Where Were You When

Yesterday was a day for remembering - where were you when? When Kennedy was shot.

Of course I know where I was - I was seven years old, so I was in elementary school, struggling to put my chair upside down on top of the desk as we always did at the end of the day. It was hard for me - I was short and chubby and not particularly good with physical things. So I was probably hot and sweaty, because it was a warmish humid day, even though it was late November in the midwest. I imagine the classroom smelled fusty with end-of-the day body odor from 30 second graders.

Our teacher was  called out of the classroom. She was my favorite teacher of all time, Miss Trudy Strale, one of those dedicated spinsterish teachers who was warm and appreciative and understanding.

Yes, I was her pet. I readily admit it.

So when she came back into the room with tears streaming down her pretty face, I was alarmed. What had happened to hurt my favorite teacher so? And then she said: "Boys and girls, a terrible thing has happened to our country. President Kennedy has been killed."

The scope of a 7 year old's understanding was revealed by my reaction. I turned around and said to the boy behind me (Mark Gardner, aka "Mouse") - "I don't care. I will just go to Kentucky and live with my cousins."

Believe it or not, I was considered one of the "smart kids" in those days.

Obviously I had no idea of the ramifications of that moment, didn't even understand what had happened. Over the course of the next few days, with schools and businesses closed out of respect, with our parents crying and glued to the television for all the latest news and then the long state funeral, I finally came to grasp the import of the situation.

Yesterday, my mother talked about where she was on that day, and I realized I'd never asked her about what she was doing when she heard the fateful news. "I was shopping," she said, "at the Federal's store on Plymouth Road." I could picture that store immediately, because it was a place we often shopped. I could even smell the particular combination of dusty carpet and new clothing that permeated the old building.

"I went looking for Dad right away. 'They've killed the President,' I told him. 'I've got to get home to my baby, because who knows what will happen next.'" Of course, I was the "baby" in question, and it made perfect sense that her first impulse would be to find me and protect me at a time when the world around her seemed so uncertain and vulnerable.

That was a sensation I knew very well. Because the morning of September 11, 2001, another day when the world as we knew it was shaken to the core,  I was on an airplane that got grounded half-way between Michigan and Florida and I too had an overwhelming need to be with my family. I was stuck midway between my mother and my son, unable to get to either one of them. We waited, not knowing what would happen next.

"This country was never the same after that day," my mother said yesterday, referring to the day Kennedy was killed. "I don't think we knew how evil people could be until that happened, and people have been getting meaner and meaner ever since."

Every nation has pivotal moments that change them. Every generation lives those moments in a different way. They all involve a loss of innocence that alters the way you live your life - for good or ill - from that day forward. Assassinations, acts of terrorism, those are the events that can make us draw inward, make us want to protect ourselves and our families. They make us edgy and distrustful. We run. We hide.

Even as a seven year old child, my first thought was to flee, to leave the country (even if it was only for the perceived safety of my aunt and uncle's farmhouse in the blue grassy hills of Kentucky). But in the 38 years between 1963 and 2001, I learned that any attempt to escape is futile. All you can do is gather your courage, circle the wagons, and hope for the best.

Evil didn't start on that November day in Dallas. There has always been evil in the world, and there always will be. It visits each nation, each generation, even each family and person in some degree.

One thing that is certain - you never forget what you were doing the moment you meet it.

Preparation

I thought I was prepared. After all, for the past two years, my father had been living with Stage IV colon cancer, Parkinson’s Disease, and kidney failure. That’s a lot for an 87 year old. But when my stepmother called me on the phone the other night, I could tell immediately that I was about to hear the worst news possible, and I realized I wasn’t prepared after all.

In the past two years, I’ve made four trips to Florida on what I assumed were “last time” visits. But my Dad’s will to live kept trumping the frailty of his body.  Even though I knew he was living on borrowed time, I was expecting him to keep pulling miracles out of his hat, keep surprising us with unexpected rallies and recoveries.  When he was hospitalized briefly two months ago, I contemplated making another trip down, but decided against it. I had a lot going on, the tickets were expensive…yadda yadda.  I would wait, I thought, wait until November. And indeed I did make a trip in November,  but it was to help my stepmother make arrangements for his cremation. I said my goodbyes, but only to his body lying still and cold in a makeshift casket.

