Something Furry

It was the ‘something furry’ that gave me pause; furry not being the usual texture my toes met on the kitchen floor.  Stumbling out of bed at 4 am for some milk, I figured the ‘something furry’ warranted lights. 

And it was a bat.  Dead, I hoped.  Half asleep, I simply put a mug over it on the floor with a note: “Bat Inside. Dead.” And promptly went back to bed.

But it you thought we’d just toss it in the trash come sunrise and carry on merrily, you just earned a lecture in bat safety and the Bottner mishagas.  No, no. There were rushed trips to the department of health, calls to the department of public safety, and debates over who might need the series of painful rabies shots. Worse was the all-consuming obsession with exactly how said bat ended up on our kitchen floor. 

Perhaps I’m not the most cautious.  I struggle to remember to buckle my seat belt, never wash my apples, and only started locking my car after my iPod got stolen earlier this year.  But I wasn’t concerned so much about the bat.  No one was foaming at the mouth, no fang bite marks – we’re fine! Plus, we were out last night, hence opened the front door when we returned – problem solved! Bat came in when we did. 

I was voted off the island with these opinions.  Seeing as how I’ve learned to pick my battles and my doctor father knew far better about the dangers of rabies than I, I kept my 2 cents to myself and enjoyed the sun by the lake.  As the bat was sent to the lab, tested and analyzed, my dad enlisted neighbors to help seal up all potential cracks in the cottage frame with duct tape. 

End result: no rabies.  No more bats.  And I started turning on the lights during my midnight treks for milk, lest the ‘something furry’ be not so dead next time. 

I ask forgiveness

I deeply apologize.  I could have done better.

For the sharp comments and irritable retorts. 

For the cranky mornings and frustrating indecisiveness, I’m sorry. 

For the moments of impatience, cutting off without really listening, and assuming without hearing, I could have done better.

For the unanswered emails, forgotten birthday cards, and delayed calls to keep in touch.  For the friendships that slipped behind errands and plans unmade due to laziness, I apologize.  For the times when you needed an ear, a hug, a hand to hold, and I wasn’t there.  For the connections lost without required tending and support asked for that I didn’t hear, I’m sorry. 

For the fear, panic, worry and heartache I’ve caused.  For the times together marred by my worn-out craziness; for the rigidity I can carry in my wake, I could have done better.

For tossing aside the blessing of life, invincible faith to choose familiar over right, I’m sorry.  For the expired rules I blindly follow and the childhood fears I grasp without reason.  For the anxiety over the mundane as I miss the sweet blossoms; for the aimless obsessiveness and automatic rituals, I apologize.  For the doubts that halt my footsteps and the self-criticisms that mute my voice; for the lip service to ideals and the promises absent of action, I could have done better.

For the wasted minutes of worry and the pits of overwhelm I easily slide down.  For taking for granted the blessing of breath, limbs that move, and a beating heart.  For misplacing priorities in favor of tired habits and putting off growth for tomorrow, I could have done better.

For all of the ways I may have hurt you, known and those I don’t even realize, I ask for your forgiveness.

For all of the ways I have cut myself off from bliss, abused my blessings, and lost sight of my dreams, I ask for my own forgiveness.

I could have done better. 

I hope, plan, and intend to do better in the coming year.

The Case for Fasting

I used to argue my case for fasting, fervently citing ritual and tractate, claiming spirituality as my motivation rather than an excuse to have a calorie-free day.  It wasn’t all a life.  I wanted to be a member of my tribe, beat my chest remorsefully along with my community and share the hunger pains of late Yom Kippur afternoon. I believed that fasting could be holy, a setting apart, a focusing on the holy rather than the mundane.  But for me, the larger truth was that I wanted an anorexic’s freebie day.

