Because: A love letter to my children

When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts.  A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.  ~Sophia Loren

Because: A Love Letter to My Children

In the past year, my children, now in their late teens, began very seriously understanding their future potential. As their mother, I had always seen the gifts that lay deep inside them as individuals. I also saw the incredible strength they have together, as siblings so close in age. The joke in our household as always been: they are twins, just born two years apart. They each possess a powerful work ethic, an amazing sense of purpose  and a fully defined view of self. They also are endowed gifts that are the opposite of one another.  I respect their individuality. I love them fiercely. I am a Mama Wolf, and they are my cubs. I would do anything to protect them, to encourage them and to help them achieve their dreams. 

And yet, both children, at different times, have expressed a regret that I didn't "push" them more. As my son and daughter ventured out into the world without me, they saw the credentials that other kids have to be at the top of their 'pools'. My daughter wishes that I had not encouraged her to sail, swim, and work each summer. She has expressed a regret that she didn't, like so many kids, go to SAT camp the whole time. She now feels that she'd have gladly given up our Spring vacations to take AP exam cram session courses.

My son, however, feels he did just fine in school and is content with that piece of his life. He wishes, however, that I hadn't encouraged him to golf in the summers, and play soccer and baseball each Fall and Spring. He wishes that I'd enrolled him in intensive skating clinics and that he'd been tutored so that he could have spent as many waking moments as possible on the ice. He wishes that he hadn't wasted so much time with other activities...wondering where he'd be now in his hockey career if he'd had no other distractions.

My daughter is a wonderful student. My son is a fantastic hockey player. Perhaps they aren't exactly where they had envisioned themselves at this point. My daughter isn't yet the youngest woman to ever receive the Nobel Prize for Biology. My son hasn't yet been drafted to play Center for the Boston Bruins. They are working towards their goals, and I honor their ambitions. 

Therefore: this note is to them, my Sun and Moon.

Because I love you, I not only let you have mud fights, I brought out the hose. I let you get as dirty as you possibly could and never once worried about bringing dirt into the house.

Because I love you, I let you stage dramatic battles between G.I. Joe and Barbie, even if it meant finding tiny pieces of plastic ammunition for months afterwards.

Because I love you, I let you bring a bunny into the house without my consent...and promptly fell in love with her because you did.

Because I love you, my heart broke the first time yours did. I cried with you, both on the inside and on the out. I kept a prayer in my heart that you would continue to fall in love, and love would find you right back.

Because I love you, I cheered loudly at sporting events, even when I had no clue what was going on, or who was winning.

Because I love you, I let you wear your pajamas inside out the night before snow was predicted and then danced along with you when our district was announced for a snow day.

Because I love you, I snuggled with you and watched The Lion King (over and over) with you like on rainy days.

Because I love you, I let you just be kids...kids who built forts, who made sand castles, had sleepovers, roasted marshmallows. I wanted you to be kids who'd learn to water ski in summer and snow ski in winter. I let you camp in the back yard, build a tree house with your Daddy and made you picnic lunches to eat 'in the great outdoors'. 

Because I love you, I've encouraged you. I've subtly pushed you out of your comfort zones. You may not have noticed, but I love you enough to just helpfully spread your wings ever so slightly. And when it was time for you to fly? You just didn't realize your wings hadn't always been opened a bit...making the transition to fly that much smoother. 

Because I love you, I am not just encouraging you to continue on your journey. I'm encouraging you to soar.

Because I love you, I am confident that you gained strength from just being normal, happy, laughing, playing kids. And, now I'm confident that  you will be amazing adults. 

In fact, you are already are. And I love you.

And all shall be well...

For a number of years, I've written a blog called The Preppy Yogini. Bits and pieces of this blog have made their way into various yoga and book circles. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had The Preppy Yogini be so well received. It's been a lifeline for me in many ways. I've met some incredible people through The Preppy Yogini and it has opened doors for me in ways I never could have imagined. 


And yet, as I wrote in a piece called The Bohemian Sloth, I've felt myself stepping away from my Preppy Yogini persona. I've spent the past 15 months battling cancer, and its physical aftermath, for the second time. No longer am I a yoga instructor. No longer am I particularly preppy. It's been a time of great changes in my life...in what I can do, in what I want to do and to what I will aspire. Blessed Julian of Norwich was an anchoress in the 14th century. She was quite literally walled into Norwich Cathedral. She had two windows: one opened into the cathedral, so that she could be a part of the worship in the church. The other window was outside. It allowed her to receive food (and I'm assuming, to get rid any waste). More importantly, it allowed her to speak with people, to pray for them and to be a part of their lives. She was a mystic and a little "out there" in her theology. And yet, she was also ahead of her in many other ways. She felt God's presence as a Loving, Kind Mother. Imagine that concept in the medieval world!


