You Weren't Part of the Story

Just a reminder for the reader. You weren't part of the story. Not then. Not now. You didn't see the effort it took to write each sentence, to choose the correct punctuation, even the struggle for the right font. (Is this best in Courier, size 12?... Should I allow this run-on sentence... Is this a question or a statement...).

That was the struggle of our story, in essence. Two families trying every day to be one. Loving each other in an unqualified manner that was, somehow, always qualified by others. Forging ahead to write a new page which was always tinged at the corners with a slow burn, a curling edge of the paper, where a bright flame was licking at the heart of our story.

We shared days of overflowing happiness wrapped in bows that were later found, crumpled along with the wrapping paper in a dusty corner. A carefully constructed box that once held treasures was tipped on its side, contents shattered, pieces strewn about the hardwood floor.

Words, words like sharp knives or words like cozy hugs. As attentive as a loving pet. As hurtful as a scratch from that frightened animal.

When life lies in balance, secrets spill out on pillowcases in darkness. They lie on the cotton thread case like refrigerator alphabet letters, plastic, hard and cold. Words are muffled screams emitted as whispers. These words are wisps of light in the gray of early morning. They are hot coffee on a cold morning, too hot and somehow comforting at the same time. Words are strangling-hold-on-too-tight-we-are-falling-apart moments uttered in lovely desperation.

You weren't there with us then. You aren't allowed to write yourself into the story. Don't add a post-script or even your "perhaps it was all for the best".

When we first met, I wrote: "On this starry night you stand on the dock by the river and the moon strikes its bold path to light your face. At this moment, I know you are true. I know we are true." No one can erase those words and the sentiment they hold. Time cannot erase those words or the emotion we felt. That was the start of a story that was only ours- Ours and those who will always remain ours, holding the memories in a secret space only five of us share. We cannot second guess the font we chose or the way we punctuated each sentence. The story has been written. I know one thing to be true, we shared a long chapter in a too short story.

The Ability to Be...

It is November. You know, the time we are expected to give thanks, to show how grateful we are, to embrace the warm and fuzzy. Social media is a buzz kill on this topic. My timeline is laden with memories of daily grateful posts from years gone by. I mean, I've said it. I've written it. I've added the obligatory "look how wonderful my life is" pic. It is all there for the world to see.

So. I am not doing it this November. Not repeating. Not restating. Just, resharing. Thanks, Facebook for the "that was easy" button option on this topic.

To clarify, I AM grateful. I do love my life. I have a great kid, fabulous friends, and my businesses make me happy on the daily. I have many, many reasons to be grateful this year. I sold a house, moved my Dad closer to me so I can spend more time with him, moved into my dream house, and got a new car (used car... new used car). My dance company is thriving, I love being an adjunct English prof and tutor at the community college, and life is G-O-O-D.

I guess what I am asking is why do I need to share it? Why do I need to post photos, restate the obvious, join the influx of the masses of the grateful this November? Well, the obvious answer is, I don't. I don't need to try to explain how all of this wonderfulness in my existence is tinged with a sadness that only the melodramatic artist in me can embrace.

I can't explain how leaving the Croghan house yesterday brought me to tears. How I wandered room to room, looking for the ghost of my Mother as she stood at Madi's bedroom window on Christmas eve in 1999 and half-whispered into the snowy night, "Remember this night and its magic, Rhonda. It will be gone too soon". I struggle to share how I peered into the overgrown backyard and tilted my head to one side, listening for the tinkle of giggling toddlers as they ran in the grass, tried to drive the Barbie jeep, or splashed in the plastic wading pool. My heart was heavy as I retraced the narrow steps, imagining a heavy headed and sleepy Madi in my arms as I carefully counted each step, knowing my most precious cargo could not be dropped or wakened from her slumber.

I wanted to walk into that living room and see my Dad and Madi strumming on guitars and singing loudly as the television buzzed in the background. I wanted to shake my head, turn off the television, pop a squat on the couch, and smile ear to ear at their antics.

Instead, I checked closets for strangely important long-lost objects and carefully closed doors behind me one last time. I ran my hand along the faded wall paper I recall my Gram Alice putting up with such painstaking pride and care. I'm sure it will be gone, destroyed, unappreciated.

Change is good, I know. Embracing the new, feeling blessed and grateful and lucky is how we move forward. Still, there is a smudge in the fresh ink of newness. A thumbprint squarely embedded on the fresh page of  Moving On. It won't be erased or crossed out. I see it, clearly. I feel it, deeply. Grateful? I am. For the memories.

58

Perhaps what is most pertinent is that I am measuring my mortality in years. Perhaps this is traced to the loss of my Mom when she was so young. At the time, everyone commented about how young she was. Gone too soon. 58. Horrible, awful thing Cancer is. Damn C word. 58.

I was drowning. Going through a nasty divorce (is there really any other type of divorce?), trying to keep my business afloat, as well as hers, caring for a 4-year old daughter who had to undergo two major surgeries That Year We Lost My Mom.

A Doctor at Sloan-Kettering mumbled something to me about, "being careful of warning signs" and such. I was in my mid-30's and filed his comment under To Think About Later.