I was 20 the last Yom Kippur I fasted, already a veteran patient at eating disorder treatment centers and hospitals.  I was 20 and home from college for the High Holidays, arguing with parents who feared for my life on a daily basis.  As I pled my case, they rebutted with worries that fasting would in fact keep me out of the book of life, that not eating was choosing a slow death rather than opting for another year of life.  I knew the allowances for the sick, elderly and children, that fasting didn’t apply if health was an issue.  My parents were right.  If fasting symbolized a sacrifice, a step away from the norm in the direction of holiness, then for me, eating was more meaningful than fasting.  But at the age of 20, I was to starved and stubborn to concede their points or admit the reasons behind my staunch desire to fast.  I held my self-destructive ground and spent the day light-headed in shul, bowing and remorseful, chanting communal sins while beating my bony chest. 

And so, aside from the services, it was no different from any other day.

My light-bulb moment wasn’t at the blast of the shofar or the closing Nehila prayers.  It wasn’t the sermon that moved me to tears but rather the break-fast later among family and friend.  It had been a bitter day for me, knowing the insane hypocrisy of begging for another year of life while having spent the past 365 days actively tossing aside that very precious gift.  I was afraid to pray for healing, too ashamed to make vows of recovery as I stood on too many years of broken promises and identical Yom Kippur reflections.  But as I stood from the sidelines and watched my family fill plates with warm kugel, bagels and lox, and all the Jewish comfort foods I loved, a small light flickered within.  My personal fast never ended.  There was no break-fast celebration for me.  There was no end date where my inner calculator shut off and my starving dictator was muted.  There was no meal where I freely filled my plate and rejoined the land of the living.  I listened to the laughter and praises to the chef as I cried out my first true prayer of the day.

Please Hashem, help me choose life.  Guide me toward healing and end this perpetual fast that keeps me far away from you, locked in a tiny life. With gratitude for the million second chances, please grant me this moment, this chance to taste freedom, this opportunity to take a bite of my mother’s kugel as a step toward life.

This year I’ll be at services with my community, making my amends and atoning for my sins.  This year I’ll beat my chest and desperately plead for my name to be sealed in the book of life. This year I still need to do better, take bigger bites and farther steps. 

This year I’ll find my holiness in a full belly and experience as much spirituality in the sounding of the shofar as in the taste of my lunch. 

Balancing in an extroverted world

There are stories swapped easily and smiles tucked between glances; layers erasing distance and an ease of side by side silence.  We are strangers, children of friends, dock neighbors extending our own line of connection.  It’s rare to meet a friend where the initial meeting is absent of small talk.  I tend to shun cocktail party shallowness and mark escape routes during aimless chatter.  I often reach my human interaction limit long before those whose genes I share.  And yet, always a good student, I can hold my own, having been well schooled in the art of extroversion from a magnetic father who reigns at the hub of the party.  

We operate on different gears, he and I.  He happily stacks plans upon activities, is calm with a full table, and has the energy of a five year old.  I come via a solo train, introverted by default, preferring groups to dot the day rather than be the norm.  Still, I laugh at the jokes and join the debates, surprising myself at times with my enjoyment of the crowd.  But after an hour or two, I’m done; finding the extra bodies more draining than energizing, I long to retreat to recharge in the stillness.  It’s a balancing game – avoiding the gentle slope into isolation, integrating friendship with mindfulness and connections with calm.  It’s a learning process as I examine my comfort zone and learn where I need to step away in favor of shared laughter and fun.

I will never be the party girl with an overflowing date book and more friends that I can count.  I can happily spent a Sunday writing, reading, going to the park, calling friends, and never getting out of my pajamas. And yet, I still fight against the extroverted judgments, the labels: not normal, nerd, loser, boring, pathetic.  I practice allowing myself to have my own rules for living and standards of joy, struggling against the childish biases that no longer apply. 

So when I find a kindred spirit whose smile also turns stale upon the bell of midnight, I link arms with relief that there are others just like me.  However, even as I learn who I am and create my own grown up life, I watch my dad in his splendor, a table full of friends, and I take notes.  I watch, simply grateful to have been taught the tools of connection by a master.  I slip in and out of his overflowing calendar, but am always welcomed with a genuine smile and an outstretched hand as he pulls me by his side.  And just as I stretch myself to dance in his world, his shining compliment is when he shrinks to intimacy, carving shared moments of just the two of us sitting on the dock, trading thoughts upon the wind.  He glows in a bustle, but gives a gift to my introverted soul, as he makes clear that our family of four is all the party he needs. 