While the idea of being walled up anywhere is terrifying from a claustrophobia standpoint,  I have to admit that I felt some affinity for Blessed Julian for the past year. While I've done some traveling and I have gotten out of the house, I have also been home more than ever have. I've always been a doer, a mover, a goer and a 'be right in the thick of things' kind of woman. I've worked, I've volunteered, I've gone out to lunch with friends and noodled around art museums. I have spent more time in quiet contemplation, over the past year, than ever before. It's a heady thing. I've had to learn how to simply be in peace without anyone else to entertain me. I've learned so much in the past year...most of it having to do with meditation, harmonious quiet and silent images. I'm done a great deal of praying. I've read a tremendous amount, even for a bibliophile like me. I've come to appreciate the beauty in stillness in a way I never had before. I've always been an admirer of Blessed Julian, but I've come to understand her better...even in the smallest way...to know what it's like to simply be alone.

My new blog,  And All Shall Be Well, will not be  a collection of my own life experiences and lessons from, as I had in The Preppy Yogini. It's my goal to write short essays that may be used in meditation, for inspirational reading, for prayer and for uplifting imagery. This won't be a running diary. Rather, it will simply be a tool for others to use in their quests. I like to describe myself an Episcopalian with dashes of Jewish roots and twists of Zen. I feel honored and blessed by Native American, Celtic and Norse traditions. And All Shall Be Well is most definitely written with God in mind and in heart. But, I'm hopeful that, whatever one's faith tradition, there will be illuminating pieces that will speak to many. I plan on drawing from many sources for my own inspiration.


St. Paul wrote in Philippians, "Finally, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honorable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things."  It's my hope that the pictures I'll paint with my words will uplift and will be worthy to 'think on'.


(Note: I will not take down The Preppy Yogini, I've accomplished what I had hoped to..and will continue to update. But, I hope you join me as I work on And All Shall Be Well. Namaste, Peace and Thank you.)

Idea boards....

The way to get good ideas is to get lots of ideas, and throw the bad ones away.  ~Linus Pauling


When I was growing up, my mother maintained a studio in every house in which we lived. If something struck her as inspiring, she'd pin it up onto one of her idea boards. Her idea boards overflowed, and she also maintained files to hold bits of thoughts. Some of these were fabulous quotes that she found intriguing. Others were cartoons from the New Yorker, or even whole articles. Most often, however, these were bits of fabric, photos or sketches to do with design. Mom was the art director for her family's paper goods company, and it was her job to coordinate between what was happening out in the world with her artists, and balancing that with her own sense of the creative process. As she moved into the hotel business with my father, she wore two hats; one was her continued vision for the paper goods company, but she was then also responsible for designing the spaces at my parents' Santa Barbara resort, both inside and out. My grandmother was the same way. She had ideas in design neatly organized in her sewing room...which doubled as her drawing room, sculpting room, painting room and craft space. Grandma was the most talented dressmaker and landscape artist I've ever known. And yet, she did these as hobbies for fun. I used to look at the idea boards of both my mother and grandmother and wonder how many of these bits of illumination would come to fruition. I loved how they looked...mismatched, yet compelling. They were a deluge of creativity, an avalanche of suggestions.I wanted to frame the boards themselves to keep in my room.


Even though these boards were created to inspire art, they themselves, in my humble opinion were the art. The random gathering of home fashion pulled from magazines, postcards from extraordinary places, fabric swatches, old photographs, handwritten notes from friends and any number of surprising bits of vision. Some of these pinned pieces were to decipher; the gorgeous bedroom, done up in green and ivory, was obviously translated to mean a room to reinterpret...at least in feeling or individual pieces. The scrap with just a few words, the piece of frayed, worn out gingham  or the restaurant menu were a bit harder to understand. I did know, however, that the creative process ran deeply, and that the tired piece of gingham might not be 'about' the tired piece of gingham. Rather, it could be a reminder of an event, whose memory would trigger a design different that the ratty fabric. Significance, I learned, in idea boards, often had less to do with what was up on the board exactly, than it did for what each piece signified. So, in many ways, the pin boards belonging to the most important women in my life were actually a view into the way their minds worked creatively. The items they pinned were archetypal. 


I wish I possessed the gene for creativity and style that my Mama and Grandma have. Grandma could see any couture dress in a store, look at it for a moment, and then go home and make it. Only better. Mama could gather up the most disjointed, unlikely group of furniture and textiles and create exceptional, eclectic and harmonious spaces. Me? I have no sense in either of these abilities. Both women could look at a blank canvas, and could pull forth a painting that seemed to have always existed from within. I can't even draw a stick figure. I have the utmost admiration for this potentiality. I lack depth perception, so I always pick out furniture of the utterly wrong proportion for any room. I can barely hem pants, let alone sew a dress. I can walk into a room I think is dreadful, but have no idea how to change it. Conversely, I can experience a breathtaking space, that just drips style and comfort, and yet be utterly flummoxed as to how to recreate it.