It is Later. I am on my way to 55. Now, my mother's early death talks to me. It sits with me at night as the television hums its song of loneliness. It cuddles on my lap and waits to be petted and cared for, much like my attention-seeking dachshund. This thing To Think About Later buckles itself next to me in the passenger seat on long car rides and whispers in my ear as I run on the tread mill. 

Every time I am feeling under the weather, I hear that Doctor's mumbled words ring in my head. I look for signs. I imagine them. I dread them. I fear them. 

There is not a day that I do not review all my Mother missed. My brother's wedding and the births of his children. My daughter's Senior Prom and honors awards and graduation. My Dad's open heart surgery and difficult recovery. Her dance students becoming dance teachers and studio owners. The success of my studio. Life. She has missed the life that was hers to enjoy. 

People expected me to be a Bigger Mess than I was when she died. I thought I was, categorically, a huge mess. I have always thought, however, that I was incredibly lucky to have had thirty plus years with my Mom. She was my best friend and confidant, she was strong and loving, a provider and a caretaker. I had huge arguments with her and learned how to forgive and be forgiven because of her. She taught me to dance and taught me to teach dance. My mom was a beauty and oh so smart. She taught me it was okay to be both of those things. In the 1970's and early 80's, this was not always the case. 

My mother made me a Lady Who Lunches with friends and a woman who puts family first. Holidays were extravagant affairs with miles of tables laden with too much food, and card games to accompany dessert and coffee. I tell myself that most people never know their mothers as I did. They are not lucky enough to hold these memories close. Loss? Incredible. Lost? Always. Lucky? Strangely. 

I look at my almost-twenty-one-year-old daughter and wonder if I have lived enough to give her enough. Enough memories and love to get her through life if I was to leave it. Enough strength and wisdom to plow on when darkness and sadness overwhelm her. Enough knowledge of life that she can accept death. My death. Her mother's death. I wish I never wondered this, but I do. 

I wonder this because I have lived it. I live it. I will live it. Mortality looms for all. Life is more than wondering if and when death will greet us. I know this. I live and I love life. Still. 58. It is so young. 

Perspective

I am, perhaps, 3 or 4. I recall watching my Mom teach tap in our living room. The view is slightly askew, as I am peering through the octagon openings of my playpen. I remember the sound of tapping on upside down paneling and my Mom in black pants and a colored top.

I am 7. I sit, suntanned legs dangling over the rock ledge. I watch ants meander over moss as I read book after book. I scan the Croghan horizon and wonder at the lonely vehicle or two that happens by. Leaves curl on the ground below me and I pull my hand-knit-sweater-with-the-white-bunnies-on-it a bit tighter around my tiny shoulders. I hear my Mom calling to me from our patio, but keep reading. I know that she knows where I am, and we both know I won't be coming in the kitchen door until this book is finished.

I am 10. We are moving. Only one town over, but it feels so far away. I will go to the same school, and I will keep the same friends (perhaps). I stay up all night, looking out my bedroom window, and memorizing every moonstruck shrub and tree branch. Even now, I can summon that scene and feel the heat of my breath as I strain to commit every detail to memory. In the morning, I stumble among boxes and pretend I am not sleepy. I occupy my brother as my Mom reads from lists and tells Dad and family and friends what Not To Drop Or Else.

I am just 18. I will go to college tomorrow. I tip toe into my brother's room and watch his silhouette rise and fall with his breathing. There are 9 and a half years between us, yet we are very close. I have been a huge part of his first 8 years. I am saddest about leaving him. I creep silently up my attic-room stairs, knowing which step to avoid to make sure the CREEEEAAAKing sound won't wake anyone. I cuddle on the window seat and look out the window. Again, I commit to memory small details. The arch of the Beaver River bridge in the distance- steel meeting sky in a silver arc against the pale gray of morning. I peer down into our side-yard above-ground pool and stare at the neighbor's kitchen entrance. I love our neighbor, Mrs. Cowles. She was the elementary librarian at my school and had introduced me to so many wonderful authors. I close my eyes and watch the sparks of my overtired brain grow and subside. In the morning, we drive to Hartwick. My Mom sits, silent and sad.

I am a college graduate. Jeanine and I stand on the back (unsafe, I am sure) balcony of our Gault Street Ghetto Apartment and toast to our future. We have been up all night, savoring our academic victory, and clinging to our last gasp of life-before-we-have-to-grow-up. I see my favorite friend. She is slim and pretty. Short brown hair frames her brown eyes. I know she hears my words, I know she understands me. I am suddenly afraid. Afraid of making adult friends who will never know me like she does. I find myself doing it again- looking at every detail around us... the cement, the pavement below, the one dangling safety light that my Dad insisted on installing. I can still hear mumbled conversation from the SUCO guys living below and see the bubbles dissipating in my tiny, plastic champagne flute. The phone rings. Jeanine goes inside to answer it. She calls out to me- "It's for you. It's your Mom".

I am a Mom.  I am a MOM. The nurse comes in (again) and tells me to get some sleep. She is, obviously, delusional. Can she not see this baby? This tiny extension of me? This person who I made? Sleep is not welcome. I have a job to do. I must memorize her hair (dark brown ringlets), her eyes (gray blue orbs), her hands (pink-five-fingered-wonders). I pet her and coo at her and we stare at each other. Look at that! She is memorizing me, too! It is now 20 years that I have been a Mom. I have done this for every moment of her life- memorized her. It is what Moms do, I suppose.

