21. MY ANGELS

 

I have angels. I know I do. Well, OK, I think I do. They have specific jobs. I think I have one who really likes to cook, because he/she whispers things like "You need sage" to me when I am pushing my shopping cart past the spices. "No I don't", I whisper through my mask as I move down the aisle. Sure enough, right when I am in the middle of making Thanksgiving stuffing I reach for the sage and lo and behold the jar is empty.

My cooking angel has a particular connection with bananas and reminds me when I’m out, or the ones I have are past their prime. I am learning to trust the nudges I get from my cooking angel.

I think I might also have an art angel. Well, at least a music angel. Maybe it’s a writing angel. Anyway, that one makes me feel uncomfortable with stuff when it’s not quite right. Like that girl who always ran over to the teeter totter on the playground and hopped on the other end when I was waiting for my sister, I don’t particularly like to play with this one. I guess I don’t give my music angel credit for the good feelings I get when something feels right. I need to rethink our relationship. I just feel like she is a downer all the time and just tells me when something I write isn’t right, which is literally about 85% of the time.

Then there’s the big one, the head angel we call the Holy Ghost. I really like that one. Probably cuz he/she has perfected the job and knows all the tricks. HG knows my love language. He knows my intent, probably better than I know it myself. And he’s generally really gentle and loving and kind, unless I’m about to turn into oncoming traffic, then he slaps me in the figurative face. Whew! 

I am more grateful than I can adequately express for the HG. Truly. Of all my friends who do not currently have a body, I feel like he/she is my best friend, and I sincerely thank God for this gift. Quite honestly, I feel like, after the gift of life and choice, the Holy Ghost is the greatest gift given to mankind. And so few people even know about it. And even fewer work on building the friendship.

I have felt all sorts of angel whispers raining down on me at various moments in my life. I feel my mom a lot. And the last few years I have had a yearning for her mom: Lizzy,  the grandmother I never knew. I wonder if she jumps on board with me in my journey now and then.

One day, this past summer when Kate was home, I had an unexpected interchange with angels. Kate had been hunkered down in her house in upstate New York, once the order to stay put was decreed because of the pandemic. This was one year ago this week. Because Kate is comfortable in her own space and not socially needful (aka – introverted) she actually did fine being all alone with nowhere to go. She was fine… until she wasn’t. Lack of human touch gets to everyone at some point. There was a moment, after months of solitude, when her angels told her she needed to go home. So we were blessed to have her here for a few months last summer. Kate lives in NY while she is earning her doctoral degree at Brock University, just across the border into Canada. Gratefully, when the borders closed because of the pandemic, so did the doors to the university. Kate was able to teach and otherwise interact  virtually, and that could be done from Utah as easily as its done from New York. So home she came. On top of teaching and grading, she was also working on a massively involved Comprehensive Exam, which is what they call one of the large research projects before the dissertation for a doctoral degree at Brock. This gathering and analysis of data is intended to be published. The subject matter was way over my head, and I couldn’t really tell you what it involved, only that Kate spent most of every day in her spot at the kitchen table working on it. It involved statistics, and mathematics, and other stuff that is not naturally up Kate’s alley. One of the problems, as I perceived it, was that Kate was having to analyze things she didn’t completely understand. Sort of a math thing. I prayed mightily for my angels to have a little talk with her angels and see what they could do to help out. Then, one night, when I was being especially serious about it, and ponderingly prayerful, I had the distinct impression I should specifically ask for Kate’s grandpas to help out. You’d have to understand our history to get the weirdness of this impression. My dad was one of those that left his family and never said goodbye, and never paid child support. I think they call them dead beat dads. And the fact is that now he is, literally, dead. So is Dave’s dad, whom Kate knew and loved. So it took some trust and humility, a bit of let-go-and-let-God, for me to actually act on that impression. 

It was a memorable and pivotal thing. I sat on the edge of my bed, because my post-Guillain Barre feet and knees do not do well kneeling. I bowed my head. I spoke the prayer aloud. Sometimes I think my prayers, but I felt this one needed voicing.

“Lord, would you mind asking Kate's grandfathers to come to her and help her with her work?”

Both my father and Dave’s father were brilliant thinkers. My dad was a mathematician for the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission. Dave’s dad had a Doctorate in Nuclear Physics, as well as a Juris Doctorate. They both knew how to analyze data. They both knew each other through their work  in the field of nuclear power. And I knew that if they knew their granddaughter needed help, they would give it.

