One lifetime isn't long enough

It would take lifetimes to do all I want to do. I’m just finishing a new online class; the stack of books to read grows; the list of books and essays I dream of someday writing grows; there are so many publications to which I’d like to subscribe and have the time to read. Multiple careers still intrigue me. Life is so exciting in this way. I worry I’ll never get it all in—and I won’t. Nevertheless, it makes me happy that I think this about life. Watching the news can be so horribly depressing, but then I look at the stacks of books and think of the host of ideas represented, consider emails from friends about what they’re up to and interested in, and enthusiasm wells inside me. With all that we’re told is going wrong in the world, is that enthusiasm based on escapism or naiveté or could it be an awareness of an alternate reality, one in which truth, beauty and goodness, faith, hope and love are alive and well, a reality that the news correspondents aren’t paid to report on, that the viewing public would find of little interest, that doesn’t influence the course of history—or does it

~~~

[Photo: taken several years ago at an exhibit at the American Swedish Institute - sorry it's not too sharp. I don't know who Hilma Berglund is but I'm sure we're kindred spirits.]

Every day Mother's Day

A group of gifted writers has gathered together at a new website that celebrates and gives voice to moms of all varieties. MakesYouMom.com publishes something new every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. At the helm of this new online publishing venture is my friend Laura Lynn Brown, author of Everything That Makes You Mom: A Bouquet of Memories, a book my siblings and I used to create a Mother's Day gift for our mother two years ago. Since Mother's Day comes every year, I thought I'd share this idea at the same time I pointed you to Laura's new site.

Everything That Makes You Mom is a gift book in which Laura has written memories and reflections about her mother as launch points for questions you can answer about your own mother. My sister and I started the process of filling out this book for our mother by meeting at a restaurant and going through the book, writing answers to its questions on a pad of paper. We took turns reflecting on the different questions and adding our memories. We ate a lot and wrote a lot. We laughed a ton. We continued on by emailing and texting about answers to more questions and sent my out-of-town brother a list of questions for his input. We didn't use all the questions Laura included, and we took liberties at adapting some questions to better fit our particular mother and sets of memories, but all her questions formed a wonderful place to start even if we didn't use all of them exactly as written. It shouldn't be surprising - but it often was - that the three of us didn't always have the same memories or the same answers to the questions.

We gathered up all our answers into one big typed document so that we could distribute them to grandchildren, and then we wrote the answers into the book pages. If we hadn't been collating all the siblings' responses together or if we'd all been in the same place at the same time, we wouldn't have gone through these multiple steps, but in the end we created a valuable document that tells a lot about our wonderful mother and our years of growing up together. More importantly, it tells my mother we saw her. This is what Laura's new website, MakesYouMom.com, is all about: seeing the mother you've had, seeing the other women in your life who have been like second mothers to you, seeing the mothers all around you, even the one inside yourself.

~~~

[Photo: taken of a page from the book my siblings and I filled out for our mother.]

Instagram: pictures instead of words

I'm experimenting with being on Instagram. So much of my day is spent with words that I’m finding it a surprisingly soothing place to hang out for a few minutes each day. It is completely unlike Twitter, which to me is kind of like walking through Times Square at its weekend peak of flashing lights and crowdedness. If you’re also there on Instagram and want to connect, please do. My user name is my name with no middle initial.

Postcards

A couple weeks ago I took a writing class and the instructor pulled from her bag an armful of postcards. 

"Pass these around and use something on the front or back for inspiration," she said.

Postcards of all kinds came our way–touristy, artistic, promotional, thematic–all bright and colorful with writing on the back (hellos, musings, quotes) from her correspondents near and far. Short snapshots of writing and contact is made. That plus the picture to hold in your hand, a gift! 

It reminded me that in high school and college, a good friend whom I had left behind in a cross-country move would send me frequent postcards, a sentence or two or three. They were like the notes we had passed in class or the 5-second conversations at our lockers. They were a joy.

I watched the instructor with her postcards and wanted to pull a similar pile from my bag. A year ago–one full year ago–I bought a couple postcards to send friends and they finally now got in the mail.

Priceless transaction observed today at the jewelry counter

Today at the department store jewelry counter, an older woman with a walker being waited on ahead of me admired the saleswoman's bracelet.

"That's just what I'm looking for," she said.

"Let's see what it looks like on you," said the saleswoman. She unclasped it from her wrist and wrapped and clasped it around the other woman's.

The older woman was delighted with how it looked.

"Keep it," said the saleswoman.

Laughter! Smiles!

"Pay it forward," said the saleswoman.

"OK," the older woman said. "I'll say prayers for you."

"I need them," said the saleswoman. Then, "Just look at you smile."

~~~

Parents as people

There's a website called "My Parents Were Awesome." No words, only pictures. People send in photos of their parents, separately or together, when they were young. The photos are posted with only the subjects' first names. The cumulative poignancy is amazing and terribly moving. Every parent could be a movie star or a teen idol or a heartbreaker, or the smartest or most popular kid on the block. Parents are dating and in love, courting even. They are people, not parents. If one of my sons were to send in a picture I'd like them to send the one of their father at 17 or 18--long wavy hair, jeans--sitting alone on the low porch of an old abandoned farmhouse, his feet sunk into the overgrown field of a lawn.

In the blink of an eye

Tonight, around dusk, I was taking a walk and came upon a young man on hands and knees gently separating clumps of grass along the side of the path, following his hands carefully with his eyes. I stopped and asked, "Did you lose something?"

"Yes," he replied, "my contact."

"Hard, gas perm?"

"Yes, gas perm. They're new and I haven't even paid for them yet."

The loss of a contact lens is a big deal to the wearer of hard or gas permeable contact lenses. Unlike the wearer of disposable soft contacts, he or she has no box of ten extra pairs waiting in a drawer. The one costly pair is usually all there is. I've had my share of delicate searches on hands and knees for just such a transparent treasure.

The young man appeared distraught and about to give up. I leaned over and started looking, telling him that I've found lost contacts in some impossible circumstances. In 31 years of wearing lenses, I've only had to order a replacement for one lens. That lens literally slipped through my fingers and down the drain at a Fairfield Inn outside of Rockford Illinois. I breathed a prayer for his lost lens as I've done countless times for my own.

He continued to look in the grass and I looked along the asphalt path. From the other direction, a man on a bicycle approached and stopped. "Did you lose a contact?" he asked. The guy with the lost contact straightened up and nodded yes, adding that it looked like it was gone for good.

At that minute the man on the bicycle looked down and pointed at the asphalt just adjacent to his right foot and pedal. "There it is!"

Sheltered in a tiny pit in the asphalt lie the transparent disc. Just a hint of reflected light gave it away. The young man was delighted at his good fortune. Many thanks. Many exclammations of amazement all around. Then we were all on our way, smiling.