I continue to learn.  I learn what I need, want, and wish for.  I learn how to slip into family without unleashing old shadows but rather filling my shoes with a love that cushions until the next time.  I learn how to appreciate the din of the crowd along with the stillness, loud laughter along with deep talks over coffee.  I learn when to stretch and when to swing in quiet peace.  I learn to appreciate the differences, to cherish family, and to keep close friends who also understand interaction limits and grown up time outs. 

And so I made a new friend on the dock this summer, and for a few days, we swapped book lists and laughter, pages of history shared under the sun.  Despite the distance between us, I look forward to seeing her next summer, and I remember the ease of her company as a fellow introvert lost in a community of extroverts. 

Lauren's Landing

Perched on the shore I staked as my own, I sit solidly upon a lake that churns with impatient waves.  My seat upon the wooden boards holds me steady, bolstered on its underbelly with rocks laid by the same fatherly hands that bless my head on Friday evenings.  Guided by the wooden sign to “Lauren’s Landing”, my mom created the sign to create a sacred room of my own in their Canadian cottage.  I follow her directions infused with her wisdom, led by her love to this place of peace.  It’s my last day at their cottage and the clouds protest my departure while simultaneously, the winds push me to soar from the nest back to my everyday world. It’s time to go home, time to mark the milestones and log the sweetness as we wave goodbye.  It’s time to dig out my suitcase, exiting while there’s still applause ringing in our ears.

It’s been 24 months since I last sat on this landing, and a lifetime has passed in the interim.  How far we’ve come... The inevitably irritations noted and then let go, the old scars have poked through our tougher skin at times, but now soothed with a kiss as we’ve learned how to love despite flaws, and cherish amidst disagreements.  We are 3 adults, and 12 days together are bound to result in a few stubbed toes and bruised egos.  But there is beauty in our persistence.  ‘I’m sorry’ comes easier now, and ‘I love you’ was never our struggle.  Sure we had our tense moments holding our breath until the air dissipated, but we always found our way back into the sunshine.  On a balance sheet, this week tips in favor of joy.  There were the main events: forest hiking, canoeing, sailing, local theatre, and twilight hot tub soaks.  But the highlights are always seen only with the heart and ‘what is essential is invisible to the eye’ (from The Little Prince).

I fold the exhalations of contentment and easy silence on the dock into my luggage.  I lay the shared glances of history and inside jokes aside the reassuring goodnight hugs.  I tuck the glide of lake swims between lessons on braiding a 6-strand challah.  I collect the minutes of understanding and the quiet acceptance of our individuality, making sure not the crush the unconditional love that lines the corners of my ragged suitcase.  There are blessings up here that shimmer because of rather than despite their ordinariness. The sweetness of waking up to a duo chanting Hebrew melodies, the way old frustrations sizzle with compromise on both sides, the mellowing, wisdom, and gentler pace that lulls us all into a dance of peaceful relaxation.  I count my blessings among the sole lily flower and the dip of the kayak paddle, the visits with friends who rush with open arms and the pj-clad breakfasts around our green wooden table, the lazy evenings in this cozy building you have transformed into a home.

We’ve come a long way to sit side by side on this dock, and I am grateful for the gift of this trip, the knowledge that travel is well worth the stress, and the absolute surety that I have a family who exceeds its very definition.  Family means more than shared genes and childhood memories.  It also is the steady support, familiar comfort, and the eternal knowledge that I will never have to be a team of one. 

Thank you for the 12 days, the hospitality, and the willingness to celebrate despite the fear and to love well before perfection.  Thank you for offering your oasis of peace and shuffling your routine to make space for my craziness as well as my smile.  Thank you for the patience and advice.  Thank you for the small wooden perch upon the shore that beckons me with balance as I pocket the calm I have found here, and thank you for reminding me that vacation is worth fighting for, and that change brings unexpected delights.  Thank you for sharing your cottage and your joy.  Thank you. 

