One of my favorite quotations comes from T.S. Eliot:
“The poet is occupied with frontiers of consciousness beyond which words fail, though meanings still exist.”
I wrote this statement on an index card I kept tacked to the wall above my desk for sixteen years. In that time, I also wrote some terrible poetry but that’s a different story, entirely; one I’ll likely never tell.
What strikes me most about Eliot’s statement is his recognition that we have experiences, sentiment, insights we cannot verbalize – at least not easily – no matter how earnestly we may wish to share them.
The writer seeks to capture an erupting emotion but the subject, the verb, the objects do not cooperate. A precise adjective slips away. An adverb (rarely, please) proves elusive.
Still, I try.
I believe in vain that if I keep at it long enough, if I swap words or manipulate syntax one more time, I’ll get it right. But at what point do I stop? When do I accept what I’ve written is the best it will be? I’ve yet to find the answer to this question no matter how often I turn to T.S. Eliot.
My students used to struggle with their essays. “I know this paragraph sucks,” they’d admit with a shrug to which I would respond, “Then fix it.”
They’d look at me as if I were speaking Latin.
“I can’t fix it, Mrs. Gardner. It’s already written.”
This was one-part laziness, two-parts not realizing their own power over words. I used to remind my students they were the ones in charge. Words do not control you. Words are not alive. They exist for your use. You control the words. So if they aren’t right, keep working on them until they are.
I find this advice humorous now.
How do we know when our work is right?
When I read something I’ve written – a sentence or two paragraphs, an entire page – I often feel as if I’m playing with fresh clay. (I’ll refrain from saying literally here because I know my words aren’t actually clay; yet they feel pliable, something I can push or pull, shift at will.)
I revisit my work again and again, making changes large and small, over and over.
Sometimes what I read seems written by a stranger, appearing on my screen as if by magic.
I came up with that? Huh.
Just as often, I don’t see what I’ve said at all, but instead see what I think I meant to say.
Eventually the time comes when I approach a piece I’ve been picking at for many hours (days, months, years) and the sentences have hardened. They feel like old clay that cannot be shaped anymore. Not without cracking the pot.
Is it funny? Poignant?
Did I accidentally use Latin?
It doesn’t matter. For better or worse, the words are done and I have to let them go even if I suspect they aren’t quite right.
So my friends – whether you are writing or parenting, spouse-ing or human be-ing –
I ask you this:
How do you know when your best is good enough and how do you move forward if it isn’t?
This past weekend, Bill and I went away for a belated celebration of our wedding anniversary and a pre-celebration of my upcoming birthday.
We drove three hours north to Paso Robles while our teenagers stayed home by themselves. For the first time. Ever.
When asked how they’d feel about being left alone, both kids were amenable without being overeager (a small comfort to parents who remember Risky Business all too well).
We then called upon no fewer than six different families (including our next-door neighbors) to be available for contingencies; and as the date approached, we asked Jack and Karly repeatedly if they were still on board.
Some may think this is overkill; others probably think we were insane to leave them at all. To these people, I offer this simple statement:
We know our kids.
For their part, Jack and Karly loved their temporary freedom, rising to the occasion with unexpected kindness toward each other and appreciation of us. When I thanked them for supporting our little vacation, Karly admitted this:
“Mom. It was a little vacation for us, too.”
Indeed, it was.
They got to eat the junk they craved and rest when they were tired. Instead of me nagging them about homework and cleaning up, they simply did it – at some point – on their own.
Because we let them, they took care of their chores, our dogs. Each other.
Of course we were nervous and yes, we missed our kids. They might have missed us back.
But if not, that’s okay, too. That’s not what this is about.
It’s about preparing them to be on their own as much as preparing ourselves to live without our babies sleeping under this roof each night.
It’s the catching of breath each time Jack steps out of the house, his wallet and keys in hand. It’s the details untold after a “Tell me everything!” when Karly returns from her first day of high school.
This tenuous balance of holding on and letting go leaves us grasping at please be carefuls and I love you, toos with crossed fingers and racing hearts.
I know there will be mistakes to forgive and successes to cheer. For them. For us.
But ready or not, they’re building their own lives. It’s our job to give them the tools to do it – brick by brick, breath by breath…
…and then hope our leaps of faith will earn a win-win for us all.
Speaking of winners:
I can’t think of two more deserving recipients.
