Death as Opportunity?

As part of my first-ever-true-attempt at end of year cleansing, I did an online tarot card reading.
My opportunity for 2016? Death.

Death is the card I drew.  As an OPPORTUNITY.  Grasp that?  I couldn't.  At first.  But then, I paused.  I calculated.  I looked inward.

Death may not be literal... as in... I am dead.  Death could be the death of a past anger or harm done. Death of a bad idea.  Death of a sadness, a grievance, death of a dead end road.
In that spirit, I say, rest in peace.

Next card?  Courage.  Courage to let go of the past.  Let the dead rest.  Have courage to embrace the new.  Hey, why not.  I have courage.  I've always had courage.  Had to... because I do not believe that courage is a choice.  Courage is cast upon us in times of angst and illness and pressure and pain.  Then, we find courage.  If we don't, then something far worse will find us.  It will strangle us.  It will hold us in its death grasp as we struggle against "it".  So, sure.  There's the courage thing.  That's the challenge.

The resolution?  Cleansing.  Is there a greater cleansing than death?  That final ending that is surely a new beginning?

I am not sure how I, someone so led by The Spiritual, has never checked out this "tarot card thing"... this turning of cards to spell out the future.

Knowing these three cards have been dealt me, will I choose to let these words and deeds open the new year for me?  Or will the cards choose for me?  Can't say I'm sure how this all works.  BUT, I know how I work.  Whatever 2016 offers, I will face it.  I will find courage.  I will be cleansed of the harshness that 2015 brought.  The bitter taste that lingers in my mouth will be washed away.  There will be a lightness in my step, a brightness to my smile.

I am finding a true catharsis in the route of cleansing I have chosen.  I am ready for the death of the person who was held under water in 2015.  The one who held her breath and gasped for air.  I am ready to fill my lungs with fresh, clean air and open my arms to new possibilities.

Opportunities are right at my fingertips.  Close your eyes.  Reach out.  Let butterfly wings brush the tips of your fingers. They will carry your dreams all the way to Heaven, my friends.

The Jungle Gym

This meme on social media this morning brought elementary school rushing back to me in one flat moment.  I was the playground chicken.  The girl who always wore dresses and skirts and refused to play kick ball.  I was the kid with the book under a tree or sitting on a barely rocking swing while others pumped legs with skill and fervor and flew high into the sky.  I imagined my toes touching the breathy branches of a tree like my friends... but, only imagined.

We had two jungle gyms.  One, much like the photo in this post.  The other was a ladder with a fireman-like pole to slide down once you reached the top.  My friends would flit to to the top and slide down over and over and over again.  I would watch.  I didn't even WANT to do it.  I did, however, believe I HAD to do it.  

It is a fuzzy blur now.  Did someone dare me?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Did I get a hankering to try to climb up there?  I find that impossible to believe.  For whatever reason, one spring day, not far from summer vacation, I decided to Climb To The Top.  Climb I did.  I got to the top.  I gingerly made my way to the pole and... froze.

This girl was not going to take that step and slide down that pole.  Nope.  Not happening.  Soon, a small group surrounded the pole.  Kids I barely knew were calling for me to come down.  They became one blur and one foggy sound as I clung to the steel pole and my teeth shivered.

Someone got the recess aide.  "Come down", she prodded sweetly.  I shook my head, "no".  "Come down", she insisted with less sweetness.  No.  No. Never.

After what seemed an eternity, out came the school janitor with an extension ladder.  This man's name is lost to me, but his demeanor remains in my heart to this day.  He was a wonderful man who loved children.  He was so good to me, even as I clung to the pole and shook my head adamantly at his soft command to reach for him. I was not taking that step.  I began to think of my life consisting of this.  This playground.  This jungle gym.  What would happen when I had to pee?  I was getting hungry.  Would I miss lunch?  Still, I grasped the silver steel with a 7 -year old's death grip and refused to budge.  I remember that the Principal, Mr. Marcott, ended up outside.  I know he stood below me and spoke to me.

I do not remember getting down.  I do not know who talked me down or when I took that big step.  I wish I did.   I wish I could clearly recall the importance of that moment.  I do not remember the victory of achievement.  I only remember the fear of letting go.  The belief I would fall.  The deep seeded gut wrenching belief that No One Would Ever Catch Me.

I returned to that playground one summer of my collegiate life.  The jungle gym looked so small and dauntless.  I placed my hands on the top rung with my feet safely on the ground.  I thought about climbing up and jumping and sliding down the pole to safety, but decided against it.  After all, I was alone.  Who would catch me if I fell?

In many ways, I am still that seven year old girl.  The one who prefers her feet on the ground and her nose in a book.  The one who wishes for small adventures and safe landings.  The one who declines jumping into things because she fears that no one will catch her if she falls.  I still wonder, Who Will Catch Me If I Fall?

Only Words

I have chosen My Word for 2015.
Done.  My word is done.
2015 brought me great joy.  My daughter's high school graduation and 18th birthday were major high points.  Celebrating my 30th college reunion and reconnecting with true friends was magnificent.  I have found outlets for creativity, I have de-cluttered my personal space and I have grown in many ways; both big and small.
Done.  I am, however, done with 2015.
I am done with small minded gossip and hurtful social media.  I am done with adults who resort to name calling and think that it is OKAY to do so.  I am done with those who think that friendship is a small town cult where you are allowed to bash someone repeatedly and find it impossible to Let It Go.
This is it.  My official letting go.  I am in a professional position where I must make a stand to do what I feel is best for those around me.  Agree or not.  It is simply my position.  Follow it or not. There are always open doors.  But... this door... the one looking back on 2015?  Closed.

I am pondering words for 2016.  Words have always been my strong hold.  Written words give me reference and peace.  They lend me comfort when spoken words and harmful words of others bring me pain.  I am carefully choosing my words for this new year.  Words like Forward and Dauntless... Focused and Promising.

I am beyond thankful for those who surround me with love and friendship.  I have a tremendous family, and a passion that is my business.  I am able to pay my bills.  I always find a way to make a day "okay"... and, even this day is okay.  This day when social media threatened my personal feelings and beliefs- even this day is okay.

I would like to shun "okay".  I would like to be dauntless and rush forward with focus into a promising new year.  So, ya, I am done with you, 2015. And,  I am okay with that.

Therein Lies The Rub

It has been a journey, these past few months.
Dreams meeting bumps in roads.
Friends Unfriended.
Friends Reunited.
Some dreams lost.  Some dreams found.
Therein lies The Rub.

It seems impossible, at times, to discern truth from fiction.  Fact from gossip. 
If beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, so, it seems, does The Truth.
Truth is a multi-faceted little gem, don't ya think?

When an attorney takes on a case and argues the truth for the verdict of his choice, he may sometimes have to face the fact that the judge or jury does not embrace his truth.  They reach an alternate decision.  They find a different truth, or believe the other side of it.

Perhaps, in the end, the truth does not even exist.  Perhaps, in fact, the truth is nothing more than perception. 

