My Metaphor

I need one--a metaphor.  I need said metaphor to explain to me, to show me what my life is like.  How it moves, flows and grows.  So, I've chosen one--a metaphor just for me.  It's all mine.  I'll call it my River Metaphor.

Since I've decided to liken my life to a river, I'll use that analogy to explain the ebb and flow of life as I know it.  You see, I now live on a river and I've had the opportunity to live on it for one year--through all four seasons.  I've watched it swell and shrink, freeze and thaw--and I've watched that happen in my life as well.

I started out with a small river in my life, one where I lightly rode a raft through my childhood, I had no control, but was carefree and cared for.  I went to school, hung out with friends and grew up--steady, surely, safely--flowing.

After marrying, my river began to swell a little, and by the time I had children it was raging--sometimes out of control.  I still loved it though--that river life of mine.  It was a sweet ride.  I didn't really have time to notice the seasons of river life back then, it was a fast-paced time for me.  In fact, there wasn't much of me at all during that time.  Life was about family--my kids and my husband.  Maybe they were there as a life preserver without me knowing it--yes, I think they were my life preserver.  I'd like to believe so anyway.   And although it seemed back then that that time in my life lasted forever, I realize now that it didn't.  It was just a season--too short for me.

My river isn't racing any longer.  It has slowed down to a steady pace.  And much like the seasons in my own life during this last year, there have been times when my river has frozen over.  It's frozen over enough for the ducks to walk across in winter, it has flowed mightily with the spring thaw and it has swelled during the summer rains.  But, it has been steady and predictable, almost normal.

We're gearing up for Autumn around here now.  I'm getting out my fall decorations, and I'm thinking about apple crisp and pumpkin pie.  I'm wondering what these next few months will hold.  Will they be overflowing or sure and steady?  What changes will there be?  I don't mind the small changes, it's the big floods that worry me.  Whether they be in my life or happening on my river--flooding scares me a little.

I guess it scares others too.  We all watch the river to see what will happen with the change of seasons, and really it's all pretty much the same.   Year after year, season after season there are changes on my river and yet they have been foreseeable and yes, even predictable.

In my metaphor I feel that I flow along with my river, knowing that change is inevitable but hoping that it happens slowly--please slow down my river, you are moving a little too quickly now.

Thoughts of You

I thought of you today
But quickly before my
eyes teared up
I tried to stop

I don't want to cry
for things I cannot change
I don't want
to cry for you

I miss you though
I think of you often
I see your smile
I hear your laugh

I wonder what
you'd be like now
All grown up
maybe married

Would you have children
Would we visit
Would you love
the God I love

At least you are safe
I know where you are
But I still miss you
And yes, I still cry

I dedicate this poem to my nephews who went to be with their Lord at ages 18 and 24.
I'll never forget you.

The Help

I saw the movie a few nights ago.  I had already read the book and although I generally like to wait until a movie comes out on DVD my husband and I decided to go to the movies at the last minute.  And I'm so glad we did.  Not that it was some type of epic movie that had to be viewed on the big screen, it wasn't that type of movie at all.  However, it was the kind of movie that should be seen right away--as in as soon as possible.  It, in my opinion, needs to imprinted on the brains of every person, everywhere.  It's a movie that can impact a lifestyle, that makes you think, and that in all honesty made me a feel ashamed of my race.

I'm not writing a movie review, however--not really.  I just want to talk about my feelings--before and after I read the book and saw the movie.  I've always been a huge proponent of human rights.  Fighting for the underdog is right up my alley.  From Native American Indians to African Americans to Mexican Americans--I'm one to hop on the bandwagon and help out.  It's part of my character, part of who I really am.

While reading the book I could feel myself get angrier and angrier with the way the help were being treated.  I've never hired a maid, but if I ever had I can pretty much guarantee you that I would never have treated anyone the way those southern women treated theirs.  I'm a very empathetic person, and soon I began to put myself in the place of the African American maids and began to feel beaten down and disillusioned.  It made me wonder--why are people so bias towards a certain race, why do they feel that they are better than someone else, and why do they feel superior to another person?  Do they need to put them down to raise themselves higher?  Is it that important to them?  Reading the book really affected me in a big way.  So naturally, I wanted to see the movie.  I felt driven, and I'm so glad that I went the other night.  It's given me a lot to think about, a lot to be thankful for and a lot to pray about.