I have driven her to Hartwick. I have been sadly silent. I have unloaded the boxes and bins and watched her eyes light up at the "possibilities". I have seen this and I have embraced it, and I have thought of my Mom.

More than any two people, I have memorized them- My Mom and My Daughter. One gone and one going on. One who I struggle every day to "see". One who I sometimes long to see. One whose voice I can hear in my head- and one who I hope- hears mine.

I cannot tell you what has formed your perspective on this journey called Life. You cannot tell me what has formed mine. What we see now is formed by a string of visions we have already seen. These Polaroids are mapped in our brains and we call upon them when we need them.

I sit and stare out my window. Tree branches hang bare and naked over thawing snow. A squirrel quips something taunting my way, and the neighbor's dog barks at a non-descriptive object in their yard. This is where today's perspective begins. It is solely mine. This is my perspective.

The Pause

I tell myself this is a lull. A pause. A gap? This is 54. When I am content with what I have, but worry that my content is somehow false.

For the first time in my life, I find myself alone. No parents, no siblings, no sorority sisters, no husband, no lover, no daughter in residence with me. It is me and Shotzie and Gatsby (my two doxie pups) and a small house on a quiet street.

This is great, I remind myself. This is okay, I hum in the back of my head. This is my reality, my heart pumps.

I am a busy gal. Days filled with work and friends and students. I don't arrive home most nights until nine p.m.- a glass of red wine, a netflix show, a slumber- and off I go again.

Now, I find myself in a strange limbo. College on recess and empty days. House is clean and laundry is done. I sleep in- an unaccustomed luxury. I sit and think and... there it is. The question. Is this my long-term reality? Am I okay with that?

Okay. I am okay. Hummmmmmmmmmm. I was a child who filled her head with fairy tales and designed a Princess life for myself. My Prince never showed. Many false Princes. I was easily convinced that each was The One- the forever guy- the stand-by-me and sweep me away like Calgon- guy. I never got a happy ending. Fault? I would have to tell you that I share it. It is tough to live up to a fairy tale life. I know this.

Curve balls came my way. This writer's scripted life did not include these bowling balls that struck down my dreams. I would, to my benefit, say that I was quite resilient. Divorce? Bouncy ball here. Child with medical needs? Keep on bouncing. Mother diagnosed with cancer and taken too soon? Just keep rebounding. I found myself bouncing and rebounding and weaving my way through life's obstacles. And, I decided, that was okay.

I cannot pinpoint when I decided that my life was not truly about me. It just happened. My dreams were not what my life was about. My hopes and dreams were wrapped in the happiness of others. Giving more to make someone else happy made me tick. For years, my clock ticked and time passed and I just...kept...giving... Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock.

Now, I sit and time continues to tick-tock and I am not moving. For the first time EVER I feel as if I am stuck. Waiting? Wanting? For what? For who? For me? This is a strange turn of events. I find myself doing bizarre, NORMAL things- saving money, searching for my forever home, planning ten years in advance. I am a live in the moment kind of gal, so this is somewhat alarming.

It is early morning. I type in the shadow of a sliver of sunlight bending its way through my living room blind. No television light. No radio sound. Pups are in their designated beds in post-breakfast nap mode and all I hear is the low hum of my laptop and the click of keys as they answer my fingertips. I rock gently in my chair in between sentences as words flow to my caffeinated brain and make sentences, then paragraphs, then a finished blogpost. This is my lull. I match my breathing to this slowed pace of life and tell myself it is okay. This is great. This is reality. This is 54. I am content.

The Limits of Friendship

This photo... this time. I remember it so well. We spent most of Madi's 12-24 month age period in Children's Hospitals and Ronald McDonald Houses. We spent a very great deal of that time in Philadelphia.
Moms of ill children form a unique bond. We automatically and instinctively watch each others' children. We run loads of laundry for another family. We tuck special snacks away for the tired Mama who wanders in from visiting her child long after dinner time.
Many of my memories of this time center on the living room of the Ronald McDonald House. We would fill the floor with soft, clean, fuzzy blankets, lie our babies on the blankets, and chat and cry and commiserate for many hours.
I became very close with one mother in particular. We both had our first baby in our 30's. Her son and my daughter were weeks apart in age. We spent a great deal of time holding each other's babies and sharing stories of what we were like "before child" and what we feared and hoped for our future and our baby's future.
Then, poof, one day--- my friend stepped back. She didn't want to push strollers around the halls or pull babies in wagons. She wasn't available for a cup of late night coffee or to fold laundry side-by-side. I was a bit hurt and very curious. Had I done something wrong? Had I offended her?
Finally, after a long week, she came to me and sat nearby. For awhile, she said nothing. I was quiet, offering an occasional smile. I waited.
"I can't be your friend", she finally said. I paused. Tears sprang to my eyes. What had I done? As if she had read my mind, I heard her answer, "Your baby will live. Mine will not. Right now, I can't handle that. I cannot see you holding Madi and realize she will be here in a few years and my son won't. It is too hard."
I had no words then. What could I say? I knew she was speaking the truth. I could not imagine being her. In my heart, I felt her pain. I hugged her, smiled, and said, "I understand"... because... I did.
That was the day that I learned my Mommy Mantra: I have nothing to complain about because I get to take my child home. This mantra got me through years of surgeries and traveling to distant hospitals for procedures. It helped me when my child cried in pain and I could not fix it. It kept me sane during a difficult divorce and the unexpected death of my beloved mother.
I GOT TO TAKE MY BABY HOME.
I think of that friend I made almost 20 years ago often. I know she was right. Her son did die. My daughter did live. She taught me a great and heart breaking lesson.
As we near another Mother's Day and you celebrate, remember those missing their children. Remember the Mother's who ARE Mothers... even if their child has passed away.
Don't pretend to understand their pain. That is an injustice to the cross they bear. Just understand this- there are limits to friendship. Those limits should always be set by the one who has to endure the most. Look hard at their journey and respect them. Look harder at your journey, and be thankful.