Bored Games

I’m usually a proponent of the “They’re called ‘bored games’ for a reason” camp.  I find the idea entertaining for a fleeting moment but then drag my feet to pick my game piece.  It’s possible that I’m scarred from childhood games ending with flung pieces and sibling temper tantrums. 

Or the marathon monopoly afternoons with my father more similar to business mergers than mere rolls of the dice: “I’ll give you park place for Atlantic Railroad for $800 with 10% interest, 2 hotels and a signed lease to not build hotels on Pennsylvania Avenue”.  I was the one who would donate my colorful bills to charity and obediently hand over my assets to my dad (Always my dad lest my younger rival garner a win...I wasn’t so sweet) in a desperate escape effort to retreat with a book.  But after decades of therapy, I’m going to assume I’m pretty scar-less in that vein. 

So I was a reluctant participant on our rainy Sunday, even though I was initially eager at the suggestion, there were definitely casual diversions tossed into the clouds right up to the first push of the buzzer.

I have found a new love, and I dare anyone not to wind up with at least a chuckle on his or her score scar while playing Cranium.  The more players the better and it doesn’t hurt to have players who allow laughing At rather than laughing With.  But between the charades, Pictionary, data facts, word puzzles, and star performances, I laugher harder than I have in the past 6 months.  The gold medal went to my brother’s ‘humdinger’ where he had to hum “Walk Like an Egyptian” until we rolled on the floor at the sound of the buzzer.  Cranium sucks you in and taps into your puddle jumping kid normally trapped beneath briefcases and chores.

Along with 2 friends who slip into our fold as if they share our genes, we debated, sculpted, sketched and had food fights for points. So Cranium definitely takes the gold, but more crucial than the glossy cards and colorful board are the players.  The fun hinged on the willingness to unleash stifled silliness and stiff parts that play, to giggle, link arms and while away the gray.

With a leap of companionship and belly laughs sipped through cards of challenge, I woke up to the fun and was blessed with an evening of laughter that makes the list of memories to live for.

Slanted upon Take-Off

I come to its doors primed on a tilt of anxiety, excitement, exhaustion and worry.  I travel gene seems to have passed me over and I tend to view departures from home as obstacles to be managed, routine busters threatening change and masking fun.  I nest.  I settle in.  I cherish my home base.  Still, my aversion to travel is flaw rather than asset, as I also know how spontaneity restores and loved ones wash fresh balm over dull eyes. 

I know that on principle, I want to go for the visit, crave the happy hour laughs and pj-clad breakfasts.  I want the hugs, the familiar inside jokes and arms that embrace with the knowledge of who I was long ago. I miss the weathered fingers and shared eyes.  I want to be more spur of the moment, and have to work to incorporate play, leaving post-ins on mirrors to “Have Fun” followed by “Figure out what you think is fun!”

I really want to like travel.  I drool over stories of exploring in caves and glittering seas in far away lands.  I remind myself that I’m coming back, like the 2 year old from whom out of sight ceases to exist, that my apartment and my life will be waiting for me. 

Still, the process of getting to the airport wears me out.  It starts months earlier as I mull over flights, mental gymnastics as I subtract cab time from alarm wake-up, adding security lines and dividing by cost.  I hold debates over length of trip, best arrival time, and agenda for days gone.  Right upon the ticket purchase races the buyer’s remorse complete with reminders that last until take-off: cancel newspaper, pack cell phone charger, find balance.  I make myself crazy with library runs, cleaning, arranging, and more library stops, riding on the delusion of being ultimately prepared.  I aim for every T crosses and corner swept, losing sight of the forest thru the clutter of a rushing anxiety.  I spin through evenings plotting alternative A, B, C, and escape routes, aiming for perfection as the sole solution that allows my feet to board the plane. 