Therefore, when my friends told me about a fun website, called Pinterest, I was certain I'd be unable to do use it. After all, I'm neither creative nor inspired. I don't wake up dreaming about green velvet sofas or styling an outfit around black flats. I wake up hoping for coffee and sunny skies under which to walk my dogs.  Who knew that I'd become a "Pinaddict" within 24 hours of my first pin? My friend, Debbie, was teasing that she's turned so many people onto the site that she might as well call herself a Pin-pusher, "Hey little girl....wanna pin?".


Joking aside, it really is a fun site. You can create virtual pin boards online, maintained by the site...no glue, no cutting, no scrunched up napkins and no running out of thumb tacks. You can find ideas for everything from fashion to Fettuccine recipes and from puppies to painting. The boards begin with a few standard ones...'For the home', 'Food', 'Books worth reason'. The possibilities to create your own, however, are endless. You can borrow ("repin") ideas from other people. This isn't considered stealing, but is the basis of Pinterest! It's the sharing of those things that inspire us and is meant to be a public endeavor. You can also upload photos of whatever takes your fancy...using the handy "Pin It" tool...and thereby, share them with the Pinterest community. I've created a dozen boards so far...and none of them are even close to compete. It's an ongoing process for everyone...we keep virtually "pinning" as long as we choose to.


Pinning is great fun. Pinning does make the "pinner" feel much more creative. Pinning creates a new community. But, pinning is addictive. Don't say I didn't warn you!


But, please excuse me. I have an idea about an all black and white board. I must pin...

Writing

We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing.  Action always generates inspiration.  Inspiration seldom generates action.  ~Frank Tibolt


The most common questions I'm asked, when people inquire about my blogs, revolve around where I find my inspiration. People want to know if I make notes when special events pop up, and if I have a special writing ritual. Do I write for a certain number of hours each day? Do I only write in the morning? Do I keep a journal? What incites me to put pen to paper (or rather, fingers to keyboard) when a thought pops into my head? Do I pitch anything, or do I keep it all? In short, how do I do what I do? 


The short answer is "yes" to all of those queries. I do make notes, when I think about it. I do prefer writing in the morning, though I don't have a time minimum or maximum, and if the muse descends at 2 am, I'll write then. I do keep a journal, although it's mainly written in shorthand notes that even I have trouble deciphering.  I'm inspired by art, by books, by my family, by the circumstances in my life, by exercise, by rest, by food, by friends, by music, by films, by nature and by just about everything else in the world around me. I write whatever is on my mind, and if I think it's not ridiculous, I'll keep working on it. If I think it's dreadful, I'll delete it. I like writing with a cup of coffee by my side, but it's not absolutely necessary. 


The next question, after the "how do you write?" curiosity, is the bigger one: "Why do you write?".  This is the far more complicated posit. I've always written. From the time I was very young, before I had the power of spelling at my disposal, I created little books with drawings on each page. I was able to tell the story to the viewer. Writing has been my medium of choice for communication. I'm an abysmal talker and tend to babble when awkward silences fall. I can't think of the right things to say during countless situations, and therefore, end up with my foot in my mouth, having spoken exactly the wrong thing. I wish, far too frequently, that I could recall my words, just as a fisherman might reel in a line that's been cast astray. Words, once spoken, can never be taken back. 


When I write, I feel as if my voice is the way I want it to sound. If I make an error, it's an error that, at the very least, I've given some consideration. The written word provides me the ability to convey my thoughts in an edited, contemplative manner.  I can delete. I can enhance. I can recreate. I can discover that a tangent is far more intriguing than the original idea. I can let go of all ubiquitous strains, or I can embrace them.  By writing, I can learn what I'm truly thinking and where my heart indeed rests. It gives me a window into my soul, my psyche and my subconscious. I learn more about myself, by reading my own writing, than I possibly could in any other way. Writing, for me, is much like meditation in this way. 


Sharon O'Brien, author and noted Willa Cather scholar, wrote "Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get to work in the morning:  I wanted to know what I was going to say." I quite agree with her. When I sit down to write, the words often take me by surprise. I'm just as excited to see what my fingers type as I would be to sit down and read a novel by another writer. It's a fascinating process to me and I'm often amazed by what emerges. I might sit down with the inspiration for one piece, and another seems to flow right out. I'm always interested in what I'll say next because I learn and grow each time.


