I grab the hanger and ease it into the shoulder of the soft periwinkle blue dress.

I wish I had taken the time to hem it up a few inches, but no.

I hang it up and kick the black pumps to the back of the closet. They proved to be a tight pinch throughout the entire funeral.

And when I look at photos from the service the outfit looks all wrong anyway.

More importantly, my eulogy felt wrong. I never articulated what I wanted to say. And I mumbled throughout the reading.

I wish I’d practiced.

Oh well, it’s too late now.

---

We’re home now and all that’s left are memories, some regrets and much sadness.

From my dad’s apartment, my sisters and I divided up some of the plastic bins that housed memorabilia – mounds of letters and clippings, the draft of a book. Bits and pieces.

I thought I’d gotten off easy because the contents of my bin were small – an accordian file of old letters that my parents exchanged during their college years. From their first date up until his deployment in the Marine Corps.

I guess these things could just get get tossed.

Each thick monogrammed fold of stationery from Sweet Briar College, each eggshell thin blue Air Mail letter from Japan.

Who wants to read these?

Turns out I do.

---

Over the next few days, I attempt to sort them out chronologically and then try to read through a half a dozen at a time.

It’s all I can handle.

---

There are fervent love letters after a chance meeting freshman year.

The pledges to stay in touch over the school breaks.

The thrill of Mom being “pinned” (fraternity) by Dad, and then the excitement of a secret engagement.

And then, after the wedding, shipping out from California to Japan.

---

They were trying to somehow bridge the distance in a world before cell phones, or even before land lines that could connect reliably across the ocean.

All they had were radio calls that usually wouldn’t patch through successfully.

After one such attempt my father writes, I think I heard you say I love you.

That was the extent of the short call – his wondering if the words existed at all.

---

It’s hard to imagine a world where communication had to wait for days.

How much of life was held between the long pauses.

And my mom’s optimism for the future is heartbreaking. How did she assume that he would return?

But he did.

And then the letters stopped.

My Dad’s scrawl went on to grace other letters and sermons as the years went by.

But these old ones feel so important. They show me the different sides to him.

The fresh college boy obsessed with his girl.

The young father eager to meet his newborn son after long months away.

The lieutenant (!) running around Okinawa trying to find special silk fabric for his wife to sew into a classy suit.

---

Over the years my father would occasionally express regret that he hadn’t followed through with his writing. He quit maybe 15-20 years ago and I know it plagued him.

But as I read these old letters, it occurs to me that he did a lot more writing in his lifetime than he remembered.

His letters, no matter how trivial, are a snapshot in an album that I’m privileged to read.

And I know he would have loved to elaborate on these stories on one of our Friday calls. He would remember the events down to the last detail.

---

But I never asked.

They were stories I never knew to ask about.

I could make myself crazy thinking about all the things I never asked him.

---

But no wonder he wished he’d carried on with his writing. There is so much material here. He was such a natural writer.

And I can relate to this need to keep writing, to keep chronicling, to keep striving to articulate the thoughts in his head.

Because, after all, what else is there?

It’s the stories.

---

We need the stories to transpose ideas as a way of putting a stamp on a life.

A remembrance, a memory told.

A letter for a daughter, like a gateway to another time.

And for me, my writing, while just a blog, is also like a snapshot.

The stories that I’ve been writing for ten years, they tell a life.

None of these things disappear after death, we just have to keep looking to remember them.

They exist in the universe side-by-side with our present day.

---

And so the dress, the high heels, even the eulogy – none of that really matters, I think.

It’s Dad’s stories – his words – that hold meaning.

And I want to think that it’s my voice too, even mumbling, that might also have something to add.

For today, or for another day, and even for someone in another generation.

The stories simply want to be told.

This Spring it has been hard for me to let go.

Last week in NC, the rain was teeming down in the yard as I plucked the bright daffodils to bring inside.

All around me Nature seemed to mirror my dad’s presence.

The surprising perennials planted by a previous renter, the resilient white clematis.

The bluebird.

---

And grieving my father’s death that day made me want to do this inconsequential thing:

To tug at the glaucous necks of the green stems one by one. To see the silky serum squeezed out of the stalks.