Many, many individuals will perpetuate their version of a truth via words, images, gossip and such.  Social media feeds this frenzy.  It seems to me that, in this world we live in, silence is the equivalent of guilt.  Gone is the gracious time when loose lips sunk ships.  Today, he whom posts most double entendre memes and gets longest list of "friends" to add comments WINS.  Right?

Therein Lies The Rub.  What a shallow victory this is.  What a false definition of friendship.  Of winning.  Sitting around and gossiping with many about one you say is a gossip seems childish, at best.  At the least, it is gossiping.

Truth is, social media continues a frenzy of falsities.  It allows adults to embrace childish notions.  It brings common sense to its knees.  It makes decent individuals turn to unrecognizable beings.

The Clique does not define the truth.  They define their own boundaries of the truth they embrace.  The individual who stands through the storm, embracing their own truth and holding their head above the storm... I ask you to pause and reconsider that person.  Silence is not defeat.  It is not agreement or acceptance.  Silence is embracing their need to understand their own truth. 

Maybe, before you put up that nasty meme touting and spewing your side of a situation, you might pause.  Perhaps.  Unfortunately, people will continue to use Facebook and Twitter and Instagram to force their opinions and beliefs on others.  Unfortunately, people will see these social media posts and believe that This Is True.

Me, not so much.  And... therein lies the rub.

Sparkles and Such...

Somedays are ultra sparkly.
Days of pageants and dance routines and tiaras and bobby pins.
When we are living in them, the stress can dull the sparkle.
The Momma Knot in the pit of your stomach and the un-asked-for chills up your spine and down your arms as you wait to watch your child take the stage is blinding.
More blinding than the thousands of rhinestones under stage lights.
That, my friends, is ultra- blinding.

I am very happy that I made one binding choice many years ago.  As a Dance Studio Director, I decided and declared (loudly and repeatedly) to my clientele that, when my daughter was on stage, I was NOT Director.  I WAS her mother.

I did not answer tugs on my sleeve or pause mid-run-to-catch-her-perform  to discuss another child's hair or costume trauma.  I did not reply to anxious whispered questions or irritating texts.

I focused on my Momma Knot.  I embraced it.  I enjoyed it.  I bathed in it and I engraved it on my heart and in my brain.

Madi will be 18 this week.  Eighteen years filled with sequins and tap shoes.  With hand held microphones and squeaky speaker systems.  Eighteen years topped off with me sitting in the Clayton Opera House last night as she represented her platform and her ideals and her undeniable beauty in the Miss Thousand Islands Pageant.

The knot was HUGE.  The tears were welling.  My heart was pounding.  Not for The Sparkle. Madi doesn't need a crown on her head or a sequin studded gown to glow.  It was just the Momma thing.  That's My Girl. 
She walked like a model, she showed her spunk and intelligence.  She sang with fervor and beauty.  She was undeniably wonderful.
So, after... when she did not take home the crown nor the sash nor even a certificate-- I reevaluated that Momma Knot.  The one I have felt inside so prominently for almost eighteen years.  I examined its twists and turns and strong, unyielding bond.  I realized something momentous.  Perhaps, just perhaps, that knot wasn't fear for her.  It has never been about my fear or my fear for her.  It has always been this growing mass of pride.  Pride for her strength and talent.  Not pride that comes before a fall.  Not pride that blinds... pride that makes me see.  See that my daughter is more than I could have ever imagined.  She sparkles so bright... And, in that moment, the knot lessened just the teeniest bit.
Just enough for me to exhale. 

Empty Nest- The Poem

Empty Nest

It isn't Empty Nest Syndrome

It isn't tears on somewhat sunken cheek bones or looking in the mirror to see a tired stranger

It isn't holding my breath when she shakes hands with Principal and grabs diploma with other and I can't hear for the roaring in my ears

The pride chanting in my head

The love bursting my veins

The hollow hole growing in my solo soul

She says every time I cry I owe her $5

I am already poor

She is my wealth

I am the single mother of a special needs daughter

I have walked away from everything and everyone else in this world

To run to her

I have sat vigil in cold hospital rooms

Stroking her face

Side swiping stray hairs

Caressing her tiny hand

I have slept in the curve of her feet at the bottom of her hospital bed

I have brought her home after 39 surgeries and fought with myself not to hold her hostage in the safety of our home

I have watched her fight to walk 

To walk on

To walk away

I have hung on to let her go

And here we are

High school over

Success heaped on success

Smile painted on my thinning lips like a too bright lipstick

My hand aches for her little girl fingers to wrap around mine

But I see my hands now

Veins exposed

Wrinkles forming

Nails ignored

Unadorned left ring finger

I have not been His Wife

I have only been Her Mom

Open palm to fist and Palm again

I cannot question 

I try to accept

Fly little bird

Mama's nest sits empty 

It's the Little Things

It is the Little Things on a journey.
The nurse who gives me $1.25 for the vending machine because I am a "good mama who needs chocolate".
It is the janitorial staff member who sings to your daughter every morning... Because he loves to see That Smile.
The amount of kindness a surgeon musters to dance a jig to relieve her pain cannot be underestimated... All 6'4" of stern manliness a-jumble at her bedside.
Thirteen years and thirty-nine surgeries. Amazingly, despite the pain and beyond the tears, the multitude of kindnesses shown us are what makes my heart flutter.
And... There was always Emma. Emma first met us when Madi was four. She was an LPN and Madi was a toddler who had already Had Enough. I was an exhausted single mom. IV meds were the worst. No one seemed very sympathetic when my daughter screamed in pain. They shrugged off her tears and smirked a bit at all The Drama. Not Emma. She believed Madi and sought a solution. She brought in a stock of hand warmers for Madi's bedside stand. Just a heat pack... Such relief.  Emma began "The Book of Madi" for the nurses station and insisted evey nurse treating her look it over. Meds were to be pumped on "turtle speed" and heat packs applied. Madi's baby blanket should always cover her IV sight--- she didn't like to see it. Her trusted Ellie the Elephant must always prop her arm for comfort.
Simple tasks brought about by a woman whose kindness and compassion amaze me to this day.
When Madi was nine she was finally correctly diagnosed. Her rare condition included restricted blood vessels that were very thin. Meds administered through an IV felt like ice water roaring through her system. The Doctor told us that this pain was, indeed, "unbearable". Thank you, Emma, for believing my little spit fire when no one else would!
Today, Emma is an amazing nurse. Madi is a high school graduate. They are best of friends, sharing life via snap chat and meeting for lunch or dinner when we return to Children's  Hospital... 7 hours away.
Madi has chosen to attend college close to her hospital. I am anxious and worried, but will certainly sleep better knowing her favorite nurse will always be on duty and on the lookout for my kiddo.
A lunch out, an extra hug... And certainly, a heat pack if it is needed.
Thanks, Emma. Your kindness makes this world such a better place!!!!