"Why do I write?" is the big question. "Because I must" is the answer.

Too much of a good thing

"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?" ~ William Shakespeare, "As You Like It", Act IV, Scene 1


There are very few things in life I like more than curling up in bed. A cup of coffee by my side in the morning, or tea in the evening, my book, my snuggly dogs, a rainy day and my Netflix account....it just all makes for sheer bliss for me. No amount of temptation can lure me away from the coziness that is my favorite space. To quote my cousin Lori, "I love my bed so much I could marry it." 


However, I have learned that even a sloth like myself has limits. Last week I had a lumbar puncture. The old fashioned way of referring to this procedure is a "spinal tap". Dear sweet heavenly radishes, but it was dreadful. After being reassured countless times about how simple, and painless, a maneuver like
 this was nowadays, it did not go well for me. Apparently (and in the 'who knew?' category), I do not have easy access to my spinal column. This is in part just how my body works. It's also thanks to my badonkadonk, which gives me a sway back. Regardless, a ten minute job turned into at least half an hour. And, I was left with a Post Lumbar Puncture Headache. This isn't a lousy "let me take some aspirin" headache. Oh, no. This is a "could someone be so kind as to remove my head from my body?" headache.


In order to avoid more invasive hospital cures, I was advised (even ordered) to take to my bed. I needed to lie completely prone (i.e., no beautiful, elegant pillows propping me up) for a couple of days. I was also advised that caffeine would be beneficial. Despite my pain level, I thought, "Hallelujah! I can do this! Lying in my bed all day long drinking coffee! That's my skill set at last!".  I mused, "Finally! A treatment I was born to do!". 


However, I quickly learned that this activity is, well, just awful. Not only am I used to sitting up while drinking said my caffeine sources, but I'm also accustomed to being able to move about when I feel like it. Despite my marked propensity towards procrastination and sloth, I did have nagging feelings about all the things I wasn't doing. The laundry was getting done! The kitchen hadn't been wiped down! If I forgot something at the other end of the house, it was a "no soup for me" moment.The dogs might be able to go outside through the dog door, but the pitiful way they kept bringing me their leashes showed me that their imprisonment wasn't any more fun than mine. While I did have my friend introduce me to "Dr. Who" on Netflix (a fabulous distraction), I really wanted to go into town. Even though my neighbor went to the farmer's market for me and brought me fresh vegetables, I wished I'd been able to go with her. I missed being with my family in southern New England. In short, the bloom was off the rose. My bed no longer represented a delicious sanctuary. It had become a prison with lovely pillows....pillows I could not use, by the way.


I'm up once more. It's slow and gingerly movement. I'm keeping an eye on the headache from hell. I have to monitor my time up and my periods of rest. I now find myself daydreaming about doing things like climbing mountains in Tibet or a safari in Africa. Just like the child who, when caught eating cake when she wasn't supposed to, and then being told to eat the whole thing, I have find I've lost my appetite for cake. Or, in my case, lying in my bed.


But, the hammock is looking positively captivating.

Nobility and Humility

"Whatever comes," she said, "cannot alter one thing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I can be a princess inside. It would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it.  ~ "A Little Princess", Frances Hodgson Burnett


We have had a challenging month or two. My health has gone from adequately recovering from my December cancer surgery to being in debilitating pain. I have suffered through complex neurological issues that have not only taken all my strength to muddle through, but my dignity, as well. My husband, who has always been a hard working provider for our family, has lost his career. We went from looking forward to spending an extraordinary year planning out our next steps as recent "empty nesters" to just worrying about what the next day will bring. I wait from moment to moment, terrified when, and where, my next bout of seething pain will strike. I am deeply concerned about the unpredictability of our financial situation. There are times I want to be impatient, snappish, angry, bitter, jealous and downright mean spirited. I want to smack the hands of the nurses who can't start my IV's (after three tries). I want to kick the shins of the doctors who don't meet my eyes while telling me "We just don't know" about my medical saga's answers. I am seething when I see less qualified, and less competent, people who are still working in their same positions...and who want to buy bigger houses...when I worry about how we're even going to pay to heat ours.These are not thoughts I'm particularly proud of. In fact, I'm ashamed to be such a grumpy, churlish shrew. For better or worse, I'm exhausted. I'm too worn out from pain, from worry and from fear to be concerned about the social niceties.