Gramma and Walt

As I am doing some "Spring cleaning", I stumble upon some of the fondest memories....
"Gramma and Walt" Christmas 1983 was discovered in a golden frame... my gift to them that holiday:

No two people are alike;
Each differs- like a Snowflake
intricate i detail and
beautiful in an individual way.

When two people take time
to see what love is made of
They notice the beauty of a Snowflake
before it melts away.

What you two have given
to each other
and to others is Special.
In a storm, you are warmth-
and your love will never
melt away.

Love, Rhonda

The words may be flowery, but the sentiment holds true in 2017.

Down The Rabbit Hole with Alice

I would gladly follow my Grandmother, Alice, anywhere. She was "my person" when I was growing up. My memories of her are so bountiful and joyous that I have had a huge issue trying to put them on paper. How does one capture the soul of a person? How do I tell you about this woman who painted her house pink, who went to college in her 50's, who married more than once (oh, the scandal). How do I share the flour dusted memories of pie crust making and the loud crooning of her voice beside me in a church pew?
When I hear Amazing Grace or Rock of Ages, I burst into tears. The memory of her standing in her kitchen, in our church, or riding in her car as she boomed these hymns is palpable. I miss her so.
Alice was envelopes filled with cash on branches of the Christmas tree. She was a beauty salon on the side of her trailer and several bad hair cuts which I proclaimed to love. Gramma Alice was a poofy square dance skirt and bunions on toes. She was country fair concerts and too much ice cream.
Summers were spent with her. Endless days of sun and chats. Nights when thunderstorms rolled in, she rolled me out of bed and into the car, where we would be "safe". Regardless of the hour, we drove around until that storm ended. I found out, years later, that Alice had lost her home to a bolt of lightening when she was a small child, and thus the summer eve outings. Often, she found someplace (miraculously) where they made us 2 butterscotch sundaes with a cherry on top. I still love butterscotch.
Gramma Alice Did Things. She joined groups and took classes. She had parties and made new friends. Alice was a force to be dealt with. To this day, my father will shake his head and tell me that I am "just like Alice". I thank him- that is a tremendous compliment. One of the things I recall that Gram Alice did was take off to Alaska. She just decided she should go because she "always wanted to"- and so, she did. She came home after a month with photos we could spin and watch on a screen and stories of black bears and salmon "as big as your imagination". She talked about the weather and the scenery so vividly, I believed I had been there, too. Alice could weave a story from truth to make life as lovely as you wished.
My Gram had read the bible cover to cover twice and still listened to Bible On Tape as a leisure activity. She was a Real Christian. The kind of woman who lived on a dime and shared what was left with someone else. She had been widowed when I was a baby, and my mother never recovered. Mom was a Daddy's Girl. I was a Gram's Girl. Alice remarried. Twice. First to a pipe smoking man who smelled like timber and alcohol. He was nice to us, but not so nice to Gram when drinking. He wasn't around for long.
Next came Walt. Shiny Walt-the-car-salesman in suits and with a Manhattan in hand. He taught my little brother just how much vermouth was needed in his drinks and he adored my Gram. My cousins and I spent summer weeks in a camper in their yard and they took us to the amusement park every night to play skeet ball and ride the Ferris wheel. We planted flowers, ate bar-b-que and had many scoops of ice cream.
In college, Gram visited to tell me she was having heart surgery. She was always honest and told me that she feared she wouldn't see me again. We didn't cry. We just sat. She survived that surgery. And many more. I still laugh about the time she ate an entire bag of forbidden coconut and admitted herself to the hospital, saying she was having "an attack". The family rushed to our local hospital to say our good-byes. She was taken into surgery and we all held hands and waited. Soon, her surgeon stood before us, shaking his head and smiling. They had removed a huge ball of coconut from her stomach. She would be fine. My mother was fuming. How could she have not told us? Gram was sheepish, "I didn't want you all to be upset with me". I can still recall her looking so small in that huge bed. I couldn't wait to take her home.
I have photos of Gram holding my daughter the day she was born. More on her first birthday. She is always the same in these pictures- unaware of the camera and smitten with my sweet baby. Madi faced physical struggles, and we were not sure she would walk. She did. And when she was just two, we took her to visit my Gram, who was in the hospital and "just not herself". Madi toddled into the room yelling "Grammy" and Alice cried tears of joy. We talked as long as the self-propelled Madi allowed, and then I went home.
I awoke the next day to repeated ringing of my phone. It was my mom, and she was angry. Angry that I hadn't picked up sooner. Angry that her mother had died. Angry that she had died alone. The nurses told us that she was whispering her favorite bible verses as she passed, and I have no doubt that she was. I'm sure she is up there, square dancing, giving free hair cuts, and belting Rock of Ages. Thanks to Alice, I dream of pink houses and Alaska's sunrise. I can make pie crust and know a great deal about country music. I recall bible verses I didn't even know I knew and I am able to roll with life's punches. Alice, I will follow you- anywhere.