Needy Need Not Apply

I recall being independent at a very young age.  I was an only child for ten years, then "the oldest".  My parents simply expected I would do a vast array of chores.  I never wondered if other girls did.  I was expected to handle everything from dusting the bannister to mowing the lawn.  I weeded gardens, painted sheds, cooked dinner, cleaned house and watched The Baby Brother.  I recall hot summer days spent pushing the lawn mower and cold winter mornings shoveling snow.  I just did it.  I did not get an allowance.  I got love.  Seemed enough.
Here's the rub.  My parents raised me to be able to Do It All.  Clean house, do manly chores, take care of babies, work at a job, get good/great grades, and be a social butterfly.
Would seem I am a catch, eh?  Well.  Perhaps not.  I am almost 52 and decidedly single.  I have had a vast array of failed relationships in my life, and I think they all fall in to two distinct groups:
1.  The guy who couldn't stand it because I could do it all alone
2.  The guy who didn't do much or nada because I could do it all alone

#1.  Pissed me off
#2.  Wore me out

Hasta LaVista, baby.
I am now almost one year Manless.  Partnerless.  Alone.... but not lonely.  I have been approached by some men, but I have something to say:
Needy Need Not Apply.
I don't want to hear about your past failed relationships, and I assume you do not wish to hear about mine.
I don't want to hear about how LONELY you are.  Buy a pet or get a past time.  Pleeeease.  You are a Grown-Ass-Man.
I don't want to be called "Sweetie" or "Honey".  I'm not our "Sweetie" or "Honey".  I am a Grown-Ass-Woman.
I don't want you to SAY "You shouldn't have to do so much".  I want you to show me you will do it for me by... DOING IT FOR ME.
That's the bottom line, I guess.  A lifetime of independence leaves me in a place where something truly romantic and HOT would be the guy who mows my lawn while I'm at the studio.  The one who makes me dinner after work.  That guy.
Let's be clear.  Don't need the guy.  Many days, don't want the guy.  But, I'd LOVE to have my lawn mowed.  Today. No, really, the lawn... out back... on the hill.  No undertones or suggestive word play here, folks.
I have always loved my quiet time.  Reading, writing, day dreaming, gardening.  I want to get up and head out to an estate sale if I wish.  I want to sleep til 9 am if I want to.  I am content with what I have.  I have a wonderful daughter, an adoring dog, and extended friends and family.  I'm cool with all that.  So, if you are aware of all the above and Never Need To Be Needy, then there may be a puzzle piece missing here.  If not... I can get by without that small, missing piece. 
Too old for games and too young at heart for boredom.  No NEED for the Needy.  Seems about right.

Celebrations and Salutations

Graduation season always hits my heart and knocks my senses sideways.  I took it hard when it was my own rite of passage, I have struggled and embraced all that it has held for my friends, my relatives, my students... and now, for my only daughter.

I screen shot large portions of life in my head. Snap memories into the puzzle of my life like I am a jigsaw Queen; relive rolling video in my brain as I fall to sleep at night; wake early and look at the day ahead with trepidation mixed with elation.

I thought I would be a bigger mess.  I thought I would walk around in a river of tears every day.  I expected sobs at dance recital and gulps of air like some washed ashore fish as I witnessed "lasts"... last concert, last this, last that.

Tears.  I have them.  Somewhat silent, slippery little devils, who roll down my waiting cheeks and cause me to wipe with backside of hands as secretly as possible.  Sniffles.  Blame that on allergies.
But... full on tsunami cry?  Not yet.

This is a celebration, folks.  This amazing human whom I created has become SOMEONE.  I have always known she is special... as every mother knows every child is... but in this time, in this moment, she is SOMEONE.  Someone who has achieved so many goals throughout her first twelve years of school... academically, musically, socially, physically, emotionally.  Someone who has made plans for an amazing future and has taken solid steps to see those plans through.  Someone whom I am immensely, and justifiably, proud of.

It is a month of salutations.  Congratulations.  Farewells.  SeeYaLaters.  Hugs that linger longer.  Foot steps that pause as backward glances are made before plunging forward.  Yesterdays growing foggy as today beams and tomorrow beckons.  Shake hands with confidence, smile broader, laugh when you can.  This is the way this life goes.  It just goes.  On and on; somehow... everyday closer to the salutation--- Good bye.

Forgive my sentimentality.  I am just another mom watching another child walk across the stage which represents life.  I am just another empty nester choosing bedding for college dorm room and counting pennies to pay tuition.  I am just another mom laying in bed at night, silent tears rolling down cheeks, salty rivers onto pillowcase. 

Yes, I am celebrating.  Mostly.  But, sometimes, the celebration pauses and reality hits.  Forgive me for praying... Forget Me Not.

Standing up or Backing down?

It is something I have struggled with all my life.  Daily.
Standing up... or backing down?
If I stand up for my beliefs, if I state an honest opinion, inevitably, I meet with someone else's beliefs.
If they choose to state them, I am faced with conflict.
I despise conflict.
I have been known to cross three states to avoid it.
No, really.
Within the need to avoid conflict, lies another of my qualities with duel attributes.
I can always see some aspects of truth in someone else's beliefs.
Wrapped in that self attribute is the fact that others see my ability to accept degrees of their position as me Backing Down.
This, quite often, leads to me running away.  From the person; the discussion; the argument.
I am certain there is a complete thesis available on my disorder in the halls of literary and academic homes.
This would not help me.
Why?  Because I would be able to see and understand all sides of the arguments held therein.
Go ahead, have a giggle at my expense.  Really, it's okay.  I understand the comedy of errors here.
All of my life, I have avoided argument and conflict and, more often than not, have chosen to not state my opinion and have held it all in until... Boom.  I explode.
Today, I am filled with opinions.... and emotions.  Rage and anger and pent up disbelief at how the small and extremely large injustices go unanswered, unaddressed, unstopped and undone.
We have come to live in a world where the gray is so massive that the black and white-- the right and wrong-- cannot be seen.
Everyone has a right... to their opinion, to their lifestyle, to do as they wish.
And MY OPINION STATED HERE is that I agree... unless their opinion is so hurtful it causes another person pain.  Unless their lifestyle involves impinging on the rights of others.  Until their lifestyle means that others may not enjoy life.
And, therein lies the rub.  The conflict that I avoid.  That I despise.
Let me say this.  I have always been aware of my personality trait.  I did not become an attorney (once high on my list of possible careers), because I knew that this distinct part of ME would not allow me to do that job to the best of my ability and to serve others best.
I fear that those now in authority may also suffer from my trait.... but have chosen to plow in to politics and positions where being decisive and sometimes NOT accepting of others is a necessity.
I believe they need opinions.  Strong ones.  They need to stick to those opinions.  Listen to others, yes.  Bend to them? No.
So... I've gone and done it.  Stated my opinion at the risk of hearing yours.  Here is another thing I know about myself, though... once I put it in writing, my opinion is strong and unyielding.  I know beyond doubt this is how I feel.  It is my opinion that some people need to have an opinion.
There.  That's done.

Parening is NOT an obligation

When, oh when, did Parenting become an Obligation to some? 

When did we become a society where child support was needed, demanded, withheld?  When did walking away from your marriage mean you could walk away from the child?  When did this become our reality?

Stark.  Harsh.  True.  I find myself living in a place where the non-custodial parent equates time with money and believes that a minimum donation makes them a Parent.

