Kathy's Kindlings

What we carry with us

2012-02-10T15:06:00.000-05:00

Today I finally went for the polarity therapy session that I've needed. While there, my mind started to wander (as always). I started thinking about everything I carry with me in my purse. It's quite heavy and I continually receive comments about what the heck could be in there. I always respond that I have my whole life with me.

But today as I mentally began to empty my purse and investigate its contents, I realized I really do carry my whole life. And what does that say about me?

My wallet makes up the majority of the weight of my purse. Besides money and bank cards (mine and my dad's), I have a lot of business cards. Not just from people I've met and professionals I work with, but also the cards of friends. I like to help my friends network so whenever I hear a need being voiced, I rifle through my stack of cards and hand one out along with a hefty endorsement.

Also in my wallet are remembrance cards from friends and family who have passed. And old ticket stubs from concerts I've enjoyed. There's a section for pictures there too. I carry wallet-sized school pictures of my nieces and nephews so I can have friends put names to faces when I brag about them.

Since you never know what sort of situation you could end up in outside of your home, I carry travel-sized emergency supplies that would make a girl scout or a Walgreens manager proud. Hand cream, floss, anti-bacterial lotion, lip balm, eye drops, lint brush (it's small, more like a brushette), tissues (the ones my friend Moira gave me that are red and say "Keep Calm and Carry On", more an inspirational item than something I use for my nose, but still....), tape measure (don't laugh, I use this a lot, and so do others when we're out), aspirin, mini hair brush, comb.

The inside pocket of my purse has my own business cards, note paper, tiny address book, mirror, and rocks. Yes, rocks. Special rocks. The kind a sweetheart like my friend Chris would have given you 8 years ago when he returned from a vacation by the sea to let you know that he thought of you when he was there and wanted to bring a piece of it back for you.

When I went through my mental inventory, I realized that I do carry my entire life with me. Not just in my purse but in my person. I have a hard time letting go of things and moving unencumbered in the world. I say it's who I am. My personality; my character.

My birthday was yesterday, the first one without my mom. I had a very happy, fun day but did take some time to think about what my birthday was like when she was here.

Mom didn't carry much in her purse. It was light and open, just like her. She lived her life very much in the present. No baggage.

So what's to be lost by losing the mini-CVS in my purse? Lint on my clothes, dry hands, and a hair or two out of place. Not so bad.

Maybe it's time I start letting go of the tangible evidences of my life, worrying always that I'll need something that I don't have but could if I had only been prepared.

Because the things you carry around that matter are not tangible. Those concert tickets and old business cards are not replacements for the memories stored in my head.

And the rocks. Carried with me for 8 years because I fear that, by taking them out, I am dishonoring a gesture of true friendship. A friendship that is stronger than those rocks, and deeper than any ocean they could lie beside.

When the corn chips scream

2012-01-12T17:10:00.001-05:00

I've been overweight for 47 of my 52 years. I've been a faithful follower of Diet Workshop and Weight Watchers in the past (the 5 years I was not overweight was thanks to WW and my speedier metabolism 20 years ago).

Like most women, I compare myself to women who are not overweight and feel even more overweight than I already am. Much has been written about women's self-image and the media's Photoshopped, airbrushed marketing schemes.

I have to tell you that those pictures don't make me feel bad at all. Even if they aren't modified, I figure that if I had a job where looks were all that mattered, I'd spend a ton of time making sure I looked as good as I could too.

Mostly I compare myself to where I was at in my 30s - the 5-year time span when I turned heads. I was blessed with a Marilyn Monroe figure and I wonder now what Marilyn would have looked like in her 50s. She wasn't always a size 8. For quite a while, she was a size 14 and was still considered sexy. I wonder if she would be considered sexy by today's standards.

Because of my CFS, I do watch what I eat. Too many white carbs make me overly tired as does refined sugar. Since I'm a vegetarian, I eat pretty well. Whole grains, steamed veggies, organic olive oil, avocados, and fresh fruit yogurt smoothies comprise a big chunk of my daily diet. But that's when I'm home and cooking for myself.

Once I'm out in temptation land, however, it's another story. When the ice cream stands are open, I go once a week. At a church pot luck dinner, I load up with the bad carbs and desserts. Since I don't have those things at home, I feel I can "splurge." And splurge I do.

This past Sunday, I talked to the high school group about balance. Yin and Yang. The discussion was more about balancing personalities and strengths in a group environment than the Taoist concept itself. A group needs leaders, but it also needs those who can take direction. Group members need to be flexible, but not so flexible that no decisions are ever made.

I'm a big fan of middle ground. Maybe because I'm the middle child in my family. Maybe because, even though I don't shy away from conflict, I don't enjoy it when it gets too emotional.

I thought about that balance when I was out grocery shopping today. It always surprises me that I have the greatest ideas when I'm shopping for food. (Note to self: Need more analysis here.)

I stocked up my cart with fruits, veggies, yogurt, meat (for Ron), spring water, spaghetti sauce, and soup. On my way to the check out counters, I passed a strategically placed display of all kinds of snack-sized chips. I walk past it every week and tune out the call to buy crap.

Today, I decided that balance would win and my unbalanced view of my own self-image would lose. For this one time when the barbeque corn chips screamed out my name, I listened.

Keeping perspective is something I've always worked at and I think, most of the time, I keep it pretty well. When it comes to my weight, I lose my perspective. Maybe those corn chips will serve as a reminder to stop beating myself up all the time and I will remember that there is a place for the occasional junk in my diet.

Maybe I'll be Marilyn Monroe at size 14 and remember that it's not what you weigh that makes you beautiful, but how comfortable you are in your weight.

And if that doesn't work, I'll go out for ice cream - in May.

Quilt again, quilt again, stitchety stitch

2012-01-04T20:53:00.000-05:00

I tend to go through phases where I'm passionate about something but then get bored once I've mastered it and immediately start looking for a new challenge. I've done that with pastimes and careers.

When I stopped quilting over a year ago, I figured that was it. I hadn't quilted since my mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in August of 2010. I started a quilt around that time and just lost interest with all of it when mom was sick.

My latest project

Last week, I picked up my quilting supplies again and have been hand-piecing. A job that most quilters do by machine these days since it's rather arduous and tedious. I also quilt the entire project by hand.

I refer to all this handwork as Zen quilting. It's amazing how much either deep thinking or lack of thinking I can do when sitting under my quilting lamp while making larger and larger callouses on my fingers.

A lot has been going on in my life that I am not ready to share here and it is in quilting that I'm finding an island in the storm. And all I need on that island is needle, thread, and fabric. Okay, and some pins and a straight chair, too.

I love to sit with Ron as he reads or watches a game. I look up from my quilt and ask the occasional Bruins question or give him an update of how many more blocks I have left to do (at the moment, tons. It's a queen-sized quilt.) It makes me think of Little House on the Prairie and how sewing and quilting was not just a pastime but a requirement. How lazy we've become. And so disconnected from the process of creating what we need.

Quilting has become a bit of a savior to me now. I look forward to my own personal nightly quilting bee. Choosing fabric, pinning, sewing. Letting my mind do whatever it wants to do while still focusing on the task at hand.

It reminds me of wonderful memories of quilts past. The one I made for nephew Toby two years ago that he still talks about today. The quilt I made with a friend as both an outlet for the sadness from a mutual friend's cancer diagnosis, and the resulting product that now travels to comfort those in hospitals - my mother included.

This quilt will likely take me two years to complete. I won't give this one away. It will keep me and Ron warm while we sleep. It will hold me as I search for my mom in my dreams. It will remind me that you can make sense of things that seem random and disconnected, and create something that is whole.

Oh Christmas tree

2011-12-10T20:16:00.001-05:00

Nature isn't perfect nor is it supposed to be, so of course there are holes in the Christmas tree. Big deep holes with nothing but whispy branches nearby - too weak to hold the lightest of ornaments.

Maybe I was meant to have that empty space - just there on the side of the tree closest to my favorite chair. With no bright distractions I can gaze into the space that leads to the trunk that holds up the branches that hold all the memories of Christmases past.

A piano plays a quiet "Oh Christmas Tree" on my CD player as I think about everyone I've known who has ever lost a parent - even my own parents. I feel a strong need to apologize to them for never fully understanding just how hard Christmas is when they're gone.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to the space without ornaments. "I just didn't know until now."

Inquiring minds

2011-11-16T12:49:00.001-05:00

There are some things in life that really puzzle me. I don't know if there are any answers but here's my ever-growing list:

If the man who gets the title "Sexiest Man Alive" is still alive the next year, why doesn't he get that title again? Can you only be sexy for one year?
Does calling an event "First Annual" make any sense? I mean, if it's the first time it's happening how can it be an annual event? Don't you need some history to call it that?
Why do people say "Easter Sunday"? When has Easter ever happened on a Thursday?
Isn't it repetitive to say "He owns his own home?" If he owns his home, isn't it his own?
Why do cashiers compare your credit card signature with the electronic signature? You can't write normally on those devices and so they never look the same.
What defines Modern Art? Is it Modern when you need someone to tell you what the hell it is?
Why do some people who claim to love Jesus act nothing like him?
Why is it that when someone cuts me off on the highway they always have a zillion USA flags on their car?
When did companies decide that having a computerized voice talk to me like we're having a real conversation is less annoying than typing my responses into my phone?
Why do I always get a store coupon in the mail 12 hours after I visited that store the night before?
Why does baseball have managers while everyone else has coaches?

I find more and more of these every day. What have you got for questions?

What's your stereotype?

2011-11-08T13:01:00.000-05:00

Every Tuesday I write a lesson plan for the high school youth group I lead on Sunday mornings at my church. I have a lot of ideas of what to talk about but since I want to facilitate their conversations as they discover the truths themselves, I have to come up with a lot of open-ended questions. And also a way to keep them engaged and the conversation flowing.

Last Sunday we had a very deep discussion on stereotyping. For two previous Sundays we had a guest facilitator run a session on the Myers-Briggs personality test. We learned a lot about ourselves and others in the group but after the meeting I started hearing some generalizations here and there from the kids based on their personality types.

So, last Sunday we talked about how it's all good. A diverse group of personalities, when working together and being respectful of each other, is more effective than one that is, for example, full of all extroverts or all introverts.

I passed out index cards and asked the kids to write down one label they either have been given or think they've been given. Have they been labeled as jock, or computer nerd, or something else? To help explain, I gave myself the label "Unitarian Universalist". That label says a lot of things about me that may or may not be true. People who don't know me but know my religion might make assumptions that I am super liberal, pro-choice, earthy-crunchy, don't believe in a higher power, etc. Some of those are true, some are not.

What we discovered in exploring the labels we've been given is that not only are stereotypes multi-faceted, but we are as well. There are multiple levels of stereotypes. The highest one we could come up with was gender. Assumptions are made about us and expectations are put upon us based on our gender. That's nothing new.

The interesting thing we talked about was all the layers beneath gender. Gender assumptions are made about our career choices, relationship behavior, hair color, interests, reading preferences, and on and on.

And within each layer are more stereotypes and assumptions. "Oh, you're a boy who likes computers? Then I guess you aren't interested in sports." "You're a girl with blonde hair? You must be dumb and boy-crazy."

I told the kids that we all have these knee-jerk reactions when we meet someone new. It comes from a primal place in our DNA. As mammals wandering around in a prehistoric world, our survival depended upon our ability to make quick assessments of a stranger. Is he friend or foe? That instinct still exists today.

Does it make it okay to say, "I'm just being true to my DNA?" and continue to stereotype? No, of course not. But being aware that we do it and reaching back into our souls for the labels we live with is a huge step forward from our prehistoric selves.

Nine Eleven

2011-09-09T11:47:00.001-04:00

It's been downright impossible to escape the memory of 9/11 this week. There are so many articles and stories in this week's papers, each with its own angle. Adding one more to the archives may go unnoticed but I feel the need to write it anyway.

Ron and I have been out with a lot of friends since 9/11/01. It's strange how the topic still comes up in conversation. The question invariably is, "Where were you when the planes hit the towers?" I can answer that in one simple word: Work. But the memory is much larger than that and its lessons much deeper.

It was a beautiful day, just like everyone remembers. So beautiful that it seemed impossible for anything but beautiful things to happen. I was sitting in my cube, nose stuck in my computer monitor doing something inconsequential as is the norm in most jobs. I had my back to the aisle, focused on my work.

I was startled by a hug. It was my friend Patty who had just arrived to work late due to a dentist appointment. As she hugged my shoulders she said quietly, almost emotionless, "Get on the internet. We're under attack." I switched to boston.com and saw the headlines. Stunned, I said and did nothing except grab Patty's arms, still holding me tightly from behind almost as if she were trying to keep me from slipping away.

"I love you," she said. "I love you, too," I choked out almost too late for her to hear it. She was off to tell the others.

I instinctively called my husband at work. He had just heard as well. The next thought that came flying through my fingertips was to call my parents. Dad answered.

"Turn on CNN," I said firmly.
"Why?"
"A plane flew into the World Trade Center. It doesn't look good."

Dad turned on the tv and said that both towers had been hit. I tried to refresh boston.com but too many others had the same idea. I had no access to news and was frantic.

But not as frantic as my father who went into a panic because my mother was out at the hairdressers. They only had one car and he couldn't get to her. He, like me, was wondering just how far this attack could reach.

By now, the office was buzzing. Someone found a tv and hooked it up in the conference room. I worked at a semi-small company and quite a few of us could fit into the room. We sat in silence with the exception of an intermittent "Oh my God" as each person came to terms with what was happening.

We were sent home shortly afterwards with instructions to drive carefully. We left in a fog. Parents worried about their kids; I worried about my cousins who worked in Manhattan.

Driving in those conditions was dreamlike. Everyone on the road was looking up at the sky as they drove, trusting the ground would find a way to get us home.

When I arrived at my house, I turned on the tv and sat on the couch. I sat there in some sort of trance. My dog Brittany hopped up on the couch next to me. She sat intently and stared at me with that motherly look she gave me when she didn't understand what I was feeling. Every so often she'd lift her front paw and tap me on the shoulder pulling me back to Westford.

I watched the towers implode over and over. No matter how many times I saw it, I still couldn't believe it. I called my mom and talked to her about it. She had all the phone numbers for our family in NY and was trying desperately to get through.

The next several days were just more of the same. Mom did eventually reach our cousins who were safe. But the rest of the time suspended. The tv in the conference room was moved to the cafeteria. It seemed okay with management that we mingle in and out and check for the latest updates. They knew on Tuesday that the week was a loss.

Ten years later, I look back not just on that day but on the months that followed it. I see now how that moment in history gave me valuable insight into the true nature of the people I interacted with.

My friend Patty who broke the news to me that day will always be that person - as if time stopped. When I see her now, I can't disconnect who she was in that moment from where she's at now. Everything I see in her is wrapped around that hug and that "I love you". In that 30-second timeframe when she thought we might never be together again I learned who she is at her core - a caring human being and genuine friend.

People rise or fall to occasions during extreme stress. My friend Chris invited a Muslim co-worker (who, by now was being looked at differently than he was on 9/10) to sit with him and explain the Quran as he understood it. Chris's open-mindedness and genuine embrace of difference is what I see most in him now.

My dad's instant panic about losing my mother still exists today. Now that my mom is gone, he still lives his life around needing to be with her. And for mom, her concern was for others in a crisis. That's who she always was, even when the crisis was hers.

And me? I don't know what my reaction says about me. I felt like I was sleepwalking but I'm sure I did more than that. I do remember calling my mother-in-law on 9/11 and saying how horrible I felt for all the kind Muslims who would suffer for the act of a few.

It's been ten years but the insight I gained about others will always stay with me. And I think, too, about how the US has this one moment of terrorism that shook the nation and exposed our vulnerability. It makes me wonder if nations like Iraq, Northern Ireland, and Kashmir mark each date when terrorists killed their people and destroyed their sense of peace.

Maybe they stopped noting the dates after the first time. No more firsts to mark; all the lessons have been learned.

If the label fits

2011-09-02T14:47:00.001-04:00

I've always believed that before I give myself or anyone else a label, I had better know what I'm talking about. Not only do I not want to use a word incorrectly (there's a concept), I also don't want to offend.

Before I go off on my rant, let me say that I'm a good UU. I try really really hard not to use any sort of labels at all. Some, however, are inescapable. Like that fact that I call myself a UU. That is my religious affiliation and an appropriate label.

When people call me a liberal, I tend to bristle. I am liberal in some areas, but a moderate in others. For example, most liberals I know are opposed to the death penalty and have never voted for a Republican (gasp!).

So when someone uses a label inappropriately, I do correct them lest it lead to their using it incorrectly again, or cause them to form an opinion about me that is not true. This applies to strangers also since I am a communication Nazi.

Today in the supermarket - where, I've noticed, I tend to leave with some sort of rant every week - a woman called herself a vegetarian and then proceeded to tell me about the lobster rolls she loves and the chicken salad sandwich recipe her mother gave her.

I said, "Then you're not a vegetarian." To which she shockingly responded, "I am too. I don't eat red meat!"

I told her that being a vegetarian (like me) means that you don't eat meat or fish. Which caused her to use yet another incorrect label - vegan. I had to then explain to her that I am not a vegan because I eat dairy and eggs where vegans do not. If you don't eat meat but do eat fish, you are a pescetarian.

I've stopped counting the number of times that I've had to make that distinction to people. Maybe more people are calling themselves vegetarians because it's the new in thing so I'm hearing it used incorrectly more often.

But whether the label is food-related (and, p.s. I'm not a vegetarian because I'm on a diet) or not, it would seem to me that before you give YOURSELF a label, you would look up the definition first.

Writing through grief

2011-08-18T17:13:00.000-04:00

My blog has been wasting away since my mom died three months ago. It has been on my mind constantly in the sense that I feel like I should write but then can't. I don't know what to say in my writing. And then, when I feel like I have something to say, I can't find the right words.

The loss of my writing muse has been a surprise. Writing through my mother's illness and death was easy. My blog was an outlet for me to place all the emotions and events that I was dealing with - somehow making them more real. And, at the same time, allowing me to work through this horrible reality by finding a gem hidden in the dark mess that was me.

I wanted to blog about the best dog on the planet, Brittany, who died a few weeks before my mom. But I didn't. And still can't.

Today I took my laptop to the local coffee shop. I was meeting a dear friend for lunch and then I thought I might stay and attempt some writing. It was hard to get started, but I did. In fact, I wrote a piece that I like so much I will shop it around to magazines.

I found that getting out of the familiar helps me with my grief. Grief that I can't seem to integrate into my life but know I need to. I'm very guarded with sadness. I always feel that I'm needed by others (like my dad) and that if I start grieving, I won't be able to be there for those who are in worse shape than me.

There were never any expectations placed on me to be "the strong one" but I always felt up to the task. And although that task has been taking a huge toll on my own sense of happiness, I feel like I have to stay in a role that took 52 years to perfect. Why? I don't know. I guess because my mom would want me to. Or maybe because it's a job that needs to be filled and I've got the best resume.

Whatever the reason, I'm hoping that getting back to writing helps me work through the grief. Even though the subject I need to write about is something I always dreaded.

When the justice system sees its shadow

2011-07-05T20:45:00.001-04:00

Casey Anthony

I have been watching friends' responses to the Casey Anthony verdict with much interest. Admittedly, I really haven't been following it in the news as closely as others. I do know, however, that a young child was murdered and an emotionally-erratic mother was prosecuted.

When I was in my 20s, I became a bar-certified paralegal. One of the electives I took was Criminal Law. Every advisor in the program said I was crazy to waste my time since there are very few criminal paralegals. But since I have always been interested in criminal law since the Perry Mason days, I felt I would enjoy the course and also learn a lot about the inner-workings of a criminal court case and the American criminal justice system.

My instructor was a private criminal defense attorney who just made the break from working for the State of MA as a public defense attorney. He had some great stories and wove these examples into his class. I was fascinated.

One of the things we discussed quite a bit was the burden-of-proof concept and how that was really the basis for all law, but especially criminal law. When convicted of a criminal offense, what's at stake is a citizen's freedom or life, not his material possessions. So, the burden of proof is higher in criminal cases.

The reason, for example, that OJ was found not guilty in a criminal case while later being found guilty in a civil case for the same offense, is that shift in the burden-of-proof.

When the State prosecutes a criminal case, it has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty. In a civil case, the plaintiff need only prove a preponderance of the evidence.

There are many differences between criminal and civil law but that "shadow of a doubt" concept is the biggest.

So, when I heard that Anthony's defense attorneys did a good job creating that shadow, and that the State of Florida didn't do a good job of proving that the shadow was unreasonable, I assumed a not guilty verdict would be delivered.

As it should in this case.

My criminal law professor said that it's better to let one hundred guilty defendants go free than to imprison or execute one innocent defendant. And as hard as that is to hear, it is absolutely the way you want your country's court system to run.

I never blame the jury, I always point to the attorneys and the judge if there are questions about the verdict. Was the rule of law upheld? Was the discovery process fair and open? Did the attorneys on both sides have every opportunity to defend or prosecute fairly?

If the answer to all of those questions is Yes, then you have to question either the skill (or lack thereof, see: OJ) of the prosecuting attorneys, or the quality of the evidence or witnesses.

I've seen lots of instances where, if the defense attorneys do a great job, those who question the verdict often pin the blame on them accusing them of being soulless mercenaries. To that I say, if it were your head on the chopping block, you would want nothing less.

Case law is the most important type of law in this country since most of the subsequent law is based on its verdicts and judges' opinions rather than on statutory law. So, getting it right is huge.

But forgetting the balancing scales of justice and replacing them with emotion is the biggest shadow anyone could cast on this very American system.

Get lost

2011-06-20T23:21:00.000-04:00

I was driving home tonight from a meeting in a town I don't know very well when I missed a left turn. I was lost in my own thoughts and, by the time I realized I had missed it, I was quite a ways down a road I had never been on.

My first instinct was to turn around and head back where I came from and, this time, look for that turn. But I didn't. Instead I kept driving knowing that, at some point, I'd come upon something I would recognize.

Things do look different in the dark but as the Welcome-to-<insert town/city name here> signs changed things started to look more familiar. My heart skipped a beat when I guessed where I was and then saw the street sign to confirm it.

I've always had a great sense of direction. I have no idea where that inner compass comes from but I'm glad I have it. I'm also a little crazy because I enjoy getting lost from time to time. It makes me step outside of my comfort zone and check in with my instincts. Something I do less and less of in middle age.

When I was in the Berkshires for a few days with a friend last week, she directed me all over the area as I drove. She knows it like the back of her hand, where I'm almost never in that section of the state. Funny thing is, no matter how many times we travelled some of the same roads, I still couldn't figure out where to turn half the time. I told her that if I didn't have her as a co-pilot, I would already know my way. I'd have to rely on my own sense of direction and would be paying more attention to landmarks if I knew I didn't have a cushion.

It's been a bizarre six weeks since my mother died. The one person I could always count on to guide me is gone. And I've been feeling like I'm constantly walking on new ground. At my age, I haven't felt like I needed my mother in a long time. But having her there to listen has always helped me figure out what direction was right for me.

Feelings of uneasiness persist. Like there's an earthquake happening while my foot is in mid-air. Waiting for the ground to settle so that foot might find a stable landing spot. But every time the earthquake looks like it's stopping, more tremors arise.