Aging with Grace

I blame it all on Grace. That fiery little baby born in the back of a wagon traversing from Canada to the United States a century ago. The one born so small, it was assumed she wouldn't live the night. The one wrapped in cotton batting and placed in a tissue box to be buried in the morning. The one who lived to be 83. Grace, my Greatest of Great Aunts. The woman who categorically kept every family event for posterity with her camera. The tiny, round woman with the big smile and loud voice. The one who never had her own children; just a man-child of a veteran husband who barked orders at her and she ignored with a smile, a laugh and a twinkle in her eye. The woman who brought all of her nieces and nephews and the grand versions, too-- into her home bedecked with trinkets so untouchable that you had to touch them. Bells and Salt and Pepper shaker sets much more breakable then the 1970's plastic version on my mother's kitchen cupboard-- They were everywhere in her home-- china closet, end tables, kitchen cupboards lined with them. My cousins broke a few. I, however, never did. I was very, very careful.
I was always very, very careful. I smiled and sat on her lap and listened to her stories. I carefully let her love on me. I carefully loved her back. My mother loved her Aunt with a monstrous capacity. I felt this before I realized it. I knew it the way only a child can know. I saw it in their every day encounters, in their tidy lunches and sweet sharing of record albums... Lawrence Welk, show tunes and Elvis among them.
Grace's conversations, in her last years, bored me. Always about the "lovely roll she had for breakfast. Well, half... the other half would be wonderful with a cup of tea for lunch" or "do you hear the phrasing in this music? The lilting of the voice?".  I was in college, then. Her gaudy trinkets alarmed me. Her touch was not welcome. I visited less. My mother visited daily.
She became ill. Silently, savagely, painfully, ill. Never diagnosed, but we assumed a form of cancer. And, quite quickly, she was gone.
This woman who had fought from the beginning, who had loved others' children as her own, who had survived a marriage others would have fled from... gone.
My cousins and I gathered at the back of the small town funeral home and, suddenly, massively, we were crying. My tall-stilt of an Uncle appeared in the frame of the doorway. He wrapped us in his long and lanky arms and looked us each in the eye. "I know", he said, "this is the beginning of many endings for you all.  Soon, there will be more funerals. This is the start of death for this group of our family and it is so hard. I know."
That was it, really. My Uncle, the man who climbed telephone poles and strung wire and smiled when others failed to, had stated the obvious. We dried our eyes and took our seats in the small viewing room. I sat, for the first and not last time, in the white, straight backed chair of that room and averted my eyes from her casket. I imagined her happy somewhere, anywhere else but here. I tucked my near-tears inside my pounding brain and constructed stories that became memories that I can find inside my head to this very day. It was a trick I designed at Grace's funeral. A trick that has gotten me through too many similar good-byes in my life.
I returned to college and received daily phone calls from my mom, who struggled with Great Aunt Grace's passing. She and my Grandmother and the other family women separated her belongings, and my mother came home with the lot of salt and pepper shakers and her album collection. The shakers were carefully placed in her china cabinet in matching sets of memories,and the albums were lined on the shelves of her den.
I blame you, Grace. You started it all. The tears and the aching- insides. The longing and the not knowing how to say a good-bye. The albums of photos are in my possession now. I see us collected on those pages at family reunions and baptisms and birthday parties. None of those photos show us collected at funerals, because you were never there to take the photo. You, Grace- you started it all.

Be A Bell

Be a bell. Yes, like the adorably irritating Rhoda and Rita from the endearing musical, White Christmas. Be a bell. Holler "ding-dong" and strut your stuff and go after what you want.

Ring loud for those who cannot. Be a bell. Make a statement. Shout from the rooftops or whisper softly. Put a star on your head or a Santa hat atop your hair and tell someone- tell anyone- that you, much like Horton, "are here".

I just wrapped up a stint as choreographer of our local Lyric Theater's production of White Christmas. Community theater is a bell ringing in a silent world. It brings culture, art, appreciation of music and song and dance to people who may never get to travel to the Great White Way. It is a gift tied with an elaborate bow. So many fingers are involved in tying that bow. 

The Production Manager who makes sure the performers have water in the dressing rooms, runs opening night gala, compiles and prints programs and generally runs non-stop comes to mind. The Music Director who runs scales and pounds keys and smiles, no matter how sour the note. The Sound Technician who continually works to find the right mix for fluctuating voices and deals with microphone idiosyncrasies. The crew who makes sets come to life and lifts and moves and constructs day and night. The parents who cart kids and retrieve them way past bed time. The Directors who set aside their real jobs and families to make a dream come to life. Of course, the actors who push through illness, exhaustion and final exams and light up the stage with their amazing talents.