They withhold financial assistance, they do not parent, they show up when it is convenient for them.  They tell the world they are a parent.  They show their child that they are not really part of their world.  They live in contradictory allegiance with their own dark places and lack of soul.  And, they somehow convince themselves, that they are right.

I see men and women who live on a shoe string to take care of children from past relationships.  I see them finding ways to be inserted positively into their child's life.  I do.  But these are the rare ones.  They are the dot in the sea, the needle in the haystack.  This makes me insatiably sad.

Sad for the custodial parent who takes on that extra burden to parent for two.  Sad for the child, who never understands how they did not choose to play a role in this staged version of parenting , and yet it is their reality.  I even, on some degree, am sad for the non-custodial parent who never knows the joy of a deep relationship with someone who they brought in to this world.  For the person who gazes, from afar, with jaded eyes, on the relationship that the custodial parent builds bit by bit, minute by minute, touch by touch with their child.

Parenting is the most special thing I have ever been able to do.  It is not an obligation.  It is an honor, a joy, a life process that I am happy to allow consume me.  I have this Amazing Kid.  It is pretty cool.  It is My Best Thing Accomplished In Life... this Mama Biz.  Glad I am not missing one moment of it. 

Really? Just... Really?

I have had a few days of "Really?  Just... Really-ness" in my world.

Let's start with the ever fun-filled world of (drum roll, please) DANCE COMPETITION.  For those of you who live under a rock, I am a dance studio owner and director.  A few times each year, I subject myself and my students to weekends of (drum roll) DANCE COMPETITION.

They used to be fun.  Or, I used to be fun.  Not sure which.  Now, don't be mistaken, there are moments of fun.  Moments of heart warming beauty that reduce me to tears.  (I am usually also sleep deprived and dehydrated when this happens).  There are friendships made and dance pieces appreciated.  But, lately, gosh... these other studios can be Really... Just Really... Mean.

Is it Dance Mom Disease, stemming from the world of Abby Lee Miller and television?  Perhaps. Is it a lack of common courtesy in today's society?  Quite likely... but REALLY.  People are MEAN.
Dancers who mock each other from the wings.  Teachers who tell their students not to worry about the act before them... "You have her beat.  Ewww.  She sucks".  Adults who sit in the audience and make faces at CHILDREN as they perform.  Directors who shove other directors out of their way.  False airs of superiority and the belief that three minutes onstage and a trophy define you.
Ugh.  Just... Ugh.

It is silly things beyond the dance scene.  When snowbanks tower over cars and take up half a lane on city streets and someone is parked and you have to WAIT your turn to get through and people DON'T and I am, like, REALLY?  JUST... REALLY?  Today, someone passed me in such a situation as I was waiting to let a q-tip head driver (Read and translate: Old.  REALLY... Just... Old) come through from the opposite direction.  Excuse me, butt face man in large pick up truck blaring bad '80s Rock and Roll from your vehicle... are you in THAT much of a hurry?  Really?  I think not.  Poor q-tip lady could have had a heart attack.  I almost did.

How about the guy at the gym who erased my name so that he could take my tanning spot?  Really?  Are you that desperate to get some Vitamin D?  Who does that?  Am I just beyond silly for saying that doing such a thing would never even cross my mind?  Really??????? 

I am at that point where my disappointment in the people around me brings me to tears and causes me to rise to action.  Did I say something to those nasty people at dance competition?  You know it.  Did I roll down my window and ask q-tip driver if she was okay?  Of course.  Did I wait for Gym Jerk and tell him what he did was wrong.  No doubt.

Maybe, perhaps... Just.... perhaps... these things are tests to see if anyone will respond or stand up for what is right.  I am not saying I am anyone special.  I AM saying we can all be someone special.  It doesn't take much effort or time.  Join me.  It's kinda fun.  Really.  Just... Really.

A Step In The Right Direction

Dance has been my life.  My first memory is looking through the side of my playpen while my Mother taught tap lessons in our living room.  She kept a piece of old paneling behind our couch, pulled it out to the middle of our living room, cued up the 78 rpm records on the player, and taught time steps and off to buffalos.

I grew up taking every style of dance you can imagine.  My mother’s little living room dance class grew into one of the largest and most successful dance studios in Northern New York.  We traveled to cities and other states for workshops and conventions and competitions.

When I went off to college, I planned for my dancing to cease.  But, no.  I was President of the college dance company and found myself running off to the dance studio every chance I got.  I graduated in 1985 with an English Literature degree and a vow to NOT be a dancer.

After a few years in the “real world”, my mom called to say that the Army base, Fort Drum, was expanding back home.  Would I be interested in coming back and opening a studio?

Yes.  I would… for “ a little while”.

I got married, started a family.  My studio bloomed.  My mother’s studio continued to grow.  Looking back, I guess we were just dancing through life.

In early 2000, my mother began complaining of severe migraines.  She had suffered with headaches all her life, but these were different.  In February 2001, while she was babysitting my daughter, I got a call at my studio.  The ambulance was en route to her house.  She had carefully placed my 3 year old daughter on her bed, closed the door, and went to the opposite side of the house where she had a full blown seizure.

Within days, our world crumbled.  My beautiful, young mother had gioblastoma multi-form.  A rare and incurable brain tumor.

She battled for eight months.  In that time, I tried running her studios, my studios, taking care of my daughter, and I went through a divorce.  I was always tired, always sad, and feeling lost.

When my mother passed away in December of 2001, I didn’t know what to do or how to move forward.

Our dance studios were nationally competitive.  Trophies lined the walls and shelves.  Plaques were everywhere.  It was all hollow and empty and meaningless without her.  

In 2005, I decided to rework the studio concept.  My dance outreach company was born.  Our motto… Dance for others, Dance for self, Dance for life rings out on stage before every benefit show.  The dancers involved have raised over $40,000.00 for local people and groups in need.  To watch young dancers blossom before me, to see their faces when they raise $3,000.00 for a family with two blind sons or help a cancer patient warms my heart.

My dancers have become amazing teachers, performers, parents and have continued to take our spirit of giving and outreach with them and into the larger community of our world.  

My clogging company always dances in honor of my mother, who loved country clogging.  Their shirts say, “Dancing for Donna since 2001”... and I shed a tear every year at our final performance when I see them out on stage.

Starting an outreach company was more than a step in the right direction, it saved my soul.  It lightens my load.  It gives my art and my profession a purpose beyond any words.

In my mind, I can see my mom dancing along with us.  Her smile lights the entire stage.