All of my experiences are new ground now. Old traditions are now as new as new joys and sorrows. Because they're experienced without my mother.

The feeling I experienced tonight by missing a familiar turn was not new even though some of the ground I travelled was. I was never really lost even though it felt that way for a moment. In deciding not to turn around but instead forge ahead into unknown territory, I realized that I still have the skills I need to move forward. And that new ground is only unfamiliar the first time you step on it.

I will find my way without mom as I did on the dark, unfamiliar road tonight. My inner compass will guide me through wrong turns until I learn a new way to navigate. I will trust my instincts as I always have remembering that firsts are only firsts once.

See you on the other side

2011-05-15T18:18:00.002-04:00

To those who have been following my blog and the journey with my mom, I wanted to let you all know that she passed away Monday, May 9th. I was blessed to be there with her in the end, though it was the hardest moment of my life.

There's a lot running around in my head about mom but I can't seem to find the right words to write. So, I'll share the eulogy I wrote and thank you all for your love and support.

--------------------------------

As I sat down to write this eulogy last night, I struggled about where to start. So I took to mom’s own words for guidance. As I reread the obituary that mom wrote many months ago, I realized that she left out many facts about herself. She didn’t note her age or employment history. She didn’t mention where her kids live or where she was born.

What is in the obituary, however, is what mattered most to her -- and that was the people she loved. Mom liked nothing better than to have her family around her especially when she could cook her fabulous turkey dinner for Thanksgiving. And she insisted on doing just that last November – chemo and all.

My sister Lisa said recently that mom’s spirit was and is so strong that she will never really be gone. Since I feel the same as Lisa, I would like to address the rest of these words directly to mom.

Hi mom. We are missing you like crazy but family and friends are all gathered here just like you wanted. Even people who never met you but love the children you raised so much that they know you through them.

My friend Patty called yesterday. You remember Patty. My friend who met you only a couple of times years ago before she moved to Florida. She called to say that she felt a connection to you that she hasn’t felt since her own mother passed away twenty years ago. And that she was sorry she couldn’t be here to honor you.

You had that effect on people, mom. I never met anyone who didn’t instantly fall in love with you. Must have been that they recognized your instant love for them. Every person you met was a potential new friend and received that big warm genuine smile and a hug before you parted.

You made everyone feel like they were at their best when they were with you. I know I did. This awkward, socially-scared little girl who grew up to be a confident, extroverted woman because of how much you accepted and loved her unconditionally.

I always marveled at how quickly and completely you could peel away the outer layers of insecurity and false bravado to find the jewel that lay within. You knew people through their hearts not their missteps. This kept you free from the disappointment in others that the rest of us struggle with and it also opened up your heart to a greater knowing and a deep kindness.

This spiritual freedom allowed you to live fully in each moment and capitalize on any fun that may be lurking around the corner.

Ron says you were a walking party. We’ve been reminiscing about the pianos you couldn’t walk by without plunking down on the bench and playing a tune. Didn’t matter if it was in a fancy restaurant or a pub in

Ireland

. There was fun to be had and you were on call 24 X 7.

We all loved sitting around the piano in your living room singing the old songs that you knew by heart. I think you liked to play the piano mostly because it brought people together. That was your mission in life and where you found and shared so much joy.

But I think that your love for dad was greater than any other love in your life. It was especially evident in the way you cared for each other in times of poor health. Dad’s devotion to you in this final battle was the greatest gift of love anyone could give. I know you know that, mom, but I wanted to tell you anyway.

Thank you, mom, for trusting me and Joe to walk with you in your final moments. There has never been a greater love between a mother and son as there is between you and Joe. And that will live on along with that strong spirit that Lisa talked about. Your spirit won’t just live in your immediate family but will be there in the nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends whom you’ve celebrated and who have given you so much love in return.

We are all looking forward to meeting your newest granddaughter, Nora Cecelia Lindsay. Just think, mom, you’re finally getting a Nora in the family. And Lisa, Scott, and Toby won’t be the only ones to tell her all about you. You’ve got all of us here who know and love you in our own personal ways.

So, be at peace, mom, and know that you accomplished something that few others can. You not only made us love you, you also made us love ourselves. We will be lifted by your beautiful spirit as we carry on, our loads lightened and our hearts full.

Holding both sorrow and love at the same time

2011-04-24T20:20:00.000-04:00

My church's "caring quilt" (made by me and friend Lynne)
that sits at the foot of my mother's bed

The last two weeks have been the hardest weeks in all of my 52 years. My last post ("Doing hope") told the story of one of those weeks. The second week tested my ability to hope even further.

Mom ended up in the ER one week ago. After many tests and visits from specialists, it was determined that my mother has another intestinal blockage, and has suffered a heart attack as well. With no heart disease in the family, that last one was a shocker. It was no doubt related to the stress she's been under for 9 months and especially these last two as health issues have been piling up related to either the cancer or the chemo.

It was a really tough day for all of us. The entire family was there including my sister who was down from Maine with her husband and my seven-year-old nephew.

The docs hooked mom up to all sorts of machines and got her comfortable and then we headed home. Upon returning home, we found the world's greatest dog, our Brittany, in distress. We rushed her to our vet's office and it became obvious that she had suffered some sort of major neurological episode. We had no choice but to put her to sleep.

Ron and I have processed very little grief associated to Brittany, though we know it will catch up with us. There's no time or emotional space for that grief right now. I will dedicate an entire post to Brittany in the coming weeks since she was a creature that filled my life with joy for almost 11 years.

After consulting with many of mom's doctors, it was decided that there would be no more surgery and no more chemo. We are in a palliative care mode which will shift to a hospice mode probably sooner rather than later.

It is getting increasingly difficult for me to process all of this sorrow. As always, I try to buck up and get through it for everyone else's sake. Still, I try to find a life lesson in all of it. I'm still a bit of a mystic and feel that the universe always has something it wants us to learn from all of our experiences - good and bad.

I'm still sorting out the lessons but there's one thing I have learned. My friends, my family, my husband, my minister, and my church hold me in a way that I cannot explain. I feel enveloped in a kind of love that cannot be expressed in a Hallmark way.

It's there in the hugs from the amazingly wise and kind high schoolers from the church youth group I co-lead. I find it in the meal sent home to my father from my sister-in-law after our Easter celebration today. I hear it in the many private discussions I've had with my mother's doctors who have treated her and grown to love her since last July.

I will get through all of this grief because I have to, and I will learn to let go and trust the universe to teach me more lessons along the way.

Doing hope

2011-04-15T16:40:00.002-04:00

I have a quote-a-day calendar that Ron gave me for Christmas. He bought it because the box it came in had the picture to the left as its cover. My friend Moira sent me that avatar months before and I immediately printed it and stuck it on my refrigerator.

There was a lot going on then as there is now and so I've kept that mantra in plain view at all times.

It was a tough week in the Nolan family and I needed to keep that quote handy. Dad ended up in the hospital for a few days and I took care of mom while my brother coordinated Dad's care.

I struggled this week both emotionally and physically. More than I have since mom's cancer journey started last July. My chronic fatigue syndrome is always there. Like a flu you just can't shake. I've lived with it for eight years and will continue to do so, I expect, till the day I die.

To make matters worse, in the middle of this stressful week I contracted the norovirus. Strangely enough, although I have a chronic illness, I tend not to be susceptible to the contagious stuff. I may get a minor cold once a year but that's usually it. I guess the universe figures I've paid my dues.

Dad returned from the hospital, recovered and well, and I returned home. At home yesterday - where I didn't have to keep up my caregiver facade - I was surprised to find a lot of overwhelming feeling spilling out of me. It was the meltdown that I've been pretending I could avoid for the past 9 months. I had this grand illusion that I could think myself through all the feelings. "You will have no regrets." "You are as strong as your mother." "This is all part of life." "Keep calm and carry on."

Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the norovirus that kicked the crap out of me, or maybe it was just the proverbial last straw. Whatever it was, it wasn't pretty.

Ron, the world's greatest guy, answered his phone while he was at lunch. What he heard was a sobbing, mumbling woman who could barely speak because all of her energy was being used to keep her shoulders from heaving themselves to the floor. He said, "I'll be right home."

I spent most of the afternoon sitting on the couch with my rock of a husband and a box of kleenex. Then I was sent to bed to sleep.

There were lots of feelings that made their way out of my mouth in between sobs while I sat on that couch with Ron. Some of it made no sense but feelings are not about sense. When I got to the point where I was too exhausted to cry anymore, I said to Ron, "So what am I supposed to do now?" He said, "Get some rest."

I know I didn't articulate my question correctly. I honestly didn't know how to at that moment. But I knew I hadn't found the answer I was looking for. That is, until this morning when I ripped off yesterday's page on my quotations calendar. "Hope...is not a feeling; it is something you do." -- Katherine Paterson.

And there it was. Something I could do, not just feel.

I can't stop my feelings from overtaking me sometimes. But I can hope. I'm not foolish enough or in denial enough to hope that a cure is found for pancreatic cancer in time to save my mom. But there is still much to hope for.

I can hope for more treasured moments with mom and dad that will carry me through. I can hope that my loved ones will continue to be there for me as they have all along. I can hope that tomorrow will be a better day. And I can hope that no matter what I'm feeling, I can still choose hope.

Dennis Miller time

2011-03-31T16:38:00.006-04:00

I always assume that anyone who reads this blog thinks I'm some sort of a sweet person. That is, anyone who hasn't had the experience of being around my rather sharp sense of humor. A friend of mine told me once, "You're a good person but you'll never be a nice person. Nice people don't challenge people. They just say, 'How nice for you'. You could never do that when you disagree."

I use this blog for thoughtful pieces and discussion and it's true that this "good" person prefers not to get off on a public rant. But then, there are moments when I channel Dennis Miller.

And this is one of those moments.

If you're in a lane that is marked (on the pavement and on signs) as a right-hand turn lane only, is there a reason, Mr. Driver, that you feel the need to also put on your right directional?
And another one from the overstating-the-incredibly-obvious file... If you're merging from an entrance ramp onto a highway, do you really need to tell me with your directional that you're going to the left? I mean, where else can you possibly go in that situation unless you're hell-bent on becoming intimately acquainted with a guard rail?
If you are over 16, you should know how to use "you're" and "your".
I'm a vegetarian, not a vegan. There is a difference. Please stop correcting me and telling me what I am. K?
My name is pronounced deh-shane, not du-shane. Do you see any u's in my name? Didn't think so.
If you have a cellphone for emergencies, why is it never on when I call? And, why have you never learned to operate voicemail? If you don't want to be reached easily, why do you have a cellphone?
And while we're on the subject of cellphones... When you're in a public place, put the damn cellphone on vibrate. I don't need to hear your bad taste in ringtones or your loud voice punctuated by "huh?" because your crappy phone can't hold a signal.
If you're a cashier in a supermarket, don't pick up my one cortland apple and say, "What are you going to do with one apple?" And when I reply that it's for a scone recipe, don't show your culinary ignorance by scrunching your face and turning your head sideways while looking at me. I'm not expecting Julia Child behind the scanner, but I do expect that most adults have some clue of the existence of non-processed food. Especially when you work in the food industry.
If you're over 16, you should know the difference between there, their, and they're. There.
And while we're at it... affect is a verb, effect is a noun. It's that simple.
If you don't know the difference between a verb and a noun, how did you graduate high school?
It's Kathy, not Cathy. You've known me for 30 years. It's time to learn my name.
If I put my name on a waiting list for you to call out when there's a table, why must you always make me and the people in line behind me wait longer by asking if I spell my name with a C or a K? You'll be pronouncing it the same no matter how I spell it. Seems like bad time management to me.
I drink decaf coffee because caffeine gives me migraines. It still tastes good to me. No one is impressed by your coffee snobbery.
If I'm going through a really difficult time in my life and choose to talk about it which is rare because I always suck it up and hate to whine, it's now your turn to listen to me. I've been listening to your non-stop tales of woe for years. It's not always about you.
I'm okay with stupid. Just do it quietly.

The power of words

2011-03-30T11:58:00.001-04:00

Ever since I was a kid I've been fascinated by the power of words. Not just words that tell a story or report the facts. I'm talking about words that help change lives.

We've all had times where we get lost in the words rolling around in our heads. We future-think ourselves into corners, fight verbal battles with opponents, and sometimes end up creating entire lives for ourselves without ever living them.

Those who follow this blog know that my mom is not well. Anyone who has heard a doctor deliver an incurable cancer diagnosis to a loved one knows what an emotional nightmare that is. Mom's making her own personal journey through this which is not the same as the ones the rest of us are making.

My personal journey through this has been strangely accepting. That is not to say that I don't have my moments. I have plenty. Most of it takes place in my head late at night when I can't sleep. That's when the future-thinking starts and sometimes spins out of control. I keep most of this thinking to myself and rarely share it. When there's someone else with a greater need, I focus there and park my own issues for later.

But I feel, at the same time, to be incredibly lucky in many ways. Lucky to have my mom with me still. Lucky to have a family that is so caring and helpful. And lucky, too, to have such a strong support network.

I have a friend who sends me the funniest cards I've ever seen. They don't come on occasions and aren't for any particular event. They come just because. They appear in my mailbox amidst all the bills and are often signed with a simple :-)

My church has two groups called "Healing Conversations". One is for adults; one is for teens. My minister and I co-lead the one for teens and I treasure those times with the youth. The adult group is for me. It's a time to come together and explore grief and support each other. There is crying and laughing, occasionally at the same time.

Throughout my journey, I've had friends from church and outside church speak words that get into my ever-processing brain and cause it to stop its churning. I don't think any of these friends have any clue how much a couple of words, spoken at the right time, can mean to me.

My friend Jack said two words to me the other night that have helped me a lot this week. The words are "Be peaceful." Simple but perfect. To me that means accepting what will be and letting go of the impulse to predict the future.

Jack's advice also reminded me of the power of words. Two words might not seem like much communication in the course of a long day of talking - or typing. I was happy to know that my life-long love of words hasn't been lost in 140-character tweets.

Words are powerful enough to grab heavy emotion by the scruff of its neck and gently place it where it can do no harm. Magic happens at times like that - when you least expect it but most need it.

You know you're a dog lover when...

2011-03-24T15:25:00.000-04:00

I got to thinking today what a bizarre bunch we dog lovers are and how we have adapted our lives around our dogs. So, I got a conversation going on Twitter today. You can find my and other's comments at #doglover.

Here are some of my tweets to answer the sentence, "You know you're a dog lover when...."

You find dog poop on your wedding ring and don't even flinch.
You start your day with dog fur floating in your coffee cup.
You leave your outdoor winter gear within reach until mid-April.
Drool is the new furniture polish.
Your rugs have throw rugs on top of them.
You introduce your dog to your houseguests before you take their coats.
You spend more time grooming the dog than yourself.
Friends ask you how "the kids" are doing and you don't have any children.
Sleeping in is something you did back in college.
Your mother calls and asks how the dogs are doing before she asks about your husband.
You say you're taking the dogs on a "W" because the word "walk" makes them crazy.
You pass a dog and remember him but have no idea what the dogwalker looked like.
You have an email address and/or password with your dog's name or breed in it
You drive with the windows rolled down on a 20-degree day.
The word "bitch" doesn't phase you.
You spend an easy $100 at the pet supply store but cringe when your own food bill comes to $80.
You always have paper towels and Resolve Pet Stain carpet cleaner on your weekly shopping list.
You are friends with your vets and their employees on Facebook.
Your arthritic dog gets a massage every two weeks and you get one once a year.
People apologize to you ahead of time if they're going to say something not completely glowing about a dog.
Friends call you for advice before they call the vet.

Can you complete this sentence? If so, add your thoughts here or on Twitter under the topic #doglover.

C'mon! Join in!

Why vegetarianism?

2011-03-18T13:29:00.000-04:00

I get that question fairly often when people find that out about me. It's been about 5 years since I've given up meat and fish (though I do occasionally have shrimp) and I have honestly never regretted the decision.

This week I attended a discussion about vegetarianism at my church. There were a large number of people there who either were vegetarians or vegans, or folks who were thinking about making that switch.

My path to vegetarianism was a fairly long one. I've always been an animal lover and, even as a kid, felt great empathy for living things. When my dad or brother caught a fish when vacationing in Maine, my heart would break when I saw the fish flopping in the bucket.

Back home in the city, I would follow squirrels and try to learn about their family lives. I was able to recognize them individually based on coat coloring, size, and behavior. If I didn't see one of them for a while, I would worry.

Me advocating for Springer Spaniel Rescue at one of our
many outdoor events

We didn't get a family pet until my uncle brought a Springer Spaniel puppy to us when I was in high school. That was one of those life moments that I will never forget. It was such a surprise and a joy to see that little wiggling blur running toward us as we all instinctively dropped to the living room floor.

Through years of dogs that were either my parents or mine, I found myself becoming an animal rights activist. Seeing and reading about the abuse and neglect that so many sweet souls endure led me to volunteer with Springer Spaniel Rescue where Ron and I had adopted our first dog together, the amazing Miss Brittany.

While volunteering with Rescue, I became involved with the Massachusetts Animal Rights Coalition (MARC) when a call went out to protest a rather nasty pet store. All of the puppies came from puppy mills in the South. While holding signs and being sworn at by ignorant passers-by, I started to chat up the president of MARC.

She was a confirmed vegetarian and told me that her group wasn't just about advocating for pets but for all animals, especially those in the factory meat processing plants. She told me, "Pigs are as smart and as in-tune emotionally as dogs. But the calls for action against pet abuse are the only ones that get people holding signs."

The seed was planted.

Over the course of a few years, I started paying more attention to the way animals were treated if the end result was food. The systematic "processing" of the living really started to gnaw its way into my gut.

I lost a lot of sleep thinking about how I was contributing to the process. Thoughts of animals and birds crowded into pens while awaiting a frightening and stressful end got me thinking about how my own dogs would feel if they were in those pens -- and in the line of terrified animals headed for the slaughter.

But then, how would I function without meat and fish? And not just the food, but the traditions surrounding it? The hot dogs on July 4th, the turkey at Thanksgiving, the ham at Easter. What could I order in a favorite restaurant that catered to meat eaters?

Conflicting thoughts flooded my nighttime conciousness and I just couldn't decide. Then, one day... it happened. I stumbled upon an online video of a puppy mill taken by an animal rights activist who posed as a worker and brought a hidden camera with her.

The images were heartbreaking. Dogs were kept in cages too small for them. They were emaciated, covered in sores, and acting crazily from years of being used as money-making products and not living creatures.

It was then I had an epiphany. I realized it was easier for me to become a vegetarian than it was for me to agonize over it.

The result is a happier, healthier body and soul. Traditions haven't changed that much - I just eat the vegetables instead of the meat. Restaurants are more than happy to adjust menu items to fit my life choice. And veggie burgers are a fine replacement for hot dogs on Independence Day.

My husband has learned to prepare his own meat dishes with some guidance from me. I've found some amazingly tasty vegetarian meals that we both love. And my family and friends have adjusted and accepted the change, often ensuring that they have a vegetarian option for me when I come for dinner -- though I honestly don't expect it.

What I find the most interesting is others' approach to my spiritual and ethical decision, one that I don't push on anyone. As some offer me a meat or fish dish out of pure hospitality, they immediately catch themselves and say, "Oh. I'm sorry! You can't have this!"

My answer is always the same: "Actually, I can have it. I choose not to."

It's a Lowell thing

2011-03-14T15:11:00.002-04:00

The Boston Globe listed new DVD releases this weekend and The Fighter was one of them. Ever since I saw the movie last year, I've been meaning to write about it.

The movie was a huge draw for me, and still is. I not only grew up in the area of Lowell that was depicted in the film (The Highlands), I also was an unpaid extra in the early fight scenes. Could you see me? No. Although I plan to buy the DVD and slow-mo the part where I thought I'd appear on camera (in the background) and doublecheck.

Still, my voice and energy were in those scenes and I consider myself part of the film. An Oscar award winning film, at that. Check that one off the bucket list.

It was fascinating to be part of the filming for one day. I knew when I walked into the Tsongas Arena and was faced with Marky Mark in boxing trunks and gloves (and not much else) that this was all the payment I needed. It was a long day sitting in an arena with a bunch of extras doing the same take over and over and over. I think that the entire 7 hours I spent on the set resulted in 30 seconds of the movie playing time.

Watching the actors and all the supporting professionals like the makeup crew and even the guys who operated the smoke machines that got that 1980s boxing arena feel was awe-inspiring. I didn't miss a detail. And, although it now helps me understand the process while I watch a movie, I have to admit that it also took away the magic.

I never saw the director though I heard his booming voice all day instructing both the actors and the extras. Mark Wahlberg was incredibly gracious and thanked and joked around with the extras as much as he could to keep us from dying of boredom.

Christian Bale and Melissa Leo were there the entire day too but never acknowledged us. Which I thought was pretty classless. Sugar Ray Leonard had a cameo (that ended on the cutting room floor) and he got in the ring and chatted us up during a break. Micky Ward and Mickey O'Keefe also took to the ring and did some chatting with the crowd.

Maybe Bale and Leo were trying to stay in character. Or maybe that sort of pandering was beneath them. Either way, I left with a bad taste in my mouth for both of them, especially Bale who was and is a big name. Wahlberg seemed to be the regular, never-forgot-his-roots kind of guy that journalists love.

When I saw the movie, I was expecting really bad Lowell accents. The Highlands section of Lowell has a very unusual accent. Somehow, my siblings and I have managed to escape it (or maybe we have some of it but don't notice it). The accent is more pronounced than a Boston accent. It's not a Kennedy accent but is close. [Note to Martin Sheen: It's time to ditch the Kennedy accent when doing characters from Boston. No one in the world talks like that except the Kennedys.]

I remember once when I was in 6th grade, a classmate invited me to her house for a play date. It turned into a hot day and I told her I needed to bike back home and change into shorts. And I pronounced "shorts" exactly like that.

She and another playmate laughed and laughed and told me I was saying the word that means "men's underwear." Not knowing what they were talking about I asked what the difference was.

"It's pronounced 'shaahts'! Don't you know how to <taahk>?" So, I relearned the pronunciation and was very careful not to say it wrong for fear of being laughed at. Eventually, when I moved away from Lowell, someone asked why the heck I pronounced "shorts" so funny at which point I had to unlearn the wrong way and relearn the correct way. To this day, I have to remind myself to pronounce it the non-Highlands way.

I think Amy Adams did the best job with the accent. They all came very close but she nailed it. It's those sorts of details that can make or break a movie. Even Wahlberg didn't just go with his native Dorchestah accent. He understood that a well-executed local accent makes a character more believable and sets the stage for some deep character work.

Dicky Eklund went to school with me in 7th and 8th grade. I don't remember him and I moved to Andover (another accent for another day) before 9th grade. A friend told me Dicky dropped out after 8th.

I finally spent the time watching High on Crack Street after I saw The Fighter. One of the filmmakers is a distant cousin of mine. But then, I think all Irishmen in Lowell are cousins somehow with most of them coming over from County Cork around the same time.

If you've seen both movies, you know that some poetic license was taken with Dicky's story. The addict in Crack Street that they focused on was nicknamed "Boo" but his character morphed into Dicky's story in The Fighter. Boo was actually born and raised across the street from my grandparents and his family was very good to mine. I remembered that they had a son who was "trouble", as my grandparents put it, but we never held that against Boo's family.