Here, in our town, we did it. We rang our bell. We filled the house for four shows in three days. We worked together to "Make The Magic Happen", and we never doubted it would happen.

Wait. Well, maybe we had a bit of doubt... much like White Christmas' Stage Manager, Mike. But, what is life without doubt? What is success without trial and tribulation? What is that feeling of accomplishment without the nagging issues that arise to get to that point?

Ten years from now, much like in White Christmas, we may find ourselves far apart and separated by miles and other "distances". I'd like to remind each of you to always, somehow, ring your bell... share your talents, build your community and make your little corner of the world a better place to be in.

For now, you are "dismissed". Tomorrow-- "on with the show"!

Hands and Hearts

I have always memorized fingers. From a very young age, I recall looking at the lines in my Great Grandma's hands as she patted mine. We shared a birthday celebration every year, and I recall sitting in our tic-tac-toe backed lawn chairs in the warm August sun and having many long birthday chats.
Her hands were soft and her fingers were long and casually groomed. Sans nail polish, her palms smelled of Jergen's lotion and her warm fingertips would pat time with an imaginary tune playing in her head on the steel arm of the lawn chair.
I wondered then... if we shared such a special day, would I someday have her worn hands and lined knuckles, too?

When my mom was hospitalized in NYC, I spent hours sitting in a chair at her bedside. As she dozed in a medicine induced sleep, I held her hand... and stared intently at it. In the blurry- barely-there-light of her hospital room, I saw Great Gramma's hands again. Her perfectly oval fingernails were bare and her hands lay exposed from her blankets, and I held on for dear life. For her life-- for mine-- for her barely toddler aged grand daughter and for all I knew we would miss. That touch of her hand was a stable force in all of my memories.

I recall being very ill with pneumonia in kindergarten and waking to my mom's hand absentmindedly creasing my forehead with the repetitive force only a worn and weary mother can duplicate. In the final hours of my labor with Madi, there she sat, recreating her bedside ritual.

Those hands. Those woman's hands. The hands of the women of my tribe. My family's fingerprints are forever pressed into my mind. The hands that changed diapers and dipped into scalding dish water. The hands that patted pie dough and pinched the corners to hold the fruit inside the crafted pie creation. The fingers that wove yarn around them and guided the yarn onto needles to create scarves and booties. The hands that pulled weeds and braided hair and twisted garbage bags closed with a flair.

The hands of my Great Grandmother, my Gram Alice, my wonderful mother. I see them. I see them now, typing on my keyboard. My hands-- continuing to hold on so tightly to the hands of those gone. Pounding words into stories yet to be told. Holding their precious tales in their palm. Pressing on pulse points and weaving thoughts into whispered prayers. Let our hands touch you.

Living With Intention

"Set an intention that you are going to see only the best in everything and everyone."

My friend died today.
I am not saying he "passed", or he is "gone". I am not going to murmur that his "pain has ended" or tell of how he "fought a great battle".
He hasn't passed. He is with us. In the gentle smile of his son and the quiet humor of his daughter. He isn't gone. He is here- in the circle of the ring on his wife's finger and in the office where he worked so diligently.
His pain may have ended, but he embraced his pain. He rose above it. Yes, for a very long time. No, we cannot comprehend it.
He did, indeed, fight a great battle. He fought way longer and much harder than I can fathom. He fought to see his son graduate from high school; then for him to go off to college. He lived to watch his daughter grace the stage for her senior dance recital and to hear his son play the piano at Crane. He roasted hot dogs at his daughter's graduation party and smiled at our stories of friendship and family.
He lived life with intention. He sought reasons to live one more day. He reveled in the moments that he got to see, to experience, to enjoy with his wife and children.
My friend did not lead a boastful life. He did not need a spotlight or center stage. He was content to sit in the audience and watch others shine.
He was the Dance Dad who was brought to tears when his daughter competed her first solo at competition. He hugged me and sobbed as he said, "You did this. You did this for her; for us. Thank you." This was repeated often through the years, and culminated in a Senior recital that meant the need for an entire box of tissues. 
 These are moments that I cherish for their rarity and their raw and heartfelt purity. Robin wasn't just an amazing Dance Dad-- he was an amazing DAD.
My friend was a talented photographer- so apt at catching special moments and framing them as gifts. I will certainly always look at my gold-dressed-poised-and-posed dancers from a decade ago and think... "Robin captured this moment. Forever."
Forever- for as long as my mind can function and my body follows suite. Because, you see, that is My Goal.
What a world this would be if we all decided we would set goals... Set intentions-- and strive to achieve them. My friend did that for many, many years. He relished his journey and reveled in every family milestone. He lived his life in the shadow of his illness, but never let that shadow grow bigger than him.
Step out of your shadow today. Set an intention and write it down. Circle a date on the calendar and choose to LIVE your life in pursuit of a goal. My friend can't do that today, but you can. You can decide that the life you are given is truly worth living, with its bumps and bruises and its joys and agonies. It is yours to embrace and to fulfill. Stop waiting for a better time or a different circumstance and choose to live this day to its fullest. For my friend... for Robin.