And the truth never varies: my grandmother was right.  90% of what I worry about never comes to be.  The anticipation is always worse than the finale.  I forget why I’m shuffling through security lines and abandoning my safety zone.  I forget that I enjoy vacation.  It takes me a few hours, my soul time zone skewed until I can unpack and exhale.  I forget that the joy of family breeds comfort and the shine of laughter trumps band-aids.  I forget the meditation of lily pads and how the gentle lapping of a lake carries away my fears, stripping me of stale routines as it substitutes joy, making change worthwhile. 

I forget that patterns of protection expire and that my legs are still capable of hiking new dreams.  I arrive at the dock on a tilt, slanted from ordinary life, and then, under the warmth of loved ones and absence of to-do lists, I find fresh eyes, and my smile buried within the lazy vacation afternoons at the lake.

I find my balance.

They were such grown-ups

They were such grown-ups back then, high heeled in responsibility, absolute possessors of universal truths and magic kisses to make it all better.  They were adults, synonymous with strong and confident, wise and fearless.   Titles of ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ superseding any lingering childhood, they were the final answer, the protectors of safety, and owners of life’s guidebook.  I watched her put on her make-up, superfluous to the beauty I saw even early in the morning, as I tasted a glimpse of this ‘other life’, cast in moonlight skies and whiffs of Escada perfume. They were old, with kids and houses, jobs and responsibilities.  They had all of it figured it – they had to. I needed to believe that these two tall figures knew what they were doing, that they really could deliver the sun, that soothing words erasing fears were based in reality and not merely placating an anxious daughter.  They were grown-ups – of course they had it all together. 

Except as I look at the pictures from her 30^th birthday party, it sinks in.  I’m 30.  Oh goodness.  Panic seeps thru confidence cracks as I ponder the two options:

1.  She had no more clue about life and parenting and living in her skin than I do now and was just making it up as she goes along, which induces the crumbling of childhood pedestals and notions of ‘when I grow up’ I’ll somehow be granted the missing key.
2.  She was much more grown-up than I and really did have a life plan and know how to stand on her own two feet without peering around corners for approval and help. In that case, I am shockingly delayed.  Without the kids, house, or spouse, I have somehow stepped off of the timeline.

 Old has always been defined by the age of those I love.  40 might have sounded old but as soon as my cousin blew out all of those candles, it ceased to be old. Because we’re not old.  We’re just the kids.  We sit at the kid’s table and fly home for holidays.  And my parents can’t be old.  They’re no different than they were twenty years ago, so as the years pass, I simply slide the ‘old’ marker up a few years, protecting those I love from having to dip a toe into the danger zone. But I look around and I know – secretly I can see it in my 10 year old cousins eyes – he thinks I’m a grown up and I wish I could tell him the secret: I feel just like you, only with a few more stories to tell.  And we are adults.  We’re all in our twenties, thirties, forties, out living independent-ish lives, getting married, getting divorced, having kids, slipping on our own high heels. 

I remember my grandmother looking in the mirror as I fastened her necklace caught off guard, as if she couldn’t match her 85-year-old face with the young girl she knew she really was.  I’m guessing that’s how it goes.  We all skip and stumble, take risks and laugh through the falls. We do the best we can in the absence of instruction manuals, and we try to fill the oversized shoes left behind.  We banish monsters from the closet and kiss skinned knees, hoping that they won’t notice our own fears.  

We are all kids playing as grown-ups, with sweet insecurities poking out as we build our Lego lives and pray that somehow it will end ‘Happily Ever After’.

Hold On

Hold on! Hold on!

And so, in a rare instance of obedience, he gripped the seat belt and watched his sister float to the inner roof of the car. Hold On! Hold on to what? In the absence of anything stable, anything that would make this car brake in its tracks, and anything that would prevent the summersaults down the grassy hill, he tightened his grasp on the seatbelt and waited for further instructions.  If his dad said to ‘Hold On’ in an upside down nightmare, then he would ignore flying glass and simply clench the belt of protection.

She hears the Hold On! in the background, but remembers nothing but the orange juice.  They seemed to appear from the edge of the road, bystanders rushing to the rescue with Dixie cups amidst the shattered glass and purse items strewn about the hill.  The car landed upside down, and the juice people set about pulling first her brother out of the window and then her mother.  She must have been rescued too, but can’t remember.  Did she simply wait inside the crushed metal, watching her family emerge? Did some kind fellow traveler gently carry her to safety? She can’t remember.  She remembers being amazed at the distance a purse could fly, and how far she had to hike to find her stuffed animal that had flown from broken windows during the roll.