A long time ago, maybe 20 years or so my maternal grandmother told me a story--one of her stories, she seemed to always have a lot to tell, she used to somehow manage to trap us in her room.  I think all of us grandkids hated it--listening to granny!  I honestly don't know how much truth there is in it.  My mom hadn't heard her mother talk too much about her childhood.  My grandmother told me that she had a black mammy (her words not mine) when she was growing up as a child in Texas.  She told me that she loved that woman more than she loved her own mother, but when she was grown she knew how ridiculous it was to love her in that way, so she became distant from her and basically shut her out.  She was embarrassed about loving her so much.  But, now looking back she wished that she had done things differently.  She said that until the day she died she would not forgive herself for the way she treated her, she loved her and wished that she could tell her, but now it was too late.  She made a lot of excuses that day--about the place and the times she lived in.  It's hard for me to understand though, I wasn't raised that way.

My grandmother was a racist.  Even she called herself one and had many explanations to justify her opinions.  I tried reasoning with her a few times, but her and I never really saw eye to eye on much of anything, so after a few years I finally gave up.  I feel sorry for people like her, and for people like the characters in the book.  They are real you know, there are people like that out there.  It truly breaks my heart that one group of people think they are in any way better than another group.  Whether it be skin color, religion, social class--we should be (and are) all equal.

My grandmother was raised in that racist era.  I thank God every day that my grandchildren are not being raised that way.

And I hope that they always remember--you is kind, you is smart, you is important.

Traditions

It's funny how a 30-second conversation can stay in your brain for a while.  A particular exchange with my good friend gave me something to think about.  I began reflecting about traditions and how they play a role in my life.

My friend had asked me to teach her how to crochet, being that she's quite old--well, let's just say that I was a little skeptical.  I wasn't so sure that I could teach that old dog any new tricks--she is after all 3 years older than I am.  And if she ever reads this she's going to chase me down and pummel me.  But hey, it's worth the risk just to tease her a bit.

I told her what supplies to purchase and our lesson commenced.  It was humorous, to say the least.  My friend loves to talk--probably more than any other activity and she wasn't paying close attention to the task at hand.  I wasn't sure that after our long lesson she'd be able to take her new found skill home with her.  I asked her--is there anyone else you know that crochets and might be able to help you if you get stuck?  It was an innocent enough question, it was obvious to me--she was going to need help.

It turns out that her granddaughter knows how to crochet.  But, according to my friend--the grandmother should teach the granddaughter--not the other way around.  She didn't want to ask her for help.  I was a little stunned by this remark.  So I said--you sure are traditional, aren't you?  To which she (after a short pause) said yes, yes I guess I am.


And that's the conversation that has lead me to ponder traditions.  The rest of this blog has nothing to do with my friend and everything to do with my thoughts on traditions and the way I perceive them.  You see, I love traditions, especially those centered around family and friends.  However, I don't ever want to get stuck in the same old rituals.  As in--this is the only way to do things.  


I want to be flexible, free, and open to new experiences and others traditions.  For example--even if I've always had the holidays at my house, I want to be free to have them elsewhere and thoroughly enjoy them.  I don't want my old traditions to control or limit my joy.  I do not want to be sitting there thinking--this is wrong!  We shouldn't be here, doing it this way, eating those foods, or that kind of pie!  I want to enjoy what happens next--not worry about what I think the tradition should be.  What if being flexible means that a new tradition starts?  What if it means that someone else is the star?  What if it teaches us to share?  Is that such a bad thing? 


For me, traditions are awesome.  I love them.  I love reading about or participating in traditions in foreign countries.  I don't want to ever have a limited world view.  I don't want to have a me mentality.  I want to become a more compassionate person who can relate to others through hope and not through bias and fear.  Fear of the unknown paralyzes us, and I don't want that to happen to me.  I believe that one way I can accomplish living a fearless life is by being open to new traditions.  It will stretch me into becoming more Christ-like and that's important to me.  Things do not always have to be my way or the highway.

From now on I am starting a new tradition.  I am going to try to be teachable--by anyone, any age and any time.  I am going to be willing to try new things--new foods, new places, and new friends.  I am going to start the tradition of starting new traditions.  Every year--something new.