So, there was a lot of familiarity in the movie that made me feel even more a part of it than just my being there for the fight scenes. They filmed on the street where I grew up. And they filmed in front of the house where my aunt and cousins lived. The opening scene starts in Cupples Square--the closest shopping area to my house when I was young.

The bar that appears in that first scene (The Highland Tap) was the bar I hung out at with my boyfriend when we were in college at UMass Lowell which happened to be around the time the story unfolded. Who knows, we may have even played pool or sat at the bar with Ward or Eklund. God knows we spent enough time there.

I hope Lowell can host another film crew. It's a great city with a big heart. Sure, it has its problems. What city doesn't? I'd be an extra again--paid or unpaid. Sitting in the darkened theatre with friends who survived that long day of filming with you as you watch for each other on the big screen is priceless.

And clapping with all the other Lowellians as the credits roll is a proud moment. After all, the city of Lowell was a character too.

When the muse strikes

2011-03-08T20:00:00.003-05:00

I've been spending more time in the hospital with my mom than writing. But today, while waiting for my husband to stumble out of some pretty nasty oral surgery, I was overcome by the feeling that I would explode if I didn't put pen to paper - immediately.

I have a journal that always sits on my dresser awaiting some revelation. The journal comes with me on trips and sometimes when I know I will have a long wait. You never know when an idea will pop into your head and you best be ready before it leaves your post-menopause, foggy brain.

Today was one of those days. The past week has been emotional and exhausting. Mom is back in the hospital and I've been doing a lot of waiting, hand holding, and broad-shoulder work. They're my parents and I love them so it is my honor and privilege to walk with them during times of crisis.

I brought my journal with me the first full day my mom was in the hospital and we awaited a procedure for her. But the muse did not strike. I think if it had, I would have hit it back. "No time! No energy! Come back another day!", I would have told it.

It takes a while for me to process an emotional event. I know there is always a lesson in there somewhere. It often comes to me in the middle of the night when I'm too tired to get out of bed and shuffle over to my journal. And so, the thought will often disappear with the morning light.

Magazines and a book were to be my distractions today as I awaited a peaceful resolution to Ron's gum warfare. I brought a coffee with me and finished that. Poked through the horrible, uninspiring magazines in the office waiting room and decided that a woman's magazine called "More" would be More useful as kindling.

Then, it hit. That muse! And it would not go away. I looked at the magazine and book I brought to see if there was enough blank space on the pages for me to scribble my ideas. Nothing.

I went to the service desk and, with my eyes certainly darting back and forth, asked breathlessly for a pad of paper. The clerk held up a medium-sized note pad with the doctor's name on the top and asked, "Will this do?"

"Yes. Yes. Thanks." I said as I snatched it out of her hand. A wad of gently-used toilet paper would have sufficed at that point. I fumbled for a pen in my purse as I reached my seat. Repeating over and over to myself the words that were streaming through my head at a speed faster than any toboggan I had ridden as a child.

Can't forget a single one. Must write quickly. I scribbled and tore pages away at lightning speed until there was a pile of papers (double-sided) on the table next to me. I somehow remembered to number the pages so that I wouldn't lose the flow.

I feared my pen would run out. Could I go to the service desk again and ask for a pen? Would I be pushing it if I asked to use one of their computers? No time to think about that. Just keep writing.

My husband emerged out of the treatment room and I looked up with glassy eyes. "Oh," I said, "Right on time! It took exactly one and half hours as they predicted!". "Actually, dear," he replied, "I was only in there for an hour."

I looked at my watch for a long time and did the math. Yup. One hour on the nose. Did the muse take away my sense of time while I scribbled madly? Or maybe it just took my sense. Period.

On our way back home, I tried to shake the muse from my brain as I listened to Ron's post-procedure instructions and stuffed his prescriptions in my purse to fill for him after I nudged him onto the sofa to rest. As I prepared to make the drugstore run, I grabbed at some scrap paper I have by the phone and headed back out.

I scribbled as I waited for the 'scripts to be filled and felt the piece had been somewhat fleshed out. At least enough for me to put it to bed and work on later.

Songwriters must feel this way. Do they bring their guitars with them everywhere? Or their music-lined notebooks? Or maybe a small recorder to sing into?

I don't know if their muse is the same as mine. All I know is that I will never be caught again without my journal in my voracious writer's reach.

Change I can believe in

2011-02-22T12:51:00.000-05:00

I've never met an extremist that
I didn't distrust

Remember the last line of The Who song, "Won't get fooled again"? It's one of the biggest political statements ever made in a song, as far as I'm concerned. And a great reminder that pride does goeth before the fall.

"Meet the new boss; same as the old boss."

I might be a bit of a Pollyanna and I admit that. I have this crazy idea that political and social change can happen without violence and rage. Would it have happened in Egypt without the loss of life and military intervention? In a history wrought with war and political oppression, probably not.

However, I would like to think that the US is different. It took a war for the US to become its own country. It was a war for independence from a country whose interest was purely financial.

And it took another war to keep the country together. Though the Civil War was also fueled by financial interests, the government fought to keep the country whole.

When I listen to the Tea Partiers say that they are like the founding fathers, I shake my head. If the founding fathers were here today, they would disagree with groups who use their words to dismantle the very infrastructure they fought so hard to create. Jefferson's slave-owning notwithstanding, the founding fathers were much more liberal for their times than the Tea Partiers are in today's times.

During angry town hall meetings that allow citizens to listen to and talk with US representatives, I am always amused by the way the radical right uses these opportunities to talk (or rather, yell) more than listen. A professor of mine said once, "No one ever learned anything by talking." And that is so true.

What is so scary about listening when you disagree with someone? Is it fear that your opinion might be changed? Is changing your opinion based on fact or thoughtful discourse a bad thing?

The most volatile people on the planet are those whose opinions are cast in stone. Do they view consistency of opinion as a strength? Emerson said: "The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a reverence for our past act or word, because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them."

Personally, I reserve the right to change my opinion on a strongly-held belief every day. I have been reasoned out of a stance but only through thoughtful discussion. Never with rage. Once the volume rises, I stop listening.

That volume works sometimes as we witnessed recently in Egypt. Their government was (and will likely be) based upon controlling the masses more than instituting civil and human rights. For me, the jury is still out on the type of change the protesters will end up with. I would like to think of my own country as an environment that welcomes change provided it is achieved with civility and democracy.

If the Tea Partiers have their way, I worry about the loss of civility and reason. I don't want to live in a country that makes its decisions and drives change through rage, closed minds, closed ears, and revisionist history.

I guess I always look at change with an eye on the slippery slope of political movements and how power changes what might have started as a noble vision.

Are we about to meet that "new boss" with the Tea Party movement? And, more importantly, is anyone in that movement paying attention to history?

Spring starts with Spring Training

2011-02-11T13:20:00.001-05:00

With Spring Training around the corner, I've been thinking about my beloved Red Sox a lot. My first published column ran in the Lowell Sun on October 31st, 2007 -- a day or two after the Sox won the 2007 World Series. It isn't in their online archives so I share it here. GO SOX!

Okay, I admit it. I once thought that Red Sox fans were as clueless as the game they love.

I grew up with a football coach for a grandfather, so that sport was in my DNA. My ideal athlete was the quarterback, connecting with a receiver under real threat of death. To me, other sports seemed like games, and I thought baseball players were wimps. In football, they don't let a broken neck slow them down, yet baseball players are out for eight games with a “muscle pull”. I thought the game moved at the pace of underwater square dancing, its only excitement easily encapsulated in 30 seconds’ worth of highlights on the news.

My poor family and friends had to endure my rolling eyes every time they talked about the Sox. Then there were my usual snide comments about baseball being a game about who could wear the most gold chains and still hit a ball. They persisted and preached but to no avail.

Then it happened. My husband was watching the game where Clay Buchholz was going for a no-hitter while I was reading the paper. I looked up occasionally to hear what all the cheering was about and asked a couple of questions about baseball stats before returning to my paper. The next night this kid Jacoby Ellsbury hit a ball out of the park and I thought, hmmm, there’s that game again. I guess I could watch just a few plays. That won’t mean I’m a baseball fan. It’s just curiosity.

Something clicked and I started watching every game. In no time I went from being a naysayer to trying to convert other non-baseball fans with the same sort of fanaticism normally reserved for ex-smokers. I realized that jumping off the couch to scream “No, not Gagne!” is no different from fourth and goal when you’re yelling at the quarterback to pass.

I still think that football is the greatest sport of all time. But after watching Josh Beckett for the last two months, I now realize what amazing athletes baseball players are. Could Tom Brady throw a football 97 mph? If he did, could anyone catch it? And could those two skills converge almost every play of the game?

Then there’s the psychology of baseball. The daunting stare of Dice-K to a nervous batter just before he swings at the night air. Or a fastball that’s hit out of the park that the pitcher never thought anyone could touch. If that’s not like playing head games with your opponent on fourth and goal, I don’t know what is.

So there I was, staying up way too late at night to watch the World Series. I was wrong about baseball and can’t wait to tell old friends that I have seen the light. I think how wonderful it is that I don’t have to go without sports for seven months after the Super Bowl. And there’s another plus. Family members who complain that they never know what to give me now have a plethora of ideas. Let’s see. Do I want Pedroia’s or Beckett’s Red Sox jersey for Christmas? How about a bobblehead Manny for my car? Irish jig lessons?

Birthdays and Boston cream pie

2011-02-09T15:51:00.002-05:00

Today's my birthday. Most people my age are already dreading the next number. As if dread makes getting older easier.

A friend said once, "The only option to growing old is dying young. And I like that option a whole lot less." To which I add, "Any day with cake is a good day." My favorite cake (if you can call it that) is Boston cream pie and my husband has one in the refrigerator just waiting for an after-dinner seranade of "Happy Birthday to you."

I wanted to be a grown up since I was about 8 years old. Couldn't wait to be part of every conversation because I was old enough to hear it all. When I was in my 20s I longed for my independence.

There is still something special about having my own kitchen where only my husband and I know what's hidden behind each cabinet door. I love standing on my deck in the summer and looking out at our wooded property knowing that this is our own private piece of the planet.

The 50th danceathon

When I turned 50 two years ago, I threw myself a huge dance party and invited a zillion people. It was a simple affair -- pretzels on the table and enough birthday cake to feed an army. I danced to every single song for four hours. I couldn't even get out of bed the next day because I was so achy.

A lot of my friends who turned 50 that year mostly hid from the number. Some had small gatherings but I believe I was the only one with a blowout party.

I felt like celebrating life with my loved ones and used my birthday as an excuse. The DJ played all of my favorite music that I find myself dancing to in the driver's seat. I don't believe I've ever had that much fun -- except for maybe my wedding day. And I was able to have so many special people there in one place. Introducing people and seeing them chat is the best part of a big party. We talk about our friends and families to others but they rarely get a chance to meet. What a treat it was for me to see folks mingle.

My mom turned 80 last week and we had the greatest celebration. It was "just" the immediate family but it was a special event at her favorite restaurant. With last August's cancer diagnosis we didn't think she'd be with us for her 80th. So there was an abundance of joy that overflowed and created a special evening. After my brother made a toast, my mom raised her glass again and said, "Here's to 81!".

Mom and I obviously share the same attitude about age. Every year is a gift. And every birthday is a reason to celebrate being here.

And let's not forget that Boston cream pie in the refrigerator.

Is it possible to communicate too much?

2011-02-03T12:37:00.004-05:00

The Springer Rescue group which does most
of its communicating over the internet.

There are times that I'm a bit of a social reactionary. I like to have some peace and quiet and miss the Westford I moved to 13 years ago. Even though the area around my property hasn't changed, the traffic on my street has certainly increased. I also miss simple things like the sound of a rake and a push mower, and the slow hissing of steam radiators on a blustery night.

When I poke around consignment shops, I see reminders of a simpler time--rotary phones that needed half as many numbers dialed to connect but took twice as long to dial; typewriters with well-worn keys and a broken carriage return; Super 8 film projectors that made a hypnotic clack-clack-clack sound as the family watched home movies projected on the wall with the lights turned off.

We replaced those clunky old devices with slick, mostly-quiet electronic masterpieces. We lost the familiar and replaced it with something better--speed. I spend a fair amount of time with teens because of the youth group I co-lead and also my "aging" niece and nephews. I'm hip to all the new gadgets and use a lot of them.

Some of my friends and family members roll their eyes when I check my email from my phone, some even roll their eyes when I talk about email. Those folks say that the world has gotten too complicated and we can only communicate over the airwaves now.

Okay. I can live with some of that. I can sometimes use my phone to get lost in my own world. When I'm waiting for an appointment, I play with my phone instead of chatting up the person next to me. I can see that, at times, I reach out less to strangers.

However, I also have to consider the other side of the coin. Because of email and social networking apps, I find that I have more friends and connect with them more frequently.

I'm not a talking-on-the-phone person. Most of my friends know that. If you want to connect with me and it's not an emergency, use the computer. I like that I can correspond when it's convenient and use language that is maybe more carefully chosen than it would be if I'm rushing out the door. I get together with people quite a bit but almost always arrange that over email.

To those who say that the internet is impersonal and takes us away from making meaningful connections, I say, "Try it."

Thanks to social networking sites, I have connected with long-lost friends and rekindled friendships that would have been gone forever otherwise. I've gotten closer to cousins that I would only see at weddings and funerals. I can see pictures of friends and family who live out of state and feel like I'm there.

I have also formed friendships because of email. For example, over four years ago, I sent an email to a local political analyst whose work I always admired. That email turned into a friendship that has seen us reach out to each other at times of great sadness, tease each other about our idiosyncrasies, and meet up at a concert of a favorite band. He has been a mentor and supporter of my writing since I first began my publishing journey. We have met in person only twice but that doesn't change the fact that we call each other "friend."

If I had to guess, I would have to say that those people would not be in my life now had there been no internet. My circle of treasured humans has expanded. And anytime I need a laugh or a pick-me-up, I look back at old emails they've sent to me just as I would a letter I saved. The difference is, there are more emails than there would have been letters.

Every generation has its form of communication. Before the computer, there was the telephone. Before the telephone, there was the mail. Before the mail, there were smoke signals.

I'd like to think that we improve our communication as we evolve. Our ways to communicate have expanded even though our civility in communication hasn't always followed. But that's a blog post for another day. And you can find it right here, on the internet.

Dog gone love

2011-01-28T18:00:00.000-05:00

In remembrance of Alex who we sent to the bridge one year ago today, I share the column I wrote that was published in the Boston Globe Magazine on 4/11/2010.

We made the decision to put our beloved springer spaniel Alex to sleep on a Wednesday. It was a decision we knew we had to make at some point, and that Wednesday morning it became clear it was time. My husband, Ron, and I process grief differently. He reacts immediately with tears and retreats to a quiet space in his inner self. I, on the other hand, go into what-needs-to-be-done mode.

Alex was our first foster dog when I volunteered for a local springer rescue group, and we failed Fostering 101 horribly, or, rather, fortunately: We kept him. Alex bonded with our younger rescued springer spaniel as if they had been friends in another life. They were good for each other. Alex was the calming, reassuring peer that Brittany needed. She was the anxious one, always afraid she would be ditched again. But Brit had much to give Alex as well. Alex came from a home where he was the only dog of an elderly owner with no time to exercise him. Brit loves to play, and after just one day together, I found them bouncing around the living room in a joyous dance with a stuffed animal in their mouths.

They saw each other through some tough times in their eight years together - a lifetime for some dogs. Other foster dogs came and went; various health issues arose for both of them. Each time, the healthier one would comfort the other with snuggles and kisses. Ron and I always exchanged knowing smiles during these times. Alex and Brit were soul mates.

So when Alex's health started the long, slow decline, our thoughts often turned to how Brit would handle the loss. We had taken in an older cocker spaniel in the past two years when her owner, our friend, had passed away. But as sweet as she is, Shawna didn't bond with Alex and Brit the way they had with each other.

On that Wednesday, Ron and I asked our vet when she could come to the house to put Alex, then 15 years old, to sleep. She could either come that day or Friday. Since he was not in pain or in crisis, and we needed time to say goodbye, we decided on Friday.

The next two days were both horrible and wonderful. Ron and I took turns being "the strong one," and I tried to focus on making Alex's last days happy. Ron's grief was almost overwhelming at times as he struggled to cope with the reality that he would lose his friend. They had a special relationship that I had only begun to understand in those last two days. I started to see similarities in their character that I hadn't noticed before.

Ron and I met at a time in our lives when we were both convinced that we would be alone forever. He was the quiet, loyal, bighearted oldest son who was both dependable and sensitive. I was an outgoing middle child who always worried about pleasing others and thought she had to be perfect to be loved. We were both easily hurt because we expected so much of ourselves and, by extension, others. So relationships never seemed to work. Until we met each other on a blind date. We had both sworn off these fix-ups because they always ended in disaster. But for some reason we allowed ourselves to be talked into it by a mutual friend.

Ron was different from the others. He was kind and sweet. A calming presence in my life who embraced me and all the anxiety that came with me. Eventually, a funny thing happened - my anxiety disappeared. I was accepted and safe now. And Ron? Well, Ron let his guard down and even started fast-dancing. One day he asked me to show him some moves so we could dance together.

Years later, when I asked him if we could adopt a rescued dog, he said yes. And when I asked him a year after that if we could take in a foster dog, he said yes. Having dogs was an emotional release for Ron that I hadn't seen until that Friday.

That Friday. The day that Brittany said goodbye to the transforming partner in her life. The partner who helped her feel safe and accepted. The partner who calmed her when she was anxious and danced with her when she was filled with joy.

That Friday . . . when I saw for the first time that Alex was meant to be Brittany's partner, like Ron was meant to be mine. Rescued - all four of us.

Landscape-changing terms

2011-01-28T13:02:00.001-05:00

State-sponsored gambling has existed for a long time in Massachusetts and other states. It's called "The Lottery". However, extended use of gambling has been a real political football for years in this state. With taxes going higher and few revenue alternatives available, the topic of gambling is continually raised as a new revenue option.

The governor is opposed to gambling mostly because of ethical reasons. He is concerned, as are many others in the state, that if casinos were to be built in the state, the money would be coming from those who can least afford to lose it.

The pro-casino crowd--including leaders in the legislature--argue that people who gamble are already going out of state, so we would simply be keeping the revenue local. And that the state cannot stop gamblers from gambling anyway so why not capitalize on it.

In recent political discussions, I've noticed that the word "gambling" is slowly being replaced by "gaming" by the pro-casino crowd. I assume this is an attempt to change the anti-gambling crowd's negative reaction to what many consider an addiction. I react to this change in terms more in a George Carlin/English major sort of way.

A percentage of the population hates politically-correct phrasing--as witnessed in some viral emails on the subject that are often forwarded to me by conservative friends. Since the right always seems to be the side most upset by attempts to soften language, I find this subtle switch from "gambling" to "gaming" interesting. Why haven't I heard the left complain about the softening of a practice or term they are opposed to?

20 years ago, I started hearing the term "pro-choice" turned against the left as "pro-death." Only occasionally did I hear the term "pro-life" rephrased as "anti-choice" and used against the right.

The left is quick to change terms like "handicapped" to "challenged", and "Indian" to "Native American", yet it seems rare that they object or even recognize the opposite.

The metamorphosis of language is one of the reasons I pursued an English degree. One word can change so much in our collective reasoning and communication. The political spin doctors already know this and it's why some are so successful.

But I'm also interested in watching which groups use language as weapons and which groups use it to create civility. And, ultimately, I'm interested in who eventually wields enough influence to change it permanently.

Hangin' on for the ride

2011-01-22T15:03:00.003-05:00

It's been a little while since I've written about my mom. We actually had great news two weeks ago that the second type of chemo agent is working. Her latest CAT scan showed that the tumors are shrinking and the tumor markers in her blood are coming down dramatically.

I was there with my folks when the oncology folks delivered the results. We all but jumped for joy, even the oncologist and the nurse practitioner. I had recently made reservations to celebrate mom's 80th birthday with just her immediate family (as she requested) on Feb. 5th at her favorite restaurant. So now, it will be quite the celebration.

The fact that she even made it to the holidays was a huge gift. Not many people with Stage IV pancreatic cancer live very long after they're diagnosed. She received her diagnosis in August and we were prepared to have just a couple of months left with her.

She says she doesn't "have an ache or a pain", as she puts it. And, when asked how she feels, she says everything is "hunky dory." My mom has always been an amazingly positive woman.

I remember a particularly miserable and long winter years ago when we had record snow in MA. She called me one day in March when I was in a funk and said, "Haven't you noticed that the sun is out longer?" I replied, "Well, ma, I would if I could see over the snow banks!" It was then that I told her she was a "terminal optimist." The glass is half full? No. To her, the glass is overflowing.

There are many times in my life where seeing a half-full glass is hard. By nature, I guess, I'm a realist. But, at the same time, I am also an optimist. I do think it's possible to be both.

I think mom is a realist too. And, even though the words aren't spoken, we both know that this is a reprieve, not a cure. Can people go into spontaneous remission? Sure. Does it happen often? No.

The chemo is doing its job on the cancer, but that doesn't mean she is home free. The chemo creates other conditions that the doctors are, at the moment, treating with supplements but those conditions can become serious. So, we monitor.

Because I'm an optimistic realist, I approach all of this with a sense of hope tinged with caution. Mom's attitude remains upbeat. I can't imagine a time when her outlook will change and I truly think that attitude makes a difference in your physical health.

So, for now, we all hang on to the rollercoaster called "cancer".

When I talked to my dad privately after the CAT scan results were delivered, he said, "But it just means more time." I told him that time is all any of us can ever hope for.

Today is a good day. And today is all we have. Frankly, I wouldn't want it any other way.

A time for dogs

2011-01-20T12:35:00.002-05:00

The Pack, Christmas 2009

Ron and I have gone from three dogs to one in less than a year. It's been a huge adjustment each time we've lost a dog. We only started with one (Brittany) 10 1/2 years ago. Alex and Shawna came to us as fosters and became part of the pack.

They all became elderly at the same time and caring for them has been a lot of work, both physically, emotionally, and financially.

Ron and I aren't saints. We've loved our dogs to distraction but lose our patience sometimes. When we get frustrated or just plain exhausted, I always say calmly and quietly, "They'll be gone soon."

That always brings us back to the reality that their lives are short ones. And so are ours.

Pre-Brittany, I had an immaculate home. Floors were shiny, carpets were like-new, kitchen was spotless. I took great pride in my home and still do. But since the dogs came along and my ability to work full time disappeared, the house is, well, lived-in.

During those moments of frustration with the dogs, I've sat and thought about how much easier my life will be when they're gone. I'll get my floors refinished, I'll get all of my rugs cleaned, and I'll stop tripping over stuffed animals, dog beds, and dogs.

My credit cards will be paid every month, we can start saving money again to do projects around the house (and for retirement), and I won't have to go out in freezing cold or driving rain to do a potty run with a dog.

No more being awakened at 4 am because a dog has to go out or is sick. No more looking at my watch when I'm having fun with friends because I have to get home to take a dog out to pee. It will be freeing to have my life back as well as the finances and energy to accomplish the things that matter to me.