To yank the tender throats and clutch them. To place them in a bulging bouquet – something that would last forever.

But the bounty of Spring doesn’t last forever, you can’t hold onto it –

Just as I couldn’t hold onto my father.

And yet in my bones I will always feel his love.

---

I think many people looked at our family and saw a perfect thing. But of course this wasn’t true.

Being Jim Lewis’s daughter was not uncomplicated.

But I always felt Dad’s love for me as fierce and constant, even though at times it would seem that the church came first.

Someone else’s needs often pushed mine to the side.

I had to share time with God.

But over 3 years ago, Dad and I started to FaceTime each other, every Friday without fail. What we called our “Friday afternoon dates.”

I would call him before dinnertime at Edgewood Summit and we would talk about a host of things:

Politics of course. Family memories. Books. My chickens.

The gossip at Edgewood Summit. His great-grandson Thomas.

---

But what was curious was how he insisted on the Face Time format. And I came to realize that he loved the fact that we could actually look into one another’s eyes.

A simple thing – but each week I always experienced such uncomplicated joy and adoration.

Such love that bore deep down into my core.

And during the call, if I stayed long enough in the warmth of that gaze, I felt seen and known.

And I knew he loved me, deeply. And that I came first, with no waiting in line.

It was like a meditation of love. A mirror of new possibility, the more I looked the more I could absorb.

---

And so I do need to let go,

But I want the reassurance of the withered, spent little daffodil bulb curling back down into the black earth –

waiting, waiting in the dark, faithfully, for next year’s sun.

---

And next Friday afternoon I will walk out into the backyard, and daydream about new chickens, and bluebird nests.

And I’ll look for the yellow butterflies and think of Dad. Because they were his motif – he loved all things about butterflies.

And I’ll watch them flutter and fly as they go on their way,

And I’ll try to let go.

Today the rain is teeming down on me as I pluck the bright daffodils to bring inside.

Some previous renter has gifted us with mounds of planted bulbs – striking shots of color all over this scruffy, overgrown yard.

In this place of neglect someone who lived here before me saw the potential for a little beauty.

---

And hearing the news that our country is at war makes me want to do this inconsequential thing.

To tug at the glaucous necks of the tender stems one by one. To see the silky serum squeezed out of the stalks.

But as I look across the brown grass there are hundreds of tender shoots that have no buds.

Will they eventually emerge?

Because I want to bring a riot, a thousand of these sunny faces into the house and put them into one giant, bulging vase.

I want to yank the yellow and hold it forever.

I want to keep the sunny-ness and not think about tomorrow’s news or the next day or the next,

I want distraction. I want my sadness and worry tamped down, no despair.

Yet there is so much unsteadiness, so much uncertainty about the future.

Still there is something in the sluice of rain that snakes down under my collar that steadies me.

The cold that reminds me that I am grounded right here, right now, deep breath.

I just want to see wholeness, but I’m afraid.

---

There are no daffodils here in Minneapolis. No crocus, no pansies, no snowdrops.

The lawns are brown and ache for color.

I am here visiting my sister. It’s a chance to be together and for me to catch up on her life.

She has taken me to the sites where they murdered George Floyd, and also to the place where Renee Nicole Good was shot, point blank, in the middle of the day.

I follow her as she points out places that ICE has surged and where they have been plotting and hiding in their unmarked cars.

I accompany her as she shops and delivers food to a family of immigrants who are scared to death to leave their home. Too afraid to even pick up our bag of groceries at the front door.

We could be killers.

There is so much to this city – this metropolitan area – it is a tortured, complex and scary place.

But there are slight beams of yellow, even without the perennials.

---

Sunday morning. A church basement.

I haven’t been in one of these reception halls in a long time.

It’s after the church service, and I’m waiting for my sister to come down from the sanctuary to introduce our speaker, Tony.

Tony was the leader of the Wales pilgrimage and he has come today to present a Lenten forum: Thoughts on Celtic Christianity.

In this group of midwesterners I suddenly feel very Southern. Why? I don’t know. Something about how I’m dressed in bright periwinkle without any heavy layers.

But on the round tables I spy bright, buttery daffodils in little pots – forced to bloom for the congregation in this wintry climate.