It’s kind of a big deal for me to think that my dad would help my daughter. He’s never met her. And he was not there to help me or my siblings through our math and science studies. But somehow I had a feeling that he might be willing to help Kate, with his new broader next-level understanding, And I felt like he might be, I don’t know, maybe touched that his daughter would think to ask. Anyway, I did ask. And I told Kate about it, because I thought she needed to be open to receiving. We both wept.

I am not sure how much help was given. I’m not sure about much of anything. But I have had little tiny witnesses in the grocery store, and sitting with my guitar in the midst of half written songs, and I believe I have angels. The big one, common to all of us, and other ones particular to me. I am not supposed to see them. Why would we need faith, otherwise? But I’m pretty sure they are there. I’m not certain how Kate’s grandfathers helped her, but I’ll bet they felt good about being asked. And frankly, I’ll betcha they had a good time together.

I don’t pray to my angels, though I am grateful for them. I pray to my God, through my advocate, Jesus Christ. But each prayer, I suspect, has a cc that goes to my angels. 

POSTSCRIPT: the night I published this post Kate sent this:

kate_connorsMarch 12, 2021 at 10:35 PM

I think about this often—how the night after Dad gave me a blessing and you invited me to be open to some angelic intervention from my grandfathers, I stayed up working on that project through the night and concepts and ideas that had previously sent me down spirals of confusion started shifting bit by bit toward greater clarity. It was genuinely a turning point in my progress on that project. I also think it’s been a bit healing for me to think of accepting help from your dad. Even though he didn’t hurt me, he hurt people I love and I’ve always harbored some resentment against him for it. Maybe I still do a little, but less than before, and it’s better mixed with compassion now. That was a gift to me. Thank you for that gift. 

As it happens, this very morning I presented the analyses and findings from that project to the genetics lab folks at Yale that we collaborate with (the ones who collected the data on the first place). It was really well-received. I’d like to think that maybe my grandfather’s felt a bit proud about that.

20. TOKENS

This morning, as I was hanging my pajamas on the hook in my closet, and at the same time pondering what I would focus my writing on today, I noticed this little pineapple shaped metal hook that hangs next to the washing machine in my closet. Every time I see it I think of my friend, Teri Brostrom Ross. Teri has known me a lot of years, and that simple hook makes my heart feel sealed to hers because it reminds me of her. She knew I liked the symbol of the pineapple as a representation of warmth and hospitality. We had a pineapple engraved on the glass in our entry door when we lived across the street from Teri. I  named my company Pineapple Enterprises. Not a lot of people know that about me these days. But Teri does. Or did. And when we built this new house 26 years ago she gave me this little housewarming gift of a pineapple hook. This hook, which I see multiple times a day, keeps Teri on my mind and in my heart.

I decided to take two minutes and travel around my house with my camera, snapping photos of other tokens that remind me of people, places or events. Here are two minutes of treasures.

Dave spent a good bit of time in St Croix Virgin Islands, working on a case for a client in Australia. He came home from one of his trips, when our kids were young, and gave each of them one of these colorful carved animal figures. Only Kate and Annie were probably young enough to fully appreciate and delight in them. I keep them on a shelf in the closet, in front of Dave's old Mackinac Island ball cap, because they remind me of a time when there were four kids making this house noisy and crazy and joyful. They remind me of the time in our lives when Dave was gone a lot, working on important cases. They remind me that while he was gone, he did think of us, and that he thought outside his instinctively focused "work box" and found these treasures for his kids. Nowadays they also remind me of our grandkids, who have found them on that shelf, just at their eye level, and claimed them as their own.

This medal, tucked in my jewelry box, reminds me that Dave was an honored and respected mayor of this city we call home. He was beloved by the police and fire departments for his dedication to their welfare, which in turn benefitted our citizens. He approved the first ladder truck, and the building of the new fire and police stations. He championed them when many citizens did not understand the dynamics of growth in a small town turning not-so-small. He laid the foundation of big things that happened after his watch, so people clapped and cheered for whomever was in office, not knowing what labors went into negotiations and studies and procedures that lay under splashy things. I know this. And he knows this. And he does not need people to clap for him like I think I do. But this little medal, tucked privately in a box, reminds me that he does things for the right and noble reasons, and I'm so proud of him.