As for the rest of you? Go buy Heidi’s book immediately. In fact, go buy a bunch of them. They would make excellent gifts for the holidays.
Just be sure to keep one for yourself.
Another first day of school has come and gone and although I’m a woman of words not numbers, I sit in our silent house and count. My son has only two more “first days” before he graduates from high school.
My daughter, three.
When I took a leave of absence from teaching, they were in elementary school. How is it that these babies have grown so much while I still feel so very much the same?
Five years ago I sat at the computer, my days somewhat flexible for the first time in my adult life, and set goals I hoped were attainable. Among them, these:
- Be the best mom ever!
- Be the best wife ever!
- Write the best book ever!
Okay, that last one was lofty. And yet I approached the road to becoming an author with confidence. I believed I could do it. I would do it. After all, I’d waited forty years for these stars to align. I was prepared for this next step. Our family was ready. Eager, even.
So I wrote. I write. I’ve written.
First a memoir. Then a YA novel. A Women’s Fiction manuscript. Short stories and essays. Blog posts. Words for other sites. Still, the days are short and finding a publisher is long.
Especially when you’re afraid.
Of what, you may ask? Well, pretty much everything. But I’ll start with this:
That my manuscripts won’t find an agent (this happened). That I’ll find an agent but no publisher to buy my book (this also happened).
That I’ll sell my book but people won’t buy it. Or they’ll buy it but give it bad reviews. Or they’ll give it good reviews but I’ll have a deadline for the next book I’ll miss. Or I won’t miss my deadline but my second book will flop and everyone will discover I’m a failure.
(These things did not happen but I frequently lie awake at night afraid of things that have not happened.)
So. I fold laundry and wash dishes. I pack lunches and supervise homework. I walk the dogs, restock pantries, mark calendars. I create lists and check clocks; seek things to accomplish, notice what needs shifting, focus on what remains to be done before before before.
I’m very busy achieving the easy stuff. As for the hard?
I wait. And wait and wait.
“Once my guestroom closet is organized, I’ll begin…”
“After Thanksgiving, I can revise…”
“As soon as we’ve unpacked, I might finish…”
“Until the kids are back in school, I really shouldn’t…”
In the meantime, years go by. Half a decade. A chunk of this lifetime during which I’ve convinced myself I’m suspended – held captive by other obligations. This “other” holds me back from accomplishing what remains. I can’t take risks now because because
It’s easier to view the world this way. Easier to believe it’s not your fault you haven’t quite hit your goal (although you’ve certainly made strides). Easier to accept you haven’t realized your dream (although, indeed, it has at times been close enough to taste).
I want Jack and Karly to witness perseverance; to learn they can’t cross the finish line if they place their ribbon in the after after after.
They need a mother who writes and revises and queries and brushes off rejection to begin the process all over again. And so I will.
Because I want them to believe they can accomplish anything if they don’t give up.
I want them to believe, in this small way, that I am brave.
Now, for an example of true bravery, you must read Heidi Cave’s extraordinary memoir, Fancy Feet.
Her story will move you, challenge you, make you believe nothing is impossible.
Hope resonates throughout Heidi’s recounting of a horrific car crash that almost killed her; the breakdown and rebuilding of a broken body and spirit.
Heidi’s journey also plays out in quieter moments: A stoic father saying the words, “I love you.” A hospital orderly helping her wash her face each evening. A future husband bringing her a cup of lemonade.
In each chapter of this book, Heidi’s raw, truthful words depict strength in the midst of unimaginable pain. The sharing of her grief, her determination, her healing is simply breathtaking.
There was so much to live for, she writes in her parting line. So much, indeed.
Please leave a comment sharing what you wish you were brave enough to do and one of you will be selected to receive a signed copy of Heidi Cave’s Fancy Feet.
The rest of you should buy a copy here. Then go be BRAVE.
Yes, you. And you.
So when asked to take a picture to promote this book
(IN WHICH I HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED IN CASE YOU DIDN’T HEAR)
I had to borrow lip gloss from my daughter Karly.
(Although I’d like to think she doesn’t wear this color on her own mouth very often.)
Still, I was determined to work something out for an author bio picture because ohmigosh someone (and by “someone” I mean the amazing Leslie Marinelli) let me be in this book.