Rising for this occasion.

Just seeing them brings me ease and focus.

But there is the ongoing theme in my head that I’m not doing enough, or anything, to help out.

K’s witness and hard work push me to confront my apathy.

I don’t go to church.

I hardly go to the protests.

---

This weekend has been a lot, but I am making my way through this labyrinth of events, and it will come clear.

I leave simply hollowed out, but with my eyes open.

---

Finally, I was so tired when I got home late last night. Lying in bed, I couldn’t shut down the stimulation – the bright yellow energy of Minneapolis, and of my incredible sister.

And then this morning, funny thing, I sat down at my desk, coffee in hand, and looked down – it was a little sketch that my daughter had left for me over the weekend.

Maybe hope is here for the taking.

When they rage, I will calm
When they deny, I will affirm
I will simply be who I am: for that is what the Spirit created me to be.
–
Bishop Steven Charleston
Citizen of the Chocotaw Nation,
and a Native American Elder

flyer from the George Floyd memorial

In the harshest conditions, peace still finds a way. In the coldest moments, hearts still warm with compassion – Walk For Peace USA

Squatting, with my jeans pulled down, I tried to relieve myself on the edge of the slippery culvert off Interstate 64 in Apex, North Carolina.

But suddenly I felt my knees buckle and I went down head first into the grass (I was trying to protect my new hip).

For privacy, I’d been attempting to hide myself between a parked car and my husband’s large down vest.

He quickly grabbed the collar of my jacket and yanked me up. Mission accomplished.

Because I just couldn’t hold it any longer.

We had been huddling in the cold for almost 4 hours.

---

We were standing in a line of thousands of people who had pulled their cars off of both sides of the highway’s shoulders, and here we waited.

Waiting, waiting for the Buddhist monks.

---

I had heard they were on a Walk for Peace that was traveling from Fort Worth, Texas to Washington, D.C.

On foot, some of them even barefoot.

I was there to witness and pay respect and to simply be in their presence. Just to get a glimpse as they passed through North Carolina.

We had no idea there would be throngs of people wanting to do the same thing.

An assortment of them- children and old folks, Black, Brown, Indian. Some held signs. Some waved flowers. Some came to be healed. I’m not sure what most people wanted.

But their faces seemed to me to be happy and expectant.

Many were radiant.

---

We had been instructed to stay quiet and only to bring our hands together and bow in prayer. And we were not to reach out to them or get in front of them. But we could follow along behind them and walk.

Throughout the day I felt the warmth and respect from those around me.

I’ve never been a part of a group like this. I’ve been to protests, but this was a different thing.

The air felt thick with promise. There was a restrained joy.

But mostly, there was a yearning. There was a hunger to see these men.

And finally the police escort lights were visible through the trees of the state park and the tiny figures moved closer.

Their saffron gold and brown robes moved along at a clip – they walked pretty fast.

I was holding my breath.

---

My nerves had been so jangled.

Throughout the long afternoon of waiting I had also been endlessly scrolling my text messages to get word about my sister.

She was being arrested in Minneapolis at that very same time.

She, along with other clergy, were protesting at the airport.

---

Later, I watched the media footage of them as they kneeled in the freezing cold, praying. They were bundled up, covered in ice and snow. Palms open to the sky.

And across the sidewalk a large group of fellow protesters chanted Let them pray /Let them pray.

And then one by one they were calmly taken away by the police, hands zip-tied and then put in a school bus.

This was all going on while I was waiting on the highway.

---

My sister is so beautiful anyway, but seeing her like that took my breath.

She had a glow like an aura around her face – like the saints in those medieval paintings. I was transfixed.

Her breath came out in icy puffs but you could see that she was praying. Eyes closed, her face was simply luminous.

---

Witnessing that scene was akin to receiving the beatific smile from the lively little monk who reached out to me and handed me flowers.

I couldn’t breathe, time slowed down and I felt golden warmth spread through my whole body.

As they passed, the glow went with them but a tiny bit, like holy pollen, brushed across my being.

I felt warm from the inside out and everything was shining.

---

My husband and I could barely speak the rest of the way home and into the evening. Something had changed and we didn’t want to disturb that.