Yet, when I think of the woman I want to be "when I grow up", this is not she. The woman I want to imbue is not a despicable harpy. She is a noble, kind, humble, loving gentlewoman. The "fully realized" Ellen of my imagination is about as far as I can travel from my current state of resentful harridan. Somehow, I need to make this transition from one of angry terror to one of gracious acceptance. It isn't easy. If I'm not physically in pain, I'm emotionally distraught. I do realize, however, that it's up to me to rise above these present circumstances and move into being the woman I choose to be. One of my mother's favorites quotes, from St. John of the Cross, keeps coming to my mind again and again: "I am not made, or unmade, by the circumstances in my life, but by my reactions to them".  If I judge myself in this light, I am thoroughly abashed. I have allowed myself to be 'made' by the circumstances in my life...both the good and the bad. I have taken pride in areas which were really no more than good fortune. I have basked in the glory of praise. Because I allowed myself to get caught up in believing I was 'made' by the good circumstances, I know that it's no wonder that I have been 'unmade' by the poor ones. I am ashamed.  Mea culpa.


I believe that this is my chance to grow up at last.I need to let go of letting my situation dictate how I feel. I must "put the ways of childhood" behind me and move into adulthood. The inspiration for desired transformation, ironically, is from my one of my favorite children's books, "A little Princess" by Frances Hodgson Burnett. The protagonist, Sara Crewe, shows exceptional courage and strength as layer, by layer, her carefree, beautiful life is stripped away from her. She's left with nothing, quite literally. And yet, her angelic, compassionate, noble soul shines through. It doesn't matter if she's wearing the latest fashions from Paris, or the rags of a street urchin. Sara Crewe, even as a fictional character in a child's book, embodies the woman I hope to be. She is unfailingly kind. She is loving to those who are wretched to her.  She is generous with what little she has. She is altruistic, accepting, satisfied and humane. 


Therefore, I've set my goal: I want to be a princess. Not the spoiled, nasty type that one sees on "reality television"...no, I want to be a princess 'on the inside'.  I may be in pain. I may be embarrassed. I may be frightened. I may be living with an unspeakable number of unknowns. But, I can be kind. I can be loving. I can remember that if I behave in a way that shows strength, courage, gratitude, peacefulness, acceptance and joy, perhaps that will come true. As Sara Crewe pointed out: it's easy to be noble when everyone knows it. The challenge comes in creating that gentle nobility within myself that is immovable regardless of what happens to me. 


I won't be wearing a tiara. I have never owned a pair of Manolo Blahnik's. My wedding did not take place at Westminster Abbey. Yet, I can be a princess all the time. Perhaps, if I think about how a princess should behave, when confronted with adversity, it will be reminder to emulate one.

Bouncing

Life is not about how fast you run or how high you climb but how well you bounce. ~Vivian Komori


Blue jeans. Shorts. Bathing suits. My sense of balance. My energy level. My personal idea of self-worth. My health. My job. My fear factor and anxiety level. These are all areas that I've discovered are completely different than they were six months ago. My cancer surgery, to remove the Leiomyosarcoma tumor from my abdominal wall along with a good portion of muscle tissue, was half a year ago. And yet, those ripples of interwoven effect are still very much flowing through my life.  


Six months used to sound like a long time to me. I remember saying to a friend, who was an incredible scheduler and planner, than it was hard for me to look a week ahead, let alone six months. This pal was amazing! She'd have a calender of events for her family's life booked anywhere from six months to a year in advance. I was awed by her foresight. In my own life, six months was much too far in the future to fathom. During that time, my children might almost finish a school year, we might get a new car, we might take a trip...it was just a distant horizon. Given the nature of unpredictable, extenuating circumstances, I had an impossible time picturing what might happen half a year away.


The past six months, however, have moved along at a snail's pace. Even after I'd had my surgery, it never even crossed my mind that I'd still be recovering six months later. In my ignorance, I believed that I'd bounce back immediately. I thought my energy level would jump out and greet me with the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy. I was confident that my body would retain its pre-surgical form. I not only thought I'd be back at work as a yoga instructor, but that I'd be an even better one. How foolish I was! I had no clue that six months is a drop in the grand bucket of time from cancer recovery. Every step, every time I'd sit up, every motion I'd make has been an arduous, laborous endeavor. Simple actions that I could have done blindfolded, such as moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer, have taken me intense concentration, followed by rest. Each improvement I've made has been the result of deliberate conquest.


Because so many of these achievements have been 'behind the scenes' ones, just like the laundry, I've felt guilty for not being 'back to my old self'. When my former boss was kind, but clearly frustrated, with my inability to be back to work in February, she hired another teacher. It was understandable. It was necessary. But, my feelings were hurt all the same. If I couldn't push a vacuum cleaner around without causing myself further injury and pain, I clearly couldn't teach the five intense yoga classes per week that I had taught up until my illness and surgery. I wanted to give myself a parade for being able to sit up in a theater. What an accomplishment! But, to the rest of the world, it simply wasn't a big deal. Everyone can sit up! Why was it a cause for celebration to me?