I go down that road pretty quickly when I'm tired. When I get to the cul-de-sac I start thinking about what I'll miss.

No more tail-wagging and happy talk when I get home. No more company as I work at the computer. No more cold, wet noses on my bare legs. An almost unbearable silence when I'm home alone save for the cellphone buzzing and the email notification dinging.

I'll miss the people that my dogs have introduced me to -- the vets and all of the amazing caregivers at the animal hospital, the kindest dog groomer on the planet, the cheery woman who runs the independent pet supply store nearby. And the countless strangers who stop to say, "What a beautiful dog!" while we're out walking.

Still, I have to remember how many friends I've made because of my dogs, either through Rescue work or simply a shared bonding over the love of a pet. That won't end. And that's where I'll find all of my dogs -- in those relationships.

I always quote Ecclesiastes in my blog since that's really what my life philosophy is. There is a time for all things. There is a time for dogs, and there is a time for remembering dogs. There's a time to take care of, and there's a time to be taken care of.

Recognizing and accepting these cycles of life is what "grace" is. I know there will be a time for me to reflect on all of this. But now is a time to take Brittany outside for her daily walk.

It's 1986 all over again

2011-01-07T20:58:00.004-05:00

Me in college

There aren't a lot of regrets in my life. I'm actually very proud and happy to say that. Sure, I've made mistakes but that happened mostly when I was young and clueless.

I do, however, have a couple of major regrets that haunt me. I was reminded of one of them tonight when I read the local paper. It snuck up on me five years ago as it did tonight. I hate it but can't escape it.

This article in the Lowell Sun details a horrible crime. No, I wasn't a party to the crime, but I feel that I could have prevented it and always will. If I had only been wiser.

I was dating a guy named Michael in 1980 and we were headed out with our friends Mike and Judy for a Friday night date. When Michael picked me up that night, he said plans had changed. We were meeting our friends to help them look for Mike's nephew Patrick who had run away from home.

We all met at Patrick's house - the home of Mike's brother Richie. A plan was devised and we split up to look in places that Patrick's parents thought he might be. We spent quite a bit of time roaming around Tewksbury but found nothing.

The next day Mike called me and told me that a neighbor reported finding Patrick hiding behind their wood shed and he was now home safely. I asked Mike if Patrick had run away before and he said he ran away a lot and caused his parents a lot of worry.

Fast forward to 1986. I'm 27 and flipping through the Boston Globe before heading to work. I see a familiar name and realize it's my old college friend Mike's brother. I had lost touch with Mike a few years after our search for his nephew.

The article in the Globe reports that Richie is accused of murdering his son Patrick while drinking and snorting coke. It was a gruesome scene, according to the Globe. Richie also tried to stab his wife and daughter when they walked in and found Patrick's body.

I held my breath and I could swear my heart stopped cold in my chest. This was Patrick. The young kid who ran away from home. The kid I tried to get back home. Home, if you can call it that, ended up being a nicer name for "hell." The article claimed that Richie had been abusive to the entire family and they were all scared to death of him. Just as they are now as he tries again for parole.

My thoughts then and now, and every five years when I read that Richie is trying again for parole, are ones filled with guilt. How stupid I was not to see the signs. How trusting I was that my friend's brother had the only side to the story. I never even questioned why Patrick had run away so much. I was in love and playing "responsible adult" with my boyfriend by bringing a child home where he would be safe. I felt closer to Michael because we were working together during a friend's crisis. How Pollyanna.

I look at the Kathy I was back in 1980 and know I was naive. I was a very young 20-year old. Though, to be truthful, 20-year olds back then were a lot "younger" than they are today. But still, I was only about a year older then than my oldest nephew is today. Would I expect him to recognize the evil in that household? Could he possibly know to even question the situation? No. But that's him. I hold my own street smarts to a higher standard.

There is no undoing the "miss" on my part. I will always feel like I could have at least asked some questions. The hardest thing for me to let go of in all of this is that if I had just had a couple of more years under my belt, I could have maybe been that outsider who pulled the alarm.

I look at Patrick's picture in the paper every five years and think, if only.

Random thoughts while grocery shopping

2011-01-06T16:43:00.003-05:00

As I was coming out of my weekly mindset to just get through the grocery store without my head exploding, I started to notice little things that made no sense to me. I list these not so that I can get an explanation, but so that you might add some of your own.

1) Why do tomatoes that sit in the sun until they become dry and unrecognizable as tomatoes, cost more than the fresh ones? I have access to sun and could use that extra money to buy fresh tomatoes.

2) Imitation meat products are, in reality, imitation food products.

3) How does an item that is listed as an "everyday low price" make it into the sales flyer? I thought sale meant "less than the everyday price"? If they're going to add things that are the same price every day, wouldn't the entire store need to be added to flyer? That would be a lot of work and I'm not going to be the one to do it.

4) Why is it that if you give the bagger five reusable totes, he squeezes everything into four? Is there a contest going on that I am unaware of?

5) And why is it that two of those four bags contain all the glass and canned goods, while the other two have paper napkins, a loaf of bread, and an avocado?

6) I used to always stand on the back of my carriage and ride it to the car. When did I stop doing that and why didn't I notice? I miss it.

7) If we're such great multitaskers in this millenium, why do people talking on their cellphones always walk into traffic without looking? Have we started counting only those tasks that are dependent on electronics? If so, that would mean that walking and breathing at the same time is off my already short list.

8) If we have clothes washers and dishwashers, why do we have car washes and not car washers? Should we start saying "I'm going to run the dishwash?" Consistency is all I ask for.

That's all I've got for ya. Tell me what you come up with.

New Year's resolutions for politicians

2010-12-30T21:18:00.000-05:00

A friend asked what resolutions I'd like pols to make for 2011. Here's what I sent to him:

1) Make this country the free and equal place it was meant to be.

2) Stop hate crimes.

3) Feed the hungry and house the homeless.

4) Find a cure for all cancers.

5) Stop thinking about yourselves.

6) Start giving breaks to citizens who live in the margins and forget about cutting deals to the big businesses that funded your campaigns.

7) Talk to each other as caring and committed public servants and spare us the drama.

8) If you need to make budget cuts, stay away from social services. These people make almost no money and do the work that the suits in DC would never be caught dead doing.

9) Stop wasting taxpayer money investigating MLB practices. It's a freakin' game.

10) Make those who kill and torture animals pay the same price as those who do the same with people.

That's my top 10. I'm sure I could go on all night.

Thanks for asking the question.

Happy New Year, everyone! May the force be with us.

Kathy

Farewell to a sweet friend

2010-12-20T21:33:00.000-05:00

A week ago today, Ron and I kissed our little cocker spaniel Shawna for the last time. She had an aggressive case of Cushing's Disease that we couldn't get under control without introducing major side effects. She was 14 years old yet we only had her for 2 1/2 years.

Shawna came into our lives when my friend Mark passed away. I met Mark at my church and we became instant friends. I think the fact that we were about the same age and had both done dog rescue for years (he, cocker spaniels; me, springer spaniels) helped our friendship along. When Mark passed away, Shawna was taken in by Mark's friend and dogwalker. His three other dogs were taken in by his family members. I was the backup plan if anything didn't work out. When Mary's dog didn't get along with Shawna, Mark's brother called me.

Although Shawna was never completely house-trained and was very food obsessive, we happily took her into our pack. We had both Alex and Brit at the time and although we never really wanted (or could afford) a third dog, we were committed to giving her the best care and the most amount of love possible. I was happy that Ron agreed to take her in since I felt that this was the greatest gift I could give Mark and his family. Besides, when I was visiting Mark before he died, Shawna was the dog that always jumped into my lap without any encouragement. I hated to see her go back into rescue instead of into a home with someone she already knew and trusted.

Shawna bonded easily with Alex after letting him know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't going to be the pushover that Brit was. Shawna (who was half Alex's size) quickly became the alpha dog. That does not mean, however, that she was not affectionate with Alex and Brit. When we had to send Alex to the bridge, Shawna grieved as much as Brit, which kind of surprised us since Alex and Brit were the ones with the long-standing love affair.

This past year with Shawna has been difficult because of the Cushing's disease. The meds and tests were costly, though our vet was so kind and gave us discounts when she could. But more than the money was the heavy emotional toll the treatment took on her and on me.

When our vet said the words "She's gone" last week, I sobbed and sobbed. I didn't do that when Alex died. I don't know where the gushing well of emotion came from but I think it had a lot to do with other things besides being completely heartbroken to lose Shawna after trying so hard to help her.

This has been the year from hell for me. It started by losing Alex and ended by losing Shawna. Sandwiched in between was my mom's incurable pancreatic cancer diagnosis. I've been quite stoic through all of it but I think I've finally reached my limit.

I discovered too, that I was never completely done grieving the loss of my friend Mark. I always felt that since I had Shawna I still had a little piece of Mark. He was taken too soon and I miss him still.

Shawna's ashes will go back to Mark's family. He requested before he died that her ashes be buried at his gravesite. Mark will be reunited with Shawna as he should be. After we left the vet's office last week, I just kept envisioning Shawna running into Mark's open arms at the bridge and it did help me let go of some of the pain.

Mark gets her ashes but we still have her little coat that kept her warm as the Cushing's took her fur. We also have her 2" thick folder filled with vet bills and instructions. Her bowl, collar and leash, and a lock of fur from her wavy little ears are all tucked away in a box next to the one we have for Alex.

I learned many things about myself in those 2 1/2 years. I learned that I have more patience than I ever thought I could muster. I learned that the 1000-dollar custom made wool rug is not as important as the little dog who had no control over staining it. I learned that my vet is one of the kindest and most generous people I know.

And I learned again that love doesn't come in human and animal versions. A heart is capable of enduring heartbreaking sadness without ever breaking. It can't. There are too many other loves for it to hold.

Youth group joys

2010-12-07T14:22:00.003-05:00

One of my greatest joys in my volunteer work is the high school group I co-lead at my church. We meet most Sunday mornings while the younger kids are in Sunday school and the adults are attending the service in the Sanctuary. Leading the high school group is actually a ton of work for me. My friend Carlene and I write all the curriculum, organize and coordinate service trips, and generally obsess over details.

Coming of Age group 2009

It might sound simple but the biggest part of my "job" there is to keep the group not only engaged, but also safe. That means that everyone feels respected and heard.

I've always been better with older kids than younger kids. I have a hard time relating to anyone under 14 because I don't feel like I can have a meaningful conversation with them. I stumble over what is appropriate to say. Luckily, I don't have kids of my own so there will be no expensive psychotherapy bills later.

There are challenges with the high schoolers also. Finding boundaries as far as what is shared and how it is processed is difficult for me. I want to be their friend and mentor, but more importantly be their guardian.

We talk about some serious issues in our group. Suicide, bullying, civil rights, politics, and much more. Our discussions often lead to some soul-searching. I have never been anything but blown away by the thoughtfulness of these kids. They just get it.

Being their leader, though a huge stretch for me, is also very satisfying. They make me proud and also hopeful for the future of this country. But I struggle often with my role as a group leader there. I still think I'm better with teens in a one-on-one relationship.

When I was in my 20s, I said I wanted to be a Big Sister. There are opportunities everywhere for those sorts of relationships and I hope to do that once my life settles down a bit.

Until then, I will do the best I can to help the high school group at my church learn more about their faith, themselves, and the world they are heading out into -- one Sunday at a time.

What's your bumper sticker say about you?

2010-12-01T15:51:00.004-05:00

My dad said once that bumper stickers are for people who don't have the guts to speak their mind in person. So, when I've added the occasional sticker to my car over the years, I think about that. Because of my dad's great point, I only put something on my car that I'm already vocal about.

I did Springer Spaniel Rescue years ago and on one of the household cars are two rescue-related stickers: "Rescue Mom" (with a paw print), and an anti-pet store/puppy mill sticker. We also have a sticker of the logo for the Westford Conservation Trust where Ron and I were directors a few years ago.

Our other car has a couple of Unitarian stickers. The only one that has any real verbiage says "Deeds are more important than creeds. - Ralph Waldo Emerson".

I figure since all those stickers represent causes I've put my time, talent, treasure, and voice into, my dad's philosophy on bumper stickers doesn't apply to me. So I'm good.

Yesterday I was driving home from a lovely lunch with a Unitarian friend where we discussed, among other things, the hypocrisy of religious extremism. I got behind a minivan that was plastered with extreme Christian stickers. One read, "No Jesus; No Peace". The others were quite militant and had pictures of flaming crosses and verbiage like "Assimilation inevitable."

I thought immediately of my dad and wondered if the driver was one of those people who let their bumpers speak for them. Or if he/she was more like me. Either way, I was struck by the hypocrisy of the slogans. And the driver was obviously unaware of it.

As a Unitarian, I am often questioned about my religion's lack of a creed. I can very easily explain that we are more focused on how we live in the larger world than repeating a creed written for us by a hierarchy we don't know.

Lots of Unitarians will balk when others inside the church want to talk about Jesus. I know that a lot of that comes from some really negative experiences in their pasts, often at the hands of the Catholic Church.

Even though I've suffered that same sort of religious turnoff, I've always felt that I am very Christian. I try to live my life the way Jesus did -- Jesus the man; not Jesus the "God".

So when I see bumper stickers like those on that minivan, I wonder how those extreme Christians reconcile their exclusive, angry words with the words of Jesus. Jesus the man in the New Testament that they can't possibly have read; not Jesus the Christian Rights' reinvented poster boy.

I've had to deal with some religious-right scorn and disapproval because of my Unitarianism. I've been shut out by a family member because I believe in the human and civil right for two consenting adults to marry.

But I've always been able to rise above it and view the hypocrisy for what it is. And I do ask myself at times like these, "WWJD?"

The origin of the blog url

2010-11-27T11:35:00.001-05:00

My dad

It dawned on me last night that my blog has a name in the url that probably makes people wonder. Suzy Sassafras is just one of many nicknames I have. My dad is really into nicknames for his kids (Lisa was Half Pint; Joe was Chucker). My emails to him always end with, "Love you. SS".

Not sure why (maybe because I was such a goofy kid) but I've ended up with quite a few. My personal favorite is Suzy Sassafras. Some of these names have stories, some do not. Here are the other names my dad has made up for me over the years:

Kunkanookles (Your guess is as good as mine.)
Knees Nolan (I always had a band aid on my knee because I was a klutz.)
Smash Kath (see Knees Nolan.)
Dirty Diver (I invented a dive where I slathered mud on my bathing suit then dove into the water and came out all clean.)
U Knock Ferry (My dad used to swim with me on his back and he'd say "Here comes the New York Ferry!" which I of course couldn't repeat correctly.)

My other nicknames come from friends who perpetually feel the need to either invent new names for me or shorten my name (Kath, Kat, KD, K). The one thing I've noticed is that everyone calls me "Kathy D" even when there are no other Kathys in the group (like at church). No one else gets a last letter, but for some reason I do. Other nicknames and their origin:

Snapper (From friend Patty. No clue where this came from. She also often adds "-doodle" to the end of it.)
Nolan (My maiden name that some high school friends call me.)
Killer (My friend Carol calls me this for some reason and it's pronounced in the MA style - Killah.)
Loser (Carol again. Also pronounced in the MA style. I do not take offense.)
Sally (Because of my love of the song Mustang Sally. I think I'd prefer to be called Mustang instead. Definitely cooler.)
Neolani (Friend Gretchen has been calling me this since 8th grade. This was a guest character on Star Trek and it sounded so much like Nolan that she adopted it as my nickname.)

Everytime someone calls me by a nickname, I think back to the joyfulness of its creation. Nicknames are, I think, signs of affection. Shortening names is a way to show that you are fond enough of that person that you want to call them something less formal.

That's probably why my dogs have always had a ton of nicknames. It's my little gift to them.

Food as legacy

2010-11-24T21:44:00.002-05:00

One half of my kitchen area

I just spent the evening baking. One of my absolute favorite things to do. Tonight, in preparation for Thanksgiving, I baked my traditional apple muffins from a recipe I have in my 8th grade Home Ec class cookbook. That's where I learned to bake.

My mom is a good cook and my dad is a wiz at pie crusts, but I think I got my baking gene from my paternal grandmother. I've been told by quite a few people that I am the spittin' image of my Nana. A wonderful legacy that I tap into quite a bit. She had the same brown eyes, body shape, love for baking and quilting, and general wise-ass sense of humor that I seemed to have inherited.

My folks love(d) to entertain. I think I learned that from them. There's nothing more joyful to me than having a house full of people eating whatever I baked/cooked and drinking whatever is in the liquor cabinet. I love a party where I can hardly move in the kitchen.

I was reminded today that one of the big appeals I recognized when we bought this house was the huge kitchen. I have TONS of counter space. For someone who loves to "create" with food, I was instantly lured to the expansive counters and island. And the amazing cabinet space that could hold my beloved Kitchen Aid mixer, serving dishes, and china.

As I was starting my third "creation" for the night tonight, I thought about how happy I am that I have a niece due on my side of the family. There are wonderful Nolan recipes from my Nana that I fear would have ended with me. My sister has a son but boys tend not to carry on the traditions like girls do. I am so happy that I'll have a girl in the family to pass all the traditions down to.

So much of family history is entwined in the recipes we use. My Nana's turkey soup, stuffing, and pies. My mother's amazing pumpkin bread. My scones and squash souffle. This is how we honor our family tree and keep our treasured traditions alive.

I know that some day I will be gone but my recipes will live on. Maybe some day my niece will say, "And I got this recipe from my Aunt Kathy." In that one sentence I will come alive again and live through future generations.

Same old same old

2010-11-20T15:27:00.000-05:00

There is a big to-do in the state of MA this week about corruption uncovered by an independent study of the state probation department. It uncovered systemic abuse and patronage at very high levels. I am actually more surprised at the surprise generated by the Ware report than anything else. This state runs on who-knows-who and always has. Let me tell you my little story.

About 25 years ago, I was trying to get out of a dead-end corporate job. I applied at the University of Lowell (MA) in some sort of research department. It was my alma mater and the job looked interesting.

They called me in for an interview and I talked with the supervisor and then the director of the department. The director looked me in the eye and told me that in order for me to get the job he had to get a phone call from a senator. He made no attempt to explain why. I just had to do it.

So, my dad laughed and then called his close friend who was pals with the Kennedys. George happened to have an upcoming gig with Ted. So when they were in the back of the limo together, George slipped Ted a note with the director's name and number and my name also. Ted said, "I'll take care of it."

I got a call from the director the next day. I assumed he was calling to offer me a job. Nope. He said that Ted had called him and that he was surprised I had that connection. Then, he said that this wasn't the senator he had in mind and gave me the name of some state senator.

Dad called back George who called Ted who called the state senator. The next day, lo and behold, I'm promoted out of my dead-end job (think they knew I was looking to get out?). Then I got a call from the ULowell director offering me the job. The pay was not as good as my new promotion so I declined.

I called George and thanked him for his efforts and then I started to think about what it would have been like to work in that state job where nothing got done unless you had political connections. Or that connections were tested - which I now believe was a bigger part of that story.

My story is one of many that takes place every single day in this state. I don't know what it's like in other states but I grew up with the understanding that you pull strings to get things done here.

I'm all about networking but this goes beyond that. I was more than qualified for that state job but still had to prove my worth. I often wondered who got that job and how many hoops they had to jump through first. Or if the hoop-jumping is what made them qualified.

Signs from the universe

2010-11-17T11:01:00.000-05:00

A Celtic knot:
Symbol of interconnectedness

It's been a real roller-coaster week. We met with the oncologist last Thursday to find out the results of mom's CAT scan for her pancreatic cancer. The doctor told us that the chemo she was on (the #1 chemo agent for her type of cancer) was not slowing the cancer down. So we are trying the #2 drug and are hoping - again.

This sad news came with the happy news that my sister is expecting her second child in May after multiple failed attempts. This time it's a girl. The baby was conceived the week my mom was diagnosed.

My interest in the theories/philosophies of Carl Jung led me to the concept of synchronicity. Though largely a theory of parapsychology, I've always thought of it as a way to understand the interconnectedness of seemingly unconnected events. In other words, not all events can be written off to coincidence.

I belong to a discussion group of people who are slowly getting used to my belief that a higher power (I use the term "universe" while others may choose the word "God") is at work. That doesn't mean they believe it, but I think they've begun to understand that it's my sincere belief - mystical though it might be.

When Lisa announced that she was pregnant, my first thought was "It's a girl." Not a replacement for mom because she cannot be replaced, but a reminder nonetheless that the cycle of life continues.

I spend a fair amount of time at night when I cannot sleep thinking about these connections. Within grief there is joy; within death there is life. To me, a belief that all events are random slams the door on life's lessons. If we can't or won't open ourselves up to the possibility that there is a greater truth, I wonder if we can we ever obtain a deeper understanding.

Do what you can do

2010-11-05T11:51:00.000-04:00

The mumsie

Helen Keller said, “I’m only one person and I can’t do everything. But I can do something. I will not let the fact that I can’t do everything prevent me from doing what I can.” At my town's Board of Selectman's meeting last month (fast forward to the 20-minute mark), I asked that they proclaim November Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month in Westford. It's a national movement driven by the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network and is designed to raise awareness and funds for a cancer that is the 4th deadliest cancer yet only receives 2% of the National Cancer Institute's funding for research.

My mom is a fighter and has a great attitude. However, the odds are obviously stacked against her. In this week's local paper, I asked that my editor publish a short article on the BoS proclamation and noted a few of the facts about the cancer. In that article is a link to the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network where you can donate toward reasearch funding and/or contact your reps and senators to encourage them to push for more funding.

I know that my mom has a huge battle ahead of her but I've always felt that you can't just wring your hands and watch when something unfair happens in life. That's just being a victim to me and not my style.

When Ron and I adopted Brit through Springer Spaniel Rescue, I started to volunteer there and continued on to major leadership roles in the organization. I couldn't save all of them, but I could save the ones I could.

I can't save my mom. But I'd like to feel somewhat empowered and fight in a way that I can for her. She's worth the effort and so are all the other cancer patients out there. Won't you help?

A foreboding

2010-11-02T12:40:00.000-04:00

I just talked to my folks who said they had to make two attempts to vote today because there was absolutely no place to park. My mom said, "Well, a high voter turnout usually means Democrat." To which I responded, "Not in this political climate."

It was like this when Brown was elected. The people want change. I'm not sure they even know what they want, they just know what they don't want.

My prediction for the MA gubernatorial race has always been that Patrick doesn't really want to be governor any longer. He will fight hard enough to say he tried, but ultimately, he just wants to go to DC and work for Obama.

Given the high turnout when the race is so close, I'm inclined to believe that Patrick will get his wish.

Just vote

2010-10-28T17:37:00.001-04:00

I try really really hard to not get too political on this blog. Mainly because I strive to understand both sides of an argument (as long as there's some intelligence behind it). And such is the case with a grassroots movement in MA - and probably elsewhere in the country - to change the voting laws to require the voter to show an ID before taking a ballot.

Now, on paper, that makes perfect sense. No one wants voter fraud. I'm sure it has happened in the past and we do need to find a way to ensure the validity of each vote.

I work as a precinct clerk in my town. I started out as a checker (the person who checks off your name and hands you a ballot) but moved up about a year ago. It's really a fascinating little job. The money is minuscule but no one who works the polls ever does it for the money.