It was slightly strange being in Florida alone with my stepmother. She has been my Dad’s chief caregiver throughout his long illness, even as she works a full time job in retail, and for that I was so grateful. But I felt as if I were the representative from the first part of my Dad’s life, the almost 50 years he spent married to my mother, his high school sweetheart, while Sharon stood for his Second Act – the new life he embarked upon in his mid-sixties, moving to Florida, marrying a woman two decades younger, cultivating new hobbies (golf, poker) and new friends. We had completely different memories of this man we were putting to rest, and we were trying to reconcile that with the reality of our loss.

Meanwhile, back at home, my mother deals with her own private grief, one not even acknowledged by society. The break up of their marriage was not by her choice, and though she had come to some sort of terms with it in the ensuing 25 years, there was still a large part of her heart that belonged to that young man she fell in love with in the early 1940′s, the one to whom she devoted four decades of her life.

As for me, I find myself speeding through the stages of grief.  Those few days in Florida had a tinge of unreality, as if I were going through the motions without any sense of rhyme or reason. Then I started to feel angry – first with everybody around me who were oblivious to my sadness and continued about their trivial pursuits as if everything in the world was normal, and then with my Dad, who had once again taken me by surprise like he did 25 years ago when he packed up and left our family to start his new life.

Now, two weeks later, there is a veil of sadness inside me, one that washes over me at odd times. Like when I see his handwriting on a box of tools still sitting in my mother’s garage. When I look at the wedding picture of he and my mother that I keep on the mantle. When I drive by a Walmart Store, where my Dad worked during his retirement. When I see his phone number in the Favorites list on my phone.

I am no stranger to death. In the past few years I have lost my in-laws, a beloved uncle and aunt, and three elderly neighbors of whom I was inordinately fond. I thought I knew what grief was all about, was almost smug about my ability to handle it.

But the loss of a parent is something different, and I think it’s especially so for an only child.

I wasn’t prepared for it at all.

Presently

Be present. Be here.

I've been thinking about this idea a lot over the past few months. My life is fairly uncomplicated right now, at least as lives go, and so I have the luxury to ponder things. As often happens, when an idea takes root in your mind, you find the universe sets it before you in many different ways.  This notion of paying attention - it pops up on my social media pages in cute sayings on Facebook or quoted passages on Twitter. Bloggers write about it. My favorite authors explore it in books that I carry around like talismans. Even the young up-and-comers, the 30-somethings who have been hell bent in their pursuit of future achievements, are beginning to rein themselves in and start focusing with renewed appreciation on what is happening right now.

In the present.

Now I'm a little bit obsessed with this idea of being present. I begin to look at everything I do during the day a little differently, so that each activity is unique and not just as something to be finished before I move on to the next item on my list. The very first thing I do in the morning  - filling the coffee pot with water, measuring the beans, grinding them to a fine texture, setting our cups on top of the coffeemaker to warm them, pouring the coffee into the cups, setting them on a cloth covered tray, and carrying them upstairs to our bedroom - takes on an element of sacredness.

Does it sound ridiculous to think of making coffee as a sacred ritual?  Part of me scoffs. Coffee is coffee, the practical, earth-centered me chides this new introspective character. But yet, I've been making coffee first thing in the morning for the past 37 years. Cumulatively, all the time I've spent making pots of coffee in the morning - not to mention all the hours spent drinking it! - represents a significant portion of my life. And the same could be said for the hours spent driving from place to place, walking the dogs, preparing meals, shopping, gardening...yet I have spent most of my life rushing through these things thinking only of getting to the next step in the process.

Thinking only of getting finished with them so I can move on to something else, something ostensibly bigger, better, more important, more interesting.

"A favorite yoga teacher often has us being in child's pose," writes Dani Shapiro (Still Writing). "As we lie there with our foreheads pressed into the mat, she'll tell us to drop down. Drop in."   Shapiro refers to the writer's need to be aware of everything, to immerse oneself in every detail of the moment, to emerge from the "cotton wool" that clouds our perspective. "Feel your feet on the ground. Your butt in the chair. Your elbows on the desk. Feel the breath moving in and out of your belly. The weight of your head on your neck. Your jaw: is it clenched?"