I decided I probably needed some nail polish (also borrowed from Karly) and then I dragged a blue bandanna out of Bill’s sock drawer. He wears them to keep the sweat off his brow while running so you can imagine how much I loved tying this onto my own head.
But it was worth it because y’all? I’m a published author.
What’s the book about, you ask? I’m so glad you did. Here’s a blurb from the back cover because I’m still reeling from the bandanna and can’t find the right words to say it myself:
“You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth” is a hilarious collection of true tales by women, for women, about being women—bodily changes, relationships, careers, motherhood, aging, illness, and more—written with the humor and grit that proudly sets In The Powder Room apart.
But be forewarned: we’re holding nothing back. We’re revealing our funniest deep dark secrets—because it’s through our most vulnerable and honest moments that we forge the strongest connections and discover we aren’t so alone after all.
I still can’t believe Leslie picked me, but she can’t back out now because TOO LATE!
For a list of all the fabulous authors in this anthology, visit at In The Powder Room.
And to order the book (because you KNOW you want to) visit my author page at Amazon.
That’s right. I have a freakin’ author page. Who knew I could make one of those?
Well, apparently my mother always believed in me.
And probably Bill, although he does NOT know I borrowed his bandanna for this picture yet. Do you think he’ll forgive me?
Because he looks so much better in it than his wife. With or without the lipstick.
Now please. At the risk of sounding needy, go buy this book here so I can start saving up for my own lipstick and nail polish. (I think my bandanna days are officially over, though.)
I really do love you all.
And a huge thank you to the co-authors. Because of you I get to put this picture…
And in case that isn’t awesome enough, there’s this:
(That’s our book on Amazon right next to David Sedaris. DAVID SEDARIS!)
Yeah. I have no more words.
(Okay. If you know me that’s not true.)
My grandmother turns 90 tomorrow.
As in ninety years.
As in almost exactly twice my age – which will be 45 in eight weeks unless I discover the fountain of youth between now and October 5th.
(Any hints about its locale will be kept between you, me and Ponce de Leon. Pinkie swear.)
My grandma Renis (which – thankfully – rhymes with “tennis”) was 45 when I was born.
It’s strange for me to consider that when she was my age, Renis Ann Anderson was a grandmother already. Even stranger still to think of her being – like me – a wife and mother. A sister, daughter, friend.
Because grandmas are oatmeal cookies and Shalimar perfume; a sweater over shoulders not yet chilly and bobby pins to keep the hair out of your eyes. They are soft skin and warm embraces; gentle compliments for even sub-par achievements. Enthusiastic claps for performances they’ve already witnessed countless times.
My grandmother is a competitive player of games, a fierce lover of her dog, a devoted wife of 71 years.
She reads my blog posts and the comments (for better or worse); she thinks the oil paintings I created when I was ten are beautiful, that the words I’ve written in this lifetime are genius.
She sees only the best sides of me – by design.
Upon reflection, I think my grandmother is one of the few people on Earth who has been able to love me unconditionally – as I expect I will love my own grandchildren and great-grandchildren, should I be lucky enough to have them.
Someday. Not soon. In fact, I hope much later.
I wonder now if they will look at me then and see who I really am:
A flawed person, whose attempts sometimes end in failure; a girl who has been at times selfish, mean or deceptive; a woman who’s striven to be better in the face of her faltering, who still dares to dream and reach and hope and carry on.
I suppose they won’t.
In fact, we are probably meant to know some people only by their bright and shiny surfaces; their goodness and light. They are our examples, our role models; the ones we seek always to please and to make proud.
I’ve spent more than four decades being a daughter, grandchild, sister, friend. In the past two, I added wife and mother to the mix. Eventually I hope to be a grandma, as well. And spending time with my own grandmother inspires me to make this next half of my life better than the first.
To be better in every way – or at least the ways over which I have control.
I’ve known Renis Ann Anderson my entire life but I’ve witnessed only a sliver of her whole self; her lows and highs, joys and sorrows; her losses, wins and ties. I’ve loved the bright and shiny surface that she’s shown her granddaughters and great grandchildren.
But I also know there’s more to her. And I accept that part, too. Just like she accepts me despite my imperfections.
I hope someday to be worthy of this unconditional love; which means the next forty-five years are going to be busy for us both.
So thank you, Grandma. For all that you are. For all that you’ve done.
And of course for all the oatmeal cookies.
With much (much much much) love,
Are you sick of hearing about our house fire yet?