And even now, remembering the event makes me tear up.

In this world that feels so broken, there are these beautiful things.

---

In these moments I feel hope. I no longer automatically default to that cynical vibe that believes that evil cannot be defeated.

Because I witnessed that mighty force that came walking bravely down the highway, undaunted and free.

A walk that embodied the hope that I’ve been searching for. The monks showed me what peace looks like.

I needed that because I’d forgotten.

---

Courage and hope in one day. It was a lot.

And now I’m trying to keep those smiling men with bare feet in my mind, front and center as I go about my ordinary day.

And of my sister kneeling and praying on the curb at the airport, both of these images interlace.

I want to hold the light of these holy people in my heart.

As a reminder of hope –

for joy, for peace and for love.

These days the sun slowly inches higher in the sky. The morning air seems brighter, crisper, in sharp contrast against the brown lawn.

The bluebirds are scoping out the nesting box (it has a new camera). They peek inside the hole and cock their little heads. Is this a home?

At the end of February or so they will start a family.

---

In January the world feels new.

And here in the kitchen a luminous softness radiates from my UV lightbox.

It almost feels like summer sun!

My desk is cleared off and I feel energized.

---

On New Year’s Eve my annual ritual is to light all of the candles in the house – Christmas pillars, tapers, votives, old tea lights, all of it.

I strike the matches to the wicks to burn away the old year.

On the fireplace mantle, in the kitchen, in the bedroom.

And I let them burn all the way down to hard disks.

And when they are all spent I bring out a slim bayberry taper that my sister gave me.

When lit, it’s fresh green balsam scent fills the whole house.

I pause and breathe deeply.

And meditate on what is real and true for me in the moment.

And I let go of last year’s energy.

Or I try to.

---

Back before Christmas I went into our attic storage area and dragged out a huge blue Rubbermaid container.

Inside were spiral notebooks of various sizes, some bound journals and some stacks of yellowed looseleaf papers.

Two of the tiny books had fake gold locks and keys.

My journals.

I drug them out mostly out of curiosity.

Should I sort out the “good stuff” and preserve it? Or just toss it all?

The lined pages were scrawls starting from my grade school years up until I was in my 30s.

Sigh.

---

What was important enough to write about?

Did I write well or was it (the dreaded word) trite?

I was curious to read and trepid at the same time.

Mostly I was just afraid of looking backwards.

I didn’t want to re-live some of that stuff.

Most of that stuff.

Let the past stay in the past.

---

So I had to steel myself before I started.

But after a quick taste from grade school 1975 (Robert Redford crazy), I deliberately left the bin open on the floor so I could dip into it at random.

For some reason it felt important to keep going.

Still it was kind of cool that things weren’t boxed up in chronological order.

It seemed easier to process the material this way: the heavy stuff alongside the ridiculous.

The sadness of my brother leaving home to go into the Navy.

The excitement of getting my first pet rat named Nicky.

The thrill of Halloween and riding our bikes all over town after dark.

Depression in high school after a huge breakup with my first crush.

The endless screeds about my weight.

And the tender entries from the days (and nights) after my kids were born.

The petty grievances against my sisters.

The blowsy love poems I wrote to my husband in college (gag).

And the running, always the running [see hip replacement].

The heartache with the sweet.

And of course the trite.

Anyway, I felt kind of brave for reading.

---

Turns out that the young diarest from the past was pretty great.

A lot of the time she was self-indulgent and silly and reactive.

And boy could she brood.

And most of the writing was lousy – boring observations and saccharine poetry.

But she was scrappy.

---

Because it wasn’t just that I had muscled through some challenging times, it was the fact that I wrote it all down.

When I was excited, hopeful and happy, yes.

But also when I was down and out and really struggling to see patches of light.

I was faithful to it.

That was me then.

And that is me now.

---

And it gives me a little boost now to see the grace in the simple continuity of writing.

Yeah just a bin in the attic, but still.

I was a writer.

---

So I’m looking forward to this coming New Year and having some days of inspiration.

At least I’m hopeful.

I have no doubt there will be writer’s block, inertia and plain old laziness.

And bad poetry.