The clerk and the warden in a precinct are the troubleshooters who handle the voters who somehow have fallen through the paperwork cracks but still feel they are eligible to vote in the precinct. So, we handle the detective work and get the proper paperwork filled out so that, if they truly are eligible, they can vote that day.

Our job is not just to ensure the voters' rights are upheld, but to also be the managers and champions of the checkers who face the front lines continually during the day.

Next week's gubernatorial election will be insanely busy as all big elections are. But even the not-so-big elections have their challenges too. Which brings me to my stance on the grassroots "Show ID" movement in MA.

At the primaries almost two months ago, a Show-IDer came to the checker's table. He immediately started with this bombastic, grandstanding rant telling the checker that he wanted his ID checked and why. This ranter happened also to be running for office (thankfully, he didn't get elected).

The checker who is in his late 70s and hard of hearing was very flustered. Before the warden could get over to the table, a voter behind this blowhard turned around and was starting to leave. He thought that he needed his ID to vote and didn't have it on him. The warden immediately diffused the situation telling the candidate that there is no law that dictates an ID be shown and then corralled the fleeing voter behind him and told him he was okay to vote.

So, what did that prove? And who really was influenced? No one. All it did was disrupt a polling place, confuse an eligible voter, and upset an elderly man who is just trying to be a good citizen.

Strangely enough, I was at a company reunion last weekend and bumped into an old coworker who was wearing a Show ID button. I pointed out that going to the polls and causing a scene to unempowered poll workers, was probably not going to help his cause. Nor will it change the law.

I told him that, if he wanted to effect change, he was wasting his time grandstanding at his local precinct. This movement will only work from the state level. I told him he needed to take up his case with Secretary of State, Bill Galvin, and let the poor poll workers do their jobs.

At a clerk/warden meeting yesterday to prepare for next week's election, we discussed this issue with the town clerk. She is going to contact Galvin's office and find out what we should say when this happens so that we convey a consistent message across all of Westford's polls.

Given that this will be a high-turnout election and the warden and I will be very busy helping voters, I am very concerned that voters like the man who thought he needed his ID will turn away before we or the checkers are able to tell them that they are okay to vote.

I hope the Show IDers will think about how their cause, even though it is a valid one, will disrupt the democratic process if not done correctly. After what I saw at the primaries, however, I don't hold out any hope that election day will not be used as a bully pulpit for this group. Let's hope I'm wrong.

All seasons under heaven

2010-10-11T15:48:00.001-04:00

Me and Ron at our Vow Renewal service 10/4/2008

When Ron and I were married 22 years ago, we chose Ecclesiastes 3:1 as a reading. It wasn't a typical wedding reading yet it spoke to us. There is a time to be born, a time to die, a time to reap, and a time to sow. I also want this read at my memorial service when the day comes.

I've been thinking about this reading a lot lately. At first because of my mom's illness but now because of the change of seasons here in New England.

Today I started uprooting what's left of my summer annuals to make room for mums - autumn's flowers. I dusted off the fall decorations for the house and hung my decorative flag with its pumpkins and autumn leaves.

I love this time of year. Some look at it as the end of summer and the beginning of a long winter. But to me it's the beauty that is nature. The cycle of life. If I moved to California (never happening), I would miss this time of year. I'd also miss the spring.

Many times I've wondered if the reason California celebrities have such a hard time with the aging process is because they never see it in nature around them. What reminders are there in Hollywood's ecosystem that birth and death are all a part of life? And where's the joy in spring when you see signs of new life peeping through the melting snow?

Maybe that's why we New Englanders are as tough as we are. And also as accepting of the cycle of life that is in us and around us.

I love being able to snuggle on the sofa with a cup of tea at night, all curled up under my afghan. I guess I could do that in Hollywood too if I chose to blast the central air. I love to watch the snow pile up and listen to the nor'easter winds at night knowing that it won't last forever and that I'll be thinking about those moments in sweltering hot August.

When I look in the mirror these days, there are more wrinkles and more gray hairs. Lately I feel like the maple tree outside my window whose leaves are turning. But there is great beauty in those leaves. A beauty that comes from accepting the seasons and the circle of life.

Self reliance

2010-10-08T11:16:00.001-04:00

It has been over a month since I've posted anything and I actually feel terrible about that. I've been doing some freelance work and also building up a sole-proprietorship business. It's called A Fine Line and the website is coming soon.

My mom told me once that as soon as I was old enough to talk I always responded to offers for help with the following proclamation: I'll do it myself! It's been a theme in my life, I guess. Until I gave in to the inevitable exhaustion of CFS, I wasn't a good delegator. Some of it was about trust, but most of it was about my own need to figure things out myself.

I think that working through frustration with a task is the best way to learn it. I often say that I write technical documents but never read them. It is rare for me to call tech support because I'd rather use my own analytical and problem-solving skills to reach a solution. And about 95% of the time, I do.

Now maybe some of that is my dad's personality in me. Joe always pushed himself (and still does) past the point of frustration. But he became a successful engineer and manager from that personality trait without ever getting a college degree.

We don't spend enough time digging into our complex minds and intuitive nature. Yes, we can't know everything and experts are there for a reason. But I never want to give into the need to ask for help before I've exhausted all of my brain power.

Maybe that's why my path to having my own freelance business was inevitable. I want to be in control of my own work, my own career, and my own time. But I also want to be able to figure it out for myself. I'm learning so much by taking this risky step, and it's not just about finances, and building websites and client relationships. I'm learning a lot about myself and my need for a challenge.

I've always bored easily in jobs. Once I master them, I start to lose interest. Every ten years, I reinvent my career. I started out in customer service when I graduated (1980). Did that for ten years, then I moved on to business systems analysis (1990). Did that for ten years, then on to technical writing and editing (2000). Now I'm starting my own business (2010). Every decade sees a new challenge and an opportunity for growth. Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?

You just never know

2010-09-04T13:36:00.001-04:00

I'm just home from a local farmer's market where I met up with my new friend. She sells home-baked pastries and original artwork from a table she has set up at the market. Ron came along too and met her for the first time.

Funny thing is, this is only the second time I've been in her company. The editor for the Westford Eagle asked me to do a column on Gail a month ago. Gail and I exchanged a couple of quick emails and I was to meet her at her home to do the interview while she baked for the farmer's market.

The day I was to interview her was the day after my mom went into the hospital in great pain. This is when the cancer journey started for us and I had to be at the hospital when the interview was to have taken place. I informed my editor and she found a replacement.

I emailed Gail and told her I was sorry that I had to bail on her but that someone would cover for me. From there, this email friendship grew quickly. She was supportive and kind. She was also funny and shared my love for Julia Child's chocolate mousse. She suggested we meet for tea.

Two weeks ago we did meet. Gail had sent me a picture of herself so I'd recognize her. She confessed that her son asked her what she was doing meeting a complete stranger for tea and how did she know this would "work"? Gail responded, "She's a people person. I can tell. It will be fine."

And so it was. We spent 2 1/2 hours (which seemed like about 5 minutes) chatting over tea and coffee at a local coffee house. It was like we'd been friends forever.

These moments have happened in my life fairly frequently and I am always amazed at how two complete strangers can connect in such a short amount of time. And sometimes the bonding happens over email or telephone.

It really makes me want to kiss the sun that shines on me. It's one of the things I love most about life. You just never know where your next friend is coming from. People who fill your heart with joy, and respect your thoughts are always just around the corner.

I think the key is to be open to it. To not be afraid to share some of your spirit with a stranger. To let your guard down a bit and feel comfortable enough in who you are that people will like you when you are yourself.

The gift of connecting with another human being whose random presence sparks your own happiness is proof to me that the world is always turning towards hope.

Right-hand people

2010-09-03T12:13:00.002-04:00

Me, mom, and our Thanksgiving teamwork in 2006

I kept waiting for things to "settle down" before I wrote this post. But, another lesson in life: Every moment is an opportunity for change.

Mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a couple of weeks ago during surgery. She is now facing chemo with hopes that she can get one more year with us. We'll see how she does with chemo and then she can decide.

She's been her usual amazing self through all of this. Realistic but still positive. Enjoying each day she has like it's her last. But she's always lived that way.

Through all of this anxiety and worry and grief, I've discovered many things about myself. First and foremost, that I can be there for my folks when I need to be. It's not pretty and I need to rest when I can, but I can do it. Whew.

I am the oldest daughter in my family. I have an older brother, Joe, and a much younger sister, Lisa. When I was about 9 years old, I gave up going out on Halloween. I found it to be a bother. Trying to walk in the dark with a mask on and not trip on curbs was a hassle. Though I love(d) candy, it wasn't worth the aggravation. I wanted to be home - with my mother - handing out candy to the younger kids. So, my brother continued to do trick-or-treating, and I stayed home.

It was around this time that my sister was born. I had always prayed for a sister and, when she arrived, I devoted myself to her. I did it, not just for me, but for my mom. I was her helper. Taking Lisa for walks, helping with diapers (this was pre-Pampers), feeding her, and keeping her occupied.

Whenever my mom was going through a tough time, like when she lost her mother and then her father (after an 8-month nightmare in a Boston hospital), I stepped up. Barely a teenager myself, I would take over making meals for the family, clean the house, and take care of Lisa - without ever being asked.

The look of relief on my mother's face and the complete trust she had in me were my only and greatest rewards. Nothing's changed since then.

Joe and Lisa love mom as much as I do. They support, help, and care for her every day - even if they can't be there for doctor's appointments and hospital emergencies. We are a team and I'm proud of how we've come together to support our folks and each other.

This is a heartbreaking, stressful time in my life yet I feel some sense of relief that mom and I spent our time together building this relationship of mutual trust. She calls me her "right-hand man" and always has.

When I lie awake at night, thinking about how my life experiences have led me to this moment in time, I'm seeing how my 51-year relationship with my mom has prepared me. And I find myself wondering if the universe always had a master plan.

When the time comes for me to say goodbye to her, I will know that I have always done everything I could for her. There will be no regrets.

Hands and hearts

2010-08-18T20:01:00.001-04:00

I just finished packing. I'm not going very far away but will be spending a ton of time in the OR family waiting room tomorrow morning as my mom undergoes surgery for cancer. It's been a crazy couple of weeks. Mom came home and has been feeling better since the stent was implanted. All that and more comes out tomorrow as the surgeons perform what they are calling a radical approach to the cancer.

Original biopsy results that were expected to confirm colon cancer came back inconclusive, we found out at the pre-op appointments on Monday. There is now a possibility that it could be pancreatic cancer that moved to the colon. So, that's incredibly scary.

Mom is her usual strong, positive self. The family is worried but we are all keeping our spirits up and hers too.

When I was packing my "busy bag" to bring to the hospital tomorrow I grabbed my current book and my journal.

But I had this nagging thought that the written word would not be enough to keep me calm and distracted. That's when I grabbed my quilting bag. I haven't quilted in a while. I've made several quilts (sewn and quilted all by hand) and had started one in February. I haven't done much on it since my writing seems to have taken over my spare time.

Most quilters I know think those of us who do all of the work by hand are insane or incredibly patient. Maybe we are a little bit of both. When anyone asks me why I do all this by hand (the full-sized quilt I made to the left took me 1 year and 9 months to complete, and then I gave it away!), I tell them that there is a certain peace that comes with doing handwork. It's becoming a lost art. With the exception of our cellphones and keyboards/mouse, we do very little with our hands these days.

I find that piecing and then quilting by hand to create a quilt is one of the most personal things I do. And also the most contemplative. When I have the needle and thread in one hand, and the fabric in the other, my blood pressure immediately drops. My mind loses all the crazy junk that runs around in it all day. And all I think about is "Put the needle in; pull the needle out." I call it Zen Quilting.

And that's just what the doctor (me) ordered for (me) tomorrow. Since I have no control over the outcome of the surgery or the full biopsy, I can at least feel that I have control over something. As I sew the pieces together tomorrow I will reflect on how lucky I am. Lucky that I have a mother that I love so much, lucky that I can be there for her and my dad, and lucky that I have hands to do the needlework. Hands that my mother and father gave me. I will use them well.

Shoulders, parents, and timing

2010-08-03T10:33:00.000-04:00

Taking a few moments to update the blog with the latest. Normally I write more introspective pieces but this is mostly news.

About two hours after a PT appointment last week, I got a call from my dad that he was at the hospital with my mom. She was very sick and was being admitted. I raced over there and stayed very late into the night.

Long story short, she was diagnosed with colon cancer. The day after she was admitted, I picked up my dad and we spent another long day at the hospital while the docs confirmed the diagnosis and inserted a stent. She is home for a couple of weeks while her colon settles down and then will go back in for surgery to remove the cancer.

The surgeons have been wonderful. She is getting great care. They feel the cancer is contained and surgery will cure this.

At almost-80, this is a lot on her but my dad is of even greater concern. He is exhausted and stressed beyond belief. They've been married for 57 years and are very close.

One of my first thoughts as I was driving home that first night at 11:15pm, was that I was SO glad I didn't opt for surgery on my shoulder. If I had, I would not have been able to be there for them.

My sister lives up in Maine and can't be there in a flash like me. She is so great about making calls, and coming down to help. It's a huge relief for me. But I'm the go-to person for my folks and, although it's exhausting and stressful, I am honored that they trust me with their care.

The shoulder is getting stronger with the PT. I feel that, if I continue with four more sessions and my home exercises, I will be okay for a while. The CFS, well, that's never going to get better and I have to rest in between each crisis.

But as long as I am available to help them, it is actually easier on me. I can take an Advil for the shoulder if needed, but I can't give them a pill to help them when they need me.

Caretaker wear and tear

2010-07-20T12:16:00.003-04:00

I went for my first appointment for physical therapy yesterday. I blew out my shoulder last October from a fall. I was attempting to help my ole pal Alex down the front steps as he was recovering from a seizure. He got down the steps just fine; I, however, slipped and fell, hearing an actual "rrrrrrrrip" when I landed on my left shoulder.

Xrays were negative but the pain was quite bad. Did some home therapy, ice, rest, you know the routine. It still bothers me so I went for an MRI a month ago and it revealed a labrum tear along with a misplaced bicep tendon. Great.

Surgery is likely but the surgeon was open to trying PT first to see if I could get some strength back and minimize the pain.

The therapist I've got is a woman who looks to be about my age. In great shape, of course. She asked many questions but one of them got us looking into each others eyes with a great sense of knowing.

When she asked what my goal was for PT, I answered "To avoid surgery for as long as I can. I have too many people and dogs who need me right now."

Without saying a word, she understood. I said, "You know. You're a woman." She smiled and nodded.

When the surgeon told me that surgery was the only way to repair the damage for good, my first thought was not of myself. It was of my elderly dogs. How will I get them in and out of the car for appointments if I can't use both arms? Then I thought of my parents.

I have chronic fatigue syndrome which is at its worst during times of physical and emotional stress. This means my recovery from surgery will likely be more involved and take longer. My folks are at the point in their lives where they sometimes have to rely on their "kids". What if they end up needing me and I can't be there for them?

It's all crazy, I know. Others would help where I couldn't. But most women I know would have the same reaction as me. It's our job (and our purpose in life) to be there for others. We're last in line on our own list of priorities.

I think back to my childhood in trying to understand why I subvert my own care for others. My mom, like most moms of that era, didn't work outside the home. Their jobs were to be mothers. They were the ones who raised the children (dads did what they could on nights and weekends), took care of the family pet, helped neighbors in need, and shuttled elderly relatives to and from doctors appointments. In a nutshell, they handled all the emotional and physical caretaking.

It is that example that still has power over my generation. I don't think it's a bad thing to "suck it up" when someone else has a greater need. I actually view that type of inner strength as a badge of honor. But it has its price. In the PT waiting room was one man - and six women.

I wonder if those women answered the therapist's questions the same as me. And received a knowing look in return.

Confirmation

2010-07-11T15:49:00.001-04:00

I read this article in today's Boston Globe with much interest. It's been my theory that once people establish an opinion, no amount of facts could change it. Or so it seemed to me after spending some amount of time on local blogs having my IQ challenged when I dare interrupt someone's rant with facts.

From the book "A Nation of Victims: The Decay of the American Character", by Charles J. Sykes, comes one of my favorite quotes: "You can't reason someone out of something they didn't reason themselves into."

I use that line often when discussing/arguing things like politics and religion. (I know they're supposed to be taboo subjects but I hate boring conversations as much as I hate the Yankees.)

The article in the Globe makes the point that offering challenging facts to someone who has a pre-set opinion usually gets that person MORE entrenched in their opinion. You would think that it would be the opposite but here's where human nature comes into play.

People don't like to be wrong and they consider an inconsistency of opinion to be a character flaw. R.W. Emerson said: "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." When I read that in college, it changed how I argued.

We all hold certain beliefs as a sort of personal truth - and don't confuse "truth" with "fact". One of my truths is that I believe that the death penalty is justified in some instances. I can't imagine anyone ever giving me enough information to change my opinion, and so it stays.

However, I try to not hold those 'hobgoblins' in my mind and am at least aware of times when I do. Changing an opinion given more information and especially experience is a sign to me that the person is smart and strong. This is what always pains me during political campaigns. That a politician cannot change his mind - ever. Once (s)he says something on the stump, it has to be etched in stone for all time.

I fear that we are a country that is becoming too black and white. And that somehow, personal growth and introspection have become signs of weakness.

Blue moon dog

2010-07-08T14:15:00.001-04:00

I love every dog that's come through my house. Foster or otherwise. But anyone who's had dogs knows there are one or two that somehow manage to be more amazing than the rest. And that's the case with my Springer Spaniel, Brittany.

We don't call her Brittany much anymore, in fact, we never really did. She-of-a-thousand-nicknames has always been way too silly to be called such a prissy name. Her names run the gamut from Snuggles to Psycho. Poopyhead to Wigglebottom.

We adopted Brit when she was 2 (or so the vet guessed) and had come into Springer Spaniel Rescue after being hit by a car. Her family didn't want her back and didn't care that she was a) in pain, and b) would likely be euthanized.

Luckily a local vet in CT where she was found did some major surgery pro-bono because she was so special. The ACO that brought her into the vet called Springer Spaniel Rescue who then called us (the recently approved adopters). We were so taken by her personality that her inability to walk after surgery did not scare us away.

Brit was our first dog together. Ron had cats when he was a kid, but never dogs. I had dogs but my mom was always the main caretaker. Adopting Brit - especially given her issues - was a huge leap of faith that has changed my life.

She was a lot of work when we got her. Traumatized both physically and emotionally, we struggled to get her well. She rebounded from her hip surgery quicker than she did from the terrible anxiety that overwhelmed her at times. Even today she doesn't do well with change and seems to still fear, 10 years later, that she will be ditched again.

At heart, she is a fun, silly, happy, affectionate, and intuitive dog. The only "trouble" we've had with her is her love for chasing (and sometimes even catching) little furry creatures outside. An invisible fence kept her contained but two years ago, her hip started to act up again. It was then we found that her knees were an issue also and surgery isn't an option.

Most of her days are spent inside now. A retired racehorse of sorts. We take her on walks when her joint issues aren't too bad. We control the pain with meds and she is on a regimen of holistic treatments to attempt to keep her comfortable and rebuild some strength in her hind quarters.

However, lately some of the positive effects from treatments are being lost and we are faced with the reality that her mobility and pain may result in a life-ending decision. We thought that since our unhealthy Springer Alex made it to 15, surely Brit would too.

It's been hard for me to come to terms with this reality. Brit is my best friend, my constant companion, and "my little girl". Lots of emotions are tied up with her and I'm dreading the day when a decision has to be made. I also wonder if I will be capable of making one since letting go of her will be the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.

Last night, when she was dawdling with her dinner, I thought it was due mostly to her not being able to stand for long to eat. So I indulged her by sitting with her and feeding her by hand until she was tempted to start eating on her own again.

As always, she was as interested in me as anything else in front of her. She'd take one bite of food for herself, then lick my face. Another bite, then lick my fingers holding the bowl. She seemed to figure out early on that I love her as much as she loves me. And that will never change between us.

I've decided that I will continue to let her know just how much she means to me until I have to let her go. Don't say dogs aren't tuned in to how you feel. They know you better than you know yourself because they're not fooled by the words that come out of your mouth.

They read your heart and judge you by your actions. At least my Brit does.

One that didn't make it

2010-06-27T11:03:00.001-04:00

I shopped this column around and no one was interested. It took me a while to write so I thought I'd share it here so ya'll can read it. Enjoy!

The movie Julie and Julia seems to be spawning a new generation of kitchen dwellers. I’ve always loved recipe wrestling. It all started in my 8th grade home economics class with Miss Wagner. We made a tomato rarebit once and some apple muffins. I still make the muffins today.

Once Miss Wagner got me interested in white sauces and the importance of filling the water glasses three-quarter’s full, I started watching and studying The French Chef. After all, there wasn’t any other way to learn my way around a gourmet kitchen. My mom is a great cook and entertainer, but she wasn’t exactly making soufflés. And, after spending an hour a week in my home ec class, I had become a food snob. I would have none of her beef stew, or something I affectionately called “Irish spaghetti”.

To this day, I love to experiment with food and make things my husband, Ron, and I love to eat. But these experiments often drive the taste-free eaters who frequent our home to ask for something “normal” – food that is topped with things like French’s yellow mustard and a half-shaker of iodized table salt.

After seeing Julie and Julia, I cracked open “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” by Julia herself. Ron gave it to me as a gift before the movie even came out but I hadn’t done anything more than read it. Yes, you need to read it before you cook from it. Trust me. Not only does it read better than most novels, you also need to understand Julia’s reasons for following the directions to the letter.

Since I had a good four hours in my kitchen while I prepared a main course, side vegetable, and dessert, I really got the feel for Julia’s love of being in the kitchen. And I reflected on how she has helped women and men rediscover the delight of cooking from scratch. It’s sad but it took a movie to make butter the new margarine. Finally, food has a place in the kitchen again. And although we can’t discount all the other foodies that came after Julia, and the Michael Pollans who made us see that there’s nothing scary about real food, it did take a chick flick to get us to embrace kitchenhood.

What other movie has had that sort of effect on us? Sure, there are plenty of movies that have memorable kitchen scenes, but did any of them get us off our couches and inspire us to make, for example, Chicken Divan? I often wondered about that recipe. Does Chicken Divan translate to “chicken served on a couch”?

Stripes changed how I looked at spatulas and invented the term “Aunt Jemima treatment”. But, other than that, I struggled to remember kitchen movies or even kitchen scenes. 9 ½ weeks? The kitchen scene happened, in, y’know, a kitchen, but it wasn’t about food, per se. It did probably get some moviegoers to rediscover the wonders in their refrigerators, but they weren’t using the contents to do any cooking. Well, not any, y’know, real cooking.

The lobster scene from Julie and Julia was a ripoff from the lobster scene in Annie Hall, except Woody Allen and Diane Keaton made the art of boiling crustaceans alive a lot funnier. And that takes some talent. Looking back, I believe that may have contributed to my vegetarianism.

Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life: Not a food scene so much as an incentive to start that diet or at least take the first step by passing on the after dinner mints. Not so with the dinner-sharing scene from Lady and the Tramp. I always wanted to try that single-strand-o’-spaghetti thing with my husband. I’m just afraid it would turn into a 9 ½ Weeks kind of moment, and, at our age, watching 9 ½ innings of the Red Sox is exhausting enough.