Don’t worry. I am, too. But bear with me through a final post on the subject.
It’s one I have avoided because I hate to cry when I type. But in the end, this isn’t about me. Not directly.
It’s about an assignment I did with my senior English classes for more than a decade.
On the last day of school, I had my students write letters to themselves which they stamped, addressed and turned in to me. I stored the letters for five years. Then I mailed them back.
My hope was that at the age of 22 or 23, they would read their own words and remember:
What their goals had been. Their interests and concerns. What made them the most happy. What they wished might differ in their lives later on.
Occasionally one of them would ask What if we move?
I had them add alternate addresses in the return-label spot. They’d write email contacts below the seal. I even searched for a few students on Facebook when their envelopes came back to me.
But I wasn’t willing to sacrifice the assignment because it had flaws. I knew some kids would never receive their letters, but I decided that the benefits outweighed the costs.
Then our garage caught fire in January and we lost everything inside. A lot of junk, I’ll admit. But also family pictures and old yearbooks. Boxes from my childhood. Writing journals. Diaries. My wedding dress.
Treasures that remain irreplaceable.
The loss that hurts most, however, is the final box of letters from the Calabasas High School Class of 2008.
This was their year to receive their letters. And I’m so very sorry that they’re gone.
I’m well aware that some students wrote nonsense simply to complete the assignment. Others probably forgot their efforts the moment they handed in their envelopes.
But many took pains to be meaningful. They included poetry and artwork. Phone numbers, prom pictures. A few even contacted me with new addresses, anticipating the day I’d send their letters.
And now they are gone.
Believe me, if I could save only one thing destroyed that day, it would be this box of letters. But since I cannot, I’m writing them this five-year-letter of my own in which I’ll share a few lessons I’ve learned as I move forward in this life.
So here goes.
It’s Mrs. Gardner. Your 12th grade English teacher. You know. The blond lady who was crazy about Hamlet. And all of you. The one who tried to memorize everyone’s name on the first day of school.
Yeah. That one.
I’m going to start with the usual old-person advice for the future.
Examine your life. Change what needs changing and fix what is broken. Important detail: Don’t wait for someone else to do this for you or it will never happen.
Smile and cry and laugh a lot. Both by yourself and then again with others.
Say I’m sorry if you do wrong and when people apologize to you, try to be gracious.
Read a lot, of course.
And get regular check-ups. Eat good food. Keep active but also rest when you are tired. In short, carry your body through this world as if it were precious cargo. Because it is.
You are important to me (still and always) so I ask you first to be safe with your health.
But then I also want you to promise you won’t be safe with your heart.
Take risks and welcome extraordinary opportunities; don’t settle for adequate surfaces. Dig deep until you find what moves the ground beneath you. Love spectacularly, in your loudest voice, ignoring whispered fears that your sentiment won’t be returned.
You are loved already and more than you may realize.
I guarantee that, at the moment of your birth, you began collecting hopeless admirers. So admire them right back; then invite newcomers to join your pack.
Surround yourself with people and things and experiences that are irreplaceable to you, despite the knowledge that such surrender carries with it the potential for great loss.
When you lose something you can’t replace, it means you have connected outside yourself – to someone, some moment, some dream – at a level that cannot be recreated.
But this also means your joys on every other day have been that much brighter and more meaningful for having risked such pain in the first place.
Above all, seek out and spread your light continuously.
Because if that’s not the purpose of life, I don’t know what is.
With great pride and respect,
That crazy Hamlet lady.
(But you can call me Julie, now. Please.)
I like dark comedy. A lot.
So I tried to write something funny about the house fire we had in January.
Gave it the old college try, as they say. Whoever they are.
And the truth is that we have laughed. More than once.
- About the call we received that day from the firewood guy saying he couldn’t deliver our shipment. “I don’t know if you realize this, but your entire street is blocked by fire trucks.” (We were expecting a half-cord of wood when the flames broke out. Hilarious, right?)
-About the bill for the first of several payments on the BRAND NEW BRAKES we’d bought:
(Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. It’s classic!)
Surely a sharper writer could slay a post on the humor that ensues when a family of four (plus two dogs and a guinea pig) are unexpectedly displaced from their home for days, weeks, months. Half a year.
I guess I’m still too tired. Or not tired enough.
