The Others

 Quite a few years ago, we were on our way to the shore. We have been going to the same shore house for almost 50 years! It is not fancy or new but it's a big old Victorian that has room for literally everyone, no matter what. I've slept in every bedroom from the attic to the room called the chapel room. I can remember my brother sticking his wet finger in the outlet to see if he would get electrocuted. (He did get shocked.) I remember my freshly bathed and pajamaed sister climbing back into the full bathtub to play a little more.  I remember my cousin and I took a boat ride from some cute guys we had just met, from the bar back to our street. I remember my other cousin, a lifeguard, telling us which bars we should go to and which parties we shouldn't. I remember being a newlywed and going with my husband for the first time. I remember bringing each of my children down for their first time to see the ocean. Each time we go there we are filled and refilled with the love of the generations that have shared it. We gather with aunts and cousins and grandparents. We feel at home. I even use the address as my secret password! And so, on the way there when Matt was about 3, he asked if the "Others" would be there. We had never referred to them as the Others before. He just knew that they were the family who affectionately greeted him and gathered him up and held him each year. The Others are my two aunts and the countless cousins who usually share the place with us for a few days while we are there. Matt was used to seeing my parents and his uncles and aunts, but the Others are the special extended family that round out our inner circle, the people on the perimeter who make us feel even more tucked into this large and loving group. The Others make us feel like we belong. 

We actually call the Others the "Grans," a name that reveres my Gran, my grandmother, a wonderful icon of a woman, who was known for her hats and her gloves, was president of the PTA and the Women's Club, who cooked for 20 people every night for years on end, who painted her nails and never wore pants, who played the piano and went back to school when she was 75. When she got an A in her writing class, she never went back because "they had nothing to teach her." She ate toast and coffee every morning for breakfast. I remember her scraping the burnt crumbs off the toast over the trash can so as not to waste it, and adding about 10 spoonfuls of sugar to her Taster's Choice. She probably would have hated Starbucks. So we affectionately use the name Gran to stand in for the great aunts my kids are growing up knowing. Gran-Judy, Gran-Jeanne, and Gran-Pepper, my mom. The Others. The people who keep us balanced and feeling at home no matter how old we get. They make us feel young again, even just for a moment. 

We are missing the Others this year. While we may limit our visits to our parents and siblings, it seems that extended family visits are out of the question. Whether for fear, or precaution, or distance, or age, we cannot see the people we love so dearly this Christmas. And it is so sad. I remember going to Gran's house and she would cluck over us and lavish us with gifts. Even just a hug from her was a gift! Even though Gran has been gone for over 20 years, we are missing our connection to her, that tie that binds us, through the people who knew her best. 

Every one of us has our Others. Even my first graders have their own Others. A boy asked me one day if the Big Kids were back at school. The middle and high schoolers had gone to virtual learning early in the semester. I told him that half the big kids were coming back to campus. He excitedly ran to tell the rest of the class that "The big kids are coming back! The big kids are coming back!" While he may not know their names or see them that regularly, the Big Kids were his own extended circle that made him feel like he belonged to something bigger. And he misses them!

I have other Others, the acquaintances I run into in the grocery store each week, the people I see just to say hello to at church or in the school parking lot, the PTA moms from back in the day, people who make me feel like I belong to something, some kind of community. So many people I am missing right now. And I know we are all feeling this same emptiness for the Others we may just have taken for granted. Never again. And there are some people who have never gone away and whom we will never take for granted again - the Starbucks barista, whom my mother gladly tipped 100%. The grocery workers, the essential workers, the nurses and the doctors, the police and firefighters who are still showing up no matter what. We thank them and applaud them and know that they will be here through it all. 

I know that when this is over, we will be so ecstatic to see our loved ones and embrace them again. Our hugs will hold all the pain and sorrow of a year of not seeing each other as well as the joy and elation of finally being home again. We will make it through and our Others will gather around us once more. I cannot wait. Then it will really feel like Home for the Holidays. 

Feeling Our Way Through the Dark

I've seen dark times before. Dark times in my career, where I said something to make myself look good when I should have just been listening. Dark times in my health or my children's health or my parents' health, where no one knew what the outcome would be. Dark times in my family, losing a brother. Dark times as a mother, where I thought the kids were making the wrong choices or choosing the wrong friends, and dark times in my marriage, where the situation didn't seem to have a solution. But this time is different. This time feels really dark! And there is no power company coming to turn the lights back on. And it's not just dark in our own homes, it's dark everywhere, some places more than others. We can't just find our way through this dark. We are feeling so much! We have to feel our way through the dark.