Tread Lightly

 

 

 

Do you hear that? The sound of someone stomping on someone else's thoughts or beliefs? The hard-heeled, rough embedded scuff mark left on someone else's rights?

I hear it in my head and I feel it in my heart. I see it on the news and in our political debates. I am requesting that everyone trade out their spiked heels and work boots for slippers... or- better yet- go barefoot.

I recently visited the ocean and this blog post trailed behind me as transcendent footsteps on the sandy beach. There for such a brief time, but once so solidly imprinted. There they were, my dancer-riddled feet and my ten bony toes. And, then.... there they weren't.

I offer you this thought; If I had worn steel-toed boots, my footprint would not have lasted any longer. Stomping an imprint into the wet sand would not have made a more lasting impression. My personal outline and imprint would not have been there- however briefly- if I had worn those boots. I would have only left a block with no identity for those few fleeting moments.

Is it not best to walk softly... and leave the Big Stick at home? Why must we feel the need to pound our beliefs into others? Our propensity as a race to embrace our singular beliefs and shun the zillions of others available in our humanity is a sad thing to realize.

On the way home from this trip to the beach, I stopped at a rest area close to sundown. Inside the cement walls of this mundane building, a large contingent of Muslims were gathered in one corner. They knelt and prayed in this public place. I paused and inhaled and appreciated this moment. I saw a group of people sharing their belief publicly; and yet, it felt so private. I was a bit awestruck. I was certainly appreciative. For lack of another word, their solidarity was beautiful.

Beautiful. Can we not see the beauty that lies in the simplest traditions and social aspects of other cultures? Must we be fearful and hateful because they may be different than our own?

This is certainly a broad and many faceted topic. I don't pretend to have an answer or demand one from you.

I'm just thinking out loud here.... I am going to tread lightly and always keep in mind that no mark I leave here is permanent or forever. My daughter is my gift to this world. My talents are for sharing. My heart will be open and my soul will flourish.

Fear lies darkly in a shadowed corner- always ready to flare and fly. We cannot even stomp that out. We must see it for what it is... a joy-stealer and a hate-maker.

May your footsteps take you home, my friends.

 



My unpopular opinion.

I am, as usual, stating what may be an unpopular opinion.  So... here goes.
I am sick to death of hearing the word "Bullying" thrown around.

Different opinion than someone?  You're a bully.
Offer constructive criticism?  You are bullying.

I feel there are REAL bullies in life.  True and   Terrible Bullies.

But this constant use of the term is a Henny Penny or Cry Wolf mentality.  It is an error of judgement and is labeling many who simply are FAR from being bullies.  Very, very far.

In fact, I would dare say, labeling people in a constant need for social media one-up-manship is the actual bully at work.


We live in a world of instant words and misread meanings.  Social media, texting, snapchat, vine, all the instant solution for an often over exaggerated problem.

Remember when you ran home and told Mom that someone picked on you?  She said... that's life... deal with it, sunshine.  Now?  Mom gets on Facebook and posts a long worded sermon complete with matching meme.  Usually, the "f" word is involved.  Classy.  Wait... is that Mom now the bully?
I say, yes.  Yes, she is.  She is using profanity, and a classless medium to support her side of a story that the other side often has no defense against.  Perhaps they have been "blocked", perhaps they aren't friends, perhaps it never shows on her newsfeed... But, there it is for the world to see.  A public (if not jaded) version of one person's truth.

This is not how I was raised.  This is disproportionately irrational behavior.  This is (dare I suggest), a form of bullying.

Hiding behind a social media facade and an army of so-called-friends may seem like the answer, but it simply is not.  And, lest we be mislead, no REAL bully has ever stopped their actions because of an Instagram meme.  A real bully could care less.

Anyone who doesn't play along; who refuses to say everyone is A-ok; who has an actual view point or opinion is the bully in today's warped world.  I take issue with that.  It is, by the way, my RIGHT to take issue with that.  It doesn't make ME a bully.  It makes me .... Me.  And I am quite alright with that.

Nan

It has happened.  Again.  A tragic, pointless, unfathomable youth taken from us with no meaning, no reason.  With no warning.

And, so, I am back to my days of Nan.  I still have the white board from my teen room wrapped carefully in tissue and plastic.  You can still see the trace of her writing.  "Nan will love Rhonda forever".

The irony is, that she will.  And I will love her.  We never had the chance to bicker in our late teens, or fall out of friendship in our twenties.  We didn't marry vastly different human specimens.  One of us never moved away while the other settled near home.  We never disliked that one partied too much or seemed pretentious after college.
Nan will love me forever; and I, her.

Nan is frozen in time.  Thick, round glasses masking startling blue eyes.  Blonde Farrah curls cascading down her back.  Cheerleader sleepovers and all night he-is-so-cute-I-wanna-die conversations.  Transistor radio blaring at the Beaver Falls Beach.  Thrusting our incredibly thin, tan bodies off the bridge and into the river.  Pink bikinis.  Ponies.  Oh.... sweet, much loved ponies.

I will remember sneaking one of her Dad's cigars down to the railroad tracks and puffing on them until one; or both of us; puked in the bushes beside the tracks.  I will remember watching TV late at night while we kept each other company as we babysat.