The Back Story

When I was young, my parents used to constantly say I  brought home strays.
They didn't mean dogs or cats ... they meant people.
I was constantly befriending the girl who had no friends, the boy who got bullied.  I preferred to go visit our 80 year old neighbor after school, because I knew he was lonely after his wife died.
This may, in many ways, seem to be a glorious and wonderful trait.
Somedays, in many ways, it is indeed.
However, my ability to see The Back Story has often meant that the very same people whose story I embrace, turn around and hurt me or leave me stranded.
What is this back story?  I am a sucker for someone who cries poor or has less than me.  I want to help them, to fix them, to make it all better.
First off, it should be noted... many, many, many of them do not want me to fix anything.  It isn't, after all, my place.  Who says I am in someway "better" than them... who says my back story is a shining example of wondie-ness.
Note.  I don't.
I never have.  We were squarely  middle class when I was growing up.  Often, we faltered on the lower middle class end of the spectrum.  I never knew it then.  My parents never, ever shared this with me.  But, in retrospect, lunch boxes with a "mustard sandwich" or saltines and butter may have been a big hint.
My Mom watched for sales and clipped coupons.  Having $100.00 saved up to go to the Ames in Lowville and get new school clothes was a big deal.  Still, I always felt so lucky.  So rich.
I loved our home.  My mom, even though she ran her own business, always had an after school snack waiting and dinner planned.  I had two parents who adored me and listened to my stories.  I had a baby brother who I hung the moon on... he was (and still is) the Best Sibling Ever.  I had dogs and a yard with a big swing set.  I got to take piano lessons and dance lessons.  They hauled me to cheerleading practice and one of them was at every game I ever cheered at.
When I saw a child who didn't get to participate; who sat alone at lunch; who wore the same clothes every day; who never got asked to sleepovers or birthday parties, I was like a magnet attracted to a sheet of metal.  I was "on that project".
As an adult, this has continued.  I always see someone who seems sad or angry and the writer in me begins to create their Back Story.
Were they an abused child?  Are they facing unemployment?  Illness?  Is a family member dying?  I will surround them with love, shower them with Free Stuff, take them to lunch.... I will make up for their Back Story.
Will I?  No.  I won't.  I will attempt it.  Inevitably, I will fall short or they will take advantage of me.  Either way, it sure does sting.
In many ways, on most days, I am still that third grader who invites that shy kid home for dinner.  I am too bright and happy.  I try too hard to fix what is not my story to fix.... what someone may  not wish for me to fix.
I still beckon you to look at those around you who seem nasty or sad and wonder- What Is Their Back Story.  I know this- this faulty trait of mine makes me much less judgmental than most.  Even my daughter, at a young age, would caution me to stop letting people walk all over me or take advantage of me.  She is a better judge of character than her soft hearted Mama.
Nonetheless, if I ever meet you, you can bet I am wondering.... What Is Their Back Story.
Maybe you want to tell me, and maybe you don't.

Momentously Mundane

I am finding a quiet happiness in the mundane.
Who'd a thunk it?
The quiet comfort of folding laundry.  The sudsy warmth of hands in dishwasher, the swish of rinse, the click-clunk as the plate settles in to its slot in the drying rack.  I revel in the rhythm of my shoveling duties and relax to the hum of the vacuum cleaner.
Those of you out there who know me are  most likely falling off your chairs; either from raucous laughter or from shock.
It is true.  I find these moments to be... momentous.
I let my memories come to mind, I soften my heart and, often, my tongue.  I embrace the simple joy of a task well done.
It is a treasure to have the time to fold that shirt correctly.  It is a pleasure to delve my hands into soapy water.  I can take an hour to bathe the dog.
We get confused.  Misled.  Way-laid.  Life, my friends, is not the big rush; the huge party; the gigantic event.  Life is not the fancy restaurant.  It is the making of a huge salad with your child chopping veggies at your side.  It is the ease of conversation that flows from small chores shared.  It is, indeed, the mundane.
Try.  Just breathe and slow down and try.  Try to lose yourself in the creases of a king size bed sheet.  Look out the window and take in the details of your yard or street as you rinse dishes.  Put away the food processor and take out the knife.  Start chopping away at your stress and your worry and your fears.
It is a gloriously simple thing, this embracing the every day tasks and finding joy in the mundane.  This task is yours; make the next thing you do, no matter how basic, momentous.

 

The Bee Who Was A Fly

They huddled in a small circle onstage.
It was not part of my choreography.
The 5-7 year olds squealed excitedly and pointed in an exaggerated dance of desperation at a dot on the stage.
"Bee. Bee!  Bumble Beeeeeee!!" they screamed mid-routine.

What else could I do?  I had the cassette stopped (yes, cassette, it was that long ago), and pranced on stage to see what the commotion was all about.

Small children hid behind me and clung to my panty hosed legs.  I gingerly peered into the circle to find... a floundering fly.

I had stopped my recital for a floundering, three quarters dead, fly.

I turned to the audience and smiled.  "No bee.   Just a fly.  The show can go on."
An Assistant carried broom and dustpan onstage, swept the now-dead fly into the pan, and exited stage left with a grand flourish.

The cassette was re-cued, the dancers set in their opening poses, and the show went on.

How many times in life do we panic and think we are encountering a burly bumble bee, when, in fact, it is only a floundering fly we must deal with?  I know, personally, that I am guilty of this.  I panic.   I worry.  I think the worst.  I prepare for it.  I succumb to it.  Then, when I actually have to have an encounter or deal with the "huge" problem, it is nothing more than an almost-dead fly.

What if, instead, we decided that every problem would be only a close to the end fly?  An issue we can handle with a soft slap, a swish of a broom, a squish of our toe?  What if we try that plan of attack?

Sure, it is still A Buzz... but there is no sting.

Don't Drop The Fruit Fly Jar

I was a sophomore in high school and my Chemistry teacher introduced us to an experiment. A huge glass jar, a few eager fruit flies and... the multiplication thereof.
How many would propagate as the experiment went on?
More importantly... who would get to carry the jar from the closet to his desk each day?
Every day, I threw my hand high in the air and wiggled to the edge of my seat to go and get the jar.
Every day, Mr. Stanek smirked, shook his head "no" at me, and chose someone else.
"But, whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"  I moaned.  "I wanna do ittttt!".
Mr. Stanek's smile broadened.  "I'm sorry, Rhonda.  You will drop the jar, I just know it".
Silly!  Preposterous!   Was he basing this theory on my scientific past in our high school?
Yes.  True.  I was the girl who left her milk-based 7th grade science experiment in her locker over Winter Break.  It was I who led the janitorial staff on a fruitless mission to discover "that smell".  On the day back from break... I found it!
Indeed, it was I who inadvertently dropped a test tube filled with sulphate and it crashed against an air duct, spreading the smell of rotten eggs throughout the ninth grade wing.  For that honor, the secretary announced over the speaker system, "anyone choking on the smell in the ninth grade wing, be sure to thank Rhonda Foote".  I received many, many "thanks" that week.
It is also possible that, just that very Fall, I had decided to find out if I could make my frog (which I was supposed to be dissecting) jump out the second story window on to the head of my FrienEmy playing tennis on the courts below.  The answer, I found, was YES.  The result?  Detention.  (PS, it was well worth it).
All of these events, and my somewhat over eager and scatter brained nature, led Mr. Stanek to his deduction that I would NOT be the best candidate to carry the fruit flies from the closet to his desk.
Days and weeks went by.  Every day, my hand flew in the air.  Every day, he smirked and said "No".
The final day of the experiment, the jar was bursting with fruit flies.  I was almost desperate in my quest to carry that damn jar.  Mr. Stanek looked at me.  He paused.  "Okay, Rhonda.  You can go get the jar.  Do NOT drop it".
"I won't", I sang out, leaping from my chair and skipping to the closet.
I am quite sure you see this coming.
I raised the jar triumphantly above my head.  I marched in to the classroom and.... I tripped.
The jar fell in slow motion before my eyes.
SMASH.
Seemingly millions of fruit flies quickly filled the classroom.  Windows were flung open.  Someone opened the door in to the hall way before they could be stopped.
Guess what?  Fruit flies travel fast.  They were EVERYWHERE in our school in very rapid succession.
Mr. Stanek slowly turned and made eye contact with me.  I waited.  He never yelled.  He pulled out his desk chair, sat down, and shook his head.  "See," he said, "I knew you would drop it".

