What Is Grief?

 What is grief?

It is standing in the shower and 

you are suddenly crying

and then you are sobbing.

And you barely thought about it

in the two days since you heard 

your Uncle Rich passed.

You thought about your dad and your cousins and your aunt

and how sad they must be

and you checked in on your dad.

"I'm so so sorry."

And you went to work and you did what you had to do.

And now you are ready for another day

and you are thinking of all the things

and then you are crying

and you are little again

and vulnerable 

and your heart hurts.

And you remember everyone.

Medford Lakes and a swimming pool and laughing so hard 

and dancing around

a Christmas tree and fireworks by the lake at night.

And you can see his face and all their faces smiling

Aunts and uncles and cousins and brothers who aren't here.

And you remember his voice, deep and laughing,

and you remember his kindness and his advice.

"Are you taking vitamin C, Joannie?"

You see all their faces

and you miss being little

surrounded by all of them 

and your grandmother's hands. 

And you grieve.

And that is grief.

That is love. 

Home for Christmas

 Dear College Kid and Post-Grads, 

Welcome Home! You are finally here! And we are so happy to welcome you. It's been a long semester. You've faced trials and tribulations. You still need to meet your own benchmarks and others you've exceeded. But it's over now. For now, you must rest. For now, you are released from your duties and obligations for studying and group projects. You don't have to worry about homework and practice and when to wake up and when to eat. You are home. You can sleep until noon. We are here to love you back to health and wellness and give you that unmistakable feeling of home. 

Some things haven't changed here at home. There will be bacon and eggs for breakfast and we will get cream donuts from McMillan's tomorrow. We will have bagels and cream cheese one morning. Some things are new to us. We will order the meat lover's pizza. We will make room on the shelf for your protein powder. Some things have changed. We painted the front door. We took down the curtains in the bathroom. We hope you like it. We may have overdecorated a bit, but bear with us. 

Why do we come home for Christmas? It's in every song you hear. Baby, please come home. Driving home for Christmas. Home for the holidays. Every one of us, no matter our age, longs for home at Christmas. We long for the days of yore, that time when we were held, when we believed, when we thought magic was real. In our jaded world, and our jaded souls, we have a yearning to return to that time.

Let me tell you a story. When you are little, Christmas is magical. You believe in Santa and miracles and anticipate the surprise and delight of Christmas morning. Then in your tween years, you lose a little innocence and that delight becomes knowledge about Christmas and the spirit of giving. And you are learning to give a little yourself.  Then in your twenties, you might become discouraged and you have lost hope that things are ever going to be okay. You don't even believe in searching for the magic again. You are giving up. The magic and memories of childhood seem delusional but you still wish deep down for a return to those very memories, those very moments. We wish we could come Home for Christmas, back to a time when all seemed right with the world. 

Except was that true? Every generation has faced its own Christmases at war. Every generation has faced its own political strife. Every generation has faced its own bills and losses, its family sick and ill and dying. We all learn as young adults that Christmas is not a coverup, just that the adults were cushioning us from the fear and the darkness. Now you are on the other side. You no longer believe in the innocence of youth and the magic of a sleigh. It seems impossible to go back, except it's not. It can happen in your heart. Sounds cliche? All you have to do is believe. 

And what do you believe? Do you believe in the literal light, the star in the darkness? No, the darkness is not in the sky; it's in our hearts and souls and minds. It's in our world. It's in the grocery store and the checkout line. It's when we are in a rush and the car is out of gas and we're stuck in traffic. It's in the news that a loved one is sick. It's in canceled plans. It's in the bills we owe. It's in the headlines we hear and read online. It's in countries far and in neighborhoods near. So how do we bring light? We bring it bit by bit. We light one small candle. Remember the song you learned in Pre-K? One small candle? Our own. We do our best. We buy the gas. We take a deep breath.  We pay the bill. We close our eyes and pray.  Pause and feel the lightness. Light a candle. 

Where do we get the light? We relight the pilot flame in our homes and at our hearths. We feed on home-cooked food and on quiet moments. We nourish ourselves with a song, a cup of hot cocoa, a glass of wine. We order the pizza you like. We laugh. We snuggle on the couch and watch an old movie. But we also let our hearts be open. Open to love. Open to light. Open to joy. Open to happiness. It's okay to let the light in. Nothing is going to change the world unless we do. Feeling sad and glum is not going to bring peace to Israel and Gaza and Ukraine. But allowing peace in our hearts will change our little world. Our little space here at home. 

We rebuild our spirit. The spirit that lives within us. And then we can give. We give joy. We bring joy to the small moments each day. We smile in the checkout line. We host the party. We offer to help. We deliver food to the hungry. We give of ourselves. We give of our time.  We  give of our treasures and send a check. We bring light to the dark world. It's not out there. It's in us.  Both the darkness and the light. Let the light prevail. It's not just for the world, it's for us too, in our souls that we must allow the Light to come. 