For me, it's crucial that I don't get stuck and lose focus on what's really important.  Family, friends, neighbors, home, and those wonderful warm fuzzies--it comes in many different forms when we are least expecting it.  So, for me--I'm up for the change--bring it on.  That's my new tradition.

I'm Still Here

When I carried you
I could feel your every move
I could feel you doing little somersaults
and later I could feel you rub an elbow
or a knee across my insides

When you when born
I knew every cry
I could read every expression
I knew when you were hungry
or tired or angry

And as you grew up
I would watch you run into the room
each muscle on your face spoke to me
help me, care for me, watch me
I need you

Even now that you are grown
I can still see your face
looking toward me
still needing my understanding
still hoping that I can help

I'll always be here
I've never left
I still see you
I'm still here
I'll never leave, ever

Is that how you feel
about me God?

Kid Stuff

I hate to admit this--but I wasn't always the best of kids.  In fact, I did some things that weren't too nice to my little sister.  I also did a few embarrassing things, I pulled some pranks and did some silly things just for fun.  I guess I should come clean--it's about time, don't you think?

It all started with hamster poop, yes, that's what I said, hamster poop.  My very good friend who lived a couple doors down was my co-conspirator, we (as 6-year-olds) wanted to do something evil to my pesky little sister and this is what we came up with.  My friend had a hamster and we all know that hamsters poop.  So, why not take half of a walnut shell, put 2 little poops in it, fill it to the top with sunflower seeds and then tell your little sister that if she wants to play with you--she has to toss that concoction right down and chew it all up.Afterward, of course, we told her what was at the bottom of the shell.  Well, she ran home crying and screaming about how I had made her eat hamster poop.  Yes, I did get into trouble, but it was so worth it.  What a mean big sister I was.

And then there was the day that (I think I was about 9) I found out that my cousin was adopted.  It was a shock to me--first off because I didn't know what the word meant and secondly she looked like me.  So, if she was adopted, then what about me?  We both had long brown hair and brown eyes, we looked like my dad's side of the family--so what was going on here?  I was afraid, and out of that fear came the next not too nice thing I did to my little sister.  Don't feel too sorry for her, she kind of deserved all this.  Really, I'm not kidding.  I then did what any normal big sister would do--I told my little sister that she was really the one who was adopted.  After all she had blond hair and green eyes--even our mother had blue eyes, so who did she look like?  I tried hard to make it all sound very logical.  I got into trouble for that whopper too.  I blame her.  I can't for the life of me figure out why when we reached the teenage years she didn't want anything to do with me.

My mother doesn't know this but at the age of about 14--I began what I will call my lying stage.  Yes, I am ashamed to admit that for a couple of years there, I lied.  There, I said it.  OK, it had been going on for a while.  Want to hear about some of those lies?  I guess at my age I can look back now and just thank God every day that I wasn't murdered or raped during those tumultuous times.  One of the biggest lies that I told my parents had to do with my whereabouts.  As in--I'm going to her house but really I'm going to walk along the levee late at night and go hang out with my friends who were partying, doing drugs and drinking.  I could tell many a story having to do with drinking excessive amounts of cooking wine, but just the thought makes me a little nauseous.

Thankfully I was much more of an observer than a participant at the parties I went to, I rarely took part, but wanted to belong so badly.  I wanted to be part of the cool crowd, so against my better judgement I went along.  I can honestly say that I was pretty innocent during my teenage years.  One funny thing I did though was to soak the label off my bottle of Mug root beer--you know, so it would look so authentically real.  I'm being transparent here--don't laugh too hard.  I also used to light a cigarette and hold it just so in my hand--to look oh so cool.  I never inhaled though, I was too afraid.  Maybe my personality was the type that walked right up to the line but never crossed it.

Kid stuff--thank God I lived through it.  Kid stuff--it can be fun and it can also be one of the most dangerous times of a persons life.  Kid stuff--silly at times, hurtful during other times and a bit scary too.
I'm glad I survived the kid years.  But, I'm also glad that I have lots of stories to share.  Especially the funny ones from when I was little.  And I'm thankful that I lived through the teenage years unscathed--maybe I should be glad my parents lived through it too.  Or maybe I should be thankful that I lived through my kids--kid stuff.