And so I am reaching for anything. I claw my way along, grabbing onto the next table-edge to pull myself up, just long enough to catch my breath before I have to move on to the next thing that needs doing.  I reach for the familiar, like talking to a friend. I reach for the natural, like digging in the dirt. I reach for the comfortable, like a nap or a soft blanket. I feel around and sometimes what I feel is an empty chair. Not a chair for me, but for one of my children. Gone. We took two kids to college this month and the emptiness is deeply heartfelt. We take Annie next week. Maybe. Gone are the days when college move-in was a bittersweet mix of emotions with a loud party soundtrack of "Wild One" playing in the courtyard, whose music only the college kids hear, while the parents are too busy trying to look calm, collected, and still cool, trying not to be too overbearing, or worse, crying. This time was just quiet and gloomy, even with the loud music. Dark. "See you... soon?" we said, not sure if it would be a happy reunion or an emergency pick-up. That's scary. How do you feel your way through that dark? Matt was determined not to say Good-bye. He played with the dog for a long while before we left home, petting his head, shaking his paw, roughing his collar. Then he turned to me and said, "I'm not saying good-bye to Cody." Yeah? Then what was that all about? "I don't like goodbyes," he said. This oughta be good, I thought. Feeling his way through the dark. College is different these days. There was no huge send-off from family and friends like in the past. Because of staggered times for move-in, we didn't get to meet his roommate or see his roommates' family like we did at other move-ins. We kind of left him in limbo, with enough peanut butter and crackers to get him through a few meals, should he be too anxious to go to the cafeteria alone. Because we were all wearing masks, we could only see each other's eyes - and they were filled with tears. Feeling our way through the dark. And later we found out that he really did eat peanut butter for dinner that night. 

Now our college senior is in online classes because of Covid outbreaks. He had already had to quarantine when he first got out to school. He was sincerely sad to miss his last first day of school. A mix of senior emotions. How do you feel your way through that? I don't know. 

I don't mean not to be hopeful. I know I should be telling myself, Hope is not lost. All shall be well. But right now, it's just not doing it for me. I just have to feel. I have to feel the darkness and not shirk away from it. I have to feel the emptiness and not be afraid to cry. The tears are right there all the time. One wrong move and I'll be a hot mess. I have to feel the fear and be afraid. And it doesn't have to be okay. It's not okay! Feeling our way through the dark. 

According to the Enneagram (I'm hooked on these podcasts and books and more ...) there are three primary ways of facing the world: through the head, through the heart, and through the gut. The head - I don't have enough facts or knowledge - no one seems to. The gut - I don't have enough instincts to let me know what's right or wrong except by listening to experts and scientists, real scientists. What I do have is my heart, my feelings, and even though they might be dark feelings, they will help me make my way through. Right now, in the dark, my heart is working hard. I feel it like palpitations. 

So I feel my way through the dark, reaching for anything. One tiny candle at a time. One thing I can reach for is Love. Feelings of love. Memories of love. Messages of love. Places of love. Pictures of love. The past summers, past trips, past parties and graduations. That helps. Memories of starting our family, memories of when the kids started school in the past. Matt's first friend and his message of Love: "Dreer Matt, You ar so cool. Luv, Pierre." My little boy, now a senior, walking up the steps to pre-K, his first first day of school, and never looking back! He must have been scared. He must have felt in the dark, not knowing what was coming. But he had lots of love from us, from his teachers, and faith that school was a safe and happy place. Each of these memories sheds a little bit of light in the dark, a single candle. The feelings aren't so big and heavy. I can catch my breath again.

In our current culture, we can reach for Love too, even when it feels easier to hate. Trust me, I'm working on that. We can feel that Love in the messages of heroes who faced adversity and darkness like we, or at least I, will never know. While I say I have had dark times, they are not the epic dark times like a world war, or the Great Depression, or the extreme trauma of racism. I don't dare to compare my pain with the heroes who endured all that and more. Like veterans and gold star parents. Like our ancestors. Like immigrants and refugees. Like John Lewis and Martin Luther King. Like Barack Obama. Like Michelle Obama. Like Kamala Harris. Like Breonna Taylor and George Floyd. They are the stars in this darkness. And they always gave us and continue to give us messages of Love in spite of the darkness, in spite of all the adversity they faced. And we can share that Love with others, with every single one.

I can't see clearly yet. The lights are off and aren't coming back on anytime soon. But we can feel our way along and keep going. Keep loving. Feeling a little love along the way. 

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” - Martin Luther King Jr.

*Images are from the site Bright Drops.

Serendipit-Us

Every June or July I usually visit the shops down the shore, usually while on vacation and stock up on birthday cards. I love browsing through the cards and finding the ones that make me laugh and will make the recipient laugh too. When I go with Annie, we usually end up having to leave because we make each other laugh so hard and call a little too much attention to ourselves. And some of those card stores are like libraries - you have to be quiet! I buy cards for a handful of people, my sister, my niece, my friend from college, my cousin, and a handful of my aunts - all the summer birthdays. I haven't bought a card for Aunt Doris for a few years now, as she is gone, but I know she's still with me. This year she gave me a very special gift...