When I read today's quote by Vivian Komori, I felt as if I could breathe a sigh of sweet peaceful relief. I am bouncing! I may not be holding a Warrior pose for 20 minutes with ease. I might not be climbing Mount Katahdin. I'm still not back to my former career. But, I'm bouncing. I'm doing laundry. I'm traveling with my children. I'm cooking dinner for my family. I'm walking my dogs. I'm enjoying the beautiful sunshine. I'm not where I'd like to be, but I'm on my way there, bouncing as I go.


I've always loved water, and when I was a very little girl, my mom was concerned that my lack of fear about our swimming pool overstepped my swimming ability for a time. Rather than ban me from the pool, she taught me a practical skill: if I ever feel as if I can't swim any further, I need only bounce. I'd push myself down to the bottom of the pool and spring up forward all along the way back to the shallow end. It was invaluable. A few times I really did tire in the deep end. I'd hold my breath, propel myself down and then, pushing off the pool floor, hurtle forward always making progress as I ricocheted along. 


Life has been a bit like that for the last six months. I'll go down a bit and wrestle in the deep end of an area in my life and then hurdle upwards with a new spring in my step. Six months have come and gone. I'm not in the shallow end yet. I still have lots of areas that need attention and work. But, I'm bouncing. It may not be far with each upward movement, but I'm bouncing all the same.

Mother's Day advice from a Veteran Child Wrangler.

Any mother could perform the jobs of several air traffic controllers with ease. ~ Lisa Alther  


When I became a mother for the first time, in 1992, I approached this job as I would any other new challenge: I read every book ever written on the subject. I struggled to rationalize the Sears' attachment childrearing method with that of authors who believed that strict structure was fundamental to a smoothly running home. I read about the merits of cloth vs. disposable diapers, breastfeeding vs. bottle feeding and whether or not to return to work shortly after my son was born. I made sure that my baby's room was neither too dull (so as not to diminish his brain capacity) nor too overstimulating (so as not to overwhelm him). I tried incredibly hard to give myself a crash course in motherhood before my baby's birth. I did everything in my power to create a network of support, a plan of action for each eventuality and a determination to be the best mother ever. 


I failed. Nothing one reads about motherhood can prepare you for having a Lego stuck in your child's nose on Christmas Eve or for the times your dog stands in the middle of your dining room table, at your child's request,  to eat her vegetables.  What I did learn was that sometimes, to quote that infamous movie from the '80's, you just have to say "What the f***."  

Therefore, it's with a little humor, and a lot of experience over the past 19 years, that I can pass along a few tidbits for the modest edification for new mothers:

• It's pointless to write a birth plan. Don't bother. Babies don't have plans and neither do their births. Some will come so quickly that you will barely have time for the doctor to arrive in time to 'make the catch'. Others will hang onto your intestines rather than give up room service in a cozy spot. Trust me. I had one of each.
• Let your baby sleep in your bed if you want to...especially if you're so tired you are unsteady on your feet. Your son will be cozy, safe and happy snuggled up against you. He will not grow overly dependent on sleeping with you. He will not leave for college still snug in the family bed. If he does? It'll be his roommate's problem.
• When another person says, condescendingly, that it's time for your daughter to be weaned, potty trained, cleaning her own room, doing her own laundry or calculating algebraic equations, smile brightly and say "Thank you so much! That hadn't occurred to me!", while going blithely about your own business.
• Read to your child as much as possible. The days will come in which you will beg your son to read a comic, let alone a classic. So, when he asks you to read "Goodnight Moon" for the 300th time in four days, just smile and read. 
• Expose your children to many different kinds of foods as young as you can. Children who eat nothing but hot dogs and chicken nuggets grow up into adults who eat nothing but hot dogs and chicken nuggets. That being said, you will not be a bad mom if you throw hot dogs in the microwave on busy evenings.
• Allow your daughter to wear whatever she wants. The time will come in which she will want to dress identically to her peers and shop in the exact same stores. When she's 3, if she wants to wear her Barbie Ballerina costume for the other 364 days of the year, in addition to Halloween, let her. You'll just be getting your money's worth. Wearing red flowered tights, a purple paisley dress and pink summer sandals all at once (and in January) shows creativity.
• When your son tells you, in 5th grade, that he wants to be a NFL Quarterback, a rock star or a cowboy, encourage him. When he gets his first job mowing lawns, he'll understand the value of hard work for the rest of us.
• Kiss all boo-boo's, cuts, scrapes, aches and pains. It really does help.
• Macaroni necklaces really do go well with everything, including little black dresses. If someone makes a snarky comment to you about your fashion sense, act as if it's a tremendous compliment.
• Let your kids take all the pillows off the couch to build forts, obstacle courses and secret hideouts. 
• Sometimes eating the cookie dough together is much better than baking the cookies anyway.
• Become an expert cheerer through all Little League games, Pee Wee hockey games, ballet recitals and school plays. Your child won't remember your presence, but she will be note your absence. If it's important to him, it should be important to you.
• When your son's heart is broken the first time, let him cry and understand that his feelings are just as valid as they are for someone twice his age. Just because someone is 15, doesn't mean sorrow doesn't exist.
• "Because I said so" is a perfectly reasonable argument.
• Make picnics, go for hikes, swing in the hammock, catch fireflies and build sandcastles together. Summer is magical when you're small enough to believe those warm days will never end. 
• Additionally, make snowmen, put extra marshmallows in the hot chocolate and go through the trouble of dressing the kids in snowsuits on Snow Days from school. When the weatherman announces that your school district is closed for the day, do the happy dance along with your children.
• When another mother's children are melting down at the library, in the grocery store or in an airport, don't judge. There by the grace of God....and so on. Ask if you can help out, instead of making a face at her.
• Take your kids to Broadway to see a musical at least once. The same goes for museums and professional sports games. Let them experience the world as a much bigger place than their own little realm.
• When the worst happens...when there are more bills than there are dollars to pay them, when you find yourself very sick and are scared about what will happen to your kids, when you have to explain the concept of divorce, death, natural disaster, war or poverty, kiss your children on top of their heads and let them know that, no matter what, it will be okay. Kiss them again for good measure.