But there is a story from that day that haunts me, Scrooge-style. One I feel compelled to share today. I call it A Tale of Two Sirens. Naturally.
Because who doesn’t love Charles Dickens? Besides, of course my 15-year-old son. Nevertheless.
It was best of times, it was the worst of timing.
The afternoon of the fire, Bill had gone for a run, uncharacteristically taking his phone along. (In case the wood guy calls!) When the smoke and flames erupted in our garage, he was on the trails unaware of the drama unfolding at home.
Until our daughter Karly called his cell.
He couldn’t understand her hysterical words. Something about a fire. About our house. Bill began to sprint home hoping he’d misunderstood. Surely we were fine and he’d return to discover I had the situation under control.
Unfortunately, I didn’t. Have the situation under control, I mean.
By the time Karly made her call, I’d surrendered to the inevitable. Our home was burning and I was the adult in charge. The one orchestrating the rescue of our dogs. The one allowing flames and smoke to spread while I struggled to keep everyone safe.
I didn’t want to be in charge, though.
Although the minutes seemed to crawl in my head and heart, the fire department responded quickly and it wasn’t long before I caught the first faint sounds of sirens coming toward us. Like music to my ears. Our salvation.
At the same time, Bill also heard the sirens. For him, the sound confirmed his deepest fears. His family was – quite possibly – in danger and he was a mile away on foot.
I fought tears of relief; he tried not to vomit in terror. The rest of the story doesn’t matter. Not today.
What strikes me is the truth about two people interpreting the same information oppositely. Bill and I are both intelligent and caring. Well-intentioned. Conscientious. And yet.
While I heard the sirens as a blessing, they signaled to him a horror beyond his control.
At the time, no one could’ve convinced us we were wrong; and now I find myself considering other issues we, as a society, debate. Staunch in our convictions, we listen to the same speech but hear it differently. We read the same words, yet the conclusions we draw diverge.
On the economy. Religion. With sex, love and marriage. On public education. Gun control. The environment. And health care. What constitutes good parenting.
Wouldn’t it be helpful if – rather than condemning each other – we assumed most human beings have strong opinions for a reason? That where reason fails, emotion takes its place?
Instead, we dash off wicked remarks, hide behind anonymous comments, spread misinformation with our sweeping generalizations. We do not offer the benefit of the doubt; we highlight maliciousness and ignorance. Instead of requesting clarification, we claim the other side must be selfish or insane.
Perhaps some of us are, in fact, crazy. Ignorant. Even malevolent.
But a difference of opinion doesn’t make this so.
We can be passionate about ideals, driven to effect change, angry when the issue moves us; but when we engage in vitriol and debasement, we lose the message in the noise.
We risk amassing an army that’s fighting an entirely different battle than we intended.
Society may never reach consensus on controversial subjects; but as individuals, we can resist the urge to blame and criticize. To claim our opponents don’t care about their families. Their country. Our world. We can treat each other with respect, not rudeness.
Less violence, more compassion.
That’s how we give our voices strength, how we lend meaning to the tenets we embrace.
And therefore, going forward – in both my words and deeds – I promise this:
If you can listen to my opinions without cruel words, judgment or prejudice, I will do the same for you.
Even when I’m sure that I am right.
6:00 AM: At buzz of alarm, leap from bed confident that TODAY you’ll work on your novel. (Your NOVEL!)
6:05 Guzzle coffee while checking email for news regarding previous novel. No news. Decide not to worry because the novel you’re writing TODAY is the bestseller. Definitely.
6:07 Check Facebook and twitter. Click on several links but do not read yet. You have IMPORTANT THINGS to accomplish.
6:20 Construct list of many many things to accomplish choosing from standard chores – laundry, dishes, groceries, bills, bank, dry cleaners, dog-walking, poop-scooping, room-straightening. Consider adding coffee-drinking. Decide that’s silly.
6:30 Awaken older child. Prepare his breakfast. And lunch. Consider adding breakfast and lunch-making to chore list but remember you’re not silly. Discover permission slip that needs completing. Skip emergency contact numbers because you will be at home writing ALL DAY. Add permission-slip-completion to list. Cross out because hellyeah.
7:00 Awaken younger child. Make her breakfast which she doesn’t eat. Eat her breakfast.
7:25 Take older child to school.
7:50 Check Facebook, twitter. Check email. Still no news. Click more links. Don’t read yet.