I know we are all quarantining. I know we can’t hang out with people. I know we aren’t doing all the things we love to do with each other. We are choosing where and when and with whom we spend our precious time. I have to confess that I have had the most wonderful time with my kids during this lockdown. Not that no one left the house but we kind of rationed our time. I saw my kids every morning and every night. I knew where they were. No more of the worries and sleepless nights that plague not just the new parent but the teenage parent. I’m particularly adept at hearing a newborn baby’s cry in my sleep and the closing of a car door and the slow and stealthy rise of a teenager up the creaky, creaky stairs. Having them home under our roof meant not to have to worry so much. 

So when we do go out and connect it has to be for something worthwhile. Something wonderful. Something worth risking your life for! We had a beautiful trip for our anniversary but haven’t had a dinner out since.  We are rationing our time with parents and friends. One, maybe two, nights a week? And after we do, then we crawl back into our respective hovels and see how long we can tolerate the darkness again. Sometimes it lasts longer than others. 

So to my surprise, I found myself agreeing to meet a complete stranger online. She had a quilt she was willing to part with and I thought it was just beautiful! So we agreed to meet. When I arrived she asked if I had trouble finding her house. No, I said, my aunt used to live around that neighborhood. And then she handed me the love-worn quilt and it felt warm and heavy in my hands. It was a double wedding ring pattern, which I have always loved, with a seafoam green trim. She told me how to wash it and that it had come from the Cold Spring Antique Fair in Cape May over 20 years ago. I told her how much I appreciated it and thanked her again and got back in my car where Annie was waiting for me. I showed her the quilt and we talked about how nice it really was, not knowing what to expect. We headed home but drove around the corner first. And there to my surprise was my aunt's old house! Literally backing up to the quilt lady's house! I couldn't believe it - the house had changed considerably, including the front door being relocated from the center to the side, but the address was the same. I felt I could hear my Aunt Doris laughing right out loud and she had the best laugh, the best smile, the twinkliest eyes, right up until she passed. Tears filled my eyes. It was a gift from heaven. The funny thing too was I remember as a child going to their house with my parents who were helping to paint the living room with new green trim - seafoam green! But Aunt Doris thought it looked like pea soup and so there was some debate about whether to keep it or not. I can't remember if it lasted. 

It was serendipity. Fate laughing at us through the past, through the grave, through the social media that we all depend on and bash at the same time. Because even though we can't be together, we are still together. We are still our aunt's nieces, no matter what. We are still our childhood selves who learned to love from loving families. We are still little girls learning from and looking up to our aunts who did things differently than our mothers. We are still young and old, searching for connection. We are still our neighbors' neighbors. Serendipit-Us! We are still a gift to each other each and every day in ways we don't even realize. And so Aunt Doris came to me through a stranger, a very generous one. No matter how we find each other, through text, or phone, or a screen, or an app, with a mask on or a distant hug, we need each other to share a story or a smile or a very old, very treasured, very special quilt. I will forever refer to it as Aunt Doris's Quilt.

Hydrangea Hopes

Hydrangeas are one of my favorite things. I don't claim to be a good gardener, but when they are in full bloom, I'm so happy. We have three huge bushes of limelight, or maybe they are Annabelle, hydrangeas that have grown so well over the last nine years here. I bought them home from church one Easter, so maybe they are blessed, too? They bloom so nicely all summer and I can see them from the living room too, so it's nice indoors and out. I'm giving them away, there are so many! And the royal blue of neighbors' hydrangeas fills me with envy! (and I've seen a lot on my everyday walks!) I don't know what it is that reminds me of my childhood - that cool color of the sky in a flower - and that freshwater smell, although they don't smell as strong as they did when I was little. So this summer I decided to move two blue hydrangeas from the backyard to the front yard. I tested the soil and dug big holes and tried to make sure I had the right mix of compost and peat moss and aeration before I transplanted them. And for a while, they were doing okay - blooming in a paler blue and not as big and puffy and strong as they were last year, but doing okay. I prayed as I watered them each night. And then, they just died. I think they were literally scorched by the full sun they have now and the temperatures that are far above normal for this zone. So I sadly hung my head in defeat and went out to remove all the dark and drooping dead-heads to see if there could possibly be some way to bring them back to life. Any life left. And there was! The more I trimmed the dried brown crusty edged flowers, the more little bits of new green life I found! It was just beneath the surface. It gives me great hope that if these dead hydrangea, burned and done, have a little life in them, we have hope too.

  

How Are You Doing?