Fate?  Perhaps.  I have always been the girl to drop the jar, the ball, the secret.  I am always excited and hurried and on a bigger mission.  It isn't that I do not have focus, it is that my focus is so large scaled that I am always ready to take the next step, instead of focusing on the step I am on.

This means I have had five concussions, many relationships, and am extremely creative.  I believe in the joy of making a mistake and the obligatory apology.  I know that I am trustworthy, but not always trusted.

As I have aged, the fruit fly jar episode has stayed with me.  I want to thank Mr. Stanek.  He gave me the opportunity to carry that jar.  Even when I dropped it, he never yelled at me.   It is a teacher and parenting tool I often refer back to.

Go ahead, let your kid carry the good china, or do the laundry filled with your best clothes.  They might drop a plate.  They may ruin a sweater.  But, the life lesson of trust you give them and the need to make their own mistake is beyond measure.

Dare to drop the fruit fly jar.

Lack of appreciation

I am not clear if I am growing old and grouchy, or if I am really hitting the mark on this one.
People no longer appreciate each other or what others do for them.
There is a general lack of appreciation in today's society.

The level of hand holding and spoon feeding of information is alarming.
Why?
Is it because we live with our device in our hand, our face in our device, and expect everything to magically pop up on  a screen?

Is it because we put ear plugs in and tune out the world around us?
Does this mean that when someone speaks to us, we simply no longer HEAR them?

Regardless of the possible reasons, we are raising a generation that lacks the ability for genuine communication.  But, let's be clear, it is a parenting issue.

Personally, in my business as a Dance Studio Owner, I have seen an alarming rate of decline on the parent's ability to communicate or follow basic information.  This is not an insult.  It is a fact.  I am diligent in my attempt to make instructions as simple as possible.  With over 200 students and close to 50 Outreach Company dancers, this is not an easy task.  I have two separate websites that I update weekly.  I have a studio Facebook page and a private company Facebook page where I post the links to said information on said websites.  I have monthly newsletters that are posted on the website AND offered as a hard copy at the desk.  I have a gigantic white board in our lobby that clearly states deadlines, due dates and information. I encourage everyone to email me if they still have questions or issues.   Lastly, I have a PERSON who sits at the desk and will answer all questions. 

Inevitably, the ball is dropped.  Rehearsals are missed.  Deadlines ignored.  Classes unattended. 
My frustration at all of this grows daily.  It leads me to be angry and non-communicative on MY end.  None of this helps, I know.... but, I, too, have and end to my rope.

It isn't just me.  School teachers, music directors, coaches.... I have heard this from all of them.  I have done "this job" for almost 30 years.  In the beginning, without all of the technology, I truly believe that there was less confusion.  People picked up the newsletter and READ it.  They WROTE dates in their calendars.  They SAW information when it was on a bulletin board or white board.  They had similar set ups at home ... I always had a huge white board in our house all color-coded with a different color for each child and activity.  At age 5, they were expected to SEE this board and KNOW what they had to do each day.  Accountability.  Appreciation for the opportunity to participate.  It worked.

My favorite memory is the Mom of four active kids who showed up at registration with a binder with her daughter's name emblazoned on the front and filled with plastic scrapbook pages.  She took every bit of information I gave her and filed it under "Dance".  She then added every date to a fold out calendar in the front of the binder.  She told me she had one for each child and, as of first grade, the binder was THEIR responsibility for tracking THEIR activities.  This child went on to be a "favorite".  She practiced, she grew, she thrived.  When she chose to discontinue dance, she came to me, as an 8th grader, and had a conversation to thank me for the years of dance and instruction and for helping her grow into a responsible teen.  Even though she no longer is my student, she remains a part of my life.  Seeing her perform at Area All State or Bi-County is a thrill for me.  She made responsible choices, and I APPRECIATE HER.

Perhaps, we need to rethink the direction we are taking as a society.  Perhaps, we need to encourage our children to be held responsible.  To not expect that they can do it all.  To hold ourselves and our children accountable for their activities, behavior, and responsibilities.

But, really, it begins with us.  Pause and reflect at how much of your anger and frustration stems from lack of organization.   Would it be a bad idea to make a binder?  To WRITE down dates and times and obligations?  I think not.

Let's also consider communicating.  If one is going to miss an activity or practice or rehearsal, please take the few moments needed to let someone know.
I tell my students time and time again to let me know if they will NOT be at class or rehearsal.  Aside from being common courtesy, I WORRY.  I am good at many things, but I am GREAT at worrying.  I immediately think that their car is in a snowbank, that someone side swiped them running a red light, that they fell off a cliff.  No. Really.  These thoughts all cross my mind.  The time and energy I spend tracking down "missing dancers" is unfair to myself and to the dancers who are present in the room.  I am pretty sure that other coaches and teachers feel the same way.

It is a tangled path we are heading down, folks.  A very tangled path, indeed.  Each of us is a string on this path.  Our knots and loop holes trip up others traveling on our path.  Keep your path clear, your string taught, and make the path less painful for others.  It would be appreciated.

Good Bye, Ol' Buddy

It was the summer of Madi's third birthday.
She was old enough to understand that the big trip to Texas from our little Northern New York home was not for pleasure.
At age one, she had become the youngest person in medical history to have a full spinal fusion.
Age age two, she had become Patient #98 in the VEPTR program.  We had traveled to San Antonio that summer for her first titanium rib installation on her left side.  An 8 hour surgery; 7 days in a post op induced coma; 3 weeks in hospital recovery; 8 weeks at home recovery... and now, we were headed back for installation on her right side.
So... I bribed her with A Puppy.  "When we get back from Texas, I will get you a puppy".
It seemed a small trade for a big ordeal.

One of my dance families at the time had just brought home a small Cairn Terrier from a local breeder.  He didn't shed.  He was cute and Toto loveable.  I spoke with them, got a phone number and made the call.

This is how our Buddy came to be "ours". We brought him home and began the name game.  Madi was determined he would be Bert (as in Ernie and Bert).  I argued that I was NOT standing in our front yard and yelling "BERT" for him to return to our yard.  "Ernie"?  I suggested.  No.  He didn't "look like and Ernie".  She was stuck on the letter "B".  I racked my brain.  "Buddy?"   I asked.  "Buddy!"  She exclaimed.  Buddy he was. 