But this morning as I flip on my lightbox and shuffle across the kitchen to brew my coffee, I can feel the warmth of the day’s possibility.

It fills up the room.

---

My dusty journals are stowed away – all the old angst is buttoned down.

But what I hold front and center are the journals’ intermittent words of bright optimism.

Because as a whole, those actually eclipsed all the rest.

Joy and discovery in the mundane minutia of the day-to-day blah.

Kind of a hodgepodge mess – hardly a linear black and white enterprise.

Seasonally disordered at best, like me.

---

So a new candle, a New Year and a new box to fill.

Today I will write.

Some people say that hip replacement surgery is a piece of cake. I think they say this because they forget the pain.

The white hot pain in the night that won’t let you sleep.

The bone on bone ache deep in the upper thigh.

The helplessness.

They don’t like to remember tenderly unpeeling the blood-crusted bandage for the first time.

The horror of the inflamed Frankenstein scar, but also the astonishment at how the body is repairing itself.

---

Post- surgery reminds me a little bit like labor and childbirth.

The indescribable pain, the heightened focus.

The way the injured area dictates every movement of the body with the clarity of the survival instinct.

And now later, the way you forget the pain.

---

These past 6 weeks added to a huge portfolio of respect – the one that I have on file for my husband.

You hear the phrase they showed up about people, but did I ever think it would involve him gently guiding my dangling foot into the opening of my underwear as I leaned against his back?

Every damn morning.

And how he kept a written schedule of my medicines night and day.

Helping me hobble to the bathroom in the middle of the night countless times.

Listening to the complaining.

Being present with me being present with the pain.

---

To be dependent on a caregiver is a lesson in many things.

First, how to ask for what you need.

So, I’m not good at this.

Every time I need something I hear a whine in my voice, and it’s cloying. I hate it.

Only now do I see that a person who balks at receiving a helping hand is a person who is hiding a gaping vulnerability.

And saying no is my automatic protective response – like, don’t look at me, I’m needy, I am dependent.

I am vulnerable.

But my hip clearly needs me to advocate.

---

We grow up learning the hard lesson that we must take care of ourselves, and of course this is true.

But it’s been so drilled into us, it’s not really a lesson that bears repeating.

Rather, some of us need to learn to ask specifically for what we need.

To be direct.

Instead of sayng “Gee, my Gatorade needs refilling, say “Can you get my water bottle for me?”

I’m a really terrible asker.

And with this surgery I had a lot of asks.

---

Second, you have to give up the picture perfect image and outside expectations.

But it’s hard to let go of that ambition.

Perfection – how we grab for its shiny promise.

Perfection – another way to shut down vulnerability.

I boast that I only used a crutch once – one time going up the stairs after surgery. I was so determined to be like my mom who never even used a cane when she had her hip done.

Reportedly, she never took any painkillers either.

I did take them – and had to talk myself into every single pill.

So what does that family story teach me? Get up, get going, this is all on you. No one can walk the path with you, help yourself.

Such bull***t

We all feel pain, we’re just too afraid to own it.

---

Lastly, take the long view.

I overdid it on my exercise. I wanted points for being plucky.

And after going to a dermatologist appointment 1 week after the procedure, the doctor looked at me, horrified. I should have been at home, leg elevated.

At any rate, we try to do too much and the body says no.

If we listen.

---

So my days have been spent leaning on others for physical help and emotional up-lift.

It’s okay, I can learn this.

And it will take time.

Forget the supposed “milestones” described in the hospital pamphlet.

---

And the healing is mostly hidden.

Deep within the cut muscles and bright new bone, a new universe in there is gathering itself up to heal.

I didn’t even realize there was an ache to be found in those places, in that layer of tissue, in that joint space.

But the bone is knitting itself back together, quietly, in the dark, without me.

---

Lastly, when you can finally soak in a real bath by yourself your mind will play tricks.

It will forget the urgency of your body’s needs.

How dependent you are as a human.

Yes, you will take all the positive praise and soak it up. Feel relief and pride.

But deep inside, literally, is the reminder that you never did this thing yourself.

You are healing because numerous people at the hospital, named and unnamed, engineered this feat.

And thank God for insurance.