My husband and I have been on many adventures in life, starting when we met in college. Each date was an adventure, some more memorable than others. Then marriage, then houses, and of course, having kids. Four kids. That is its own adventure. Now three of those kids are in college and that is another whole adventure. Dropping them off and picking them up each time is an adventure. Through the years we have taken them on many other adventures. We went to Maine, where they (not me) hiked the infamous Beehive Trail up a steep face of a mountain. We drove to California in a mini-van before we had smartphones. That was an adventure - camping, cabining, and glamping along the way, and finally staying at a 'real house' in Santa Cruz, California. On that trip, we had an encounter with a bear in Lake Tahoe, rode horseback to a cowboy dinner in Montana, got caught in a thunderstorm hiking in the Grand Tetons, and crossed a rather dangerous stream in Yellowstone. We didn't realize as we were crossing the stream just how dangerous it was until we got back to the right side and watched the waters quickly begin to churn and rush. We have been lots of places on lots of adventures, but none quite like this adventure of staying home, sheltering in place, and hiding from a lethal virus.

I feel like I'm crossing that stream again, not quite sure if we should be doing any number of things, asking myself "Is this okay?" and wondering if this one act is the thing I'm going to look back upon and say, "What was I thinking?" We try to skip our grocery store trips, but we are helping at the food pantry. We don't go out to eat, but we do order delivery. We haven't been hanging out with family, but the kids do see their friends. Every day is a guessing game, an adventure.

The real adventure is the mental game I play with myself of who is okay and who is not okay. I worry about my son who hangs out in his room as if it were his first bachelor pad. He comes down for meals and that's about it. I keep asking myself, "Is this okay?" When he comes down to play a board game (Catan is a great game for our bunch) I suddenly feel like the sun has risen and all is well with the world. I worry about my daughter whose friend group is shrinking as they return to school early. I worry about my son who is working on a farm and while he may be socially distancing, he is covered in poison ivy. 'Is this okay?' I worry about number 3 who rode his longboard alone for about 25 miles, accidentally getting lost. Each moment is an adventure. I just don't think I've learned anything about how to enjoy this adventure, even though we have had quite a few over the years.

So I ask myself what to do. I thought I would pick up painting this summer, or actually write a book, or completely renovate the basement, or have an award-winning garden. I thought I would be cooking lavish gourmet meals to pass the days and that I would write about them in a new blog. I'm not doing any of those things. I did manage to paint a few Kindness Rocks and I am collecting images on Pinterest that I might like to paint one day. I haven't written anything since school let out, except for notes on teaching in the fall. The basement is clean and that's enough. My tomato plants never made it above about 3 inches tall and I have to go buy new plants today. I have resorted to cooking hot dogs for dinner, which I like to consider a lunch. I have been walking. I have used the erg a few times. I have played tennis a few times. And that's about it. So, is this okay? Am I okay? Are we okay? I don't know.

What I do know is this: If you are reading this, you are okay. If you got out of bed this morning, you are okay. If you sat outside for a little, you are okay. If you ate some food, you are okay. If you talked to someone and smiled, or even better, laughed, you are okay. If you are drinking your water and breathing deeply, you are okay. It's okay if you haven't' showered or done your hair or shaved your legs. If you are okay, you are great. You are doing better on this adventure than expected.

Many people are not okay. Many are suffering the injustices of racism that are even more heightened and exaggerated during this COVID crisis. Many people are sick. Many people are not getting food or water. I read this morning that 34% of people missed their last mortgage payment. Many essential people are scared to go to work, including teachers. Many are not okay.

So right now I am praying. I am praying for those whose jobs are essential, and those whose jobs were deemed non-essential. I am praying for the politicians, God help us. I am praying for the nurses and the doctors and the research scientists. I am praying for those who either by podcast, (I have to thank Jen Hatmaker and her podcast For The Love for 'saving my life right now') or writing books, or writing blogs, or talking on the phone with me are keeping me and a lot of others going right now. I am praying for those who are barely hanging on. I am praying for those who are protesting and finding courage to fight each day. I believe praying helps. What do I pray? I pray that you will be okay. I pray that we will be okay. I pray that all of this will be okay.

During each of our family's 'adventures', I wasn't always sure it would be okay. But it was. An adventure always changes you, in big ways and in small. And my father always said that wherever you go, you change that place too. Hopefully, on this adventure, we will all change for the better, and we will change the world for the better too.

Does This Mean We're All Connected?

A long time ago, well not that long, but about 10 years ago, my oldest broke his collar bone. It seems like a very, very long time ago, when my kids were little, when kids were actually out playing, when we would actually drive places together. It happened during an ice hockey game. He was distraught. Now I am just thankful that's all it was. No concussion, no serious injury. Then, it felt like the end of the world. For him especially. He wouldn't be able to pitch for the upcoming baseball season. He wouldn't be able to play at all. He would be sitting on the sidelines. And sit on the sidelines he did. For every game for his team. Cheering them on as best he could. Kinda feels like that now, right? We've all been called out of the game, trying to cheer on our healthcare heroes from the sidelines. Wanting them so badly to defeat this enemy of ours.