In the same jewelry box is this antique metal cross necklace. It belonged to my mother, and is quite valuable. The year my mother died I almost didn't  do my annual Christmas concert. We were still grieving, and I was afraid I would cry through it. But I decided to do it anyway. The night of the first performance, before I left home, my sisters presented me with Mom's cross. I wore it throughout the performance, each night. This year I wore it as well. It's not stypical for a Latter-day Saint girl to wear a cross necklace. But my mom taught us to not get sucked into being typical. If who we are fits into the typical mold, well ok. But if not, no apologies.

This little nook in our family room might strike someone as a shrine. It's not. It's a reminder to me of our Catholic heritage in this house, and the people we love whose faith forms a foundation for our faith. The cross belonged to Dave's dad, and the rosary beads were his mother's. The Jesus belongs to all of us.

When we were building this house, twenty six or seven years ago, I was in a phase of acquisition. My Saturday mornings were devoted to garage sales. I had a homing device for Garage Sales that I had to pray away. (Praise be to God, that addiction has dissipated). This light fixture was one of my garage sale finds. There was a perfect little wall space for it right outside our bedroom. It has burned, with its warm yellow glow, day and night for 26 years. It reminds me of a time in my life that is part of me, but does not wholly own or define me.

One of my favorite places to visit is Plymouth Plantation. We try to go there whenever we visit Boston. I love it because it is the perfect place for grown up's to pretend, on a grown up level. This is a barometer made of handblown glass and forged iron. I squeeze colored water into it with a medical syringe every couple years. It really works. For instance, I can see some sort of weather change is headed our way because the water is almost to the top of the neck. When I look at my barometer I am instantly on the unpaved path of the Pilgrims, smelling the woodsmoke rising from the thatched roofs of their small houses lined up there on the hillside, mixed with the faint undertones of salty seawater and fresh baking bread in their outdoor community oven. I feel the crispness of autumn in New England and I pretend that I am far, far, far from my native land, driven across the seas by my need for religious freedom.

My son, John, probably doesn't know this, but I have two small sculptures in our house that are there just because they remind me of him. One is a replica of the Pieta' by Michelangelo. There was a time when this piece moved me to tears regularly. I kept it sitting on my long black table in the family room. I felt the love and longing of the mother Mary at the loss of her beloved son. I had empathy with the feeling of loss, when my boy grew up,( as he was supposed to) and moved on, (as he was supposed to.) Still, it is a grief all mothers have to work through. This little John the Baptist was purchased at a flea market int Italy. I bought it to remind myself that John has his own calling in life. I may have been part of getting him here, and keeping him alive for a while, and perhaps helping him see life in a certain way. But he has his path to walk and his purpose to fulfill without me, and that's a good thing. This little figure reminds me of that. I love him, but he is not mine to keep.

This little collection of sheep remind me of my mom, of myself, and my savior. I've collected sheep a long time. My mom and I started it together, years ago. Mine come from all over. I set them together, all their varying colors, shapes and sizes, facing the Good Shepherd. At Christmastime I channel my friend Sally Jo and gather them around the manger, one sheep for each of my children and grandchildren. I have, now, one of Sally Jo's sheep on my mantle next to a 150 year old Santon of St Joseph that I purchased at a flea Market in New York about a decade ago.

Any of my children will tell you they have memories of the candy chicken at Gram's house. My grandchildren will tell you the same of the white chickens at my house. Tradition. When we moved back east, to Western PA in 1963, my mom set about discovering all the treasures around her. One was the Westmoreland Glass Factory, where they made milk glass. She purchased, one piece at a time as she could afford it, milk glass place settings for her dining room table. Accessories were part of the fun. One of them was the milk glass chicken she kept on her sideboard. In it she kept little candies. I think Runts were the favorites of my kids. especially the banana shaped ones. Libby still keeps Gram's chicken filled at her house. I keep mine filled at mine. Before we moved to Utah, in 1982, Mom and I visited the Westmoreland Glass Factory outlet and purchased place settings for my own table. The factory was closing and we knew if we wanted our grapevine pattern we'd better get it then. These chickens speak of Gram, treasured memories of our time together, memories of my children's hands on her chickens, and my grandkids hands on my chickens.

Dave's sister Jill sent these carved wood angels to us years ago for Christmas. I love them. I think of her every time I see them. I love having this reminder of her because she lives thousands of miles away in Rhode Island.

This small bouquet of dried roses hangs from a candle holder on my wall. I light the candle when the power goes out. The roses were gathered from the many bouquets on my mother's grave. They were tiny, bright and fragrant then. But they are still beautiful to me. I like to think of my mom when I walk by them. I like to think that she fits perfectly under the source of light.