Above all, remember that there are no perfect mothers. We are all just trying to do the best we can. 

A book by any other name is still as sweet

These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves.  From each of them goes out its own voice... and just as the touch of a button on our set will fill the room with music, so by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart.  ~Gilbert Highet


It should come as no surprise that I'm a book lover, a true Bibliophile. From the first moment I wake up, until my eyes grow unbearably heavy in my head, I am reading. Books, both reviews and in metaphor, have been a large part of this blog, not to mention, my life. I can't remember ever not reading. My mother loves to tell the story of my seething, incensed Kindergarten teacher who told Mom, after my first bewildering day at school, "She knows how to read!", believing that I should be unable to do so, by virtue of my age. To quote Curtis Sittenfeld's wonderful fictional account of the former first lady, Laura Bush's passion for books, "Above all else, I was a reader." I'm sure those who know would feel this is a fitting epithet for me too.


Although I graduated from both high school and college, and was well on the path to an M. Ed., I still maintain that my greatest education has come from reading. I consider myself to be an autodidact. I learned far more about physics from reading "Einstein's Dreams" than I did in class. My passionate love of history was animated far more from essays and fictional accounts than from dry lectures aimed at entrapping fellow students on exams, rather than imparting knowledge. I never knew I could be enamored of geography, philosophy or chemistry, until I began perusing them on my own. I've discovered a world of fascinating subjects simply by turning the pages of a book on a subject about which I knew very little. For me, reading has been a way to shine the light on a world of possibilities...ones I never deemed accessible.


In my blog piece, a couple of years ago, I daydreamed about what heaven would be like for me. I envisioned an English library, with ever changing views to suit my mood. In my interpretation of heaven, every book I've ever wanted to read would be available at my fingertips. I have since gone on to think about my long desire for one of those fabulous library ladders on casters, a la Harry Potter in Olivander's wand shop. I truly stand by this interpretation of my own desire in "The World to Come"...I can't fathom eternity unable to read. 


To Kindle or not to Kindle was a piece I wrote not long after my meditations on heaven. Having borrowed a Kindle from my library, preloaded with a few titles that the staff had picked (two of which I'd already read), I can't say I was impressed. I simply didn't 'get' the big deal of a Kindle. I missed the tactile sensation of page turning. I missed using a bookmark. Silly though it may sound, the ability to watch my reading progress by the advancing movement of my bookmark, gave me a profound sense of satisfaction. I knew I'd miss wandering aimlessly around bookshelves, my hand alighting on a tome that no one had picked up in a long time...feeling as much a discoverer as Christopher Columbus, and realizing I'd come upon a land of treasure.


This opinion of the Kindle recently changed. During my confinement (which I define as an inability to get to the library), my girlfriends banded together and bought me a Kindle and an Amazon gift card with which to purchase e-books. I was in so much pain, and feeling so trapped in my own home, that something I had once 'poo-poo'ed' became a delightfully transporting mechanism. Since simply getting up and walking down the hall was a challenge, I knew that my meanderings around the library or a bookstore would be months off. The closest I could muster would be meandering around the Amazon website, picturing the concept of virtual shelves in my imagination. As tactile as I am, it was a bit of a challenge for me initially. But I came to realize that I could 'pick up' a book by reading sample chapters and I could chose to put that book back down, or to order it on my Kindle. And thus, a new love affair began.