When I took Jay to the Orthopedic surgeon and he gave us the news, we walked gracefully, quietly to the car. When we got in the car, Jay burst into tears. "Why?" he asked over and over. Why did this have to happen? He had dreams and aspirations that would fill a 12-year-old's heart, or any heart for that matter. This was not the plan. And when your 12-year-old's heart is crushed, your heart as a mother is crushed too.

After the doctor's office, I went to pick up my other kids at the babysitter's. Charlie was about 6 at the time. When he got in the car, he tried to tell me about how exciting and wonderful his day was. As it is for most 6-year-olds. When he saw that my reaction was less than expected, he asked me what was wrong. "I'm sorry, Charlie" I said, "Jay is sad. He broke his bone. He can't play baseball." Charlie kinda looked at me as if to say, "But you're not broken." I explained, "A mother can never be happier than her saddest child." Charlie nodded and looked out the window for a moment. Our whole car was quiet. Then he looked up and said, "Does this mean we're all connected?" It stopped me in my tracks, or I should say, tears.

"Yes, Charlie, we are all connected." I don't know if he meant all of us as in our family, or all of us as in our world, but he got it. He knew that one's pain affects another and another and another. He knew that he could be sorry for Jay too. He knew that we all bear each other's burdens and we all support each other in lifting each other up, binding each other's wounds. We all had a responsibility that day to help Jay deal with the disappointment and the pain.

I think that is the pain we are dealing with right now. So much in the world is broken. So many are hurting so deeply. We can't afford to turn and say, Buck up! It's fine! It is not fine. It. Is. Not. Fine. People are hurting. We all have to bear that burden. We all have to do what we can. Whatever we can. It is our responsibility. We are all connected.

I know I did rally later that night and join in the joy that Charlie felt about his day. And we can celebrate each other now too. I appreciate and celebrate the nurses and the doctors and the research scientists and molecular biologists. I celebrate the grocery store clerks and delivery people. I celebrate the military and the police officers. I celebrate those who are working so hard to just get food from the food pantry. They didn't want this. This was not their plan. We all have to do what we can. After all, one's joy affects another and another and another. We are all connected.

Morning: Normal

Saturday morning. Laundry. Yoga. Housework. Change the sheets. For some reason, my mental list grew exponentially longer the more I did. Clean the kitchen. Clean up the dog's spit-up.  Make student packets. Go for a walk. Get coffee. Plan a birthday party. Buy birthday gifts. Send emails. Get Venmo. Work on lesson plans. Place a grocery order. Return phone calls. "Visit" my parents. Go to the post office. Plant the garden. And I was already behind schedule. It was 10:30 and the day had barely started and it seemed to have gotten away from me already. I had too much to do. I had to stop myself. There was no timeline, no pressure. My parents weren't going anywhere. I still had two hours to get to the post office. And finally, I caught myself, wondering why I was so worried and why this felt so weird.  And I realized that just for an instant, these were Normal things to worry about. These were the things that occupied my mind not so long ago. And I felt normalcy return for just an instant. Gone were the new worries, worries about health, safety, and food shortages. Worries about my parents, about my husband, about my kids. Worries about my sister-in-law who is an ICU nurse. Worries about what would happen if anyone I know were to get sick. Worries about jobs, and schools, and money. Worries about the Fall. Worries about the news and politics and the economy. And those normal worries sure felt, well, reassuring.

In that moment I realized something else too: I was missing, even mourning, Normal. I am mourning so many things right now. I am mourning with the daily tolls of death counts that collectively and individually touch our human soul. I am so, so sorry for those that are separated from loved ones who are in the hospitals, either working or sick. And I am selfishly sorry for all the little losses too. I am mourning the celebrations of my son's graduation which would have been escalating right now. I am mourning for each of my kids who have two "boomers" to hang with all day and not their friends. "That's such a Boomer thing to say!" I mourning the daily interactions with my students. I am mourning my classroom - so silly, right? I am mourning so many little daily habits of hugging and touching and laughing out loud without covering my mouth and wondering if I perhaps have caught the virus. I am mourning with every commercial that comes on tv that thanks the people who are out there doing all those normal things we depend on, from doctors and nurses to the baggers at the grocer. I am mourning the extra little interactions in the grocery store. I am mourning holding the door for another person to walk through. And I know we are all mourning so many personal, deeply personal, Normals.

Then came another thought - life will go on. It's perhaps the best line in Steel Magnolias. Life Goes On. We will have birthdays. We will have sunshine. The calendar will turn to May, after April 85th. We will have to-do lists. We will send mail. And do yoga. We will clean up the dog's spit-up. We will keep going. And we will keep mourning too. We are human and our grief is a sign of our humanity and our love for one another. We will be mourning for a while I think. After my brother passed, I grieved for a long time. I never thought things would ever feel Normal again. But we can talk about him without crying now, the memories made richer each time we remember him again. And that is something special too, a small gift in the midst of grief. Our memories of school, of vacations, of times with family and loved ones and friends, have so much more meaning now. Our memories have become like gold, more precious now. We cling to them to keep us going, to keep being able to look forward while looking backward. (There's a wonderful children's book called, Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox, about the beauty of memories.)