Rocky’s pre-workout breakfast in his little kitchen did make me want to cook when I left the theater. Strangely enough, though, only eggs. That was the pre-cholesterol days and consuming raw eggs wasn’t looked at as unhealthy so much as just plain gross.

A Christmas Story’s kitchen scenes were mostly funny. I think the mashed potato thing was overdone – or maybe it just reminded me too much of the mashed potato mountain on Richard Dreyfus’s plate in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I do like the turkey-stealing dogs and the “Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra” food scenes in A Christmas Story, but not enough to make me a carnivore again. Maybe if some mai tais went with the Chinese meal, or a mashed potato mountain.

I'm back, sort of

2010-06-22T10:57:00.000-04:00

To my faithful followers (hopefully), it's been TWO weeks since I posted anything here. I know that. Had a lovely week's vacation to the MD/DC area for my cousin's wedding and things have been busy with work.

There are lots and lots of things running around my brain that I will share shortly. Hope everyone is enjoying the summer so far...

The write stuff

2010-06-04T09:57:00.002-04:00

I created this blog to get/keep me writing something besides technical documents. I'm not doing much tech writing lately (though I am doing some technical editing) but I am doing a fair amount of creative writing.

If you don't see me post here, it's because I'm chasing down opportunities. Two months ago I started contributing to my local paper, The Westford Eagle, as a correspondent. The money isn't great but the experience is priceless. And, although I am still writing and pitching columns to bigger news outlets, this job has been more challenging.

All the creative writing I've done so far is in first person - like this blog. Writing as a journalist is a very different skill. You walk a fine line between injecting your own opinions into a story, and not making it personal enough for people to care about the subject.

With help from my editor, I've been learning the ropes. I prefer to write human interest stories because I feel that all news events have people at their roots. Think the BP oil spill is about oil? Nope. It's about people - people who created the problem, struggle to correct it, or are affected by it.

I'd love to do a Person of the Month spotlight for the Eagle and need to pitch that to my editor. I've met so many amazing people in town since I started my correspondent gig. Even though I'm interviewing someone for a particular story, I always feel that I'm just scratching the surface. There is so much unspoken because of the framework of my questions.

Joyce, if you're reading this, I'll be in touch...

A touchy subject

2010-05-26T11:58:00.001-04:00

I read once that women experience the world through our sense of touch. When we're clothes shopping, we tend to touch the fabric before we look at the price. I've noticed that I walk through clothing stores with my hands touching everything as I wind through racks. When I see a little kid, my first impulse is to run my fingers through their hair (I try not to do that with complete strangers).

Today was my day to get all my annuals in their summer homes. I bought $175 worth of plants and sweated (is that a word?) my way through the trays until they were all done. There's a lot of time to think while you're planting but mostly I thought about how I love to work with my hands.

I never wear gardening gloves, though I have tried them. I like to be able to feel the dirt in my hands. Connecting to the earth isn't something we do much anymore and I revel in those moments. Plus I like to know when the soil "feels right" for the plant. I'm its caretaker for a few months, after all.

When I wanted to learn how to quilt (something I wanted to do for many years), I decided to make them all by hand -- hand-sewn and hand-quilted. Yeah, it's a long process, but I love the feeling of the fabric in my hands and the needle and thread between my fingers. It makes the final product just that more personal - especially when it's being given as a gift.

I'm not sure how chefs and food preparers can stand having to use sterile gloves. I've worn them when serving food at our church fundraisers and they are so uncomfortable. Plus, it disconnects you from the product. When I cook and bake, all my senses are used to get it right. I can't imagine not being able to feel a garlic clove as I chop it, or test the temperature by sticking the tip of my little finger in (there's still no better way to test temp than that, in my book).

I use my hands all day by typing on the keyboard but I don't really feel anything. Not the way nature intended me to. I'm very conscious of not replacing touch with electronics. Virtual hugs on Facebook are nice and all, but they'll never be as magical as the real thing.

How long to sing this song

2010-05-18T20:28:00.004-04:00

It was almost 25 years ago that U2 sang Bad at Live Aid but it still seems like yesterday. That's probably something everyone my age says - "seems like yesterday".

Live Aid was an amazing moment in musical and social history. It was to be my generation's Woodstock, only better. Better security and a better cause - money into the hands of the starving instead of money into the hands of concert promoters. All the acts played for free and there was a feeling of change and empowerment among those of us who saw it on television, listened to it on radio, or experienced it live. I think I still have the t-shirt somewhere. Too sentimental to throw it out.

I probably still have my U2 concert t-shirt from months before that, too. My little sister, Lisa, and I went to see U2 at what was the Worcester Centrum in I believe the spring of 1985 (pre-Live Aid). I was 26 years old and working as a customer service clerk in a rather large company. I would meet my future husband a month after Live Aid.

Lisa and I were huge MTVers back then and became hooked on bands like U2 and the Police (to name a few). My sister was in her teens and I used to take her and her friend Sara to concerts when the parents allowed. Because I was working, I couldn't get to the ticket office (this was pre-internet days, remember) and stand in line the day tickets went on sale for the 1985 gig. So my mother went for us.

That's how cool my mother was and is. I can just see her standing in line with all the leather jackets and high-heeled boots wearing her white sneakers and windbreaker. She got great seats for us and Lisa and I were ready to rock.

U2's album "The Unforgettable Fire" was released in the fall of 1984 and the Worcester gig was about 6 months later. It was and is still one of my favorite albums. It was a break from the previous "War" album that produced some hard-hitting, banner-waving songs like "Sunday Bloody Sunday". Unforgettable Fire covered many more emotions and did so beautifully - both lyrically and instrumentally.

Lisa and I had seats at the stage-right corner and about halfway up the stands of what isn't a huge venue by today's standards. We were surrounded by teens and twenty-somethings like ourselves and we all seemed to know that we were going to experience a once-in-a-lifetime event.

When people asked me then and even now what that concert was like I say it was "a spiritual experience". I've never been to a concert like it since. Ron and I saw U2 in 2005 and, although it was an unbelievable show, we saw it from private box seats and never really felt part of the whole vibe. The seats were great and we were blessed to have a good friend offer them to us but it didn't compare to the 1984 experience.

If you watch the 1985 video I've embedded, ignore the fashion and the hair. Just focus on the performance. Bono doesn't perform so much as he welcomes the audience into a very personal space. There is no way you can stand in the middle of a U2 audience and not feel like you're high. And that has nothing to do with the waves of pot smoke floating around. This was uncommon back in the 1980s when there were a lot of "hair" bands and overly produced video bands (remember Flock of Seagulls?).

U2 was a breath of fresh air and seemed almost too good to be true. We know now that they really are who they say they are, but back then, they were ground-breaking.

The concert Lisa and I saw was amazing and I remember so much of it in great detail, but it was the ending that really stuck with me.

Bono and the boys ended the concert with the song "40". Bono leaves after he gets the crowd chanting the line "How long to sing this song?". Then each musician left one by one leaving the crowd still chanting. 40 is a song that is both sad and hopeful at the same time and I've always loved that dichotomy. Sort of reminds me of the Book of Psalms.

There was no applause at the end of the concert. The house lights came up and our section, along with others, filed out almost-silently singing "How long to sing this song?". None of us wanted the concert or the feeling to be over. We chanted until we were out of the arena.

There aren't many bands who can affect an audience like that. I'm glad that U2 decided to stay together and continue to produce such amazing music. It was music that we all needed to hear after the me-generation of the 70s when we thought we'd lost our sense of community and connection to a greater purpose.

25 years is a long time to remember the details of a concert especially when I had been to so many before and after that. I hope that current and future generations find the kind of uplifting and personal connection in music that Lisa and I did. And that U2 doesn't retire until I'm gone - or at least until I can get lost in the live experience with them again.

Music hath charms

2010-05-15T18:28:00.002-04:00

I belong to a small singing group made up of fellow church members that sings (hopefully, well) at local nursing homes and assisted living facilities. We call ourselves the Voices of Light Chorale.

Everytime we perform, I get a lump in my throat. It's hard to stand in front of a room full of people for whom this event is a big deal. We sing songs they know so they can sing along. We sing songs of the spirit. Sad songs and foot-tapping songs. All of it appreciated.

On the way home from today's performance I found myself wondering about my future. I have no kids and a husband who is five years older than me. I always swear that I will "check out" before I get to a point where I need to be institutionalized. But, if I don't get that timing right, I may be part of that audience some day.

My thoughts changed from sadness and fear to downright laughter when I tried to picture what a chorale would sing in a nursing home for my peer group. Now, we sing a lot of old Broadway show tunes to mirror our audience's younger days.

If that trend continues, then 30 years from now, chorales will be performing some very different music in nursing homes. Personally, I don't want to hear Michael Bolton songs when I'm being held captive in a home. That's akin to torture to me. But can you picture a chorale belting out Nirvana and Pearl Jam songs? How do you harmonize to Cobain's screaming?

I'd give my right arm to hear a church chorale sing Prince's "Sexy M.F.", wouldn't you? Now that's a nursing home I could live in.

Less is more

2010-05-12T09:45:00.000-04:00

I've never understood why products that have less of something end up costing more. For example, why is decaf coffee more expensive than caffeinated coffee? If there's less caffeine in it, shouldn't it cost less?

And diesel fuel. Supposedly, diesel is the closest thing to pure petroleum. Yet, it'll cost you more to fill your tank with diesel than regular gasoline with all its additives.

Ron watches his sugar intake and buys sugar-free products. They are all more expensive than products that contain sugar. How can not adding a main ingredient add to the price? It makes no sense.

Fat-free and gluten-free foods, and fragrance-free detergents are also more expensive.

If companies can charge more for doing less work, why can't I?

No regrets

2010-05-10T15:39:00.004-04:00

I've got this philosophy about life -- I don't want any regrets. I know that's hard to do. We all make mistakes and we all miss opportunities. But I try.

My hero R.W. Emerson said "An opportunity missed is an opportunity lost." I don't completely agree with him. If you miss an opportunity and do nothing to rectify it then, yes, it's lost.

I don't know how much time is too much time to address a regret. It may depend on the incident. But I think that as soon as your conscience or gut tell you that someone may have been hurt by your actions, that's when it should be addressed. The longer you wait, the harder it is.

Some people can move on and put lost relationships in the past. I'm not one of those people. I want to hang onto everyone I've ever loved or shared my heart with.

My biggest fear in life is that I'll be sitting in the nursing home in my 80s and thinking back on my life. I'll be struck by things I either didn't say to someone who was important to me, or things I said or did that were hurtful. And then I'll be filled with sadness that I didn't change things when I had the chance.

I had a couple of friends who died young. Friends who I was very close to in my youth but had had a falling out with. One lost friendship was all my fault, the other was a mystery to me. Both of these friends died not knowing that I loved them. Why? Well, partly because I was stubborn, but mainly because I thought I had time. We were young, after all, and mortality was something generations away from us.

I'd picture myself bumping into them while out shopping or out at a local restaurant. We'd hug and laugh about our stupidity and everything would be back to normal.

That didn't happen and I live with that regret. So, now, when I feel a friendship is reaching a critical point, I go into communication mode.

Not everyone wants or knows how to communicate in the brutally honest, soul-baring way that is my style. To me, it's always better to speak what's difficult to say than to not say it at all. As long as the message comes from a place of love and healing, and not of anger and self righteousness, it's all good as far as I'm concerned.

So, when I'm faced with a moment when I could do what's "easy" and let a friendship die, I become that 80-something woman in the nursing home, thinking back on her life.

And then I make that phone call.

Spring cleaning

2010-05-08T15:41:00.001-04:00

I bought some new summer clothes yesterday and found I had no room for them in my rather small closet. Today, I took some time getting rid of clothes that either don't fit or are out of style. Considering I wear mostly jeans and LL Bean-type clothing, that's not a lot.

My closet, as I said, is quite small so clothes are really jammed in there. I normally reach for the same old things and wear them to death. But as I was moving the hangers to expose each piece of clothing, I found things I forgot I had. It was then that I started to get serious about what would fill that large black trash bag on my bed.

Some of the clothes were no-brainers. I'd keep them because they were in good shape, they fit, and I wear them all the time. It was when I got to the part of the closet that is not easily reached that I started feeling torn.

There was the shirt that my uncle Phil gave me the Christmas before he died at 45. A heartbreaking death for me. He wasn't much older than me and we were more friends than relatives. I haven't worn the shirt since 1999 but still can't bear to throw it out. So there it stays.

I found old company logo shirts from miscellaneous projects I worked on. I kept one from each company and tossed the rest. I know the chances of my wearing those remaining golf shirts again is next to nil, but I worked hard at those companies and, with the exception of my resume and the friends I made there, these were my only tangible reminders.

There were the shirts that I bought either on or for vacation trips. Each one held fond memories. I kept the ones that still fit and put the rest in the bag. I've got pictures and stories from all those trips that can replace the clothing.

The pants were another story. The sizes were all over the map. I thought about my weight struggles over the years as I pitched all of the pants that were more than one size away from my current size. All the while feeling ambivalent because I know my history and wondered if I was throwing away things that may fit, unfortunately, a year from now. In the end, it made me feel empowered to toss those size 16 and 18 jeans - a good incentive to keep my weight off.

As I tied up the bag stuffed with old clothes, I reflected on the thought process I just went through. Deciding on what to keep and what to let go is something we do every day. It could be facts we collect on our jobs that ultimately don't become part of the final result, or people we meet that we feel are fine as acquaintances but don't click with enough to count as good friends.

But it was the sentimental piece of the process that I found the most enlightening. What memories do we value? How much do we hold onto even though it doesn't fit who we are anymore?

Memories are powerful forces in our lives. Forces that nudge both smiles and tears. There are times I wish I could clean out my mind like I do my closet. It should be easier to get rid of moments that are yesterday's bad fashion statements and keep only what makes me feel good about myself when I look in the mirror.

I came to the conclusion that, although convenient and tidy, I don't want to treat my memories like my closet. I am me because of everything that was given to me or chosen by me - even if it no longer fits.

Here's to friendship

2010-05-02T19:54:00.004-04:00

I'm just back from my monthly dinner with friend Kathleen. We met almost 10 years ago at a really wacky company. I was only there for 2 1/2 months and we really didn't start hanging out together till my last couple of weeks there. In fact, I think our first night out was the day I was fired. Yes, I was fired. It's a great story and I'd do it all again. A blog post for another day...

When I was a kid, I used to think that having more friends was better than having a few close friends. Now I have both scenarios yet see the value in quality over quantity.

I find it comforting to have a few very close friends to whom I can trust my heart. They love me unconditionally. They stand by me no matter what I tell them. They never judge. And they are completely and lovingly honest. If I say anything even close to bullshit, Kathleen calls me on it.

I wish I could be as courageous with everyone I know. It is courage, after all, isn't it? To risk saying something that someone needs to hear and still feel that it's worth losing the friendship? Or is it being that secure in your friendship that you both know that what is said, is said out of love?

Honesty doesn't mean callousness, however. I don't want someone to take my emotions and discount them as silly. But friends like Kathleen can take my story and help me see the lesson in it. And sometimes that lesson isn't pretty. Most of the time, it is eye-opening and I am always so happy to have her perspective.
When the lesson is completely discussed, then comes the time for laughter. For without humor, a lesson becomes a lecture or a self conscious moment. Humor gives you perspective and an ability to laugh at your humanness.

I think that's a friend's greatest gift. Helping you to take your life moments and turn them into pearls of wisdom. Then laughing with you when you realize that it is just one moment in your life that doesn't define you.

And when that's done, she orders chocolate bread pudding with whipped cream and nuts - with two spoons.

Unexpected blooms

2010-04-30T19:38:00.001-04:00

It's been a funny week. Well, a funny couple of weeks. I've been working as a contractor at HP off and on for almost 8 years. In that job I've worn the hat of agency site lead, writer, editor, business systems analyst, and party organizer.

Today the agency I work for finished up its contract with HP for the work done by me and most of the other contactors. It was bittersweet. I've begun to take my writing to a different audience, and HP has changed into a place that I barely recognize anymore. The peers and immediate managers I worked with are great, and I will miss them - the upper echelon, not so much.

As I was wrapping up things with HP last week, I reinjured my shoulder. I had fallen last October while taking seizure-ridden Alex outside. In an attempt to keep him from falling down the stairs, I took the fall for him. X-rays at the ER showed no breaks so I was sent home with exercises and an ice bag.

The shoulder has never been completely back to its pre-October days, and it's been regressing in the past week. So, I made an appointment with my PCP, Dr. Feldman.

The good doctor is not very traditional. She does "traditional" medicine (with some great holistic advice on the side), but her personality is not so traditional. Years ago, she and I connected over books and our somewhat irreverent, wiseass senses of humor. She's been very supportive of me and my CFS struggles even though she admits she can't fix it.

After we discussed my shoulder, she asked about the CFS and said I looked brighter than the last time she saw me. I told her about the non-technical writing career I'm finding myself falling into and was obviously beaming.

We wrapped things up but she turned as she was headed out the door. "Bloom where you're planted," she said. I smiled and thought about it. "You know how sometimes you'll be walking along and you'll see a flower in a place where there are no others? Or in soil that you never thought would grow anything?," she continued.

"Well, that's you," she said. "Bloom where you're planted." And then she walked away.

It was perfect timing in a week of transitions for me. And it gave me some frame of reference for my 7+ year struggle with CFS. My life might not always be a bed of roses, but I'm somehow still finding a way to blossom.

The old stigmas

2010-04-28T18:35:00.000-04:00

I was out card shopping the other day with a long list of upcoming birthdays, anniversaries, and weddings. Most of the birthday cards were for women and those are so much fun to choose. The wording on each one is usually very heartfelt and sentimental. Feelings are expressed openly and without restraint - especially if the card is woman-to-woman.

After I made my way through the "For Her" section of the cards, I got to the section of my list that was "For Him". I needed to get cards for a nephew and two of Ron's brothers (May is a big birthday month in Ron's family. February must be a pretty romantic month for those conservative Canadiens.)

The first thing I noticed was that there were very few cards for male birthdays. It was a one-size-fits-all sort of affair. And all the cards had pictures of boats, golf courses, fishing rods, or mountains on them. No pictures of men with arms around anyone - even, God forbid, other men. In fact, I can't remember seeing a card with any living thing on it at all.

When I opened all of these generic-looking cards, the writing told an even bigger story. In place of the heartfelt words and open feelings were a few lines about "taking it easy", a "job well done", and, my personal favorite, "I know we don't talk much, but...."

Missing were words like "love", "affection", and "heart". I found it to be a pretty sad statement on gender evolution. The 60s and 70s were going to change all this, weren't they? I see changes all around me when it comes to fathers and their relationship with their children. Men seem so much more involved with their kids than before, even when it's time for a tea party or dance lesson with their girls.

I did find a couple of cards that had at least some sentiment and bought them. But, still, I shook my head. Why don't greeting cards encourage, or even allow for, the expression of feelings to and between men? It doesn't have to be all flowers and cupids. But how wonderful would it be for a man to walk into a card store and pick up a card to his brother that says "I love you" - right there in print?

I worry that cards like that wouldn't sell. That men would still buy the "job well done" card and continue the stigma. I find that most men still don't know how to talk about their feelings - and it's not just my generation and older. Maybe Hallmark has done some market research and found that it's not worth the money to print "gushy" cards for men.

If so, how sad.

Synchronicity

2010-04-24T16:52:00.004-04:00

One of my pet peeves is the misuse of the word "synchronicity". Sting got it right. Others use it as a substitute for the word "synchronous". Since I'm a Carl Jung fan, the misuse makes me even crazier.

To quote Wikipedia: Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events that are apparently causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner. To count as synchronicity, the events should be unlikely to occur together by chance.

The concept of synchronicity popped into my head this afternoon as I sat on my deck. It is a gorgeous spring day and I dug out my lawn chair for the sole purpose of sitting in the sun and watching the birds at the feeder.

Ron joined me with the newspaper in hand. I was content to just listen and watch nature. I heard a russling in the woods next to my house. It was my reclusive, elderly neighbor. He spends a lot of time picking through and pruning the woods behind his house. Both of our homes abut conservation land and we seem to appreciate the serenity of it.

I thought about what a lonely life he has. Cloistered in his house. Hardly ever mingling with any of the neighbors. His house is surrounded by trees and shrubs to the point of being engulfed by them. I'm told that he never married and I've never seen any visitors at his house.

As I contemplated my neighbor's solitude, Ron leaned over and said "Pssst". I looked his way as he pointed to a wild turkey that has been hanging out in our yard on occasion. There it was, poking its way through our yard, headed to the bird feeder.

I watched it for a long time. It slowly made its way back into the woods behind our house where it sat and groomed itself. I was drawn to watching my neighbor at the same time. Both of these creatures at home alone in nature. How similar are their lives, I wondered.

I've never seen this turkey with any other turkeys. Not even little baby turkeys. My neighbor and the turkey didn't appear to know the other was there. But maybe they did and are used to each other by now. Pecking their way through the natural world, content to be alone together.

Checks and balances

2010-04-19T17:38:00.000-04:00

As I walked into the local supermarket today, I was approached by a man with a clipboard. "Are you a registered MA voter?" I said I was. "Then could you sign nomination paperwork so a candidate can get on the ballot in November?"

I always sign. Unless it's Lyndon LaRouche. This time, the candidate is an Independent. I am listed as Unenrolled but sign regardless of the candidate's party. Though, truthfully, I lean toward the Democrats 90% of the time.

Last week, I was at lunch with some rather liberal fellow UUs. More liberal than me, at least. The topic of signing papers for a Republican candidate came up. Several of my friends were quite passionate about how they would never sign nomination papers for any Republican, and they even get into arguments with the signature seekers.

They were surprised when I disagreed with them. My philosophy is that what makes this country great is that any citizen can run for elected office. If I don't agree with you, I won't vote for you. But you should always have the right and opportunity to present your thoughts. I wouldn't want to live in a country where only one side of the story is heard all the time.

We have that in the MA State House right now. It's a one-party controlled state. And how's that working out for everyone? Right. Thought so.

Every government, like every person, needs to have an opposing opinion if only to make them think objectively. I love to play devil's advocate which drives a lot of my friends insane. Personally, I am not offended when someone does that to, or rather, for me. I'd rather be forced into thinking logically and checking in with my heart than make a move toward something that is not true to who I am.

Thoreau, I am not

2010-04-15T11:40:00.000-04:00

I took a short walk this morning. It started out as an exercise kind of walk. Trying to lose the remaining 19 pounds to reach my Weight Watcher goal (and fit into an old dress that I loved and would like to wear to a wedding in June).

It's a perfect Spring day in Westford. Barely a cloud in the sky, 60s temps, and a gentle breeze. The walk I chose was one I've done in the past. It's probably my favorite walk in my area.

There's a 4-H fairground near my house and it sits on Heart Pond that straddles Westford and Chelmsford. It's not a very big pond but how big does a pond have to be to be appreciated?

I walked briskly for 15 minutes until I reached the pond, then took a little break by the water to listen and watch. There was a swan near the shore. I didn't know what it was at first because all I saw was this lump of white on the water. Moments later, the swan came up for air and there was that lovely long neck.