And for the grandson who brings sweet pink roses and a care package with his mommy.

And for a family that group-texts really bad photos of me right before I go under.

But mainly, I’m hugely grateful for the guy who’s been hanging around for 45 years, and who shows no sign of leaving.

---

Yesterday after lunch we walked in the grey winter woods of the Duke Forest.

We made it just to the half mile marker. And then we turned back.

It’s the same trail that I loved to run in my 30s, 40s, even my 50s. I felt young then – vigorous and proud of my strong body.

Impenetrable.

And here I am at 62, leaning on my stick. Scuffing my left foot along.

Trying out my new hip.

And as my husband and I chat, I think of how often we’ve walked together, and how many times he’s listened to my blubbering and bleating.

And now having patience with this older, slower me.

Me with my emotions fizzing or my brain scrambling along trying to make sense of things.

Me being my scrappy self.

He has seen me at times and in ways that I don’t want to see myself.

Me super depressed, me being snappish, me with no bra on and wearing an ugly mauve hospital gown.

Flat-out scared.

And he had the grace to not tell me how painful this kind of procedure could be (he’s had a lot of them).

And so he lies to me in the best ways.

And every day he repeats the script – that it will get better and I just need to be patient.

And I believe.

And we both know that it is a literal metaphor for our marriage.

We fall down, we help each other up, and then we do it all over again and again.

It was summer of 1974 and I was almost 12.

My family had just moved from a small town to a bigger city. I was a new kid in 7th grade at the big junior high school.

Maybe a little bit immature for my age, certainly not sophisticated or destined for popularity.

But luckily, on the very first day I made a new best friend – Jules.

---

But the biggest thing I remember about that time was that I was completely boy-crazy.

Not for any boy in 7th grade, but for the film legend Robert Redford.

I had just seen The Sting and it was all I could talk about. Analyzing every scene, every line, swooning over the star. And I was just so desperate for his next movie to be released.

And I remember going to a sleepover at Jules’s house and bringing along my signed studio glossy of him. I propped it next to me on the pillow of my sleeping bag.

Forget about 12 year old boys – I knew what I wanted and it wasn’t them.

It was Redford.

He had it all – golden good looks, charm, a cinematic smile and that indefinable cool guy personality.

I had seen all of his movies and had a huge poster of him on my bedroom door.

What an innocent I was, what little I knew about boys and men.

---

But I’ll say this, I had good taste.

Handsome, articulate, politically active, Redford was the consummate Everyman.

He was, quite simply, a decent man.

And as I look back at that young girl in her pink bunny slippers, I think about how much she had to learn.

But also how much she already knew.

---

When I went to my high school reunion this past summer, it brought back some of these old memories. And I was reminded of things about myself that I had long forgotten.

The awkwardness of those moments. But also the grace.

My friends tell me they remember me as being bouncy and bubbly, floating down the halls at school with a smile.

And this was so healing for me to hear. I really couldn’t remember the way I was.

Because I tended to see the old frames in black and white – to ruminate over the struggles, the loneliness, and the depression.

I thought I was such a loser.

---

But now I see that maybe I wasn’t just the dark, depressed girl back then.

Maybe I was the sunny girl who just happened to get depressed.

Funny how we write a script about ourselves and we never quite re-write it, or even try to edit it very much over the years.

Anyway, after graduation, when I went off to college, I ditched that image of myself and in doing so I threw away the entire script.

And only now, years later, can I see that most of the pages were actually pretty decent, even true.

I was innocent. I was fun. I was loved.

I was just me.

---

Part of the appeal of Robert Redford, or any other star crush, is that you have complete control over the narrative. You can close your eyes and see the actor in a perfect incandescent light.

He never screws up, loses his temper or messes up the house. He delivers all of the best lines. And he doesn’t take up too much of your personal space.

But I think Robert Redford took up a very distinct space in my 12 year old world.

He was there when I was hitting all of the adolescent milestones. The awkward chapters – wearing my first pair of panty hose, buying my first bra, and finally getting my period.

He was a stand-in when I wasn’t ready for a real boyfriend. He buffered the fear and trepidation of first dates, kisses and whatever else.