So while we are missing Normal and mourning Normal, new Normal will bring us small gifts. For right now, we don't know those gifts. It's okay to be mourning. And it's okay not to be mourning. It's okay to grieve the lives that we knew, that were taken away without warning. And some morning, not too far away from now, we will wake up and things will feel Normal again. We will smile, we will laugh, we will feel joy without guilt. A little bit of Normal.

Survival Skills

When I realized that my entire skill set, my whole executive functioning capacity, is now completely invalid, I started wondering what, if anything, I could possibly know to get my family through this time. All my decorating skills, not important. All my teaching skills, completely inept. All my good humor, maybe needed in a pinch? Cleaning - who cares at this point? All my cooking skills, vital. But what would really get us through this mess? Survival skills.

I didn't know it at the time, but I think my mother taught me a fair amount of survival skills. And I have to say, my grandmother too. I always told my kids, in the face of fearful world events, that Gran and Marmee had survived and so would we. Gran had to darken her rooms and pull the shades during WWII so the U-Boats, reportedly off the coast of Cape May, wouldn't be able to spot them. Or at least that is how I remember it. She prayed every night that her brothers and later her sons would come home. And they did. Marmee had to dive under her desk in middle school in case of Soviet bombing. I had to do a fair number of drills too during the Cold War and here we are, no worse for the wear. This too shall pass. So just pray a little.

But when I think back, they also taught me a few things about surviving. Never throw a scrap away. Finish your plate. Dried beef can make a meal. Newspaper is a good absorbent. (Which may come in handy when we run out of toilet paper!) Powdered milk, when mixed with vanilla or chocolate, tastes just as good. A little milk added to eggs makes them go further. Fruit that comes in a can is just as good sometimes. And meals in a can. Don't complain. Waste not, want not. So we are trying. And my father taught me that "a little nap never hurt anybody," and God knows that is true these days.

The other lessons I learned came in early motherhood when I was home with 4 children under age 5. Plan your meals out. Shop once. If you only get one thing done a day, have it be the bed. Making the bed will make you feel successful at the start and refreshed at the end of the day. However short it is, take a shower. When you have more time, take a bath. Being clean makes you feel better., and beautiful!  Do your hair if it makes you feel better, not for anyone else but you. Bake or cook. It is relaxing and mentally calming. You will feel like the hunters and gatherers that fed their people. Don't worry about anything else. Especially at this point in time, no one is judging you, not even your kids' teachers. Actually especially not them. I am a teacher and I know what it is to be in this position. You are doing a great job!

And then I learned some things from friends along the way. Stick to a schedule. Kelly taught me this when I would meet her for playdates. "Joannie," she said, "I'm so impressed that you can meet me at any time, and you don't worry about the baby's nap schedule." She got me thinking. We started a nap schedule the next week.  She also taught me this: Only do the dishes once a day - a sinkful of soapy water will hold them until you get to them. Why spend all day in the kitchen? Kealan taught me the power of lists. A list does a little but goes a long way. Checking those boxes off is cathartic. My friend Jennifer taught me this - always put your shoes on. It will make you feel empowered and ready to go anywhere, even when you have no place to go! My friend Becky taught me that Dirty Rice feeds a crowd and with 6 at home right now, it is a lifesaver. Susannah taught me to get out for a walk every morning, and that is how I became a runner, at least for a few years. They all formed me as a young mother and prepared me for this in ways that none of us could foresee, and for that I am eternally grateful. You never know the impact you have on someone. Never.

I haven't talked to some of these friends in years, but I still think of them. I think of them more now that we are all going through this crazy time together even though we are spread across the country. While I love Kelly's Christmas card, and display it with great love and memories and auld lang syne, I know I should reach out more. I don't use Facebook a lot; it is too much for me sometimes. But maybe that is what this is all about. Maybe we are being brought together by forces we don't even know or understand. So, now that we aren't so busy, who do you need to reach out to? Reach out and thank them. Do it. Just do it. It's a matter of survival. For you and them.

Hope

Last night I was talking to my mother on the phone. Gone are the days when I could run or walk the dog over to visit her for a quick chat or a cup of tea. How did that happen so quickly? As she and I talked about everyone's health, (mental health, too) she remarked that she hasn't done a thing all week and she didn't know why. She had been meaning to put away the Saint Patrick's Day decor (my mother decorates her mantle with a monthly theme as if she still taught second grade, and it's a big hit with the family) but she hadn't touched it. I told her that I have been meaning for three days to clean out the closet of all our winter gear, which we never actually used, and I just couldn't. We are in survival mode, I told her. This is one of the favorite things I've learned from my kids playing MineCraft, that you can play in Survival Mode or Creative Mode, and right now we are playing in Survival Mode. That means that instead of organizing the winter closet, I organized our stash of food and realized that what I thought would last a month might only last a few days. Then it was on to Acme online to try to find some things that would sustain us. It really sounds like a video game, but it's our new reality. Creative Mode will have to wait. The winter gear and the shamrocks are just going to be there a while.

