turned his head and cocked it downward to get a look at me, he hooted several more times while I stood there mesmerized. I thought about trying to hoot back at him in the hopes of a conversation (I’ve been “talking” to squirrels since I was a little girl), but I was afraid that my owl-speak was not very accomplished. So, I just stood and watched this rooftop visitor, feeling privileged to have stumbled upon this early morning moment. And then, without warning, the owl puffed up his body, spread his wings and flew off toward the trees; then, just as quickly and quietly as he had flown away, my right brain woke up.

Once Upon A Time: A Real Life Fairy Tale

2009-10-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in the city of Portland, there was a little girl named Sue who wanted to grow up to be a Royal Rosarian. All of her friends wanted to be Rose Festival Princesses, but Sue wanted to be a Royal Rosarian – and the Rosarians didn’t even allow women into their ranks at that time. Flash forward a couple of decades and, in the late 80’s, the Royal Rosarians changed their charter to allow women as members. Flash forward another decade and Sue, now all grown-up, becomes a member of the Royal Rosarians – seemingly a dream come true. But wait, the beauty of dreams is that they can be expanded and there is more to this story.

The Royal Rosarians are a civic organization founded in 1912. By mayoral proclamation, they are the official greeters and ambassadors for the city of Portland. Most Portlanders recognize them as the folks in the white suits who march alongside the bands and floats in the Rose Festival’s Grand Floral Parade. While they are, perhaps, most noticeable in that role, their activities actually run throughout the year and include not only greeting visiting dignitaries, but also taking Portland’s message of goodwill to cities and communities throughout the region and, in fact, around the world. The Royal Rosarians also provide other civic services – a few years ago they helped sponsor the Portland High School Band that marched in the Grand Floral Parade when the Portland area high schools had to eliminate their music programs because of budget cuts; last year they helped to provide over a thousand area school children with backpacks and school supplies to help these children have a good start to their school year. Royal Rosarians each foot the bill for their travel and other organizational expenses; this is an organization filled with pride, honor and civic responsibility.

Now, for the rest of Sue’s story. The Royal Rosarians are run by a council of members— some elected, some appointed; that council is lead by the Prime Minister. To become Prime Minister a person must work his or her way up through the ranks; this is not an easy position to attain. Saturday night my husband and I attended the Royal Rosarians’ Coronation Ceremony where our friend Sue was named the 2009-2010 Prime Minister for Portland’s Royal Rosarians – what was especially significant and special about this event is that Sue is the first woman to hold the position of Prime Minister. Almost 100 years after the formation of this organization and only twenty years after women were first admitted, Prime Minister Sue stood on the stage receiving the standing ovation and adoration of hundreds of friends, family and fellow Rosarians. Saturday evening, in the mythical realm of Rosaria, a fairy tale came true.

Donating

2009-09-29T09:52:00.000-07:00

"Anonymous" made a comment asking about donating. You can follow the link in the post below to the ALS donation site. My understanding is that you can continue to donate through the end of the year. Thanks!

By the way, the picture below was taken just before the walk. I'm on the right; the other two are my daughter-in-law, Jessie and pseudo-son, David. They were great sports to come out and keep me company on the walk.

ALS

2009-09-26T07:33:00.000-07:00

Last month, on August 30th, I wrote a blog titled It’s Been A Great Day! in which I mentioned that during the previous week a friend had been diagnosed with ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. That friend is the mother of the little girl that I helped with four years ago while her older sister was undergoing cancer treatments. The mother’s diagnosis now, when the girls are just turning five and eight years old, has left all who know them devastated. This week I learned of two walks in the Portland area to support ALS research and assistance: there’s a walk today in downtown Vancouver and one tomorrow in downtown Portland. I will be walking in tomorrow’s event in Portland in honor of my friend. I don’t usually use this forum in this manner, but today I’d like to invite you to share this walk with me by supporting my fund raising efforts. Walking or donating a few dollars doesn’t seem like much, but at least it’s a positive action directed at a disease that is devastating, debilitating and fatal.

One last thought that has been brought home to me by my friend’s diagnosis: Live today!

Runaway

2009-09-21T09:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my oldest daughter, a high school senior, played a song for me, Runaway by Love and Theft. A few of the lines are:

I'm gonna pack my bags and never look back
Run a parallel line with the railroad tracks
And make my getaway
I'll put the pedal to the metal as the sun goes down
Leave everybody sleeping in this sleepy town tonight
And at the break of day I'll be a runaway

I asked her if that was going to be her a year from now when she leaves for college. She smiled at me and shrugged. I know that she’s anxious to get on with her life. Senior year seems like a waste of her time, a delay in her plans. I remember that feeling myself, though I’m not sure she’d believe that I felt the same way. My husband and I listened to Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run in those days. Actually, we still listen to Bruce, but the words to Born to Run really struck hard with us in 1976:

Baby this town rips the bones from your back
It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap
We gotta get out while we’re young
`cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run

So we ran. We ran away from the town we thought would rip the bones from our back and we ran to college, to marriage, to kids, to careers; basically to adulthood, to self-discovery and self-fulfillment.