Watching the sun, so welcome after a long winter, play off the ever so slight ripples in the water was a jewel to behold. Red winged blackbirds called out to each other, no doubt reporting the progress on their nest-building.

Behind me, I heard the sound of a hammer. There were a few 4-H members there getting the site ready for the season. I don't know about other New Englanders, but I love living in a place where there are four distinct seasons. Sure we all complain about the dog days of August and the hold-your-breath sort of cold we get in January. But boy, do Spring and Autumn make up for those moments of extremes.

I thought as I walked back to the house that I am no Thoreau. After having spent a short time communing with nature, I understand the appeal of sitting alone with your thoughts and taking in the beauty of the natural world. Thoreau, however, seemed to miss the lesson that alone in nature is not where we are meant to be all the time.

Our community is our neighbors. And I don't define neighbor as someone who lives near me. Our neighbors are the whole world. How can we understand ourselves if we never interact with others? I don't think I would be as empathetic as I am if I spent all of my time communing with nature (and living in my own head).

That's why I'm one of the few nature lovers and English majors I know who really doesn't have any use for Thoreau. I lump him in the same category as Salinger. Reclusive and out of touch.

As beautiful and pure as nature is, it is not a substitute for human interaction. If you're a human, that's where you need to focus. It's wonderful to get away from the world for a while and reflect, but let's not forget who our neighbors are.

The stars are aligning

2010-04-14T14:46:00.000-04:00

Just back from the Career Center in Lowell. I didn't realize what a great resource they are for career advice. I figured they were just focused on giving you the tools to get re-employed and not to do any serious career counseling. I was SO wrong.

I met with a wonderful advisor, Gerri, who's been there for 30 years. We are about the same age and we've both been at our careers for the same amount of time (yes, I'm that old).

We talked about my resume that sells my technical background and she suggested I could make some changes there. But I also told her how I'd like to eventually get out of the iffy-ness of the tech biz and focus on more creative writing.

She gave me some great ideas. The Career Center also has a monthly workshop on starting your own business but April's is already full. I have no clue what it takes to be a freelance writer (taxes, marketing, etc.) and would like to go to next month's session.

It's exciting and scary at the same time, this going out on my own move. But I feel like the universe is sort of leading me in this direction and I had better not miss my opportunity. There are those who say we are coming upon the Age of Aquarius in 2012 - the beginning of a new astrological era. A time of change for humanity.

So, maybe, since my astrological sign happens to be Aquarius, this is my time for change as well. I can only go with my gut and trust the universe. Those two things have gotten me this far already, so I feel that I have no choice but to continue.

Alex and Brit

2010-04-11T15:14:00.000-04:00

Here's a picture of Alex and Brit for those who read the Globe column. Brit is on the left (still wet from a bath) and Alex is on the right. They are snuggling on our bed as they did every night before we turned off the light. They were quite the pair.

Debut

2010-04-11T09:17:00.000-04:00

After many years of trying to do some sort of writing that doesn't include technical boredom, I was published in the Boston Globe magazine today. It's like a whole new world is opening up to me.

Here's the link if you'd like to read it: http://bit.ly/bt1PTF

Thanks to all my loyal readers and posters for keeping me motivated to write.

Space?

2010-04-09T20:49:00.000-04:00

No, not that kind of space - the new-frontiers type of space. I'm talking about space as it relates to allowable, personal, comfortable space between strangers. As I was walking into the post office today, a man was ahead of me by quite a few steps. He opened the door, looked around to see if anyone was behind him, saw me, smiled and let the door close behind him. I wasn't on his heels by any means so was not offended. But I thought that I would have held the door for him had he been as far away as I was.

One of my high school classes did an exercise in personal space. Two random students stood at the front of the class and the teacher had one of us move closer to the other student, one small step at a time. The student who was being approached had to say "Stop" when they started to feel uncomfortable.

It was an interesting exercise. One that I never forgot. Every person had their own personal space requirements. Some kids never said "Stop" and were fine having other students breathing down on them - even if they weren't friends. Some said "Stop" after the first step.

Not sure if my fellow post office customer was doing the personal space test or not. Maybe he felt funny holding the door for someone who was so far away from him. Or maybe he thought it would be an awkward waiting period. Maybe he didn't want me to feel that I had to run so that he wasn't left holding the door for a long time. Who knows.

Got me wondering, though, about etiquette between strangers. And not a gender-specific etiquette. I don't think men are more required (is that grammatically correct?) than women to hold doors for others.

What do you do in a situation like this? How long would you have heald the door and why? The comments feature is enabled. Jump in anytime!

The ten-year cycle

2010-03-29T13:08:00.002-04:00

If you don't already know, I am attempting to break out of the high-tech world of insanity and get into more creative writing. Today, I spoke with the editor for the Westford Eagle, my local newspaper. I accepted a freelance writing gig that I can do along with my current job. I'll be mostly writing feature stories about people and events in my town.

A column I wrote for the Boston Globe was accepted recently and will be published on 4/11. I am most excited about this writing experience and hope to parlay it into even more published work for the Globe.

It dawned on me today as I was making my lunch, that I reinvent myself professionally every 10 years. When I graduated from college in 1980, I worked in customer service. I always felt I was capable of more and in 1990, I became a business systems analyst.

I loved being a BSA until I had to live through the Y2K nightmare, at which point, I decided I wanted to be a technical writer. In 2000, I transitioned to that job.

Now, 10 years later in 2010, I am tired of the high tech world and want to do the sort of writing I've always wanted to do. I didn't study English in college in order to become skilled in software tools used to do the writing. Tools that are often more important than the writing itself.

Although I still need to pay the bills and do some technical work, I don't want this to be the final stop on my career path. I feel that everything comes full circle and, if we listen to our guts, we will end up back at the place our young and passionate hearts pointed us years ago.

For me, that's writing about important things: people, places, events, social and political tugs of war, and ideas.

Maybe some day I'll write that novel. Maybe I'll continue to write short pieces that I hope stir some thoughts and feelings in the reader. Either way, I think I have finally found the work that will lead me into and maybe through retirement.

I'll check back with you in 2020.

Tower of Power

2010-03-25T11:37:00.000-04:00

Ron and I went to see the ultimate funk and soul band last night - Tower of Power. It was only our second time seeing them (beside the one time I saw them at my college Spring Festival in the late '70s). If you want some energy, you gotta go see ToP. After 40+ years together, they still can't be topped (no pun intended).

We sat in the mezzanine of the Wilbur Theatre in Boston last night and ended up having really great seats. It's a small enough venue that you're never too far from the stage. The first thing I do when I go to any concert is assess the crowd. I'm a people-watcher from way back and can never resist the tempation at concerts.

The seats around us were filled with all types. In front of us sat a couple who never clapped or moved - actions I thought impossible at a ToP show. Next to them was a man that alternated between making bar runs and staring into his Blackberry. Next to me (we had end seats, thankfully) was what appeared to be a sugar daddy and his "date". It was hard not to be distracted by them and I kept wishing they'd just leave and get a room. Halfway through the show they disappeared and I hoped they did just that. Behind us were crazy people (just the way I like 'em) who danced and hooted and yelled out song titles.

I don't want to do a full review of the show so much as point out my impressions and some highlights for me.

ToP needs to be in a venue at least that size to have the desired effect on the crowd. We saw them at Sculler's last year and the room was just too small for them. There was no way for them or us to move. The best way to enjoy their music is to get up and dance.
The set list was as good as I've seen from a band. They played most of their big hits and fan favorites but still added some new stuff from their latest cover album. Although it's a decent album, I'd rather listen to their own compositions than their interpretation of others songs. There was too much of that going on at the Sculler's gig last year.
David Garibaldi is one of the greatest drummers of all time. Yet he's so understated. I was glad to be sitting on his side of the stage so I could watch him more closely. I met him the last time I saw ToP and shook his hand. He has the hand of a drummer - calloused and strong.
When my ToP favorite "You've Got To Funkafize" started, I screamed "Oh My God!" so loud I fear I drowned out the singer. That song has several rhythms going on at the same time that all come together in one amazing funkfest.
I was thrilled that they played one of my all-time favorite ballads "So Very Hard To Go". It's a song about a love triangle. The balladeer struggles with doing the right thing by leaving - an unselfish, heartbreaking gift to the woman he loves. Definitely their best slow song - beating out "You're Still a Young Man" in my eyes.
The horn section and lead singer took a break midway through to allow for a great instrumental moment on drums, bass, guitar, and the B3. I loved how this allowed the part of the band that is often overshadowed by the strong horn section and singer to really shine.
Speaking of their singer, how Larry Briggs can still speak after belting out those tunes the way he does, is beyond me. His vocal range is phenomenal.
I think the best part of their set list was a James Brown tribute that started with their song "Still Diggin' on James Brown". This morphed into some great Brown covers including the gem "Mother Popcorn" which I don't hear much in Brown tributes. It includes some lines that Prince quoted in his song "Gett Off": I like 'em fat/I like 'em proud/You've got to have a mother for me. Another great funk song.

I hope that when Tower of Power comes back to Boston, they play the Wilbur again. It was a spectacular night and they played a longer set than usual (about 1 hr, 45 mins).
I made the mistake of wearing a sweater to the gig. I danced so much at the end I left sweating. The cool night air felt great as we hiked to a nearby bar. I don't remember the name but it had shamrocks in the sign so we figured they'd have Jamesons. Other folks stopped in after the show and we compared notes. Everyone agreed it was one of ToP's best outings. Can't wait to see them again!

Old friends

2010-03-23T19:35:00.000-04:00

It's been almost two weeks since I posted something here. That doesn't mean I haven't been writing, though. Just found myself caught up with life - especially vacation.

Seeing old friends in FL was just so wonderful. It amazes me that years can go by where you just email or facebook and occasionally call. Yet, when you see each other again, the old rhythm kicks right in. The same easy chatter and relaxed body language flow without a thought.

I'm blessed in many ways, but having friends who support me and make me laugh are high up on my list. I've also been lucky to have friends who are always there. Maybe they're not in the forefront of my life every day. But they stick with me and never let me down when I need them.

I feel bad for people who don't have that in their lives. It must be hard to a) not have friends you can count on, or b) have friends but not be able to stick with them when emotions get scary. I've had friends who have walked instead of staying and talking it out. Yes, it's more work and it forces you to walk into uncomfortable territory, but so what? Being uncomfortable for a short time is a small price to pay for keeping a trusted friend.

The types of friends I visited last week are the ones that keep me sane and fill me with joy. And, though I'm sad when they move away, it helps me remember that the world is a small place when I have friends scattered all over it.

Cosmetic overload

2010-03-10T10:19:00.001-05:00

My younger sister explained the term "brazilian" to me recently. Without going into detail, it involves removing female body hair from a very sensitive area using hot wax. Lisa wondered if there was some sort of underlying pedophilia complex going on.

My take is that women are stripping themselves (literally, ouch) of their natural beauty. Body hair is somehow seen as gross and unattractive. We've become a culture that denies our links to our mammal past. It reminds me of the time in ancient classical history when body hair was considered ugly and "unclean". Cleanliness is next to godliness, perhaps?

The brazilian practice also seems sort of counter-intuitive. As we age, we start to lose body hair and eventually revert to having little or none in old age. So, are we reversing or speeding up this process by taking things into our own hands?

Personally, I never plucked my eyebrows and only shave when I have to (TMI?). I lived on a boat in the BVI for a couple of vacations and it changed how I view my body. It was an "anything goes" sort of culture among fellow bareboaters. People showered out in the open and went skinny-dipping or nude sunbathing. Women and men didn't obsess over body or facial hair, either. It was all very natural and I found it freeing.

Cosmetic surgery is on the rise. People are going to what amounts to drive-throughs (and dying for it) in order to look younger. I've never considered cosmetic surgery. Seems like an awful lot of pain to endure to fool yourself and others, or to deny the inevitable.

I used to color my hair in my 40s but stopped at 49. People in their 50s have some gray. Who am I kidding by covering it up?

I think it's time for a revolution. Let's embrace our roots (and not just the ones on our heads) and take back our bodies. To me, there's nothing sexier than someone who is comfortable in their own skin.

Warts and all

2010-03-09T19:11:00.000-05:00

Been away from the blog for a while spending my time travelling and being sick (I so thought I'd get through the winter without catching something). I have lots on my mind but will say this one thing now: My blog posts make me look like a saint. I am not.

I've come to understand that this blog has become an outlet for me to talk about what I hope for and also what I've learned. I don't use offensive language; I try to say intelligent things. But that's not who I am all the time.

Do I have my pet peeves and narrow-minded moments? Sure! Old habits die hard. I work just as hard, though, to keep them at bay and really listen to what comes out of my mouth - and fingers.

I've said and done some pretty selfish and hurtful things in my life. Sometimes while trying to be funny; sometimes to win an argument. People I love and who love me know how impatient I can be. They know I don't always approach those I disrespect with the same respect I want in return. They know I can be hypocritical at times.

I hate generalizations, yet, I find myself doing that at times. Not sure why - but I'm working on it.

Life is one long therapy session to me. And that's not a bad thing. I learned a ton in therapy especially how to approach problems in a non-emotional manner. Still, those knees jerk when the right buttons are pushed.

So, what am I saying? I'm saying that I'm not always sensitive and thoughtful. Not even close. So, read this blog with the knowledge that it, like me, is a work in progress.

Full of grace

2010-02-25T15:59:00.000-05:00

I just finished reading the book "Golfing with God". A friend let me borrow it and, although I wasn't all that impressed with the book, it did get me thinking. For the longest time now, I've wondered what it is that I should be. I'm not talking career or hair color. I'm talking about true "being".

A friend of mine passed away two years ago in his 40s. It was so sad to feel so helpless as I visited and held his hand as the cancer took over his body and mind. But there was one thing I learned from that. Grace.

Mark was so graceful - not the type of graceful when we describe dancers. But graceful - full of grace.

That's what I aspire to be - graceful. To accept that some things are out of my hands, and to strive with all my heart to effect things that are not. I'm not sure how exactly to get there but I think it comes with age and the wisdom gained from watching others as they deal with difficulty.

I have a few graceful people in my life, and I notice that they are very calm and calming. These are the people I go to when I need inspiration or a sane voice. I want to be the type of person that others come to when they need the same thing.

If there's a meaning to life, I believe it is to be there for each other. Doing that without ego or negativity is the beginning of grace. I'm sure I can at least start there.

Just thinkin'

2010-02-24T10:43:00.001-05:00

I started this blog thinking that I'd write in it every day. But lately, a week goes by without my posting anything. Why? Because I feel like I should only write when I have something important to say.

My husband tells me I "think too much" sometimes. I overanalyze and don't go with my gut. Funny thing is, what I'm analyzing IS my gut. It's easy to go with what feels right. However, I think the mind sometimes clouds our feelings. We all compensate and get lazy, and that can interfere with our speaking the truth.

My sister says that the hard thing to do is always the right thing to do. And so, I analyze. Am I doing/saying something because it's the easy way out? Have I explored all ramifications? Is anyone getting hurt by what I say/do?

These things wake me up at night and keep me up. I know that we can't always be dead on with our comments. There are times when we intend something to be funny but end up hurting someone. Or move in and take action where leadership is needed but overdo it.

I never ever want to hurt someone I care about. I know I have done so in the past - but learn from it.

Where am I going with this? I don't know. I guess today I'm feeling like explaining why I sometimes don't write. Rambling treatises are not my style. I'd rather think through an important revelation or experience before putting it in writing.

Do I "think too much"? Not sure that there's any other option for me.

Reminders

2010-02-15T19:51:00.001-05:00

This past week, I celebrated my 51st birthday. I love birthdays. I always say that any day with cake is a good day. Cards in the mail instead of bills. People singing to you. What's not to like?

Reminders of my age keep coming up, though. There was the AARP invitation in the mail last week (I refuse to join for reasons not related to age). Then there was Saturday when I was the oldest one at a younger friend's girlfriend day where we did facials. Let me tell you, they all looked better without makeup than me.

Today I received the invitation to my 30th college reunion. Was 1980 really that long ago? I still think very young, albeit with a bent towards wisdom from lessons learned.

But the numbers don't lie. Maybe that's why I always hated math. With science, there's no talking your way out of the facts like there is when you think. That's why I became a Liberal Arts student, I'm sure of it.

Nonetheless, here I am. 51 years old. Sometimes-painful arthritis in my left hip and little finger. Memories that go back before my younger peers were born. A box full of pictures taken before digital cameras became the norm, and a closet stuffed with vinyl records (hey, I heard they're making a comeback).

It's not like me to dwell on age - and I'm not doing that now. It's just that sometimes, the numbers tap you on the shoulder and remind you of their presence.

But, enough of this. I've got to get moving. There's no time for counting.

Who's "they"?

2010-02-10T20:25:00.002-05:00

As always, I read the feedback section in the local paper tonight and feel the need to do some feedback of my own. The following comment got under my skin:

Are we crazy? How can we take in thousands of Haitians? We are in debt over our heads, unemployment is over 10 percent and we are going to add thousands of Haitians to the welfare rolls. I feel sorry for their problems, but this is ridiculous.

I know from experience that there are many people who live in the same square mile of the city for their entire lives. Never getting out to meet new people or experience anything beyond what's comfortable. This does not mean they are bad people - just out of touch.

"Their problems" are never "our problems" because people from different countries or backgrounds are not found in that same square mile and therefore are not "us", but "they".

It's baffling to me that a human could look at another human who is in distress and classify them out of needing our help. Whether it's by race, or sexual-orientation, or country, or any other delineation. I wonder if the "us v. them" crowd watches A Christmas Carol every year and feels that they already got the lesson that the pre-revelation Scrooge did not.

Do those that exclude get up for popcorn during this exchange between Marley and Scrooge? Or do they sit there and nod, not comparing this exchange to their own actions?

Scrooge: But it was only that you were an honest man of business!
Jacob Marley: BUSINESS? Mankind was my business! Their common welfare was my business!

Sadly, my guess is that they do the latter.

Lessons from a spaniel

2010-02-05T21:26:00.001-05:00

My friend Gretchen who has taken in many more rescued dogs than us, tells me that every dog comes into your life to teach you something. It's been a week since I added my last post. And it's taken me that long to think through all that my dog Alex taught me while he was with us.

Before I can express what he did for me, you'll need at least a Reader's Digest version of his story.

Alex was the first foster dog I took in when I volunteered for Springer Spaniel Rescue. We flunked Fostering 101 miserably when we could not let him go after having him for a few weeks, and promptly adopted him ourselves. We had Brittany, our younger Springer, for over a year when Alex joined us and they were instant friends.

Alex was 6 when we brought him home, and extremely overweight - a good 40 pounds which is a lot on a 55-pound frame. He had a heart murmur and seriously dysplasic, arthritic hips not helped at all by his weight. Ron worked on the exercise and I worked on the diet. After about 1.5 years, he was where he needed to be and the heart murmur was gone. I started him with a pet massage therapist and we completely avoided hip surgery for him. He was a happy, silly, lovebug.

His health was pretty good for a few years until he developed severe anxiety. So years ago, I took him to see the dog behavior god, Nick Dodman at Tufts. After a ton of tests and more conferences with all vets involved, we finally got the meds right and Alex's anxiety improved significantly. He seemed to be back to his old self for a couple of years.

Then the attacks began. First we thought it was vestibular disease, but after several episodes happened over almost 2 years (with a severe episode in October 2009 that he never really recovered from), our vet advised us to take him to a neurologist. We got word then that Alex likely had a brain tumor and not much time left.

We kept him as comfortable as we could while also dealing with his increasing anxiety again. Now we realized that the anxiety was likely caused by the slow-growing brain tumor all these years. When Alex started losing control of his bladder last week, we knew it was time to ask the vet to come to the house. He died at home on his favorite spot on the couch surrounded by love.

So what did this entire 8+ year journey teach me?

Never ever give up on someone you love. They would do the same for you.
Patience is a virtue I never thought I would have but found so much of it in Alex's final months with us.
Go with your gut. Alex was a ton of work but so many of the decisions I made about his care (some for the first time) were spot on.
I can handle much more stress than I ever imagined if it means a loved one is getting the help they need to get through a tough time.
Death is not to be feared but accepted as a part of life.
My husband is a strong, sensitive, and kind man. Okay, I already knew that one but I didn't know just how much until now.
Marriages are made stronger by sharing the load and getting each other through unbearable sadness.
Dogs never leave you.

Ron and I have both found ourselves lurking around the NE Springer Spaniel Rescue website this week. We still have two spaniels here, and have no intention of boosting the pack up to three dogs again. But it's funny how your heart makes room.

When I was the membership coordinator for Springer Rescue, I used to tell all the new recruits that the only way to do rescue work well was to do it with all your heart. Even if that meant it got broken sometimes. A broken heart was okay. It meant you were perfect for the job.

Rest in peace, sweet Alex. Thank you for the lessons.

It was time

2010-01-29T21:45:00.000-05:00

Again, I've been absent from my blog for most of the week. Today Ron and I had to send our beloved Springer Alex to the bridge. It was a decision we made early in the week when it became clear that he was declining quickly. It's been both a horrible and wonderful last few days with him.

As soon as I have my thoughts together and my emotions somewhat in check, I will write more. Alex had a lot to teach us and I'm only beginning to understand it all.

Hug your furbabies tonight.

Options

2010-01-24T20:12:00.001-05:00

It's been an exhausting and long week but I finally have some energy and time to write what's on my mind today. I do think about this blog a lot. If I can't fall asleep at night or if my mind wanders at work for a few minutes, I think about what matters enough at that moment for me to share.

Tonight, I'm thinking about my folks. Mom and Dad have their birthdays in January and February. Dad just turned 80; Mom is turning 79. They live in a large home on two acres of land. A home that was and is their dream home. Took them every dime they had to buy the land in what was then "the boonies" and build a house in a town where they felt better about the environment and the educational system - all for their kids, not themselves. That was in 1972.

Their house has become part of the family, much like a relative or a pet. Dad always did everything himself. From painting, to major renovations, to landscaping (the property looked like wilderness to this kid from the city and I could not picture what a house would even look like sitting in those tall pines). But they had a vision. Now, their favorite part of the house is the screened-in porch they built in the early 1980s. It looks out over their quiet property and hosts many a late-night Sox game. Garrison Keillor's voice and timpani notes from the Boston Pops hang in the breeze on warm summer nights.

They'll be heartbroken when the day comes that the house becomes too much for them. They know that day's coming. So do I. No place else will ever be home to them. No matter how big the porch.

I told Mom tonight that, although they have a big decision to make, this is a great problem to have. They are so lucky to have a nice home to sell which will keep them financially sound for the rest of their lives. They're lucky to have the luxury of deciding instead of having the decision made for them due to health issues. They're lucky that they don't absolutely have to sell in a buyer's market - they can sit on it for a while and wait for the market to turn around.

Life is all about options. And, as long as you can celebrate the fact that you've still got some, then problems turn into solutions.

Still and all, I sure will miss that porch.

Voting day!

2010-01-19T12:37:00.000-05:00

I'm headed out shortly to vote and then work the polls in my town. Nothing makes me prouder to be an American than exercising my right and privilege to vote.

If you live in MA, I have one thing to say: I don't care who you vote for, just VOTE.

Litmus testing the Senate race

2010-01-17T14:03:00.000-05:00

I've always tried really hard not to make any vote a one-issue decision. It's impossible to agree 100% with any candidate (or any person) on every issue so I do a gut-check on what I consider to be the major issues for me.