I loved the great creative adventure of building this house. We did all sorts of meaningfull stuff no one but us would know about. My kids initials are scratched in the mortar in the rock fireplace. Those rocks were gathered from the creekbed behind our old house. The mantle in the basement is an old beam from the fallen barn on the old Leonard property. The sunstone in the brickwork out front represents that Christ is the cornerstone of this house. All sorts of meaningful stuff. We will likely be remodeling the kitchen in the next few years. It makes me feel melencholy, because I will lose some of these secret treasures. But it's dated, and time for a change, I know that. I decided to hand fire tiles for this kitchen, when we were designing. I cut out sponges in the shape of apples and invited family and close friends to make apple tiles for the new kitchen. We had them fired and installed. I love looking at the apples around my kitchen backsplash and seeing the initials of people I love painted beside each apple. Some of these folks have moved up to heaven now. I like remembering them sitting at the kitchen table in the old house, their hands dipping sponges and arranging paint on blank tiles, then their paintbrushes creating little corkscrew swirls to personalize each one. 

My friends Marsha and Rob gave me this awesome guitar shaped cutting board for a birthday years ago. I hung it on the cupboard next to the kitchen window. I stand at the sink daily and think of them when I see it. I think of them, and every time I pray for them. Marsha survived Pancreatic Cancer. It's been at least 17 years now. She is struggling to hang on to her body these days, and so I pray. But as much as I pray for her health, I pray gratitude for so many delightful memories with her. So many.

Every summer, when we weave our way across the continent and end up at our cottage in Michigan, I take at least one afternoon and visit my favorite antiquing haunts. Since I am basically out of the acquisition mode these days, I don't very often purchase anymore. Years back tho, I found these two little hand carved figures in Uncle Winnies Antiques Shop and snatched them up. I was just coming to terms with the fact that Dave and I were on the cusp of becoming an old couple. I have long been charmed by old couples. I didn't have grandparents, or great grandparents as a child, so much of what charms me is in the pretend world. I keep this little pair on the etergere in my entry hall to remind me that I am part of a set, like salt and pepper shakers. I know one day the set will get broken up for a while, but the fact that its only "a while" makes my heart happy.

There's a little old tomato sauce can covered in felt, polyester lace, glitter and a pipe cleaner candy cane sitting on the window sill in my bathroom. It's doesn't really go there. But I cannot remove it because it reminds me of my Kate and I need to think of her through these tokens because she lives far away in New York. Kate made this in Kindergarten. I keep money in it. Spare change. How blessed are we to have a life that includes spare change? I like to lift this can to see her little-girl handwriting, from a time when she called herself Katie. I made a can like this when I was in First Grade. It had blue felt, with a felt fish on the front. My mom kept it many, many years. It made me feel important. I hope Kate knows how important she is to me.

I have about ten additional photos from my two minute token blitz. But two minutes of photos is taking me hours to write about, so I'll leave with one last token from my long black table.

This Sacrament set has become part of our weekly routine. It was created with love during this pandemic. I drilled holes in the wood. Sanded, painted, glued and glossed it. I filled the holes with vintage sacrament cups from the 1950's. The bread plate was made by Ben Behunin, a potter friend. I purchased the miniature carafe from the restaurant supply shop in SLC. We typed, printed and laminated tiny Sacrament Prayer cards that sit under the tray. We use this set every Sunday during the pandemic, when we prepare, bless and partake in our own home. I play Love One Another on my guitar as we sing during the breaking of the bread. We use that song because it is so short, but powerful. Breaking 1/4 piece of bread for our small gathering goes pretty quick. I have loved the time when this sacred ordinance has been performed within our own walls. Our home becomes sanctified and holy, not only by the performance of this ordinance, but by the love that is evidenced here.

Tokens abound in our space. They are tokens because of what they represent and who they remind us of. Otherwise, it's just stuff.

19. ALL OR NOTHING (MINE UNBELIEF)

I wonder what I was like 100 years ago. Not that time was part of the formula there, wherever my spirit was before it squeezed itself into my body. But 100 earth years ago, when I wasn't born, I wonder what I was like. I wonder if I was as impatient there as I tend to be here. Or has the force of gravity brought out the part of me that chomps at the bit?

It’s taken a half dozen decades for me to figure out that life is not an “all or nothing” deal. Well, I’ve sensed it before, but it’s taken a bit of self-talk to convince myself that there is more value, in general, in process than there is in outcome. 