With love on Christmas. 

College

 I've been in college far too long. I've failed terribly and I've thrived epically too. But after a while, you should just be done. Like Sam Hartman. My family knows that I'm not a big fan. If you are 24 playing against kids who are on average 19 and 20, maybe it's time to move on. I mean I know it's tempting, but really, maybe you need to play against people your own age? Sorry, Sam. 

I'm not done for those reasons and I don't mean that I'm a student either. I'm a mom of college-age kids. For the past 6 years, since 2017, I have had one or more kids in college. And those are where I've had my toughest losses and my greatest gains. It hasn't been easy. Some days I'm on my A-game. Some days I'm on the DL - the disabled list, or the down low. I shouldn't be in the game, but they still play me. I don't have any good answers and I forget to turn off my teacher voice. It's different having kids in college than when I actually attended college. Then I signed up for a major and took classes and found all the answers in books. And the lectures from the professors. And lots of lessons from my classmates. And lots from teammates too. But now, there are no books. There are no plays I can memorize and no study halls I can attend. It's just a little bit of experience, a little bit of stories I've heard from other moms, and a lot of listening to myself, but mostly listening to my kids. These are tough lessons to learn. For each kid, there is a different set of rules. When we picked up Jay at school, he was happy to answer all our questions. He was happy to share who his friends were, where they were from, what he'd been doing, how he slept and what he ate. And when he said, "Any more questions?" Annie yelled at him, "What are you doing? Now you are setting the rest of us up to have to answer all their questions!" We learned quickly not to do that with her. Good lesson.

Today, one of these scenarios unfolded. My youngest had a crew regatta in Princeton. It was a beautiful day! Low 60s, some sun and some clouds, a gorgeous flat river, and trees of all hues lining the course. A stone bridge where we could line up with other families to cheer on our boats as they rowed underneath. He even recognized me from out on the river as I was wildly thrashing my arms about. He turned to his friends in the boat saying, "Hey, is that my mom?" and the whole boat turned to look at us up on the bridge as they passed beneath. We waved and cheered. Epic moment. For me. Poor Charlie.

When they had docked and de-rigged and were warming up and eating, we hugged and talked and laughed about home and the dog and what's been happening. We hadn't seen him in a few weeks and lots had gone on and while we had communicated via FaceTime once or twice, they were quick conversations punctuated by meal times and upcoming tests and "Gotta go, Mom. Love ya." There was not a lot of time to assess how things really were. So today was that time. And he filled us in on school and campus and friends. And it was wonderful. It was bliss. And then I failed. I failed to follow the basic law of family - which is don't ask outside resources what they think. And that's exactly what he called me out on. And I don't know why I did it. Why ask another mom to back you up when you know that will backfire, sealing your fate? Don't do it! It's not fair. Why did I do it? Because he was using his teammates as his backup and I tried to up the ante. Not cool. Incomplete pass. Or maybe a turnover. She's on the opposing team as far as he's concerned.

I've learned a lot these last 6 years. I would write a manual if I could, but I don't think it's possible. What would the chapter titles be? Letting Go. Sure, everyone knows that. But how do you do it? That's impossible to put into words. Calming Down. As in maybe you don't need to wave both arms overhead at the same time after your son has just completed a harrowing race? Shutting Up. Another easy one, except that in the moment you just want to say one. more. thing. Seeking Advice. Never, never, never from another kid's mom. Especially in front of your own kid.

So, I guess I can't leave college yet, or I couldn't even if I tried. I have at least 2 1/2 more years. With graduate school looming, who knows how long? And I'm not ready to graduate. I haven't learned all the lessons yet. But maybe, like Sam Hartman, I'll just learn to take responsibility and bear the losses. Maybe that's a good lesson too, for both Charlie and me. Maybe he is the author of this manual. Jay had his own, and Annie her own, and Matt his own. And that's how I'll have to learn - from them. I just wish I got a nice fancy diploma at the end. I think I've earned it. 

Only the Dog

No one hangs on my leg any more as I leave the house.

Only the dog.

No one wants to know where I'm going and when I'll be back.

Only the dog.

No one responds to my texts about shopping when I ask what everyone wants.

No one runs to greet me when I return home.

Only the dog.

No one gets underfoot to carry the groceries in and help unload.

Only the dog.

Everyone comes when I start cooking dinner and wants to know what that smell is.

Even the dog. 