He saw the impatient driver up ahead, rushing on a two-lane highway, tapping fingers and itching to pass.  He saw the impatient driver, and in a split second reaction, veered to avoid a head on collision.  Cat-like reflexes, he remained vigilant despite the heat waves emitting from the black tar.  He veered the rental car, and with a quick turn, protected his family from disaster.  He was a good driver.  Except small rental cars don’t always equilibrate fast enough, and swerves disappear into loss of control.  He felt the resistance of the wheel as the car steered to the right, a mind of its own, directly into the face of a looming truck.  He yanked the wheel to the right with a prayer, and closed his eyes as he yelled, ‘Hold On, Hold on.’

She runs her fingers over their faces, checking for 10 fingers, 10 toes, taking inventory of body parts in an effort to breath.  She scans their arms and legs, concentrating on their safety while ignoring shaking hands and a terror that threatens to overwhelm.  Huddled on the grass, brushing off glass shards before collecting wallets and chap sticks scattered by the side of the road, she gasps.  Blood.  He’s hurt.  Panic.  She calls for one of the emergency personnel amid the three fire trucks, two ambulances, and two police cars.  Hurry, he’s bleeding. He’s hurt. Quick. 

Shh...Ma’am, it’s not him.  Look, you’re bleeding.  The window spikes must have cut you when you crawled out of the car.  Sshhh.  It’s ok.  He’s ok. Let’s go find a bandage and you’ll be just fine. 

And she followed him despite knowing that it was a lie.  It wasn’t fine.  How could it be fine when they were all dead?

She watched her father limp across the highway, speaking with policemen, while she averted her eyes from the crumpled car.  Did no one else notice that he was hurt?  She knew he wouldn’t complain, wouldn’t ask for help, preferring to take care of them just as he took care of his patients back home in his white coat. She too took inventory: mom, dad, and brother all moving and talking.  She registered the shock of the cars that lined the roadside, jaws agape at their survival, awed at the miracle of a deadly crash without fatalities.

 And the next snapshot is smeared with ice cream.  Double scoop cones while swinging with feet pointed to the sky.  Out of nowhere, they found a park beside the police station, and she took turns on the slide with her brother, whiling away the sunny afternoon, shattered glass forgotten and melting ice cream to soothe the fear.

They sat on another hill watching their young children play upon flower-lined paths.  Lush grass and impromptu jungle gyms...she had been right.  They had died and this was heaven.  She turned; brow etched with panic, searching her husband’s eyes for reassurance, evidence of the living.  Were they dead? Was this the blissful afterlife, complete with sweet drips of chocolate and children’s laughter? There was no way they had survived.  There was evidence: the twisted steel, screams, ambulances, and glass. But yet, they were still there, patched up and playing, holding hands while crossing the street, and shielding eyes from bright sun. How do you prove life? How do you discriminate heaven from earth, blessings of the mortal from gifts of eternity? She sat in her unknowing, holding her husband’s hand, and waiting for the next clue.

It would linger, hiding during night driving and lurking in shadows of dreams.  It etched scars of fear, terror of the unpreventable, and panic in sharp turns and screeching halts.  It was filed away, tucked behind vacation pictures, a blip in family history best forgotten.  They didn’t analyze or discuss.  They didn’t comb over details, but steered clear of that rural highway that threatened existence.

Normalcy returned, sibling bickering and harried parents rushing to make the flight home.  And as they buckled their seat belts during take-off, he held her hand over the sleeping heads of their children, and whispered, Just hold on.  We’re all okay.

And so she held on...held on to him, to her family, to life.  She just held on.