Nan remains the same.  Because she was gone too soon.  Beautiful 16 and gone.  A tragic accident.  So much pink satin.  So many crying children.  So much to remember and I beg myself not to forget.

I see this happening.  Again.  Again, the one with the brightest smile and sweetest disposition.  The one with talents untapped and relationships unformed.  The one with so much to offer and so much promise to bring to this world.

Ripped from his parents and brothers.  I see a teen bedroom enshrined.  Trophies gathering dust and a wall of certificates for accomplishments now somehow even more incredible.  I see pain in his friends eyes and I feel the punch in my gut over and over and I just want.... Nan.

I want to take back that late night phone call when I pulled the curly chord to its extreme point and sat on our stairway and just. started. shaking.  Because, I knew.  Even though her mom just wanted to know if I had heard there had been an accident.  Even though she didn't say what she already knew in her heart, too.  I shook.  I could not stop.  Nan was gone.

Gone.  Here at once and gone in an instance.  Here forever but with us no more.  Always with us but never to touch.  Hugs one-sided and conversations that hang in the empty air.  Frozen.  Time is.

I have that white board.  I can trace her writing and remember that spring day we sat on my bed and she left me that message.  I remember every detail because it is more golden than any object or than a pot of gold.  It is what I have, physically, of someone who is always spiritually beside me.

Again, now, each of you will search your memories and your belongings for your memories of Him taken.  You will wrap them in tissue and plastic and place them in a memory box.  You will pull them out as you age and, again, encounter this tragedy of life that is senseless death.  We each have our Nan.
Forever.

Journey On

I am still glad for the journey. Part of me envies those who are settled. Those who find comfort in sameness and partner hood and daily consistency. The ones who are content with a 9-5 job and reliable paycheck. Those. The others. I do not deny they have a journey. Every one of us does. It is just that their journey is so mapped out. So well written. It appears their roads lack potholes or curves or even steep hills.
Then, there is my journey. So many curves. So many times I have pedaled up the steep hill. But, ah, the rush of the wind in my face as I coast full speed ahead down that opposite side!
I still feel unsettled. This does not mean I am filled with discontent. This means I am certain that I have more to accomplish.  More adventures to hunt down and live through.
I have an occupation that brings new challenges and schedules on a regular basis. I live a creative life creatively.... And that takes great devotion.
Devotion. Spiritual commitment to a greater belief. I am striving each day to replace negativity with joy; to live a grateful life. I am devoted to this decision. Being grateful is a journey-- an active and aware state of being.
A journey can be physical or spiritual... Actual or imagined. I do not remember a time when I didn't actively daydream. My mind is a fortress filled with memories and wishes-- with brightly colored conceptions and aspirations.  My journey is mine. It changes daily like the barometer of my brain. Foggy or clear; hot or cold... Always a swirl of emotion and devotion.
If you are fine where you are, brava. Hats off. I don't even wish for that state of being anymore. I am almost to the top of my hill. I pedal slow and sure. I know I am cresting the top of a hill when life will be a zooming downhill cascade soon enough. I anticipate lungs filled with air, hands off handlebars, legs outstretched as pedals rotate freely and quickly. I can feel the tangle of my shoulder length hair as it extends behind my arched shoulders and my chin tips my face to a blue and cloud filled sky.
It is coming-- the final journey. I know not when or where. I know that I am grateful for my restless heart and dream filled head. Mmmmm. I am.

pajamas and peace

It is a first.  A first day of a new year.  It is heading towards 5:00 pm.  What am I wearing?  Pajamas.  Still.  This is in no way a reflection of my exciting New Year's Eve (it was calm.).... and it isn't because I am ill or even tired.

It is because, somedays, pajamas bring us peace.

Right?  You can peacefully recognize that not donning clothing means you are going NOWHERE for one entire day.  An entire day.  And evening.  Until you succumb to the magic of bed once more.

I cannot recollect the last time I had a non-sick pajama day.  Seriously.  I have wracked my brain about this all day thinking I would remember.  Sadly, I do not.

This, in itself, brought me peace.  I am starting this new year doing something I haven't done in a very long time.  So long ago, I cannot recall when. I am doing something NEW and NOT exciting but SO exciting.

I am setting slipper clad feet on footstool and sitting new robe wrapped butt in rocker.  I am writing and blogging and quietly planning my "waste of a day".

I shuffle from living room to office to kitchen and back to rocker.  Wow.  That was fun.  (Really).

Peaceful pajama day may involve candles, last day of gazing at the lights on the Christmas tree, hot beverages, leftovers and an early big pour of merlot.  For me, that is about as close to perfection as I can get on this snowy day.

Oh, look... it is snowing.  I am not shoveling or plowing or worrying.  I am watching the flakes swirl and blow and peacefully retracting any notions of making the snow behave.  Go ahead, Mother Nature, speak your mind... I am resting mine.

This is a short-lived respite, I know.  Life holds more adventures and duties and tasks tomorrow (starting with mandatory snow moving).... but, right now?  Just gonna grab a fleece blankie, add a pair of fluffy socks to my fashionable attire, and knock out this blog post.

Peace. Out.

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.