August

Every day in August is a Sunday... maybe you've heard this before, probably from a teacher. Every day in June is like a Friday, every day in July is like a Saturday, and every day in August is like a Sunday. All that anticipation of BTS. My nieces have a rule not to use the "S" word. You know, the one that starts with s,c,h. Shh - don't say it. That time of year when everything ramps up - kids, paperwork, forms, shopping, planning, packing, scheduling, and trying so hard to fit in one more moment of summer and to APPRECIATE it before it's all gone. I don't have any advice. I don't know how to relish the days or to make them last longer. I don't know how to slow things down. I think trying to just makes it worse. I've tried countdowns and picturing today as the last day of summer and none of it works. I asked a teacher friend how many days he had left before returning to school and he said, "Oh, I don't count." So I'm trying that. It's not really working because the looming end is there whether I recognize it or not. But I think what might help a little is to take stock of everything that's happened, not this summer, but maybe this month, or this week. So here's a top five list for this week:

1. Time to pause - I'm savoring my morning rituals with quiet time for coffee and candles because in a few weeks there just won't be any time. My husband and I have been sitting here almost every morning. Sunflowers make it special!

2. House projects - these materials were all down the basement and I finally got everything together to make this new shelf. It feels so good to accomplish something, anything that makes a space feel new again. And it's another checklist item I can cross off!

3. Time outside - Yesterday I asked Annie if she wanted to eat outside and when she said no, I reminded her that winter is long... sorry. She repeated it to me later. So we have to enjoy it, no matter what we are doing: gardening, walking, swimming, hiking, laying on the beach or by the pool, eating al fresco! Just get out there and soak it in. 

4. Friends for lunch - I had friends over for a late summer afternoon and I made cucumber gazpacho. Yummy delicious food, preferably from your garden, helps. (My cukes were from produce junction:( ) Time with friends helps! 

5. Time for fun - Last night my cousin played with his band "Asbury Fever" at a free outdoor concert - a full old-school set list of BRUCE songs and it was wonderful! I danced my heart out! Why isn't Thunder Road on my playlist? And who knew that I know every word to Trapped?!  It's not too late to find free stuff to do.

One more thing I am doing is spending special time with each child before they go back to school. Yesterday, Annie and I drove to do some "Destination Shopping". Did you know this is a thing? My definition is different than the retailers' definition though. We drive somewhere off the beaten path, where there's secondhand shops, good food, and nice scenery. Our drive there is half the fun! We drove out to Devon and Wayne, PA, to visit our tried and true places. We listened to our own old songs in the car and Annie surprised with a few old songs from when she was little, like Martina McBride's This One's For the Girls!  She didn't like it when I started crying though. Today Charlie and I are going to lunch at his favorite BBQ place. I promise not to cry. No pressure, no agenda, just a nice lunch. 

Just writing this is helping me to savor these days. I guess it's like self-care for summer, or Summer-Care. What's on your Top Five this week? What can you put on your weekend list to make it special? Enjoy and take care of your summer! 

Homecoming

 One of the great joys of parenthood is when your child comes home. It doesn't really matter where they have been, just that they are home. Sometimes it can be from school and you were worried when you sent them out the door, about their friends, their tests, their work. Sometimes it can be from an outing and you were hopeful things would go as planned or as they imagined. Sometimes it is from their first job and they walk through the door exasperated and exhausted and you can cook them something and they feel better. Sometimes it can be from college and you are so grateful to see them again and hold them in your arms. And sometimes it can be from very far away after a very long time and they are transformed from when they left you. And you have to pause and say, Oh my goodness. Who is this? Where have you been? How are you? How are we now that you have this new story to tell? 

This week Matt got home from Alaska, after 40 days working as a fishing quality control monitor on a boat in the Naknek River. And he is different. When we picked him up, spotting him in the midst of the nighttime crowd in the darkness surrounding Newark Airport, he raised his arm when he saw us over rows of cars and taxis. The joy of that image is still with me. He was wearing a hoodie and carrying two huge bags of gear and he had a beard, the kind that is patchy and not quite full even after 40 days of not shaving. And he had a big grin because he was happy to see us but I also think part of it was that he knew how happy we were to see him. I couldn't hug him long enough - long enough to know he was solid and sure and good. That's the worst part about airports - there should be a Hug Lot, like the cellphone lot, where you can at least get a good hug in before having to rush out, dodging cars and traffic so you don't hold anything up. Anyway, we hugged long enough for me to know he wasn't the same nervous kid we had left off at the Philly airport weeks before. He was new. New for all the reasons you can imagine. For meeting new people. For trying new things. For learning new ways. For the sheer fact that he had traveled so very far. (He was closer to Russia than he was to our house!) 