The thing I wish I had figured out earlier, at least before I was raising other spirits who got their bodies through me, is that there is a broad spectrum of belonging in the kingdom of our Lord. Much broader than we can even see. I’m sure God himself, from his distant place, can see the vanishing points when he analyzes perspective in each of our lives, but we are too darn close to know where they are. We try to put a ball point pen dot on our life lines, and expect ourselves to remain there in perfection. Be good. Don’t stray.  Don’t even shift. Goodness, don’t even sneeze, for fear you’ll lose balance and move off the dot. That’s how the small and immature girl in me perceived obedience.

But now I’m old. At least older. And I think things are not so succinctly defined. We bounce back and forth on the gradient, like the needle on a compass in the pocket of a hiker. Every once in a while, when we force ourselves to be still, the needle is able to work its way North. These pauses are good, because we definitely need to redirect in the journey. But there is so much to be learned when we find the edge of the path. That’s where the flowers grow.

I’ve been ruminating on the scripture in Mark where the apostles were trying to cast an evil spirit out of a boy, at the request of his father. Jesus, having just returned from the Mount of Transfiguration, sees the hubbub and asks what’s going on. Then he asks the father if he believes the evil spirit can be removed from his boy, by the power of the Master. The father responds:

Yea, Lord, I believe. Help thou mine unbelief.

Don’t you just love that? I do.

There is a broad piece of cloth on the shoulders of believers. Long and colorful and fringed, like the robes of a rabbi. And in that long piece of cloth are fibers of belief and unbelief woven together, blue and white, blue and white…and in the end there is a lovely pattern that represents a life of desire to believe, trust in the source of power,  a small deep blue portion of faith, and just a few tight little knots of absolute knowledge. They all fit. Even the unbelief. Especially the unbelief. The white background makes the blue so beautiful.

There is so little I can say is sure. But I remain on the path I suspect will get me Home. I could be wrong. But it is not a bad path, and I do enjoy the flowers in the journey.

Thank you, Lord, for my tiny portions of belief. Help thou, Lord, mine unbelief.

18. LIBERATED LATTER-DAY WOMEN

This sign has hung inside my
pantry door for 20 years

Before this pandemic closed the chapel doors in our churches, I was invited to speak at a Women's Conference for a group of young single adults who share my Faith. (That's "Faith" with a capital "f", meaning religion. There's a broad spectrum of individual faith within our collective Faith.) I had been asked to speak and sing, which I was happy to do.

My guitar and I travelled to a neighboring community on a November Saturday morning, where a couple hundred female members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had gathered. They were between the ages of 18 and 30. 

As a preface, it would probably help to know, for context, that our religion is Christian, and strongly supportive of traditional families. I was raised in this church, as part of a non-traditional family, but I still maintain the lower-case faith that gives me a general sense of peace, hope and well-being. That being said, I acknowledge that it was not easy growing up in a family-based church and being raised by a single mother. Harder for our mom than the rest of us, I’m afraid. There was a spoken and unspoken tenet that in order to fulfill our utmost divinity, we had to have an eternal partner. Not so much mention was made that we have an eternity to make that unfold. My analysis, from my limited perspective, is that we tend to give human parameters to vast godly elements. We compress eternity into the human life-span. I think it’s a mistake. But what do I know? (I’ll answer that: not much! And the more I learn, the less I realize I know.)

Anyway, I was aware that this collection of adult women, who were not married, were part of this same religion, raised by my generation, who were raised by the generation above us, and even though we have made progress in our reverence and respect for the capabilities and callings of women, we are in flux. I was given the freedom to speak on what I felt inspired to share, and to use my own instruments – guitar and voice and mind, and for that I felt grateful and responsible. So I did what responsible people do when preparing for such things. I researched, pondered and prayed.

I sat on the stand in the large chapel, next to a young woman who appeared to be in her early 20’s. She was exuberant and kind

and made me sound much better than I am when she introduced me to the group.

I spoke, and I sang, and we laughed, and cried just a little. Afterwards she very sweetly thanked me privately, sharing her personal thoughts as I was presenting:

“That was great,” she said. Really. As you were talking I said to myself…is she… is she… wait, I think she might be… liberated! She’s a liberated woman. Wow! Can we get a picture with you?”

Beautiful women at the Womens Conference.

I took it as a compliment. Yup, you can be a covenant woman, worthy of all that Lord has made available to commandment keepers, and you can also be “liberated.”