I adore my Kindle now. I bring it everywhere. I can finally travel without having my entire carry-on bag be crammed with half a dozen hardcovers. I can slip it into my purse and sneak a chapter in while waiting in doctors' offices, during boring meetings and ever-so-carefully in the bathtub. I treasure how tiny a space it takes up and how giant a world it opens up for me when I'm reading. I am completely and totally a convert, with all the zeal and enthusiasm of one who has just found a new religion. I now espouse that books, in any form, are still books. I preach the saving of trees to all who will listen. I share the wonder of any book available at any hour of the day or not. I have shown an elderly friend, who is losing her sight, how large the print can be made to suit her. I have helped my mother, who is my soulmate in reading, how to use her new Kindle, and have successfully transformed her into adoring it too. It's become a way of life for me, in just the few months that I've had it.


Given my new creed on the use of an e-reader, has my vision of Heaven changed? Do I now picture something entirely different? No. My imagination, my comfort place and my illusion of where I daydream about is still my wonderful library. I picture Mahogany shelves from floor to ceiling. I can just make out the unbelievably comfortable chair, the side table holding my tea and the beloved wheeled ladder. I can smell the slight mustiness coming from the tomes. But in my eager hands, there is just as much likelihood of seeing a conceptualized Kindle, as there is a leather bound volume. 


As far as my previous opinion, mea culpa. 

Miracles

"There are two ways to live; you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle."  ~ Albert Einstein


I feel incredibly blessed right now. I'm doing very well, and while I still have further to go on my journey of recovery from surgery, I am gratified by how much progress I've made. That said, I have been hearing, with increasing fervor, that my prognosis and recovery are a "miracle". This expression has passed through the lips of atheists and believers in God alike. I've heard it from older people, and from the friends of my teenagers. I know that these utterances of thankfulness regarding my health are meant with love, joy and gratitude. I realize that people are reassured that someone can have a malignant tumor, go through major surgery and then reemerge, healthy, on the other side. I am overwhelmed by how pleased people are on my behalf. I feel astonished that so many have been pulling for me. And yet, I am absolutely, completely and totally, uncomfortable with the word "miracle" when it comes to my recovery.


Why is it that one little word goes down my spine the wrong way? Shouldn't I feel appreciative that, despite sporting a colossal battle scar, I'm one of the lucky ones and therefore, a miracle?  The definition of miracle, according to the dictionary I have next to my computer, is: "an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause."  When viewed in this way, all I can say "Yikes!". I'm not a miracle in this way. If I am, then why was the woman, in the hospital room next to mine, given the news that there was nothing more that could be done for her cancer, but that she would be kept as comfortable as possible until the end? Why would I be spared and she be taken? Who am I that I should be considered "worthy" by God? I'm no one special. I pay my bills, do my laundry, teach some classes, walk my dogs and write this modest, irrelevant blog. Miracles should happen to those people who have the capacity to change the world, not to whining, annoying slobs like myself. I am completely unworthy of a miracle. I have nothing to offer the world in return for my health. 


Perhaps, my discomfort of the world "miracle" has to do with my own inability to give back to the world what I've been given. How can I possibly repay the universe for more years with my family? What do I have to offer than couldn't be more exceptionally lavished by a woman with more talent, more intelligence, better skills, and frankly, more chutzpah? I'm an inadequate miracle receiver. I can't even make toast without burning it! What can I do to improve the lives of those around me, when I whack off the side mirrors of my car with frightening regularity? I'm humbled and bewildered.


Still, as the French writer and satirist Jean de la Bruyere wrote in the 17th century, "Out of difficulties grow miracles". Had I not been diagnosed with Leiomyosarcoma for the second time, I wouldn't have been in a chance to take stock in my life, my circumstances and the blessings that I had already been given. Maybe the miracle isn't my recovery. Maybe it's in the way I choose to live my life from here on out. Maybe it lies within my ability to smile at those people having a bad day, or being kind to everyone I know. Perhaps, it's the delight I've begun to take in the most mundane of tasks. I have a silly kind of joy at being able to vacuum my own floors again. The miracle in my life, I believe, is not my recovery. I put that solely in the hands of my excellent doctors, as well as in my own stubborn sense of hard work when it comes to exercise. The miracle, I think, is what I choose to do from here on out.


Am I a miracle? No, I am not. I remain the same exuberant, goofy klutz I have always been. The miracle lies in the little bits of love I can throw out, like a tiny pebble tossed into a still, deep pond. The circles, ripples and small currents I create in meager ways, may just produce that phenomenal wonder. I can only sit back and watch it unfold.