He was a fluff of fun.  Energetic and a bit on the naughty side.  I had always had dogs, but never a terrier.  I quickly discovered that this terrier took mischief to an all new level.  Digging, biting and destroying were his top three activities.  Just when I thought I simply couldn't deal with him, he would answer Madi's little "Here, Buddy.  Here, Buddy Boy" and belly crawl to her side; oh-so-gently nuzzling her lap and placing his head under her little hand.  His adoring eyes would roll up to her sweet face and... I loved him.  So much.

We were living in our home in Croghan.  Behind our fence was farm field of cows.  Buddy's favorite activity was digging his way under our fence to chase the cows.  I would stand at the fence and futilely yell at him to "COME".  I was terrified that a cow would trample him.  He, however, ran blissfully in and out of their hooves.  I swear, he was smiling.

I would leave him in the yard for a hot minute while I toweled Madi up and took her inside.  When I returned, he would inevitably be paddling around in her little plastic pool, or digging in her sand box, or pulling up my flowers.  Young Buddy was a never ending bundle of energy.

When we moved in with my then-boyfriend, Buddy continued his adventures.  Hunting down woodchucks and engaging them in scary arguments in a new back yard,  hurling himself at the gate as very large dogs lunged back, and causing general mayhem.  Every time I was at my wits end, he would snuggle up to Madi and love on her.... and I would, in turn, love him more.

When we moved again, something in the new house or yard triggered allergies for Buddy.  He lost his hair and became "naked dog".  I tried everything.  Medicines, holistic treatments, baths and more.  He just never became his handsome self again.  Although he could have won Ugly Dog contests, to Madi and I he remained the young stud of a terrier.

Recently, my long term relationship ended and Madi and I moved once more.  In the new home, Buddy flourished.  He got a great deal of hair back.  He was just "happy".  He was 14 in dog years.  Ancient in people years.  He loved to cuddle in his bed and would bark (several times a day and night) for me or Madi to come and cover him up with his favorite flannel blanket.

Towards the end, he would  emit a high pitched whine up to 7 times each night for me to come in and cover him up.  I would run my fingers through his wayward tuft of hair on top of his old man head and pat his soft, silky ears.... often, I would get on my knees and eskimo kiss his wet little nose.  There is just nothing sweeter than an old dog who loves you unconditionally.

Last Thursday, I realized that Buddy's breathing was becoming labored.  Friday morning, we were to be off bright and early for Madi's college auditions 7 hours away.  "No, Buddy" I thought... "not now.  not ever"...
Madi went to bed around 11 pm that night.  By midnight, I called her down to say her good-byes.  We spent the night sitting sentinel by our sweet boy's side.  We told him we loved him.  We told him it was okay to let go.  We told him we would never, ever forget him. 
In the morning, we faced the fact that his level of pain was unbearable for all three of us.  One more time, I swaddled him in his flannel blanket.  I carried him out for one last car ride.  Madi held him tenderly in her arms and we drove in silence to the Veterinarians.  Time and time again, Madi thanked Buddy for being her first Best Friend.  Her best Best Friend.  Every time, little shards of my heart exploded in pain.

He didn't go easy.  When he finally gave in, his ear was cocked to Madi's voice for one more "I love you, Buddy Boy" and his eyes were glued to her face... even though they had long ago lost sight. 

A part of our hearts died that day.  We returned home, packed the car, and headed on our journey to build Madi's future.  A future without her First Best Friend, but one filled with memories of the past and the joy that a tiny terrier named Buddy brought us. 

Lotions and Potions

I want to know who comes up with the names on lotions and potions...
Lotions and Potions...that is what Madi called her special lotions, medicines, bath products from a very young age.  It stuck.
But, take a gander at the labels, all.  "Sunglow Mountain", "Enchanted Destination", "Country Chic", "Peppermint Passion" are all currently housed on my very own bathtub shelf.
Think about shampoo commercials.  Use that product and have instantly beautiful locks.
Wow.
I want a life that works that way.
If I just use the right product, I will feel as if I am standing on a mountain, basking in sun glow.
Just smooth on some lotion, and BOOM, I have reached an Enchanted Destination!
Who needs real sex when you can have Peppermint Passion??

Personally, there I days I think I need anti-labels.  You know... A bath gel that says "Stuck in the sand".  A lotion that says "Too Tired To Think".  A shampoo labeled "Going Gray Today". 
I studied advertising and I understand the lure of labeling.
But, I wonder... would Anti-Labeling take off?
Are we ready for some honesty, for something that is so true it is laughable?
Part of me says, yes.  Yes, we are.
There are many days that I am.

But then, I walk in to my favorite bath product store.  I try the samples.  I see the enticing labels.  I look for coupons, and I buy in to the false promise of the glorious life these products offer.

Hey, why not?

Snowbound Thoughts

I am ten again.  I am sitting atop a large mound of snow... as tall as the Mill it has been pushed next to, with my friend, Renee.
We nibble at the ice stuck to our old mittens and don't mind that our Sears snow pants have long since wet through.  We can't feel our toes or fingers and our cheeks are purple-red with cold.  I am pretty sure our noses are running like faucets, too.
We don't even notice.  We have ESP!  Yes!  We can sit atop our make shift igloo and guess what color the next car traveling down or up Bridge Street will be.  We are ALWAYS right.  Because we peek, of course.  But, in our ten year old hearts, we have special powers.  Not to mention the fact that it is Bridge Street in Croghan, New York on the day of a blizzard.  Maybe, maybe... ten cars top went by all day.
I don't remember what else we talked about or who we talked about.  I clearly recall it being a fabulous, childhood snow day. 
I am thirteen.  My ankles are sore, and again with those numb fingers.  No snow pants now!  I wear my tightest jeans and leg warmers and ear muffs and am, certainly, freezing.  I am skating around and around and around the ice rink behind the old firehall.  Boys are there. Boys I have suddenly decided are "cute".  They play hockey and intentionally hit all of the girls with the puck.  Carefully, of course (until someone loses an eye, hee hee).  When we gals can barely stand and our coldness equals pain, we change our skates for white boots that lace up with fur around the edges (all, without doubt, purchased from the Big N in Lowville), and cross the quiet road to Wishy's.  We order hot chocolates all around, heaped with whipped cream. We sip and gossip about The Boys as our extremities tingle and ache as they welcome the cold.  Without a doubt, The Boys soon follow us.  Eventually, we are playing pool or ping pong in someone's cellar and pizza is ordered from Stump's.
I am sixteen.  I have a new black and white ski suit that I got for Christmas.  Someone's parents have braved the roads and delivered a crew of us to Snow Ridge.  I ride the lift with a handsome strange boy.  On the last lift ride, he holds my hand.... and, my heart along with it.  We swish and swoosh down black diamond trails and I pretend I am not terrified.  But I am.  And not just of the trails.  I have reached a stage in my young adult life where challenge is thrill tinged with terror.  It is a sign of future me.  I never did heed it.
Flash forward to snow days today.  I shovel.  I snow blow.  Once, in a blue moon, I bundle up and take a walk in The White Stuff.  We do not have a friendly relationship anymore.  My daughter's snow existence never went beyond the Snowman building stage, for many reasons... all medical.  We have created a Nice Nest for snow days.  We cook and bake.  We watch Netflix.  She sings and plays piano or the ukelele.  I knit and scrap book and write.  And, I think.
I think about the love/hate relationship I have with the white stuff.  The stuff that keeps me from my dance studio and work.  The stuff that makes my back pain when shoveling.  The stuff that my doxie stands in and looks up at me with a What The F*** look on its little face while peeing.  The stuff that builds up.
But, I think, snow helps me with The Stuff That Builds Up.  It forces me to slow down, sit down, look around, and think.  It makes time for a certain perspective that lacks in my usual busy life. 
It brings back a realm of incredible memories... especially the one when, the first snow fall after my Mom's death, so many people reached out to me.  Mandee and Derek came the night of Christmas in Croghan.  They swaddled 4 year old Madi in her purple snow suit and shielded my heart from the bitter cold.  They held our hands and marched through knee deep snow so that we could behold a little town filled with Christmas love and magic.  That snow culminates in a memory I will always cherish when, the next day, my Dad and Brother and now Sister-in-law all came to my door bundled in their winter clothes.  Madi and I donned ours and, missing one, we all went out to build a snowman.  We rolled our grief in to tight snowman body parts.  We broke twigs and found a carrot.  We wrapped a colorful scarf around our snowman.  We came together to make something we could all touch and see in our most difficult time.
And Madi got to build a snowman.  At 4 years old, this is the stuff that matters.
That snowman melted, much like the noose of grief around my neck.
All these winters later, it is a dull ache... much like the memory of those numb fingers as I sat atop a mammoth snow hill with a child hood friend and practiced the rite of ESP. 
Snowstorms?  Maybe The Big Guy Upstairs knows what he's doing... whether you venture out or build your nest today, embrace the reality that Mother Nature wins... and you might as well, too.