The MA Senate race is a tight one. I voted for Brown in the primary more because I wanted to send a message to the Dems that their choices were inadequate. And though Coakley won the primary and, for the most part, represents my take on the issues, I don't like her. Never have. I think it's her stiffness and lack of passion. We can get into a major discussion about gender bias and perception sometime, but this isn't the point of my post today.

As much as I don't like Coakley personally, I find that I have to vote for her. Why? Because of the issue of torture. When Brown came out in favor of "enhanced interrogation", that was when I realized I had no choice but to vote against him.

I've always been an Amnesty International type of girl. But in the past few years since I've joined the Unitarian Universalist faith, my anti-torture stance has been solidified. Torture goes against both my personal and my faith's principles.

So, though I am not one to litmus-test any candidate, this one test is so important to me that I feel I must make an exception to my own rule.

Still, whatever your decision and your own set of tests, PLEASE vote on Tuesday. Voting is a privilege and your duty as a free citizen in a democratic society.

Look! Up in the sky!

2010-01-14T20:39:00.000-05:00

Every night when I take the dogs out for their final potty run, I always make a point of looking up at the sky. Not just a quick look to see what the weather is like, but a real long look.

It seems that I spend most of my time with a vision range of about 10 feet. I work from home and my eyes are usually on the computer. When not there, I'm reading or quilting or cooking. No need to look more than 10 feet ahead there! When I drive, I obviously look further ahead and all around. Unless of course there's a Prince song blaring through the speakers, in which case, I'm looking around AND seat-dancing.

I like my nightly ritual. While the dogs are sniffing around, I'm gaping open-mouthed at the stars. I love the layers of nature at night. The snow on the ground with its little embedded paw prints is the first thing I see. The next layer is the silouettes of the tall white pines towering over my house. On a clear night like tonight, the midnight blue sky is beautiful all by itself. But wait, there's the Milky Way and all those bright galaxies and stars that I will someday learn!

The rhythmic on-off-on-off lights of a few small planes are what bring me back to earth and my visually impaired routine. Again, I turn my gaze to the 10 feet in front of me. The dogs are ready to return to their comfy sofa. And I've got muffins in the oven.

For those few minutes every night, I remind myself that my life is just one of many. There are eyes like mine who may never think to look up and out every night. But for those eyes that do, I'm smiling too.

Pro-(all) life?

2010-01-11T11:23:00.000-05:00

Jury selection begins today for the trial of a pro-life advocate who killed a doctor that provided late-term abortions (http://www.cnn.com/2010/CRIME/01/11/roeder.abortion.murder.trial/index.html).
I find this dichotomy fascinating and always have.

How can someone who calls himself "pro-life" commit pre-meditated murder and not feel hypocritical? Isn't killing someone in the name of protecting life a contradiction in philosophies?

I guess that these fanatics can throw the Hitler argument back at me. "Would you have killed Hitler if you had the chance in order to stop his genocide campaign?"

It's an interesting discussion that leads back to thoughts on when life actually begins. And is there a difference between lawful abortions and lawless genocide when the result is loss of life (in the eyes of the murderer)?

I still can't help but think that cold blooded murder of a doctor who is performing a procedure that is not taken lightly by either the doctor or the patient AND is sanctioned by law, is somehow still murder. Not some valiant crusade to protect society from itself.

So the saying goes

2010-01-06T12:20:00.001-05:00

While trying to fall asleep last night, I got to thinking about some of my favorite sayings. Everyone has them. I've been either inventing them or co-opting them for 50 years. I'm not talking about offhanded comments or wiseass comebacks. I'm talking about sayings that help us sum up a situation or help us through a tough time. Sayings that we share with others to help them understand our position in concise terms.

I find sayings that people repeat often are an insight into their characters. Here are some of mine with sources if I can remember them. I'm not sure what they say about me, but then, I'll leave that up to you.

A little hard work never killed anyone. -- my dad
If money is your only problem, you have no problems. -- my mom
It's better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it. -- my brother
The hardest thing to do is always the right thing to do. -- my sister
No one ever learned anything by talking. -- not sure where I heard this originally.
You can't reason someone out of something they didn't reason themselves into. -- friend Jay
The only way out is through. -- friend Gretchen
Deeds are more important than creeds. -- R.W. Emerson
The only way to succeed greatly is to dare to fail miserably. -- Bobby Kennedy
I'd rather be respected than liked. -- me
Never confuse my job with my life. -- me
It's not the bad things that happen to you that count. It's how you deal with them that matters. -- an 80's sitcom
It's all marketing. -- my husband
Better never than late! -- an English professor
Do not communicate so that you can be understood. Communicate so that you cannot possibly be misunderstood. -- an old boss
Dying's just a part of living. -- my grandfather
I'd rather be sexy than pretty. Sexy gets you more places. -- me (though it sounds like Mae West)

I'm sure there are more. I'll add them as I think of them. What are some of yours?

What might have been

2010-01-04T14:46:00.000-05:00

For the past 7+ years, I've been living with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. When I tell people that they often express concern. I tell them, "It ain't gonna kill me." But still, it is a daily battle that is absolutely no fun at all. I hate to dwell on it and try to keep it in perspective.

When I was diagnosed, I was working at a job I loved for a company that was/is very good to me. I had some bad experiences at other companies because I felt that my efforts weren't appreciated. I'm a self-starter who hates to be micro-managed so I never looked for any hand-holding. Just respect and recognition of a job well done.

For the first time, I was making what I consider to be "good money" which helped finance home improvements, vacations, retirement investments, and a generous hand with our favorite charities.

When it became clear that I could not work full-time and was physically unable to handle the demands of a stressful career, I knew I had to do some "giving up". Not of my life but of my list of responsibilities and passions.

A friend talked me into volunteering years ago and said that non-profits needed people like me who were passionate about issues and could make things happen. So, I jumped in -- make that bungeed in -- to some major volunteer work. This work became a second full-time job but I loved it and got a lot in return. I not only did some major hands-on work at these non-profits, but also sat on the board of directors of both.

After I gave up the full-time hours, I slowly retreated from all volunteer work. As much as I loved it, the stress of being a passionate leader was also taking its toll on my health.

When the yoga didn't work out (now THAT's a good story for another day), I did what I had been wanting to do for many years, and that was to go back to church. My experience with the Catholic Church is also a story for another day. I wanted to go to a church where I could have my spirit fed and also just "be" for an hour a week. Y'know, get lost in the moment.

I joined the UU church I had been driving past for years and it has been one of the best decisions of my life. I do my share of volunteering there but never to the point of exhaustion as everyone there knows I have my limit and respects that.

So, where am I going with this? I occasionally take time out of my day to think about the what-ifs in my life. Since I lived most of my adult life feeling that I had no restrictions on my future, the CFS was truly the only hurdle I faced that I couldn't pass. But what did I really lose?

I lost the ability to earn a decent living and help my husband carry the financial load. I had to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't do everything I wanted to do in life -- I had to choose carefully and pace myself. I lost the career path I was on and, unless there's a miracle cure, will not get back. I struggle with weight issues now since I am unable to do any serious aerobic exercise without ending up in bed for days.

And what did I gain? The what-if goes both ways. What would my life be like if I hadn't been saddled with CFS? I know that I wouldn't have walked into my church that Sunday morning. And, because of that, I wouldn't have met some of my dearest friends, met and mentored someone who is very special to me, become a vegetarian (which was a long-time coming), learned to quilt, or sung in a chorale again.

But more importantly, I wouldn't have learned how to just "be" as I wished years ago. To have the time to reflect and find joy in life's simple lessons. I also wouldn't have had the time to do the kind of writing I really enjoy. I always say that if I had the energy, I'd write a novel. But, if I had never lost the energy, I wouldn't have even considered it.

The child of ignorance and fear

2010-01-01T19:49:00.000-05:00

When I was in high school, the city of Boston was conducting a statewide contest for short poems to stamp on tiles. These tiles would be used in the new T stations in town. So, given it was the city and the 70s during the forced busing era, I submitted the following:

The clouds of prejudice
rain ignorance and fear
on the cities below

Not Robert Frost, but good, I thought. I never heard back so I'm assuming it wasn't chosen. Just as well. It'd be covered in cigarette butts and discarded Charlie cards by now.

My parents raised their kids to be open-minded and accepting of people who are different from us. Race, creed, language, religion - none of it ever came into play when they or we chose friends. There were plenty of people on my street growing up who were outraged that a Jewish family was moving in next door to us. My parents welcomed their new neighbors as they were welcomed by others when they arrived years before.

The Byers family lived next door to us for many years and were always there for my folks. Frank Byers was a fairly successful business man. When my dad was out of work, Frank suddenly came up with a million odd jobs he needed done: his house needed painting, his car needed an oil change, etc. And, because he was so busy, he just never had the time to do it himself. Wouldn't my dad have some time now? And, of course, it would come with pay.

When Frank's daughter got into some trouble with the law, my folks stood by them both privately and publicly. When the Byers' house caught on fire, my folks welcomed them into our home and stayed up all night with them while the firefighters came in for my mom's fresh coffee, and the Byerses tried to come to grips with losing everything in their home.

I didn't know then that the other neighbors shunned our next door neighbors. It wasn't till Frank died and my dad was the only neighbor who went to the temple that I started to look at my neighbors with clearer vision.

I've encountered anti-Semitism all my life. And, as I was raised to do, I do not sit silently when a prejudiced comment is made. After all, as dad said, "Silence is acceptance." The new phrase is "Speak truth to power." Same thing; just more empowering.

It's no less upsetting to me at almost 51 years old than it was then. I thought by now I'd be able to respond with less emotion and more steady reason than I did when I was younger. I can't. And, quite frankly, don't feel I should have to.

If ignorance and fear create prejudice, then reason and acceptance should prevail. But how do you act and speak reasonably, and accept someone who is hateful? I hope that by the time I figure that out, there will be no more prejudice for me to have to react to. Until then, I will not be silent.

The French paradox

2009-12-30T16:22:00.002-05:00

I'm making my annual New Year's Eve gourmet dinner for just me and Ron tomorrow night. Every year, I pick new and somewhat difficult recipes because a) I enjoy cooking, and b) it forces me to get out of my culinary comfort zone and try something interesting.

At the market today, I wandered around picking up all the ingredients - items that I seldom buy. I think I spent half of my time in the dairy aisle. Since I'm making French dishes, my grocery list had unsalted butter, eggs, whole milk, whipping cream, and a hunk of cheese on it. With Ron's cholesterol and my dieting, we rarely buy the real things. Everything is normally "lite" and "fat-free" and whatever else they call things that are injected with chemicals to make them taste like something.

Since I started watching Julia Child as a kid, I've always baked and cooked with butter. Never margerine. Because Julia said that there's a big difference in the results and, if you're gonna cook, you should use the best ingredients you can buy.

Julia lived into her 90s and her favorite foods that she ate regularly were NOT iceberg lettuce, diet Sprite, and we-know-it-looks-like-it-came-from-a-cow-but-it's-really-landfill dairy products.

I was shocked, yes, shocked, at how difficult it was for me to find whole Swiss cheese. I thought I finally found it but, when I got it home, the teeny tiny writing on the back said it was "part-skim".

Why can't we just have cheese like our grandparents bought (or made)? Because no one would buy it, that's why. We've got ourselves so marketed-up that we can't even find real food anymore.

So, I'll make my French dish with the part-skim cheese and hope that Julia isn't peaking out from between the pages of her cookbook. Consuming more liqueur than I put in the mousse should help with that. And Julia's spirit may just be appeased.

Holiday regroup

2009-12-29T12:15:00.000-05:00

Every year it's the same thing. I start out sure of myself. I won't over-indulge. I'll stare those boxes of fudge in the eye and say "You can't tempt me!". But then I eat just one, and it's all over.

I'm not the only one who does this. So I find myself wondering why we throw away our resolve and our common sense this time of year. I've come to believe it's like mob mentality. Everyone else is doing it, so I have an excuse.

But every year, I spend the week after the holidays feeling like crap because I've had nothing healthy to eat. Yet, I still pick at the leftover cookies and breads. It's pathetic, really.

And that's where New Years resolutions are born. Wrangling control back from an out-of-control holiday season is empowering. But it also says that it's okay to be out of control as long as you regain control.

I actually like being out of control sometimes. Especially on the dance floor. Being uninhibited and in the moment is freeing.

I just wish I could corral my inhibitions to only partake in healthy over-indulgences. This is a lesson from the holidays: Find a way to feed my psychological need to be free from restaint and, at the same time, not over-feed my physical being.

It's back to Weight Watchers tonight to face the scale. One of these days I'll figure out that balance.

Lessons from quilting

2009-12-23T18:31:00.000-05:00

I finished a full-size quilt today that I've been working on since March of 2008. I made it entirely by hand (both sewing the pieces together and quilting). It was my first large quilting project since I started quilting almost two years ago. I obviously don't quilt full-time or it would have been done sooner.

My friend Lynne taught me how to quilt on smaller projects and I learned my lessons well. They were used when making this quilt too. The stitches and techniques remained the same. But I learned other things while creating this larger quilt.

Be patient. When you've got a long road ahead of you, you can only look at the small task at hand before moving on.
Celebrate your milestones. When I completed sewing the quilt top, I jumped for joy and patted myself on the back. Don't listen to those Puritans; there's nothing wrong with celebrating yourself once in a while.
Suffering minor injuries to do something you are passionate about is okay. I've got my share of callouses and spilled my share of blood while wrestling with the pins and needles of success. They are my badges of honor.
When you dedicate yourself to do something for someone you love, it makes the road easier to travel. If I were making this quilt for myself, I just know it wouldn't have come out as close-to-perfect as it is.
Share your effort with a friend. Lynne and I often quilted together - she on her project, I on mine. And the time flew. We compared our successes and voiced our frustrations together. Besides creating quilts, we also strengthened our friendship.
There isn't much that can't be fixed. I made my share of mistakes as I sewed and quilted. If it meant I had to rip out seams and start again, I did. I fixed them and moved on.
Never forget the pure joy of doing what you love. I started quilting as a way to relax. And though I sometimes get a little impatient with my progress, I always remembered to cut myself some slack and enjoy the process.

The quilt that I will give away for Christmas feels like it's another appendage. As much as I will love to have Toby enjoy my quilt for years to come, I will miss it. Thankfully, I can visit and see it again.

Now, what's my next project????

It's all how you look at it

2009-12-21T13:02:00.000-05:00

Today is Winter Solstice. It is the shortest amount of daylight we'll have for a year. People mistakenly call it "the shortest day of the year". Days are still 24 hours, last time I checked.

Being more of a night person, this is not a depressing day for me. First of all, tonight we're going to a Winter Solstice party at a friend's house. A perfect excuse to celebrate pre-Christmas spirit without all the hassles of packing up gifts and visiting umpteen relatives in one 24-hour timeframe.

It's also not depressing because of what this day signals. It starts the slow but steady progress of turning winter into spring. This is a day and night for looking forward to longer and warmer days. Sure we've got plenty of cold spells and snowstorms in our immediate future. I'm not kidding myself.

But then, my dad doesn't call me Suzy Sassafras for nothin'.

Waiting for the call

2009-12-19T13:20:00.000-05:00

We got some sad, but not unexpected, news about our dog Alex this week. He's been suffering from what our vet thought was vestibular disease. But the episodes increased and we decided to take him to Tufts Animal Hospital for a neurology exam. The good doctors spent a lot of time working with Alex to determine what the cause could be. The potentials are not pretty.

Alex is almost 15 years old. Ancient in Springer Spaniel years. Though an MRI and other tests might prove which of the un-pretty potentials it actually is, we have decided to not put him through that. He had a hard enough time with the rather strenuous neurological exam.

I'm sitting in front of the computer now waiting for our vet to call so we can discuss Alex's care going forward. I wish the phone would just ring so I can get this knot out of my stomach. I've been sick since 3am when I awoke to what I thought was Alex crying out. I checked and he was sound asleep.

I've been having dreams about saying goodbye to him for the last month. I know it's coming. But as I watched his chest rise and fall as he lay in his usual spot on the bed between my feet and Ron's, I just couldn't imagine our home without him.

We will make the hard decision when we have to and do it completely unselfishly. I just dread the final ear rub and pat on the bum.

What it's all about

2009-12-14T16:18:00.002-05:00

I joined a chorale at my church a few months ago and we had our first gig this weekend. Our chorale was formed with the mission of being a community outreach group first, and a musical group second. We are singing at nursing homes and assisted living facilities, but I'd like to expand it to include other groups.

Needless to say, our first time singing out together was a big deal. We had practiced for many months and our leader came up with a great mix of songs. We'll change out our holiday songs as we approach different holidays.

The first place we sang, ended up being quite emotional for me. Unexpectedly emotional. I took my eyes off my music and started looking at the faces of the elderly for whom this was a big part of their day. I was heading out to a holiday party that night and this gig was just one more thing I had to do in an already busy day.

When I looked in the eyes of the nursing home residents (and in those of the residents' visitors) I found myself unable to sing. My throat closed up and my eyes started to tear. Here, in front of me, was my grandmother who languished in a nursing home for so many years. Slowly being taken away from us by strokes. I hadn't realized till then that I had not been in a nursing home since she died.

It was then that it hit me. All this running around we do for the holidays: shopping, wrapping, baking, card-writing, decorating, etc. is so unimportant. What matters is sharing our personal gifts with others, not material ones. We happened to have the gift of song that day. That experience yanked the sugarplums out of my head along with my holiday to-do list.

I wondered if it was possible to convince everyone I know that we should declare a holiday from Christmas insanity. And let Christmas be what it was always meant to be before the marketing execs took over. It's hard to talk people out of tradition and even harder to talk them into a new way of thinking.

I'll still work on my to-do list, but something's changed. If the house isn't immaculate for the entertaining I'm doing, so what. If I forget to send a card to someone, oh well. If I can't find the perfect gift for that hard-to-buy-for relative, c'est la vie.

If there are any complaints, I will take them to the nursing homes with me for our next gig and introduce them to the ghost of Christmas yet to come.

We are but caretakers

2009-12-10T07:52:00.000-05:00

With three senior dogs in our home, there are many moments of worry and anxiety about health issues. It isn't constant. We still have lots of cuddle time and they still are well enough to do their nightly walks with dad.

Our oldest, Alex (affectionately known as Alex Bean), is almost 15. An amazing age for a springer spaniel. Alex has been our biggest challenge with emotional and physical problems that have taken us to the vet almost weekly. There are also lots of Tufts Animal Hospital visits interspersed for specialist appointments, and, oh yeah, trips to the local doggie ER.

We love him to pieces because he is a sweet, gentle old soul.

But it is becoming increasingly clear to us that the time is coming that we will have to say goodbye to our little guy. Probably sooner than later. If the decision is made, it will be agonizing and heartbreaking but done completely unselfishly.

Holding an animal's life in your hands is a huge responsibility. I'm trying to let the process just happen and trust that we will do the right thing by Alex. I was thinking this morning how we don't truly own our pets. We are only their caretakers. Their lives are their own. We are here to help them live those lives as happily and healthy as possible.

When the time comes that they can no longer live the lives they deserve, then we take great care in helping them cross the bridge. But again, it's all about caring, not about owning. Too many times, I see pet "owners" who forget that their pet is its own being, not an extension of themselves.

I hope that we have many more happy times with Alex Bean. But, if his body can no longer sustain the life that is his, we will be there to help him let it go.

Vote while you can

2009-12-08T12:12:00.000-05:00

I'm heading out shortly to work the polls for my town. Being an election officer doesn't pay much and, considering the usual low-turnout rate, can be pretty boring. But I still love it.

Voting is a huge deal in my family. Still is. I remember when I turned 18. I had a bad cold and had stayed home from college. My mom kicked me out of bed, dragged me to town hall, and had me register to vote.

My folks always told me that voting is a privilege that could easily be taken away. If no one votes, and a corrupt regime takes over the country, they could lobby to take our voting rights away. Since few people vote, citizens would have a hard time lobbying to keep the right.

Sounds far-fetched but it speaks to how important it is to exercise this right. So many citizens in other countries die for this right. We should never take it for granted.

So, off I go to work with the other folks who feel the same pride in and sense of commitment to the democratic process.

Not everyone can work the polls, but everyone can and should vote. Remember, it's YOUR country.

Oh, brother

2009-12-07T12:40:00.000-05:00

A wise man once said that we should be our brother's keeper. Most people I know agree that charity and kindness to those we know and love is a sign of good character. But who exactly is this "brother"?

Although that verse related to Cain and Abel, does it really just apply to brothers or family members? I know people, good people, who feel that their responsibility to others does not extend beyond their family tree. I can't judge these folks.

Yesterday I volunteered at the Lowell Wish Project with the high schoolers from my church. Donna Hunnewell, who started the non-profit and has dedicated her life to it, is a prime example of someone who feels her brother is everyone on the planet.

But talking with her also made me wonder about those who feel that the brother responsible for taking care of others is Big Brother. The government. Yes, we pay taxes and a piece of those taxes are put towards social programs. However, does that mean we can then say we've done our part and feel no further responsibility to do more?

If Big Brother is solely responsible for taking care of all of our brothers, then we are in big trouble. Not only does that make us self-involved creatures, it also short-changes those who need help.

I believe it is the government's responsibility to provide a livable condition for its citizens. It is the citizens responsibility to help those who the government cannot. What would the world look like if we never reached out? What would that say about us if we watered only our own family trees?

That kind of world is a scary picture for me. We might complain that the government doesn't do enough. I agree that when funds are slashed it's the weakest that suffer and that's absolutely unconscionable.

The reality is that government will never be able to take care of everyone. It is a sad truth. But the fire that exists in true altruistic souls is sparked by such inequities. And they, in turn, spark others. We ARE taking care of our brothers and that's the way it should be.

Till death do us part

2009-12-03T15:38:00.001-05:00

I've been thinking about vows lately, what with all the Tiger Woods news swirling around. And I wonder if we need to hold only marriage vows up to this level of expectation.

When Ron and I said our vows on our wedding day, we used the traditional vows: "To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part." When we renewed our vows 20 years later, we chose something more poetic, yet I still like the original.

Marriage is only one relationship in your life, though. And, although we don't normally speak vows to others in our lives, I think we hold important relationships to this same standard.

Think about your dearest friends. Some of them drive you crazy but you love them anyway. And how about family members? I know, same thing, right? Don't the "marriage" vows carry over to those relationships as well?

The same spoken vows I have with my husband are just as sacred, though unspoken, as those I have with my friends and family.

I know I'd feel just as crushed if a close family member or friend let me down or acted in a way that I felt disrespected my unspoken vow to be there for them always. There is no line for me when I pledge my heart.

True to his word

2009-12-02T21:56:00.002-05:00

I'm finding all the hullabaloo about Obama's Afghan war speech a little silly. He repeatedly said when he was campaigning that he thought we should finish what we started in Afghanistan and get out of Iraq.

He is doing exactly what he said he would do, yet all the Dems (pols AND voters) who broke down in tears of joy when he was elected, are now up in arms. Why? They can't be surprised.

Were his followers only hearing the get-out-of-Iraq part and turning a blind eye to his words on Afghanistan? Or are the outraged just stunned to find a politician who does what he says he's going to?