As Matt sat and told us the tales of his adventures and showed us pictures on his phone from his boat, from a float plane he traveled on to Katmai, from a hike he took in Colorado on his way back home, I couldn't listen. I listened, but I couldn't pay attention. I was flooded with the images in my own memory of him as a little kid, fishing at Grandfather's. Of him climbing mountains and hills when I was there to see that he was safe. Of him and his best friend setting trails in the nearby woods so they could ride their bikes over jumps. Of him going off to college and then returning home because the school wasn't the right fit. And I couldn't believe this was the same boy, the same one who is now using words like galley, and crane and hold and cargo and weight checks and temperatures and RSW, which is Refrigerated Sea Water, in case you want to know, in telling us stories of another world, one I will never see. The one who is telling us about eating some bad fried food just before a storm sent 40-foot surges of water up over the boat, making him seasick that one time. The one who is telling us about people he's met and will hopefully stay in touch with, who he plans to see again next year. The girl (is it Caroline?) who calls and tells them what boat to get on next and where to go. And I can't collect all the details, it's like my mind is too full of these images and ideas and I'm trying to place him there and yet keep him where I knew him best.

It's hard because I can't keep up and yet I can't shut down the memories and yet at the same time, I just want to take him in. I want to remember the chiseled features of his face. (Did he eat enough?) I want to reach out and touch his big muscular arms. (Did they work him too hard?) I want to remember his little yawns that he tries to swallow and hide in his conversation. (Did he get enough sleep? Where did he sleep?)   He looks only a little tan. (Thank goodness he used sunscreen!)  It's as if I'm the quality control monitor now, analyzing everything and computing how good it really was and if he actually did well. And I know he did. I feel it from his words and between all the things he's not saying, with the little smiles that light up his face as he recalls what it was all about.

And then I am brought back to reality because I ask a question that he just answered and I should have been listening. I quickly shake my head and say Oh, right! Sorry! And I want to say, "I was just in my head, thinking about all the befores that have led you to this point, to this day, to this life, and let me tell you how wonderful it is to see you! To see you embracing this life! To be full of wonder and curiosity - about people and places and worlds! And how absolutely wonderful it is to have you Home! "

And so I just say, It is so good to have you Home.

Right Here.

 

I have a recurring dream where we live in a house and we suddenly realize there is another whole room that we didn't know was there. It's usually cute and just needs a little touch up. They say these dreams occur when we learn something new, or have a new awakening. Well, this is about an awakening of sorts. 

I am sitting here, in my back porch, which is enclosed in screens and windows and a little door outside, which is why I say in. And as I sit here, I've been working all day. And as I've been working, I've been literally lamenting the fact that I don't have a desk or a better place to sit, or a place to store things, or a place to do more. I am sitting on the couch with an old TV table from the attic in front of me and a little pencil holder and papers spread all around me. I lean forward to type and it's annoying. The cushions from the outside furniture are piled next to the windows and they are annoying too, haphazardly thrown about and piled. And I'm wondering when I can get my office upstairs back. Should I move the boys around again? Should I reclaim a desk in my bedroom? And why does everyone in this house have a desk except for me? And I'm working! And I need a desk to work! And so on and so on. And I begin to feel overwhelmed and frustrated. 

And then I look up. I look around. And sitting here on the floor next to me are a table, two desk chairs that were discarded by their previous owners, my kids, and a file cabinet I trash-picked back in April. And I'm lamenting a lack of a desk. I'm thirsting in water. I'm hungry in a pantry. What is it that blinds us? Stress? Overwhelm? Nostalgia? I don't know. Maybe I've been looking at Instagram too much and wishing I had the offices of the rich and famous. 

Yesterday a friend shared a poem by e.e. cummings that I had never heard before. thank you God for most this amazing. These are the last two lines...

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

It is so beautiful. And the whole poem is truly eye-opening. I love when poetry is a prayer. I am trying to keep my eyes open, but I could not see. All of the things I was missing are right in front of me. It's not even a metaphor - it's literally RIGHT. HERE. It was a pile of junk that I had to get rid of. And now even God laughs! He provided everything I needed. Maybe you are laughing too! Maybe you are like, How could you not see what was right in front of you? I don't know. So I have work to do. And it isn't much work. Unfold a table. Wiggle a chair and shelves around. Maybe spray-paint an old file cabinet. I'm thinking pink?

Even the poem was a gift. Something I needed to see and hear that was offered to me by a friend. We are so loved! We are so cared for! I hope you can open your eyes to what is around you. I hope you have a friend who is offering you a gift. I hope you have a poem that speaks to your soul. I have work to do. I will keep you posted with a picture of my new office once it is complete.

This friend and I were also sharing thoughts on becoming better people. I need to fix this and change that about myself. I have to eat better, workout better, pray better. I sometimes feel like an old junk pile that I have to clean out and fix up and get with it and be better. And guess what? It's not true. We are fine. Not like in the sense of "I'm fine, just fine." But really we are perfect. We are perfectly blind sometimes, we are perfectly stupid too. We are perfectly imperfect and we are just the way we need to be. 

Maybe there is more before me than I realize. I am already missing and lamenting that the kids will leave soon. In TWO MONTHS. Everything we have, everything we need is RIGHT. HERE.