Try it. It's scary, isn't it? This hyper-awareness, this dropping down into the moment feels like a free-fall even as it slows me down. I wonder if this is what sky-diving is like - a sudden drop into the ether, and then a gentle pulling back as the parachute opens and you gracefully, easily float through an open expanse of blue sky.

It's a new sensation, one I can only handle in small doses right now. I experiment, play with it, like a child with a new toy.

And I try not to wonder where it will lead. I try only to fully notice this moment, in this day, in this year.

To be present. Be here.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning. I pour three scoops of coffee into the filter, fill the reservoir, and press start. As it burbles through the machine, I open the living room blinds, smile good morning to the little finches and juncos munching away at the bird feeder. They glance up at me, but quickly return to their breakfast. They know I'm no threat to them.

Today I notice the Japanese maple leaves are literally aflame as they catch the first rays of sun from the east. I can hear the ducks squawking noisily on the pond, and I wonder what's got them stirred up, hoping last winter's coyote hasn't returned from wherever he spent the summer.

When the coffee's done, I  pour two mugs full, place them on a small wicker tray, and go back upstairs.  Jim gets one cup, I take the other to the reading nook on the south side of our bedroom. Wrapping a soft sweater across my shoulders, I settle into my chair, and happily lose myself in the pages of a book.

After reading there is breakfast, and a long walk with the dogs. We're excited because the golf course is closed now, so we can  travel the cart paths that wind in and around the various ponds and hills. Cool air on my skin, azure blue sky overhead, the silence unbroken except for the call of birds and the rustle of dry leaves under our feet. It's soothing and invigorating at the same time.

By the time we get back, it's almost lunch time. Another Sunday morning, come and gone.

For a number of years, our Sunday mornings were taken up with church services. In the early 1990's we joined a church - the first time in our married lives we attended church together. We found a cadre of friends and a niche in the handbell choirs and singing choirs. We were faithful goers and doers.

But over the past few years, we began to fall away from church. Our musical experience wasn't so fulfilling anymore, our senior pastor retired and a series of interim ministers took his place.  We still had our friends, but saw them often enough outside of church that we didn't miss them too much. Getting up and dressed and out the door on Sunday morning became a hassle. We often felt annoyed and agitated before we even arrived, and the worship service itself usually did nothing to relieve that sensation.

So we stopped going.

Growing up, my family didn't go to church regularly,  and though I've attended off and on at different points in my lifetime it's easy enough for me to set it aside. The habit isn't deeply ingrained, the need to go in order to salve my conscience was never instilled.

Simply put,  I don't believe that regular attendance or involvement in church is mandatory in order to live a Christian life.  Nor do I subscribe to the notion that church is "irrelevant" in the modern world. I think organized religion is valuable, I think it's important that the world see a community of believers dedicated to living the principles of their religion.   And for many individuals, participation in worship and church activities is the way they live their faith. A minister once said that the worship service was the "intersection between faith and life." I liked that analogy, and obviously it stuck with me. I can see how gathering with like-minded individuals once a week is a way to connect spirituality and practicality, a way to inform daily living with a weekly dose of inspirational practice and ritual.

So if you don't go to church, how do you live your faith? How does your religion and your beliefs about that religion inform the way you go about your daily living?

Although I believe there is power in this connection,  this sense of church as the intersection of faith and living, I also don't believe it's the end of the story. I think faith and life intersect in a lot of ways - in quiet contemplation, in listening to inspiring music, in caring for the people you love, in helping strangers, in being empathetic towards people of all cultures, in being good stewards of animals and the earth.  Whenever you do something with love, whenever you touch someone with tenderness, whenever you treat someone as you would wish to be treated yourself, even when - especially when! - it's so hard to do, that's also where faith and life intersect.

A friend who has also recently stopped going to church, put it this way: "I haven't given up on God, I've just given up churchgoing." That statement feels right to me too, at least for now. During the ebb and flow of this life in general, there may be a point when going to church becomes important to my journey of faith.