On the other hand, I think it’s a little sad that we attribute general fair mindedness to being liberated. 

I suppose it has to start somewhere, and like the “Black Lives Matter” signs and rainbow flags we place in our windows, we have to be willing to be obvious in our desire to be inclusive without disregarding our covenants. We must speak up. I must speak up.

My sister Libby and my grandkids
in a Black Lives Matter march

As for the divine nature of the creature who bears the womb, I crave for her the equality she has been guaranteed in the truest most eternal sense of the word. I regret the habits of guilt and shame I acquired as a good little girl. I wasn’t born with them. I learned them, with all the other little girls. But I also allow forgiveness of others, and myself, and pray for healing personally, as a family, and as a society. Oh, goodness, I do hope I am liberated!

Here’s a portion of my notes from that talk given in the YSA Women’s Conference:

I texted my daughter, Kate, who lives in New York while she’s earning  her doctoral degree. I said:

“I get to speak/sing at a stake young single adults women’s conference this weekend. Is there something that you think would be or would have been spiritually helpful for you to hear at such a gathering?”

Her reply:

“Hmmm… I don’t know – maybe a reminder that they aren’t incomplete beings waiting to be completed by a marriage and family – that they are whole and complete and magnificent in and unto themselves. I think sometimes an inadvertent message we hear in church is that individuals are incomplete without spouses and children and I think that message can tend to stunt the spiritual, mental and emotional growth of single people – particularly women.”

We are not dissing marriage. But we are encouraging you beautiful women to define yourselves individually before your Lord.

For this next little while we are together, will you just let yourself think about your personal relationship with Jesus and no one else? 

Christ has shown us, and told us, that he loves us without needing reasons. So if you think you can earn your way into his heart, you are mistaken. We live good, obedient lives for our own sakes. It turns us into better souls, and it gives us access to places we may want to end up one day. That’s why we live good lives. That’s why we obey. But his love for us is not hinged on reasons. 

In the words of a prophet, Thomas S Monson:

"My dear sisters, your Heavenly Father loves you - each of you. That love never changes. It is not influenced by your appearance, by your possessions, or by the amount of money in your bank account. It is not changed by your talents and abilities. It is simply there. It is there for you when you are sad or happy, discouraged or hopeful. God's love is there for you whether or not you feel you deserve love. It is simply always there."

(Sing No Reason)

Let us love ourselves and each other that way. It is a commandment, after all. And we are covenant women.

Let's liberate, Ladies!

Mother Eve, whom I revere as
the first noble and liberated woman.

Joan of Arc

My mother and mentor.

The women I raised.

...and more to come.

17. SOMETHING OUT OF REACH

 

All the things I do not know

All the feels I do not feel 

What exists, but doesn’t show 

In what is real or isn’t real

 

They spin in circles, round and round

Like witches with their heads thrown back

Cackling without a sound

A swirling mess of black on black

 

Now and then I dip my toe

In waters treacherous and deep

Knowing that I cannot know

Accepting what I cannot keep

 

But trying, nonetheless, to tell

As life is sifting through my hand

If there’s a pearl inside a shell

That’s hiding underneath the sand

 

All the songs that go unborn

Lonely words without a rhyme

Aborted tunes without a form

Abandoned tones and keys and time

 

They pop like bubbles in my head 

They’re stuck below my vocal cords

They stay there sleeping in my bed 

When I get up to find the words

 

I dance with witches in the storm

I search for pearls along the beach

I sleep with songs without a form

To reach for something out of reach

 

This is a song. Or at least a melodic poem, with plenty of rhythm and rhyme. An A B song without a chorus.  I hear the music in my head. It is likely to remain there.

16. I LOVE YOU SO MATH

One of the most beautiful things in my life, so far, is being able to observe the unfolding of the wings of my grandchildren. Go ahead and search unfolding of ladybug wings on YouTube. It’s fascinating.

Being a grandparent is lovely, for those of us who get to do it with a healthy amount of hands-off love. By that I mean that the actual parents are doing the parenting. I know more than a few grandparents who have had to jump into the parenting mode and my hat is off and head is bowed to them. I also know grandparents whose children have, for unfathomable reasons, kept them out of their grandchildren’s lives. My heart breaks for them.

Lucky us, we have been welcomed into the hearts and homes of all eleven of our grands. These are truly some of my greatest joys! And because they are great joys, I also know they may also be the source of great sorrows, because of the pendulous nature of love. But for now, it's pure joy.