Regardless, we all go through kid stuff, we all have stories to tell--but I really don't think I want to hear my kids stories--I don't want to know that they were probably just like me.  Or do I?

For Them

This is what I am thinking about this morning--this one is different, this one is for them.  This is why I write,  it has finally dawned on me.  I get it now--I think.  I want them to know me, to understand who I am and what made me the way I am.  I want them to get me.  I want them to know all the things that I didn't get to know--about them.  About my grandparents, and really about my parents too.  Because even though my parents are still living, they don't really talk much about their childhoods.  They have shared some things--funny things, hard things too.  But, not the nitty gritty everyday details of their life and what makes them who they are.  However, I am different.  I want mine to know.  Everything.  I want them to feel my love for them, to know my heart, to catch my vision.  To see my world, my life through my eyes.  So, I am writing for my children and my grandchildren.  I am writing about all the things that I wish I had known about mine.

I did not know my grandmother's favorite color, or how she felt about school, or what her interests or hobbies were.  I did not know anything about her first boyfriend or if she ever went to school dances, or if she even liked to dance.  I never thought to ask.  She was after all my grandmother.  She was old when I was born--or so I thought.  I am sad about that now.  I wish that I had known her better.  Did she like music, was she a reader, what were her interests?  I need to know these things!

I am not going to make that mistake.  Mine will know all about me.  It might come out in bits and pieces, slow and fractured but it will come out.  I will continue to write until there isn't a story left in me.  They will know me.  I will make sure of it.  They will know that my relationship with my God is the most important relationship in my life. They will know what I like to do, they will know about my childhood, my boyfriends--and yes there was more than just grandpa.  And they will know that I have an insatiable hunger for knowledge and that I love to read.  They will know that I love to cook and travel and that I love animals and that I used to ride horses...I want them to really know who I am.  Their grandmother, who loves them more than mere words could ever express.

It is also important that my children come to know and understand me.  Over time they'll discover why I say and do certain things.  They will find out all about my fears, my hopes for them and my dreams for myself.  They'll read all about it in this blog.  Some way somehow they'll know me.  Their mom.

I will have this all printed out one day just for them.  As they read the pages of my life they will come to an understanding of who I am.  I was a daughter and a sister, a friend and a wife and a mother and then one awesome day I became their grandma.  How sweet is that?

Lifetimes

I guess the word lifetime would mean one life lived during a specific time period, a span of time.  Maybe somewhere between 80 to 90 years--that would be a lifetime, although I'd like to live to be 100, but only if I'm in good health.  I do know that sometimes lives are cut short but that makes me too sad to even think about.  I'm wondering though if maybe a lifetime is something more.  Maybe it is really life segments.  Or several lifetimes all rolled into one--like a sausage.  Multi-colored and multi-dimensional when you slice it into pieces.

For instance--take my life.  I have already (in my mind) lived several segments of life.  One part is my childhood.  That would be the time I spent living with my parents, almost 18 years.  There were 4 of us in my little family.  I went to school, I played outside with friends, I visited with relatives, I learned about life, I matured during this time--getting ready for the next part.  I grew up and moved out and started the next segment or phase of my life.  I got married--and now realize that there were several segments wrapped up in this span of time.  First off there were our short 3 1/2  years of marriage sans children.  They used to call us DINKS.  Double Income No Kids.  It was actually a fun time for us.  We had a cute little duplex that I enjoyed decorating, and we began buying furniture and saving for a house.  We worked hard during the week so sometimes on weekends we'd take off and go to Carmel or Monterey.  We ate out a lot and also begin a love of exploring little towns that we continue to this day.  I have awesome memories of those times, walking on the beach, talking about our future, daydreaming...

And then the kids came along and another lifetime started.  We bought our first house, learned to live on one income, and also learned how to sacrifice for our children and for each other.  Weekend getaways became less frequent and family camping trips became the norm.  However, there was more stress during this section of my lifetime than any other so far.  The part where juggling time, finances, and hopes and dreams were all up in the air--attainable yet just a tad out of reach most of the time.  Hmm, the most stressful part and yet the part that I miss the most.  Something to ponder.  So one lifetime flowed into the next and without even realizing it--we flowed right along with it.  Slowly, gently heading into the direction of the next lifetime.