He was a sure, safe thing – what you saw was what you got.

And he served as a boost to my self esteem all though those school years. And then, of course, I grew up, and he bowed out, gracefully, fading into the floodlights of my imagination.

---

Every once in a while I think we all stumble across a person, or a caricature, or a figure that sort of redeems us.

A personality that fulfills some core need in us that is longing to be met.

For me it was safety – the basic need to feel secure in my changing world – with the upheaval in my friendships, in my home and even my own body.

A place in my mind, in my overactive imagination, that I could go to and have all of my stories play out just as I wanted them to.

Where I could be creator, director and star of my own life.

It might be an overstatement to say that Robert Redford was a template for my marriage, but I think it’s a little bit true.

I just know that I will always take seriously the tastes and aspirations of young girls.

---

So thank you, Mr. Redford.

You helped me dream. And to see that there were higher ideals out there if I stayed patient and kept my options open.

And you helped me not to settle for what the world offered, but to shoot for something more.

You helped me write and re-write my own script, and for that I am forever grateful.

Always and forever.

xoxo

The fat bumblebees bump against one another as they search out the remains of the coneflower pollen in the yard.

They’re after the last drops of golden summer.

I wonder where they go now – do they migrate?

It seems like they are trying to hold on to the summer.

---

And now I think about things that I try to hold on to – safety, security, love.

I close my eyes and make a wish upon these falling leaves – I’ll see you next year.

See you next summer.

So much is uncertain in our lives these days, and even the seasons can’t be relied upon.

But I want to hold this moment in time forever.

---

These days, my 2-year-old grandson is mastering the art of object permanence. He is learning to say goodbye to us without crying and thinking that he will never see us again.

And he is also able to leave his toys at our house and say “I’ll play with you next time” and it breaks my heart just a little.

Because he is learning the art of letting go. And the faith that the world will be the same when he comes back.

---

Yes, it is a milestone to know that fundamental things will remain in tact in our universe.

But also, there is the trade-off – one must first learn to say goodbye.

And I’ll never get good at this, I swear.

To be in the present moment and also know that it is already past.

---

All I can say is that my grandson’s developmental milestone is also a life lesson for me.

Like the bumblebee, I chase the pollen and try not to worry about what happens next.

Faith and hope, I guess.

A bumbling proposition.

To trust in a world that is dying all around me, but one with seeds prepared to sprout when the coming days grow longer.

Last night while lying in bed, I heard an owl hooting in the yard.

Its call was so plaintive, so clear, it cut through the hot, thick night. It was calming and soulful.

It soothed me as I struggled to sleep.

I pictured it swooping from the pine tree down into the yard, hunting for voles, and then gliding back up to its nest.

Hidden and safe.

Something in that image quieted my spirit, and cooled my brain.

---

I think we all long for certainty, for stability, for an assurance that all will be well.

We want a safe nest to fall into.

But the news in our country, like the weather, is hot and unbearable, a mess. It’s difficult to feel any sense of national security.

Many days I don’t read beyond the headlines – why dip into that madness?

And yet, life goes on.

And death.

My father, at 89, is struggling with congestive heart problems. Yet I watch him still fighting to do good in the world, and it gladdens me.

He keeps his eyes open, his brain engaged. Frankly, I don’t know how he can care so much about the world, now, at the end of his life.

Why does this planet still matter to him?

He’s leaving it.

---

So last month he participated in a sit-in at the WV Senator Shelly Capito’s office – to protest the repeal of the Affordable Care Act.

He pushed his walker, with a water bottle in the cupholder, and got himself up to the Capitol. And he sat, along with five others, in the reception area – long enough for the aide to ask them to leave.

And then when he refused to go, the police were called.

They escorted him out and took him to be processed and then released.

I know all of this because it’s a familiar drill.

He did this during Vietnam, the Iraq War, and during the vote to repeal Roe v. Wade, and on and on.

He’s got a pretty nice police record.

---

But I think this latest arrest has been the most impactful for me.

Something about having your elderly father rise up in righteous indignation at the end of his career in activism, at the end of his life – it pulls you up short.

And I can’t say I’ve picked up his mantle.

I’ve been to the last three protests here in Durham, but I’m not kidding myself that that has real teeth.