For now, I'm trying to be mindful of the many other intersections along the way.

The Mommy Track

It's sort of like riding a bicycle - once you've done it, you never forget how. I'm talking about being a mom - more specifically, being the mom of a baby, or young child. I've just spent a few days visiting my son, daughter in law, and grandson, and it didn't take more than a minute for me to recall the myriad of feelings associated with full time motherhood.

The satisfying feel of a tiny hand tucked in yours, the comforting aroma of milky sweet baby breath.

The musical sound of those first words and squeals of delighted laughter.

The heart-grabbing sight of tottering footsteps and arms outstretched to be lifted up.

Of course, for every one of those wonderful sensations, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Hands grab what they shouldn't, and milk gets spilled just as often as drunk. Words of love turn into the toddler mantra (No! No! No!) and squeals of laughter become screams of frustration. Footsteps falter and fall, and little bodies need to be picked up and comforted.

While I was visiting, there was a post going around on the internet about being a stay at home mom. I read it and shared this excerpt on my own Facebook page:

"The people who completely immerse themselves in the tiring, thankless, profoundly important job of raising children ought to be put on a pedestal. We ought to revere them and admire them like we admire rocket scientists and war heroes. These women are doing something beautiful and complicated and challenging and terrifying and painful and joyous and essential. Whatever they are doing, they ARE doing something, and our civilization DEPENDS on them doing it well. Who else can say such a thing? What other job carries with it such consequences?"

Even though I raised only one child, I quickly learned that being a full time stay at home mom was a job fraught with conflicting emotions and one that required more energy than just about any other.

Yet, given it to do over, I wouldn't change a thing. Wouldn't give up being there for every one of those fabulous frustrating minutes. Wouldn't miss one sticky kiss or even one noisy temper tantrum.

Because let me assert this: I believe that being a full time stay at home mom (if you can possibly afford to do it) for at least the first five years of your child's life, is the most important gift you'll ever give yourself.

That's right, I said a gift for yourself. Shepherding the development of a tiny human, especially your  very own tiny human, is a mind-boggling and humbling experience. It trumps every corporate coup, every artistic masterpiece, every legal battle fought and won.

Trust me - you don't want to miss it. Because one of these days, on a day that will come far quicker than you ever anticipated, those children will walk out your door and start their own lives. You'll have plenty of time on your hands when that happens. But you'll also have plenty of memories and a well placed sense of satisfaction about the days you spent devoted to their care.

But even though I believe staying home with your kids is valuable and important for them and actually quite selfish for you (because who wants to go to their grave feeling like they shortchanged themselves in kid-time?), I also think it's equally as important for every mom to have their own life.

You mothers out there covered in burp cloths, Boppy pillows, and onesies - you're sneering at me, I know. "Have my own life??" you're thinking. "I can't even find time to go to the bathroom! Where will I find time for a Life??"

It's a process. With every step toward independence your tiny human takes, you need to take one too. You need to venture forth into the world, one that doesn't include babies or toddlers and all their trappings. Join a book group or a photography club. Take a yoga class. Go to work part-time.

Take some baby steps down the road that will eventually lead you back to a Life of Your Own. Because babies don't stay babies. You, however, will be a grown woman for the rest of your days. And when baby is grown up and gone, you need to be comfortable and happy in your own skin. And you need a Life to Live while you're wearing it.

We hear a lot these days about Helicopter Parents who hover over their kids every move from the time they're born until - and even after! - they're married or in the work force. Hovering is bad news for kids, but it's even worse news for parents. Because one of these days that kid is going to get fed up with you buzzing around the perimeter of their lives and they'll swat you aside like the pesky creature you are.

And that will hurt everybody, but it will hurt YOU most of all.

The Mommy Track doesn't always seem like the Fast Track, but it really is. Those childhood days speed by faster than Helio Castraneves around the oval at Indianapolis. Give it all you've got, but start thinking about your exit strategy too.

Find meaningful ways to be and do and create that are just about you. You'll never forget how to be a mom. But you can forget how to be your own person, and that's something too valuable to let slip away.