I don't pretend to know something more than anyone else, but I do know that we will return to Creative Mode one day. I also know that right now I just can't. I sit down to read and I turn on the news instead. I try to send an encouraging text, but I complain about the virus and what it's doing to our family. I think about painting or trying something new, but I can't get past the NYT news scroll. I try to make lunch and I burn the grilled cheese! This is not who I used to be! I was pretty good at grilled cheese. So the kids are scraping off the crusts and I'll try again tomorrow. And I'll learn to be patient, with myself, with my mother, with the kids, and with the stove.

We are in for a long haul it seems and there are lessons everywhere. Inside the shamrocks and winter coats and grilled cheese are some lessons. Maybe we can all lower our expectations a bit. Who cares if the leprechauns are out in April? Who cares if the coats are piled up in the closet? Who cares if the grilled cheese isn't pin-worthy? I hope that I can lower expectations for myself and those around me and enjoy the glimpses of hope when I see them. No one complained about the grilled cheese! That's a sign of hope! There are lots of signs of spring, but it feels false to enjoy them right now. Enjoy them, hope in them anyway! Part of Survival is having that hope. And hope is the thing that will get us back into our Creative Mode. Seeing the light even if we can't see the end of the tunnel. That hope is what will get us all through this. Hope anyway.

Junior Parents

I came across it by chance. In my sock drawer. I don't remember seeing it recently and definitely not in the sock drawer. But there it was and I was immediately taken back to a little room in a house we lived in two houses ago. To a little room that served as a bath space for the baby. The 'it' I found was a baby blue washcloth. Not a new one. Not the kind they sell today. The kind you got at your first baby shower.  A little remnant of love. That was 22 years ago. I don't know how or why it showed up. But it did. Looking back brings so many wonderful memories, when they were little and we would worry about bumps and burps and sleep. Back when I was a beginning parent.

Now I've been promoted to Junior Parent. Not really, but a few weeks ago we were invited to "Junior Parents Weekend" a fabulous celebration that precedes graduation, getting all the juniors and families together to see what they are actually up to at college. We were even treated to what they do off-campus (since they are now 21, haha). We had dinners and dances and open houses at their various schools and dorms. We met his teachers and advisors and dorm rectors. But the pivotal moment came to me as the university president addressed the entire assembly. "Parents, you are getting a glimpse into the lives that you have shaped, and the lives your children are now creating for themselves," Fr. Jenkins said. Well, I couldn't stop the tears. It was so beautiful. We have drawn the outline, but they are coloring in the lines now, or maybe outside the lines. It is their picture now, their art and it is beautiful.

So now what? What is our role as parents? I have always believed that there is no Parenting 101. It is Parenting 505 from the get-go. You have no idea! No idea. No map. No guide. And if you grew up in a dysfunctional household, it is not any easier. Or if you think that what you envision as a perfect family is going to be easy, you are in for a surprise. You work your way across a trail with few if any markers. And then you get to a milepost and you think, "Wow." Maybe it is easier than you thought, maybe harder. Maybe there's a rest spot there. Maybe a treat. Maybe there's danger, or darkness. You have to go. You can't wait to move on. And then you keep going. Visiting Jay at school was like a real rest spot and retreat. We had done something, gotten somewhere, accomplished something. I'm not saying it was just us, I'm not saying that we deserve recognition or congratulations or anything. We did nothing more than any other parents. But we got to stop and look out at the view for a few moments and it was incredible. It allowed us a moment to say, Wow. This is his life. This beautiful, amazing life! We could take a breather and look forward and look back. Unbelievable. We made it to Junior Parents.

About ten years ago we visited Acadia in Maine. There was a trail called the Bee Hive trail. It was one of the most treacherous trails. Jason took all four kids. I couldn't do it. I had heard horror stories from friends who had to crawl across a grate that was hundreds of feet in the air over a drop where you would surely die if you fell. I couldn't do it. There was no way. Jason led the kids and they returned safely to the beach below where I waited. I appreciate that he dared to guide them. Now there are places that I can't go with my children. College. Careers. Friends. Life. I can't go. But I trust Jay. I trust the guides who Jay has gathered around him. I appreciate his daring courage and his friends' and teachers' daring courage to continue the journey ahead while I trail behind here at home. He can always come back. He can always turn around and see me cheering him on. And when I find a baby washcloth or a sock or an old art project, I will see all of these remnants of love and know that he has plenty to take on the journey ahead and that will sustain him.