Our kids aged--they began to grow up--they went to college and got married.  It was a different kind of stress then--much more emotion based--wanting them to be happy and successful and yet have a deep seated longing to still be needed.  I missed them.  I'm not so sure I liked that lifetime.  That part.  That piece.  It was a very busy time of life--weddings, graduations, and then the dreaded empty nest.  But, it did eventually get better--when the grandchildren came along.

Maybe grand-babies are our consolation prize.  Here you go, you've raised 3 kids, giving them your best and now that you are older and seemingly wiser, here is a new baby to spoil.  That's the lifetime segment I am in right now.  Grandma time.  And that's OK with me.  It was worth every minute of those other lifetimes.  I guess they all added up to this--5 grandchildren plus 1 very proud grandmother.  This part of my life is good, it's flowing smoothly.

I have another lifetime segment floating out there in front of me--it's called retirement.  I have very mixed emotions about that segment.  It'll be here within the next 10 years.  On one hand, my husband and I will be able to spend all our time together and we'll get to travel more.  However, the flip side is that we'll be older, maybe more tired, with some health issues and a fixed income.  That part doesn't sound like much fun.  But knowing us, we'll make it fun, we always do.

But then, what about the segment that follows that?  What about that end part?  When our lifetime is over?  When we close our eyes for the last time?  What about then?  I guess I'll have to wait and see.  The first few segments of my life were pretty great, and I just have a feeling that the next couple of segments of this multi-dimensional lifetime of mine will be too.

Hopefully one day I'll get to see my grandchildren get married, buy their first homes and start their families.  They are in their own lifetimes now--the first part.  They are creating memories and living life.  One lifetime at a time.

I hope and pray that their lifetimes are as sweet as mine.  It would make my heart happy.

When I Pray

I left church yesterday feeling frustrated. The pastor of that particular church spoke on prayer. I was hoping to be taught something new, useful, some little nugget to take with me and grapple with during the week. However, I was left feeling relatively flat. I wanted more, much more. I wanted the truth, a new thing, something I hadn't heard before, something to take with me. Yes, frustrated is the word I would use. Or disappointed. Maybe that's the word I'm looking for.

The experience I had in that church was the topic of conversation for my husband and myself the rest of the day. We proceeded as usual--ran some errands, did some house projects, even took a little ride, and all the while talking about--prayer. What it meant to us, how we would have taught that sermon, and what we think it means to God. We jabbered non-stop. We do that. We'll get fixated on a topic, break it down, and come up with some pretty good discoveries. I think, though, that this time around, I was doing the majority of the talking; he was listening more--because I was the one who was the most discouraged.

Prayer for me means this--talking. Yes, talking. Talking to my God, my father, my dad, my creator. I speak, and He listens. It's that simple for me. And, it's a good thing it's that simple. I'm supposed to come to Him like a little child--full of faith, love, and expectation. And I do. That's precisely the way I go to Him.  Just like a little kid talking to her dad. The dad that I met 50 years ago. My real dad. I sit on His lap, I lean into Him, I rest on Him and I slowly begin to pour out my heart. Sometimes it's just a heart that says, thanks, Dad, for everything. Sometimes it's a heart that cries out--I need you now, and sometimes I have a list. It all depends on the day.

I know that He knows me inside out, there is nothing to hide, He knows my heart, He loves me. I am more comfortable with Him than any other person on the face of this earth. I've known Him for 50 years. My God, my father. So, there's no mask, no fake promises, no hiding, no pleading, no begging--only trust. Pure trust. He will do what is right for me. He'll listen to me because I am His daughter. He'll consider all that surrounds my life and do or give or take or whatever is necessary--He'll answer my prayers accordingly. I can relax. I can chill out. He's heard me. It's now up to Him, my father, and after I pray, I trust. I trust Him completely.