8:15 Take younger child to school.
8:30 Brush teeth. Floss. Consider adding dental hygiene to list. (Silly.)
8:38 Decide you’ll begin writing your novel at 9:00. Check email, Facebook, twitter. Twice. Read open posts. Do NOT comment (because you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but you can’t read ALL THE BLOGS since you will be busy writing your novel!). Begin drafting new blog post on hurt feelings in the blog world. Call it blogosphere. Switch to blogisphere. Realize it’s 9:38.
9:39 Decide to begin writing at 10:00. Start laundry load, fill dishwasher, make grocery list. Cross laundry and dishes off chore list. Try to remember if you’ve brushed your teeth. Screen phone calls from friends and family who want to know how your writing is going.
10:00 Open manuscript file. Re-read recent pages. Edit. Remember to change laundry from washer to dryer. Check email, Facebook, twitter. Three times. Close internet to avoid UNNECESSARY TEMPTATION. Return to manuscript and re-read today’s edits. Notice dogs look thirsty. Check their water. They have water. Tell them, “We’ll walk later because I’m WRITING MY NOVEL NOW.”
10:45 Write new paragraph of novel!
11:15 Begin thinking about lunch. Consider asking internet if it’s too early for lunch. Remember internet is closed down. Re-read fresh edits and new paragraph. Read blog draft about hurt feelings in the blogisphere. Decide it should be blogosphere.
11:45 Eat leftover chicken parmesan while standing in kitchen. Check clothes in dryer. Realize you never pressed start. Press start. Put new load in washer. Start washer. Log onto Facebook and twitter to announce you forgot to start dryer. Check email. No news. Still. Yet.
12:30 Text writer-friends. Make plans to meet/Skype/talk about writing.
12:45 Decide you’re too busy to shower today.
12:46 Decide you’re too busy to grocery shop today.
12:47 Realize you have less than two hours to write your novel before after-school pickup.
12:48 So. Check if DVR is set to record Top Chef finale. It isn’t. Visit Bravo channel to schedule Top Chef. Notice Vanderpump Rules is on. Feel disdain for horrible programming. Watch rest of Vanderpump Rules.
1:30 Check email, Facebook, twitter. 27 people have “liked” your status re: dryer failure. Bask in popularity via self-deprication. Google spelling of deprecation.
1:40 Realize you’re still wearing pajamas. Don yoga pants, sweatshirt and running shoes to impersonate someone who has exercised. Or walked her dogs. Do neither.
2:00 Realize after-school pickup starts in 30 minutes. Re-read edits and new paragraph. Edit. Write second new paragraph! Calculate when bestselling novel will be completed at current pace.
2:20 Decide math is hard.
2:25 Be grateful you’re a novelist.
2:30. Depart for school pick-up confident you’ll finish entire chapter of bestselling novel TOMORROW. As soon as you’ve
walked your dogs.
Disclaimer: To those reading – especially my parents, my husband and total strangers – – this post is a joke. Like most writers, I’m a workaholic who never wastes a minute of her day. But as Facebook can attest, I am also a master of self-deprication.
You might have heard.
In fact you may be one of the many, many (many) people who has reached out to us in kindness because we’ve been well-supported and loved beyond all expectation.
Or maybe you don’t know me. Or my family. Perhaps this is the first you’re hearing about our ordinary afternoon that took a turn toward the surreal; about an old power strip sparking in the garage, the flames spreading too quickly for me to stop them.
I did try.
But within minutes our garage and all its contents were gone, my car in the driveway destroyed; by sunset we were told we’ll be out of our home for at least six months while salvage experts repair the damage done inside.
Someday I will share the details here. The sound and smell of our panic. The sight of ashes and smoke. I will put to words the fear, that moment of surrender when I stopped saying This can’t be happening.
Because it was happening. It happened. On Saturday, January 12th, at three o’ clock.
But today is not the day to rehash these details. What matters now is that we’re safe. Together. So instead of mourning the letters and pictures, the irreplaceable items we’ve lost, I’ll share the goodness that’s ensued.
There has been so much goodness. And I want you all to know.
- About the people – at least a dozen – who saw smoke and called 911 then jumped from their cars or emerged from their homes to help.
- About a stranger who tried to corral my terrified dogs before they could run back into our smoky house for the third time; the couple two doors up who then kept our dogs in their backyard away from harm.