Each divine creation that emerged through the cocoons of our children has been uniquely beautiful. Today, I’m thinking about Ruby, my son John’s third-born. Roo is the girl who throws her arms around me, when Covid does not interfere, and pulls me firmly against her heart. She keeps me there, and I rub my hands against her back and whisper “I love you’s” into her ear. Roo gives that extra measure of moments in her embraces, very unusual for teens, and I inhale and hold my breath, never wanting to leave the moment. She’ll tell me how much she has missed me in this pandemic while she lays the side of her head against my chest. 

Roo and I have shared a lot through her eleven years. I’ve loved the times she has stayed with us, or I have stayed with her while her parents have been out of town. She is one of my favorite cooking partners. And she is a true artist, storyteller, dancer, singer, writer, musician. The creative force is strong in this one. One of her finest gifts is the ability and desire to empathize with others. She feels the feels. This is great for others in her circle, and hard on Roo, because quite frankly, empathy is exhausting. Roo also suffers from a chronic pain syndrome that intensifies pretty much everything in her young life. Still, she is a seeker of peace and joy, and she is willing and able to reflect what she finds.

Ruby is a communicator. She is a whisperer, a shouter when necessary, a hugger, and a sender of notes. I love Ruby notes.

Roo gives such awesome notes
of encouragement and love

One of my favorite notes from Ruby hangs in our study. She must have written it in second or third grade. Its been tacked on the wall with a piece of scotch tape for years now. She's drawn a picture of the two of us inside a heart, and handwritten these words: 

"You are the best prsin. 

I love you so math."

One of the things I have loved about Roo is her willingness to use appropriate words and not worry about how they look, as long as they can be deciphered. This is so healthy. I get pretty frustrated when teachers punish kids for spelling errors in creative writing. Spelling should never get in the way of creativity. Fear should not be a factor when we dive into the creative mode. Roo’s auditory learner hears and perceives in her own way, so sometimes words come out just slightly off kilter. But I would rather her use the best word than the safest word, which might be the one she knows how to spell. Sound out the word PERSON in your head. Prsin is how it sounds, and it doesn’t bother me a whit to have a kid spell it that way. Especially not in the era of spell checks.

It brings me particular delight to think about Roo writing the word MATH for the word MUCH. Both words have the same sort of visual balance, taking about the same space on paper. And the emotion of someone saying “I love you so much!” takes a darling twist when it is changed to “I love you so math!”, (especially when neither of us particularly loves math.)

So when I want to tell someone I really love them… I mean really, really feel the feels for them… then I will whisper “I just love you so math!” And every time I do, I will channel the unbridled love of my Ruby.

I love you so math!

If I ever say that to you, you’ll know how truly, deeply and passionately I love you.  

15. GEORGE CLOONEY EATS APPLES

When I teach my new ukulele students how to tune their instruments, I use this initialism: George Clooney Eats Apples (G-C-E-A). Most of my young students have no idea who George Clooney is. Sorry, George. I guess you need to have a few years under your belt to appreciate some of the finer things.

One day, a while back now, the AARP magazine started appearing in our mailbox. Neither Dave nor I had subscribed, but there it was, and to be frank, I wasn’t super happy about it. I didn’t even know an AARP Magazine existed! When we started getting it, in my 40’s, I thought, “What the HECK?” and tossed it in the recycling bin. But one afternoon I took a glance at it and found that it is actually a pretty good periodical, even if you’re not old. (AARP, for those who may not know, stands for American Association of Retired Persons.) Dave isn’t retired, and I don’t think I get to retire, so I dismissed it, trying not to take offense. Now, I read it regularly. It has all sorts of interesting information, besides the fact that, this month, George Clooney is on the cover. I have finally embraced my agedness. 

There is an awful lot that is awesome about getting old. For instance, Dave quietly set this on his pillow this morning:

Isn’t that just lovely? See’s candy for breakfast in bed! And here’s the thing about being old that makes it dandy. I can leave the box out in the family room, gobble whatever I want, and I don’t even have to hide it from the kids cuz they all grew up and moved out! Awesome!

At dinnertime, which is basically whenever we feel like making something to eat (besides See’s candy), Dave and I still get giddy when we realize we can sit in our comfy spots in front of the TV and watch a show while we eat. Awesome!

I can get away with not wearing makeup, because it’s getting difficult to hide evidence of age anyway. This is besides the fact that we wear masks. Goodness, we’re gonna take those things off next year and exclaim how old everyone got! There comes a point, and I’m getting there, when wrinkles and age spots become beautiful. That’s Awesome!