And now the President is violating human rights.

How will this end?

---

There is this despair I feel on nights like this, thinking about how fortunate I am, but how my good life has come at such a price.

The capitalism that shaped my childhood, my values, my experiences, all came from privilege.

And when I let myself feel it, it shames me.

The life I’ve built has been at the expense of others. And our President is the result of this.

But I can’t dwell on this reality; I try to focus on the present.

To be the best grandmother I can be.

To listen to my kids.

To be kinder, less quick to judge.

To be a friend.

To help someone out when I can.

I don’t do enough, by far, I know that.

And the guilt lurks.

---

Midsummer musings.

Scratching like cicadas, not pleasant to the ear:

insistent, complaining, aggrieved.

My damp skin against the cotton blanket – to sleep now would be a blessed forgetting.

Still, I listen for the owl, and for the solace of the call.

The house key sticks in the unfamiliar lock of the door. Finally, I find the perfect jiggle and then use my shoulder to push it open.

I look around at the empty space and feel the urge to cry.

It’s been a mind-bending weekend away, and now I’m back home.

Or rather, I’m back in my third home.

---

You may remember that my husband and I sold our big old Southern home almost two years ago, now. And then we downsized to this new neighborhood in the same town.

Less than 1,000 square feet now – we were so proud of ourselves.

And then, of course, we needed elbow room, and decided to remodel – just add on a little bit.

Which brings us to now – having to rent a house down the street while the new construction takes place.

And I’m having a surreal moment where the old house, the new one, and this rental are all super-imposed on my brain, and it’s really unsettling.

Never before have I felt so strongly that a house is really a soul.

And my soul feels empty now, I’m a little sad and off-balance.

It’s a hangover of grief from saying goodbye to my high school friends after a small reunion last weekend.

A group of 20 from our class planned a gathering and it turned into the most meaningful, healing time.

Talk about surreal.

---

And today, it comes to me that each of us live in the house of the present, and we have a past house and then a future one down the road.

And we live in all three at the same time.

I definitely like to compartmentalize things and keep it all separate, but right now it all comes together.

For 45 years I had little to no contact with my old friends. It was a painful time, and I tended to write it all off as – I was a mess, a failure, I left no mark.

But of course I did.

And this past weekend my friends embraced me and reminded me of that old person I used to be – bubbly, expressive, caring.

---

You see, I fled my hometown, and never really looked back.

I struggled to mature and figure things out – to heal from some pretty tough memories.

I learned how to take care of my mental health.

I learned how to be a partner and a parent.

I’m still learning.

Anyway, I can’t adequately express what this past weekend meant to me, except to say that I’m so grateful I went back to that house of the past.

It is where I learned to live in this one, and it’s given me a little bit of courage to move on to the next one.

---

These days, I’m scared to drive down the old street in town where I used to live. But I make myself do it every now and then.

I watch how the new owners are tearing the walls down, and renovating.

New paint colors. Ripped out landscaping.

And what happened to my chicken coop?

I don’t know why I torture myself like this but maybe it’s this need to keep the past with me.

To lay out all of the puzzle pieces to make it complete.

---

I’m taking a new meditation class, and my favorite practice is Lovingkindness. In it, we focus on extending goodwill to our selves.

We open our hearts to generosity, forgiveness and compassion.

It is an ancient practice that guides you to affirm yourself. And then you extend your thoughts to a loved one, and then to a neutral person and then to a difficult person.

And then to the whole world.

But a key concept is that we cannot love the whole world without loving ourselves first.

We cannot love the whole world without loving ourselves first

A part of my soul was missing before I went back to my hometown. It’s the part that I’m now sending lovingkindness to over and over again.

Because what I had forgotten was the love.

The love that was shown to me back then.

I tended to dwell on the pain, as if it was a solo experience. I didn’t look up to see the friends that cared for and wanted to stick by me, even when I walked away from them.

And so, too, when I drive past our old pink house, I’ll try to remember the love, not forgetting the struggles and pains that inhabited that place too, but all of it.

And I’ll try to use the meditation as an investigation into all of it – the past, the present and the future, and always keep opening my heart up to the love.