I love talking (or praying) to God. I love the relationship that we have. I love being the child and Him being the father. I love that He provides for me. Yes, I love all of that. And I also love that He teaches me through our times together, the how-tos of life. What to say, what to do, what to expect. I'm growing up. Oh, I still fall down, stumble, and make huge mistakes, but He's always there--a prayer away. As an adult, I sit for a long time in the mornings with my cup of coffee, and I talk to God. When I'm out driving in my car, I speak to God, and when I'm home alone, I talk to God during the day. Prayer--it's a relationship thing--a friendship, a bond. It's ongoing and never-ending--He's always with me--guiding me, leading me, protecting me--a prayer away.

And if praying is as simple as me talking to God, you might have guessed that hearing from God is just as simple. This is how God talks--He speaks to me through His holy spirit--deep inside my heart, and He speaks to me through the Bible. The holy book, the one I read and love. Everything He has to say to me is in there. Pure, simple, easy, and basic. People make it hard. They overcomplicate the text. Jesus spends the new testament breaking it back down into simple terms for people like me to understand. He says--follow me, love me, serve me, obey me, live like me, need me, worship me, pray to me, believe in me, learn from me, open your heart to me, let me in, listen to me--so I do.

With all my heart, I do--when I pray.

Field Trips

Ah, school field trips, I remember them well.  Those field trips of mine.  I loved them.  The best field trips that I ever took though were the ones when I lived in Southern California.  We lived there for 3 years.  We lived in Westwood, Venice, Los Angeles and Beverly Hills.  4 cities, 3 years--lots of fun field trips with my 4 different schools.  And yes, I saw movie stars.  Yawn.

From the ages of 10-12, I was able to go to the opera, Disneyland, Knotts Berry Farm, Cabrillo Island, a planetarium, the zoo, plays, many museums and on and on.  I loved every minute of it.  I was free--on the bus with my friends, looking out the large windows, daydreaming and excited.  You see, I was about to embark on the pages of things I'd read about.  Places that I never thought I'd get to go.  Places I wanted to see and embrace.  And now was my time.  Field trip days were absolutely my favorite days as a kid.  My family didn't go on vacations.  I've never been to any of those places listed above with my parents--only via school field trips.  I'm not sure why my folks weren't the vacationing type, all we ever did was visit family--maybe that's all they ever did as children, I don't know.  However, what I do know is this--my eyes were being opened to a great big world by going on those field trips--they made me hunger for more.  Whatever was out there--I wanted to see it.

As a reader, the more I read about, the more I wanted to experience.  Maybe that's why schools offer these trips.  To get the minds of children salivating for education, for something beyond books, the classroom or themselves.  Other cultures, other languages, other life experiences.  That's what they did for me, and I wanted to pass that along to my kids.  I became (much to their horror) the field trip mom in their classrooms.  I'd ride the bus to the next adventure all smiles and wonder, I was probably more excited than they were to see Folsom Dam or the Coloma gold mines.  I was downright giddy.  I love learning and I love experiencing life first hand--and not just through books.

My husband and I took our kids on as many adventures as we could possibly afford.  We called them adventures because they were hardly vacations.  We were going non-stop and we were having fun.  We camped, and we went to every theme park in California, we took them down south to San Diego and all the way up north to the San Juan Islands.  Every year we went somewhere.  We would have done more, but unfortunately, they grew up and also we did as much as our budget would allow.  Now my husband and I continue on without them.  We have our own field trips--this time around though they are usually to other countries rather than just other states.  Hey, it's all in what you can afford at the time!

The trips that we take now are still a type of field trip to me--every cathedral, museum, or famous sight that I encounter is a true wonder.  I've read about them, I've pictured them in my mind, and now I get to see them--on my own little field trips.

Don't stop taking them--ever.

Summertime

I've got them and I've got them bad.  The summertime blues.  I hate summer.  Why you ask?  Just because, I answer.  I hate summer for many, many reasons.  First off, it's stinking hot.  And living where I live, it's also humid.  So, you have the heat--usually around 95 degrees and then you have the humidity--usually around 80%, that equals a heat index of somewhere around 100-110 degrees.  I never really knew about the heat index until I moved to the mid-west.  I didn't know about the wind chill either for that matter, but since I love winter, I won't talk about wind chill right now.  It'll make me too sad.  Oh, how I long for fall and winter!

I hate waking up in the morning, spending all that time getting ready--shower, makeup, and a blow dry and then stepping out into the sun and within 10 seconds everything on me begins to melt right off.  Makeup disappears, my straightened hair immediately springs up into ridiculous curls, and sweat begins to pour down my armpits.  My glasses fog up, I can't see, and I am instantly in a bad mood.