And, when you’re old you can get away with saying things like AWESOME repeatedly because… you know… you’re old.

Plus, if you are growing old with someone like Dave Connors, you get absolutely indulgent breakfast in bed, which just patiently waits there till you wake up and doesn’t worry about getting cold. And then you go out in the kitchen and find this:

The very best part about March 5^th, for me, is that I get to celebrate the two women on either side of me who also experienced new life on this day. My mom and I both gave birth on March 5^th. Mom bore me, and I bore my Sarah. Don’t you think that is just magical? My Sarah is the epitome of love and devotion, and has made me feel cherished and appreciated since she was very small. Poor girl. She never got her very own birthday. But then, I do think it is sparkly fine that we get to share this day. I feel kind of like I am she and she is me, in a mysterious way. 

The other night, when I was having trouble sleeping, I rolled over and saw George Clooney staring at me. So, like any intelligent woman, I grabbed him and brought him to bed with me. Turned the pages until I came to the… you guessed it…crossword puzzle on page 88. I clicked on my bedside lamp and scrunched the pillows behind my back, making sure not to wake Dave, and completed the whole thing in nothing flat.

Yup, I’m old. 

(Bring on another year.)

14. THE HANDSHAKE

Way back, when I was a girl, even before I was old enough to read, I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, a large orange colored Childcraft Encyclopedia cradled in my lap. These were the days when no one in hometown USA could have imagined anything like Google. What we knew, and what we learned, had to be acquired through word of mouth, personal experience, or from the printed page. the search engine of our past was understanding the alphabet and guessing how someone might have categorized information. Nowadays, even the brightest most intelligent kid would have to pause and analyze before doing something like look up a phone number in the phone book, or research the origin of the handshake in the Encyclopedia. While I miss the simplicity of a matching row of books safely stored on a bookshelf, I also celebrate the broad availability of knowledge we currently have at our fingertips.

I’ve been pondering lately, as I dare to anticipate our civilization surviving this pandemic and one day coming out of it, what will become of the handshake. I suspect, with our personally attained universal knowledge of germ transmission, that we will be saying goodbye to the “hello” of the past. I have mixed feelings about that. There is something powerful in human touch, and I fear we will damage ourselves mentally by excessively worrying about ourselves physically.

The handshake, as I understand it, originated centuries ago. There is evidence, preserved in art, that people were shaking hands as far back as the 5th century BC. It served many purposes. In greeting, it was an indicator that a person had come in peace. The right hand was offered, and accepted, showing that there was no intent to use weapons. The scabbard, holding a sword or knife, hung from the left hip. Offering the right hand showed you would not be reaching to draw your sword.  In business, the handshake served to seal one’s personal honor on a transaction.

This was before people understood germs. Here they were, thinking they were not using weapons against each other, when in fact they were exchanging, let’s say, something like the Black Plague. Nonetheless, the act of touch is powerful. And don’t we know it! I wept and wept that day I snuggled my youngest grandchild into my squishy lap after months of pandemic imposed isolation last year. I let every cell of my body wrap around her as she curled into me, inhaling the sacredness of touch. I am saddened at the thought of not touching each other, in respectful ways, once we are through this.

Maybe the French have had it right all along, kissing upon greeting. My research,(I acknowledge this is antidotal study done on a Thursday morning in my pajamas) suggests that hand shaking exchanges 60 times more germs than a kiss. That’s because our hands are all over the place, collecting germs from all sorts of sources, whereas our lips hold only our own germs. This is true, of course, only if you are not a dog or a cat. We humans are, apparently, safer to kiss each other than shake each other’s hands. Especially if we do the traditional European cheek kiss. I’m ok with that. Though there are some people to whom I want to show respect, but I’d rather keep a little more distance than a kiss.

Indians and other Middle Easterners play it safe with Namaste, there they touch their own palms together and bow slightly, saying Namaste at the same time. That’s nice, and respectful, and maybe best when we are meeting new people. But friends, especially good friends? I’m sorry, I need to touch!

It’s all something we don’t have to worry about at this moment, because we have learned to keep our hands to ourselves. And these masks we wear get in the way of kissing. I suppose we will have to be satisfied and grateful we have elbows, and that we can at least meet energy-force to energy-force through the crook in our arms.

However we say it, we should at least confirm as our personal truth: ”I come in peace.”

The George Washington Medal of Peace 1904