What I realize now is that it’s not the running away that’s important; it’s the running to. Running away feels negative and implies giving up and leaving behind; running to feels positive and implies goals, desires and dreams to explore. When my daughter “runs away” I hope that she will understand that she’s not just running away, she’s also running to.

It's Been A Great Day!

2009-08-30T06:43:00.000-07:00

“It’s been a great day!” I overheard this sentence last night from a woman who has been sick for years and recently underwent an organ transplant. All has not gone smoothly; she’s had infections, other issues and ambulance trips back to the hospital, but yesterday she was able to be out and about for a few hours and, at the end of that time, she exclaimed, “It’s been a great day!”

As I thought about this statement, I couldn’t help but counter it with other news we’ve recently received: a teenage suicide, a friend of a friend of a friend whose wife collapsed and died just as they were both pulling their lives together and while she was six months pregnant and a friend diagnosed this past week with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease). Each of these pieces of news left me not only with sadness and grief, but also with a renewed sense of how precious and fragile life is. This type of news reminds me, as I go through my day, that I need to slough off the little irritants, sometimes even the big irritants. I need to wake up in the morning, not whining that I didn’t get enough sleep, but happy to have woken up. I need to end the day thankful for what I have in my life – more importantly, thankful for whom I have in my life.

It’s been a great day – hearing that said by a woman who battles medical issues daily and in the context of the recent slurry of bad news, I realized that we can all learn a lesson about putting our days into perspective. Any day can be a great day!

A Costco High

2009-08-27T18:42:00.000-07:00

Ah, a trip to Costco – great deals, more things you don’t really need than you could ever imagine, bulk-shopping at its best! But Costco prices and products are not the source of my Costco “high”. I walk away from Costco feeling high because of Teddy. Teddy works the door at Costco – sometimes he’s the greeter; more often he’s the person at the exit who checks my receipt. Whichever door he is at, his presence assures me of a Costco High. Teddy is the epitome of customer service. He has a warm smile that never leaves his face; he says the nicest things, “Bless you,” “Have a wonderful day,” “You look beautiful today,” and everything he says is obviously so genuine, so sincere. One day, as I pushed my cart toward the exit, Teddy looked toward me and exclaimed, “It’s so nice to see your beautiful smile!” Did he not know that I was smiling in anticipation of being greeted by him?

Teddy’s job is not professional or technical, but he performs it with such grace and enthusiasm that he would have to be rated as a highly-skilled employee. Teddy goes through his day at Costco not only doing his job well, but also making a difference in the lives of those of us lucky enough to shop at his store. He could simply take the receipt, scan it and the shopping cart, make his little mark on the receipt, but he does so much more. In just seconds his words and smile light up the day of Costco shoppers. I don’t know Teddy’s last name and yet I find myself smiling in his presence – that makes me realize anew that I should do the same for those friends and family members whose last names I do know. If one stranger can make hundreds of people smile, think what we can all do for those we love and care for who aren’t even strangers to us!

Team Tony

2009-08-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

Friday evening I helped at a charity fundraising event for the Arc of Clark County, a non-profit organization that serves children and adults with developmental disabilities. This fundraiser was organized by neighbors of ours who are involved with the charity because of the services one of their sons receives from the agency. They actually have two sons – twins. One was born fine, but the other has several, some still undiagnosed, problems that have caused him to need multiple surgeries, hospitalizations and tests along with having delayed development and other cognitive issues. Little Tony has become the poster boy for Team Tony, a fundraising effort to help support the Arc of Clark County and one of its programs, Pride for Kids.

As I watched a video about the Arc’s services, I had a warm glow come over me as I saw pictures of families working with and loving their children, even though the efforts involved in raising their children are probably something far different from what they had planned for. This is true, too, for our neighbors. With three little children in the house (the twins have an older sister), they, naturally, have busy lives, but in addition to the normal toddler/pre-school activities, schedules and messes, they also must spend so much additional time taking care of Tony’s medical and developmental concerns. Yet, they also freely give of their time in order to give back; they have found a passion in helping the Arc.