Ch-ch-changes

I have made some quiet changes in a private way in the past four months. Not easy for someone with a very public existence.
"Why is your name changed on Facebook?"
"Why did you delete a universe of friends on social media?"
"Why did your relationship status change?"
Why should I answer?
Old Me would have felt obligated to explain.
New me just doesn't.
Here is the rub... Anyone who says that time passing doesn't signal little explosive bombs in your soul is either lying or secretly dead.
I have an extreme consciousness of time passage. I have expectations for growth and stimulation and hope and a beautiful swirl of color and unicorns and rainbows.
No, really. I do.
This may not make me a realist, but that is certainly not a title I have ever wished to wear.
At the end of each day, I believe we should let our head hit the pillow and ask one simple question-- Was I Happy Today?
Happiness is on its own daily scale. There's going to Disney happy. There's swimming with dolphins happy. There's getting the laundry folded happy. There's holding someone's hand happy.
There's no one died today happy.
There's I didn't kill someone today happy.
You get the idea.
When you start to avoid that pillow moment because you know that you will lie there, wide eyed and, often, teary eyed, because you know that not one of those ️happy descriptions fits your day, you owe it to yourself and to all those around you, to seek change.  This change will be far from easy. It will sting. It will bend, and almost break you. You will be questioned and will question yourself.
All of this is ok. To be expected.
Seeking happiness is not illegal or immoral. There will be many who will make you feel otherwise.
This, I know. I have learned and felt and avoided and absorbed all of The People Who Have Opinions.
Go ahead, have opinions. Share them. Believe the things you hear or make them the things you want to hear. I am done listening.
I know this. I go to bed, lay my head on this pillow, and feel the calm, seeping satisfaction of simplicity and happiness.
In the end, it is all I have ever wanted.

Lasting Impressions

I don't know if others do it.
Or, if they do, if they do it as intently.
If they have been as conscious of the meaning.  The importance.
The lasting impression.

I remember needing to remember at a very young age.
My Great Grandmother and I shared a birth date.  I clearly recall sitting in a green strapped, slightly tarnished lawn chair on our door step and hearing her tell me.  Remember this, darling girl.
So, I did.
So, I do.

When we moved from our ranch style home on Bridge Street, I stayed up all night.  Peering, somewhat anxiously, out my bedroom window.  I was nine.  To this day, I can tell you the shadow the street lamp cast on the hedge outside my window.  I had memorized the number of steps it took from the side of our house to the small hole in that hedge that I used to transport myself to Bonnie's house several times each day.  I knew the slant of the mill roof across the road and memorized the way every piece of furniture fit in my first bedroom.

Before I left for college, I squeezed my eyes shut until the tears and colors of my room swirled together and cemented on the inside of my eyelids.  Surely, when I was homesick, I could squeeze those eyes shut again and be somehow transported to my attic room, where the roses on the curtains I made in 7th grade would dance in the small town breeze and my very large stuffed bear would beckon me for a hug.

Lasting impressions.  Perhaps not the kind you are used to or immediately think of.  Literally, the impressions I have worked so very hard to make last in my brain... my heart... my very being.

The night after my daughter was born, the nurses yelled at me to get some sleep.  How could I?  How could I miss one iota of time when I should be memorizing the curve of her nose, the swirl of her light brown baby curls, the incredible power of her minute fist?  I did not sleep that night.

It was great practice, I suppose, for the nights I sat by her hospital bed and gazed intently at her.  Chest rise and fall, check.  A very lasting impression.

I have a compulsion to remember every moment.  Every detail MUST be of importance, right?  This time is sacred, this day to be embraced.  I acknowledge that it seems extreme, even to me... but I also know that my ability to recall physical details of loved ones gone or relive the most precious times of my life in grand detail is of immense comfort to me.

This is 2015.  When Madi was in Kindergarten, and they would say "The Class of 2015", it was almost comical.  I mean, seriously, that was SO far away.
Now, here we are.
She, a High School Senior.  Me, a mother embedding every sweet second of her "lasts" into my hyper-aware Mama brain.
I find myself hoping for one more Netflix episode of Gilmore Girls with her by my side on the couch just so that I can shore up on the physical moments that make my memories clearer.  How her head rests on my shoulder as she gets tired; how her laugh melds with mine as we watch our favorite show together; how her breathing changes as she drifts to sleep.  I let her sleep on the couch, and lovingly cover her with my favorite blanket.

I wonder if, in a few months, she will find herself standing in her bedroom- bags packed and walls bare as she heads off to college-  squeezing her eyes shut oh so tight and letting the images of this little world embed in to the backs of her eyelids so that, when she needs to, she can bring to life her vision of home.

I hope that she will carry with her the lasting impression of my love.  That she can close her eyes and feel that love, wherever this crazy world may transport her.

Tomorrow, put down your cell phone.  Stop snap chatting or checking facebook.  Forget about YouTube or Vine.  Take part of the day you have been given and see someone.  See something.  Memorize the details and imprint them on your heart.  The lasting impression is a gift you may need someday, all too soon.  Don't throw away the possibility of the memory.