We aren't done. We aren't leaving on a different trail now or anything, but parenting now is different. We are more like spectators, maybe fellow travelers. Now we say, How's it going? That's great. Do you want to share our food? Do you need a spot to rest? No more are we saying, Come this way. Stay close. Not too far. Keep going. Maybe a little further?  He's leading now. He knows where he is going and we are on the route cheering him on.

Homeleaving

A few short weeks ago, we celebrated a Homecoming for two of my children. It's an amazing feeling having them come home. Home. You long for it. You count down the days until they make it back. Home. It has so many connotations. The home you grew up in, the home you create. The place you are born, the place you live. We, my two high school sons and I, usually spend almost 12 hours each day gone from our house for various reasons. Coming home is the best. As soon as I pull in the driveway I feel a sense of enormous relief. We made it. I set down my bag, set down my burdens, and sit down. A cup of tea, a glass of wine and all is well with the world again. That feeling of unwinding and letting go. It is the best. It would be that way for the college-age kids too. Just as I pull into the driveway every night so relieved, so it would be for them, exponentially so, when they pulled in to our house after months away.

Just before the kids came home, I was at church, another home for me. I know many people have varied feelings about faith and religion and church these days, but for me, it is a sanctuary. I love the familiarity of the rituals and the prayers that bring me home. It is a respite from the weary world. We are also lucky enough to have a priest who, I feel, gets it. He used to work in a college and many of his homilies are about young people. So his homily a few weeks ago hit home. He said our number one job as parents this Christmas was to heal our kids coming home from college. I took that to heart. I know something about the burdens my own kids had this semester in school, and I know they don't share everything with me. Being away from home and dealing with issues that are beyond what we would expect, or at least what I saw in college, is tough stuff. You start to drift and it is hard to come up for air. When Annie started at school in Boston, there had just been a very public death of a young person from drug abuse, and then more recently, there was a death of a beloved alum at her school who started the Ice Bucket Challenge. These are heavy things, things that weigh us down, leave us wondering about sadness in the world, and leave us wanting for "Home." And so I knew that my pastor's challenge to "Heal" was exactly what I would work to do as the kids came home.

What exactly that would look like, I didn't know. Homecooked meals. No pressure. Time to sit and time to sleep. No questions asked. A schedule-free day. No judgment. How do you catch your breath again? How do you heal from heartache and heartbreak? How do you heal from failures and let downs? How do you heal from early death and suicide? How do you heal from late nights and early mornings? From no sleep and no exercise and no real food and no mom nagging you to take your vitamins? But as soon as I saw my son's face when we picked him up and when the dog ran to greet him, I knew the process had begun. It is easy to heal at Home. It is easy to heal when you know someone is waiting for you to come home. It is easy to heal when your family is gathered around the table for dinner. We just love them. We healed when we went to family gatherings and had birthday parties. We healed when we sat around watching television. We healed when we laughed about silly memes. He healed when he ate donuts. Even when he laid in his bed all morning, he healed. And we all felt better. When Annie took the car and saw her friends and invited them to our house, everyone healed. When we celebrated with extended family and with neighbors, everyone healed. When they did their laundry and did their chores and did things they might not have wanted to at first, like hanging the Christmas lights, they healed. When Jay went to a local bar and saw his old friends from elementary school, shaking hands in that funny-elbow-bumping way they do, he healed. There were no expectations, no demands. Just appreciation for him. When neighbors said hello and shook his hand, he healed. It is miraculous what Home can do for our souls, our weary souls. Because Home is full of Love.

Jay won't be home again until May. Annie will be home at the end of February. But I know they are okay. They healed while they were here. I know this because when Jay saw a plastic bag laying on the table that read, Notre Dame Bookstore, and he said, "I can't wait to go back," he had healed. See that's the thing about healing at home: it gets you ready to face the world again. And to go back and work and work really hard and face failure and challenge and heartaches. That is the magic of Home.

I hope that every young person who is in pain right now can feel healed. I hope they find a way Home. I hope that people who feel hurt by others or by the church or by our society can find a Home that heals them. I hope our country can heal too. I hope that in this new decade our country can make a comeback to the Home we are meant to be. Where we aren't worried to death about our young people. That suicide and drugs don't take so many, many young lives. I hope we find a way to heal them. To heal each other.

And so today was the Homeleaving. I wasn't ready. I am still crying. Annie was crying the last time she looked at me. It is so hard to leave Home. But she texted us to say she had landed safely. And so, in a way, she has gone Home. She is at a school she loves. Jay also made it back safely. He has friends waiting for him and a school he loves. It is its own sort of Homecoming. And while it will be challenging and tough, it will also help them grow and then they will heal. I guess it's like working your muscles. You stretch them as far as they can go and then, in healing, they become stronger. That happens to hearts too. And, I suppose, souls. They will be hurt, they will heal, and they will go on. Homecoming and Home-leaving and Healing in between. And lots of love.