Within another 5 minutes, I begin to smell something and pray that it isn't me.  It is.  I now officially have BO.  No matter what type of expensive deodorant I buy, nothing works.  I stink.  All I can think about is taking another shower.  However, I suck it up and start my day--smelly, shiny-faced and curly haired--I'm off to the grocery store.  Where upon arrival I think to myself--wow, I sure wish that person would have taken a shower before they left the house this morning.  And then I realize--they probably did.

I am trapped in an air conditioned room inside my house.  There are windows to view the outside world.  It looks beautiful.  There are flowers planted everywhere (my work is done in the semi-coolness of darkness) the leaves are lush and green, the river is flowing peacefully, birds are at my feeder, and I am longing to go for a walk.  Out there, outside, in other words not in here but out there!  But, I can't, I won't, it's too hot.  It's too hot to meander through little boutiques, too hot to dine al fresco, too hot to walk the dog.  Too hot!

Is there anything redeeming about this season of hotness?  Well, thunderstorms.  They are awesome.  And they water my plants for me.  They keep it green here, clean feeling.  It isn't dusty, or dry.  It's rather lush and beautiful.  But still, if you can't step outside without sudden heat stroke, what good is it?

There's only one month left of this oppressive heat.  We've been told by the weather people that this has been one of the hottest summers in 140 years.  I feel like throwing something at the TV, but I can't.  In this heat, she is my only solace. She is my friend.  My indoor friend.  The TV.  Her, and my books--they are all I have in this horrible heat.  I hate you summer.  One more month.

Going Home

There is the good and the bad of going home.  You know, the place where you grew up or spent most of your childhood.  The place where you went to high school.  That's what I mean by going home.  Not where you live now, not where your children live--but where you used to live.  Why we call it going home--I'll never know.  It must be from the memories of childhood, it is for me at least. It's those memories that I lean on for my visits home--the memory of friends and family--cousins mostly.

I have great fears though when returning to the place where I grew up.  For instance--what if no one cares that I am home?   Or doesn't show up for a reunion of sorts?  What if things are different between us?  The what ifs play through my mind and basically make me a nervous wreck.  My husband is always there to reassure me, I think he gets a little ticked that I walk around with so much self-doubt, but hey, at least I recognize it and talk about it and deal with it--kind of.  I verbalize my fears to him and I wonder--do they still love me?  Or have they moved on since I have moved away?  Huge fears--huge.

And so, this last visit--the one that I am in right now, the one that I am flying away from in the next couple of hours--has also been one of those visits.  The type where I wonder--do they care, will they show up to our get together's?  Do they really want to see me?  Or is it more of an obligation?

They did, they came, and I was so happy and relieved.  Especially with my family.  I love them so much and I really hope that they have a sense of my deep love for them.  There were 22 of us at our lunch yesterday.  Moms, dads, sisters, nieces, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  22.  Lots of us.  Laughing, talking so fast that we could barely keep up with each other.  Sharing stories and taking pictures.  It was fantastic for me.  It was pure silliness, pure fun, pure family.  I kept looking at them, not wanting to leave, thinking to myself, I wish I still lived here.  I miss them.  My family.  I wish that more of us could have come--maybe next time.  That's what we always say--maybe next time.  I live in a mindset though--what if there are no next times?  Let's do it now.


I also have great friends--the type I've had for years and years.  The type that will get together with me come hell or high water!  I was able to have a couple of awesome dinners with them--we caught up on old times and made some plans for the future.  We took up right where we left off last time.  It'll always be that way for us I think.

And as for those high school friends?  Well, we had our own little mini-reunion, and I was even able to reconnect with my best friend from high school this time.  It was a little hard at first, we hadn't really talked in years,  However, I have faith, I think we'll talk a little more after this.  I think we'll be just fine.

Reunions--they are all about reconnecting, picking up where you left off.  Hugging, crying, wanting so badly not to leave.  But, then looking forward to the next time.  The time where it all starts up again--family and friends--they make my heart happy.  So what is the good--seeing everyone and what is the bad--leaving everyone.

Until next time...