I used to be a trust banker, but now I am a volunteer and, while I enjoyed my career, I can say without a doubt that I find much more satisfaction in the work I do now – even though it doesn’t come with a paycheck. As I watched my neighbors Friday evening, knowing what a crazy, busy life they lead, I was very impressed that they still make the effort to volunteer, still take the time to give back. When they were waiting for the twins’ birth, they did not know that their lives were about to change because of the special needs of one of the boys. They did not know that “busy” would take on a whole new meaning. They did not know that, in adversity they would find a new passion, a new way to bring joy and meaning into their lives. While I’m sure that they went home from the fundraiser with exhausted minds and bodies, I am also sure that they went home with a feeling of joy in their hearts.

I don't know what your destiny will be, but one thing I do know: The only ones among you who will be really happy are those who have sought and found how to serve. --Albert Schweitzer

Karaoke Queen

2009-08-19T09:40:00.000-07:00

I am not a performer. I have neighbors who are professional performers and I’m always in awe at their ability to stand before people and put on a show. I can stand on a stage and talk without qualms, but the idea of being physically or emotionally exuberant in a make-believe manner is beyond my comfort zone. So, when my son said that they wanted to have karaoke at their wedding reception, I sort of cringed. I don’t sing well (I received my singing ability, or lack of it, from my mom – she was asked to just mouth the words when she joined her middle school choir) and the idea of “performing” in front of people left me uneasy. However, once we arrived at the reception, I could see what fun people were having. Two of my middle son’s friends kept encouraging me to pick a song to sing with them. This was one of those times when I really wanted to do something, but I was just so uncomfortable. My courage vacillated back and forth between “No way, no how!” and “Let’s do this!” As the evening wore on I finally succumbed (helped along, no doubt, by a few Black Butte Porters); we chose Dancing Queen as our song. I love this song; I love to dance; I love being the Queen (see Six-Word Memoir and Every Queen Needs Her Crown) – it’s my song. We got up on the stage, joined by a nephew and a few other people as the song went on. We sang, we swayed, we danced, we weren’t good, but we had fun! What exhilaration! What a rush!

No doubt about it – this was outside my comfort zone. While I’m not likely to be the first to jump up and perform at any future parties...

…when I get the chance...
I am the Dancing Queen, young and sweet, only fifty-one
Dancing Queen, feel the beat from the tambourine
I can dance, I can jive, having the time of my life
See this girl, watch this scene, dig in the Dancing Queen!

Passing the Baton

2009-08-17T09:37:00.000-07:00

My oldest son has been engaged for almost two years; yesterday he became a husband and I became a mother-in-law. Recently people have been asking me if I’ve been nervous about the wedding – or excited or happy or what. I’ve certainly been happy about the wedding. My son and his fiancé, no wait, my son and his wife are wonderful together; I could not have picked a better life partner for him even if I’d posted a request for resumes and conducted interviews. And I was also excited for the wedding; it’s been in the planning stages for a long time. However, I found that I really wasn’t nervous. I expected to wake up yesterday morning feeling nervous and anxious, but I found that I didn’t really have any intense feelings. I realized that the work was done, the events for which I was responsible for were taken care of and yesterday was truly their day – all I had to do was show up and enjoy it. And enjoy it I did!

The wedding officiant was a dear friend of ours who has known our son since he was born. Just before we all prepared to walk down the aisle, this friend called us into a huddle, much likes sports teams do at the beginning of a game. What an appropriate beginning to a ceremony marking a life commitment. Isn’t that one of the ways we get through life? We gather with our family, our friends, our supporters; we cheer each other on – Rah! Rah! Rah! Let’s do this! As part of the ceremony, our friend gave the bride and groom his personal message about marriage, family, commitment and tradition. It was beautifully said and obviously came from the heart. Since we’ve all been friends for almost thirty years and since my husband and I and this friend and his wife have long term marriages, I guess it should not have been too surprising that much of his message echoed my own thoughts on marriage. One of his points, which I had also expressed to my son and his wife in a letter I wrote them the day after they became engaged, is that they should try everyday to give 100% to the other without asking for anything in return because if each person does this whole heartedly, the level of joy and satisfaction in a marriage can be tremendous.

My son and his wife wrote their own vows and, again, it was heartening to hear them echo words about marriage that my husband and I have lived and words similar to some of what we said during our own vow renewal two years ago. As I listened to the vows they made to each other, as I watched them look at each other with obvious love and adoration (we call that look “goo goo eyes”), I felt a deep satisfaction. We all wish that our children will be happy when they grow up; our son suddenly seemed very grown-up and, in marrying a wonderful woman, he was taking a huge step toward the type of happiness we have always wished for him. For almost twenty-eight years we have guided and encouraged him; we have been a good example of what happiness in marriage can be and we have hoped that he would find similar satisfaction in his own life. Yesterday, it felt like he took the baton from us, took his bride’s hand and, together, they set off on their part of life’s relay. Where their run will take them, we don’t know, but I do feel that we handed the baton off firmly and I think that it fits well in their hands. I can’t wait to watch them run with it!