The Contest

We have a running contest, born in days of tears and loss. He’d come to visit and during stolen minutes escaped from the crowd of relatives, we’d compare lives.  The winner? Whoever was the most miserable. We ranked divorce and addiction, sickness and depression.  We matched up sorrow and hopelessness, measuring the weight of each before the final winner was declared.  We fed each other bites of black humor, along with solid hugs and warm hands to survive the bitter wind. 

It was a new pairing for me.  His face couldn’t be more familiar, and yet, I was used to catching his eye on the periphery, while I linked arms with his daughters and filled hours chattering about dreams and future plans.  He was my father’s partner, matching wit for wit, and drink for drink.  They were the fun ones, the life of the party, complete with napkins on their heads and boisterous laughs that garnered envy from strangers.  My relationship with my mother’s brother was limited to his role as dad to my cousins and entertaining uncle. 

And then we all grew up.

And the chattering stopped, napkins disappeared, and family vacations got stowed away with old pictures and dusty hiking boots.  Life set in, complete with milestones and sadness, celebrations and new beginnings.  We all shifted and stretched, searching for each other across distances of miles and lost words.  We fumbled in our efforts at connection and marked months between shared meals.

So the contest was born.  I, an adult daughter living at home once again, and he, the visiting uncle traveling the divorcee path with timid steps. We found each other beneath the blanket of family dinners stuffed with valiant efforts to recreate old times.  We shared glances of pain, knowing that you can’t go home again, that tears leave scars and loss breeds loneliness.  We saw common souls across the table, and clasped hands while we measured out our struggles.  It was a sweet bonding, this tall bearded uncle and I, rooted by years of beach vacations and the little boy insecurity I always saw beneath his humorous persona.  Troubles strip us of our masks and he and I met, while bare faced, in a world of disguises.

One of the blessings of family shows up in genuine joy for others good fortune.  Should I take home the gold medal this time, I couldn’t mask my happiness for his success.  And he celebrated my small steps even when he was tripping over old history and sharp edged relationships.  We met on the dark side, and championed the other in the quest for the light.

And we continue to grow up. 

Today we each find more smiles than tears, sure footed once again in a life that’s worth living.  He discovered love and a bliss that lights up the eyes I recognize from long ago.  I discovered a spot in the world to call my own and the daily gifts that bring laughter into my home.  The contest now exists only as a point of reference – an inside joke of times best left behind. But we hold hands that span the coasts, and trade pep talks as reminders of forever family.  Today we both lose the contest, happy to hand over our medals, and relax into hopeful futures.

I stand on the sidelines of his life, sips of updates and emails tinged with the humor that I’ve missed.  Only my uncle, dropping hints of topics and wit, sends me article proposals just in case I am inspired. In today’s email, following a story about a lost earring due to camera timer hassles, I get this:

So, there must be a life lesson there somewhere.

1) Ask for help. Don't trust the camera timer.

2) Don’t buy earrings. They are just meant to adorn someone who already knows you love her.

3) Always have metal detector handy. You never know when you will need to find something hidden in your life. Preferably one that doesn't require a long cord!

There. What a great article!!! And so profound!!

Yes, so profound. Profound in the unearthing of brimming laughter, profound in the sharing of love.  Profound for the re-emergence of a man filled with life, and profound for the kindness in spreading happiness.  There is no other word to capture the beauty of a man escaped from old pressures and past despair. Yes, profound as an example of how to pick up the pieces and fit together new life, new dreams, while gripping the hands of those you adore, those who love you.

I think we’ll let someone else win the contest and enjoy our sunshine for today.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Would you look into the future if you had the chance? Would you want a crystal ball, even if you could do nothing to change the finale?

I used to think it was a stupid question.  I used to think I would want to know. I am all for planning and lists, organization and pre-emptive worrying.  I have to-do lists for my to-do lists, and ‘prepared’ flashes on my forehead.  I squirm in the ambiguous, and tap my toes while sitting in the questions.  I like to know the outcome before I take the action.  I want to be guaranteed a positive result as I anticipate the risk. I want to taste the promise of freedom prior to the struggle and sniff the glory of success in advance of leaving the shore. 