- About the older gentleman who discovered my daughter sobbing two blocks away and walked her safely back to me when I’d been unable to find her.
- About the firefighters from Stations 34 and 37 who arrived in twelve trucks to save our home and attend to our health and welfare; respectful and calm, their faces spoke a truth: This is what we do, what we’ve always done.
- About a neighborhood that flocked to us with coffee and water, blankets and jackets, offers of a place to stay and home-cooked meals.
- About dear friends who dropped everything to care for Jack and Karly or loan us a car; friends who found a permanent home for our displaced guinea pig and friends who took in our beloved dogs until we could find a rental property to accommodate us all.
- About an English teacher who collected donations from her high school students who willingly opened their wallets, handing over lunch money to help a freshman boy they’d never met.
- About our karate studio that filled baskets with comfort items and snacks, kitchen supplies and pictures of my children, their new uniforms and black belts already ordered to replace those that were lost.
- About the flood of love, the messages of concern, the sweet phone calls that lifted us up when we were too foggy to see clearly.
We’re still too foggy to see clearly.
But what I feel is a triumph of the human spirit in our time of need.
I’ve witnessed firsthand the power of generosity over selfishness; of good over its counterpart. I believe that we waste our perilously short stay here on earth – our finite resources of strength and courage – when we spend time fearing others.
Call me naive, but I think the vast majority of us wants nothing more than to be needed. Wanted. Embraced.
And I know the smallest bit of light still conquers darkness.
This is the piano bench that belonged to my grandparents.
I found my old sheet music inside. “La Cathedrale Engloutie” means The Sunken Cathedral. It’s been three decades since I played this song. But I can hear it now. Inside my heart.
…and all you get is this lousy poem.
(In which I showcase our true natures.)
‘Twas two weeks before Christmas in 2012,
Once more into poetry’s breach I shall delve.
Sure, laundry needs folding and cupboards are bare;
But dude! I’ve got people who still claim to care
About what we Gardners have shoved up our sleeve.
So here you go, readers. It’s time to believe:
The kids rooms aren’t messy, their homework’s all done,
Their desks overflow now with trophies they’ve won.
Stanford and Harvard keep calling our home;
(Too bad I’m not here or I’d answer the phone.)
Both dogs have stopped digging and puking and such;
They won Best in Show because we have the touch!
The guinea pig’s Gifted; he cleans his own cage,
Our house smells like rosemary, parsley and sage!
Yes, all of my manuscripts finally have sold
And Bill has retired since our family struck gold!
(Or maybe it’s silver. I just can’t recall.
Achievements get blurry in bulk, after all.)
And yet I can still pull my tongue from my cheek
To say such perfection is not what we seek.
No, we push for happiness; savor our time,
Togetherness, warmth, off-beat rhythm and rhyme.
Before our walls echo with empty kids’ rooms,
We’re letting things slide while the family still blooms.
With teenagers, driving tests, high school and more,
We’re holding on tightly and locking the door.
(Not really. It’s thrilling to watch the kids grow.
It’s just that we wish that the pacing would slow.)
So speaking of wishes, this list is for you;
And though I was joking before, these are true:
Hope your steel is stainless, your dentistry painless,
And that your co-workers aren’t terribly brainless.
May your rugs be well-braided, your stains (mostly) faded,
Your heart bright and friendly toward others, not jaded.
Hope you’ve got corn for popping and whipped-creamy topping,
Plus carts that aren’t squeaky when you’re grocery shopping.
May your gifts all be nifty, your giving not thrifty,
Your greys come in shades that are better than fifty.
Let’s try to give more and to judge a lot less;
To look at the artwork and not at the mess.
(I told you I had laundry to do.)
When asked for a sacrifice, let’s grin and bear it.
Good fortune’s made better when we can all share it.
Be humble and grateful; keep fighting, be strong;
Hear notes in the music, the words in the song.
And while we are moving our Elves on their Shelves,
Let’s also remember to laugh at ourselves.
Remember that sunrises chase each sunset,
And here’s one more thing we should never forget:
Our world that seems giant is really quite small;
Let peace start with “me” and then spread to us all.
If we were together I’d hug you and kiss you.
But since we are not, I’ll just sigh hard and miss you.
At least we share space on this big rolling sphere.
I thank you.
I love you.
Don’t blink, my friends. Just don’t.
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