You would think I would choose the crystal ball – a future spelled out in surety, clear cut plot lines and endings marking the last page. But we don’t get to choose what we see in this crystal ball. We don’t get to sift through the tears and heartache as we zoom in on the laughter.  If we couldn’t change the last word or implement detours, would you want to know?  If you couldn’t use this vision as a method for change, motivation to eradicate bad habits, turn a bit more to the left, shift backwards to avoid the potholes, would you take a peek? I would have to pass.

There is a protocol found among parents.  An underground network where parents can find others who share their struggles and are willing to act as tour guide for the newly exposed. They share with parents who shake with fear and stumble blindly into this new world of sickness or disability or troubles, all laced with powerlessness. They speak words of calming compassion; offer shoulders to lean on and tips for survival.  The idea is that these parents who have come out the other side can offer glimmers of life at the end of the tunnel. 

But what if you don’t have a happy ending to relay? What if you still wake with a racing heart and a mouth dry from fear? What if there are ups and downs, but the straight lined life has disappeared from view? What if the journey has left wounds still seeping and pockets of pain too sensitive to touch? What would you tell this new parent? Would you tell them what they ache to hear: that everything will be ok, that if you send her to this therapist or take this drug, she will be all better? Will you speak of simple steps to take in order to regain equilibrium, assurances of time marked in days rather than years for recovery? Or would you share your truth? Would you turn your crystal ball outward and offer a glimpse of a gray-lined future? Which is kinder? Which is true?

One person’s future isn’t contagious. Her outcome and life path doesn’t have to intermingle with his; her path might be uniquely tailored to fit.  One parent’s trauma doesn’t have to be served at the potluck, and the journey is painted by the individual’s hand and therefore not transferrable to new participants.

That’s the thing. Hope trumps the appeal of a crystal ball.  Hope balances out the worries and buoys us with salt while we paddle our challenging oceans. Hope can shade the gray with sunshine, and fill us with the promise of a better tomorrow.  And if tomorrow greets us with rain, there is always another tomorrow only a day away.  

If I could see what laid in store for me, I would have waved my white flag, burrowed beneath the covers and refused to emerge. If a crystal ball offers only plot, then the lessons learned would be absent.  The small joys and moments of bliss would fade amidst the setbacks, and I would be too caught up in the drama to recognize the supporting cast in the wings.  With too much future information, I would have dropped the course long ago.

But why am I assuming that my crystal ball would show only plot showcasing falls? Maybe it would depict waves jumped and tide pools discovered.  Maybe I would see birthday cakes and cards in the mail, graduation tassels and puppy kisses.  Perhaps my fortune would tell of apartments transformed into homes and visits greeted with bone-crushing hugs.  Maybe belly laughter is the soundtrack and the stage is set with supportive love.  Maybe gardenias bloom and hands are held, puddles to jump in as the side effect of rain.

Maybe it is only me who looks back over the past decades and lands on the bruises and failures, overlooking the warm grins and tears of joy. Maybe I would tell parents to ignore my life’s plot in favor of gearing up for their own journey.

 I would tell them to be patient and get educated, to find support of their own, and to love despite the walls thrown in their face.  I would tell them to look for the sprouts of life, the glimpses of truth, and to celebrate the small steps rather than waiting for the finish line.  I would tell them to expect stumbles and broken bones, days of fear stirred with anxiety.  I would tell them to search for the blessings, the lessons learned, the points of connection exposed.  I would tell them to cry, to scream, to lament and complain.  I would tell them to speak their truth and stop at nothing to save the ones they love.  I would tell them my finale doesn’t have to be theirs, and that the future isn’t set in stone.  I would tell them that hugs matter more than words, and hands to hold soothe more than pills. I would tell them that it’s a wordy book, but to pay attention, not only to the plot, but more to the spaces within. I would tell them that there is no crystal ball with sure results – not for me and not for them.  I would tell them my story and share my wisdom gleaned.

 I would tell them that should their plot twist where mine did, that they shouldn’t be fooled – it’s not about the storyline but rather the tally of blessings at the end.

I would tell them to ignore the crystal ball and to breathe in the living. I would tell them never to give up hope.