THE BIG SAD

There was a small bit of graffiti that Michael and I passed a few times while roaming New Orleans. It simply said “Big Sad” with a sad face drawn under the words. I didn’t take a picture of it, which is weird because I took lots of graffiti pictures, but for some reason never pointed a camera at this one. It sparked a small conversation when we first noticed it. I said to Michael “You know how sometimes things make you a little sad? Like, I’m out of ice cream; this makes me a little sad. Big sad is reserved for things like when your favorite ice cream shop closes.” I told him that I think I’ll use Big Sad more in sentences.

Leaving New Orleans made me big sad.

On our first night in the city, we took a forty five minute walk through the Garden District to get to a dinner reservation at Basin Seafood. I was smarter on this trip and did some research, made reservations so we wouldn’t be floating with indecision on food choices. I found Basin on Eater in their best oysters on the half shell list. It’s a small but elegant restaurant on Magazine Street and the food there did not disappoint. Michael got the short ribs served on cheesy grits, which I tasted. They were the best grits I have had in years and the oysters and lima beans were so good that Michael, who does not really like raw oysters or lime beans, left thinking that maybe he was a raw oyster/lime bean eater.

On our walk to the restaurant, even on the walk back, we took turns pointing out various houses. Every time I saw a ‘For Sale’ sign I’d say “We could buy that one. We could live there.” I believe I even mentioned at one point that I had not seen any yoga studios in that area. “We could buy that one and I could open a yoga studio downstairs while we live in the top half.” Michael nodded and mumbled vague agreements each time I said something like this. While he agrees that we should visit this city often, he is less keen on the idea of living there full time. To be fair, summers would probably kill him. March is a tease in New Orleans. The weather was perfect with bright sunny days and cool breezes. The summer months are steamy and full of hurricanes (not just the fun boozy kind). I don’t know why I didn’t notice this on the last trip, but on our drive into New Orleans, we passed many stilt houses that you could only access by boat. “The only way to get to that house is by boat. What if we lived in house like that?” Those houses sparked more interest because Michael wants a boat. I think I wouldn’t be able to handle that kind of isolation. I need the street sounds and the strolling paths. I require the earth under my feet to be less squishy. Though, I wouldn’t mind kayaking through the swamps on weekends.

You know when your time in a place is time well spent if it breaks your heart a little to leave that place. In my case, I feel like I am always leaving something behind in New Orleans, something of great value so that I must return again soon to retrieve it. Then I leave something else and must return again, repeating this loop until maybe I’ll get that place out of my system. Maybe one day, it just won’t have the same appeal. I did notice a number of houses up for sale as though some of the residents of New Orleans have given up on the city. It didn’t seem as crowded with tourists this time around, but honestly we didn’t venture too deeply into those places. We skirted around them and into those residential areas that are often ignored by our government. That’s where you’ll find the best fried chicken and a Banksy that’s been left untouched by other graffiti artists or painted over by the shop owner.

We stopped in Mississippi on our way back north to meet my cousin for lunch, a cousin I haven’t seen in almost twenty years. I didn’t expect the feelings of joy and delight in seeing her face and hugging her tight. It was almost as if there had been no space or time between us since our last encounter and I confess that tears welled up in my eyes when we said our goodbyes. She had asked if we would be traveling up through Louisville, the town where our parents had grown up, where Pepaw’s house and shop used to be. I told her that I couldn’t stomach to drive through there knowing those places were gone. My cousin said she felt the same even though she lives close, she always makes a point to drive around. It’s too hard to see the empty spots that once held so much. I wiped tears from my cheeks as we drove north through that state, brushing away my complicated feelings. It might sound as if I didn’t have a wonderful vacation. Complicated feelings and tears and melancholy and all. The truth is, the trip was too good. Misti sent me a text asking if I’d had a good adventure and I burst into tears because this adventure had ended. I am still full of oysters and crawfish. Making this week’s menu was a challenge knowing that nothing I make is going to taste as good as the food we ate last week. I don’t cook with bacon fat or ham juice. And I ate plenty of things cooked in meat juice last week, plus a piece of fried chicken.

Recently, I sat down to evaluate the wordy collage I had created for the things I wanted to do this year. I listed all the things that had been completed, made a list for things that have been planned and a list of things that are still a work in progress. I was surprised by the number of things that I have already completed. When we got home, I took New Orleans from the planned list and moved it up to the completed list, but not before noticing that I have several adventures still sitting in the planned section. I’ll be back in New Orleans in a couple of years. I have to retrieve a valuable item and leave an equally valuable item behind. For now, I have hundreds of pictures left to be processed and I will take my time pouring over each photo, savoring the memories.

I’m big sad this adventure has ended but I’m really excited about the next adventures.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

If you have not ever watched the series Big Love, I’m sorry. There are major spoilers ahead. In the series finale, Bill the head of the family is no longer with us. What is left behind is his three wives and nine children. They are still living in their three separated houses. Those houses are right next to each other, looking like all the other houses in the neighborhood from the front, but with one giant communal backyard in the back. This is how they lived through out the series. The thing that is different in the finale is not just the missing father head, but how these women have come together to make this family work in a way where everyone feels supported in their choices for their own lives. In fact, the family unit works better and more harmoniously now than when Bill was around.

I was riveted with the concept of this show. Chris and I watched every episode, having long discussions about the events from each episode, breaking down scenes. The show ran for five seasons and usually when one gets invested in a TV show, there is a little bit of sadness to see it end. I wasn’t not sad to see the end of Big Love, but that final episode was the perfect way to wrap up a show of complicated relationships. The final scene of the family all coming together, making time out of the lives they have built for themselves (and thriving in) to sit together for dinner has never left my brain.

I want a house with a crowded table
And a place by the fire for everyone
Let us take on the world while we're young and able
And bring us back together when the day is done

- Crowded Table, The Highwomen

On Monday evening, Robin and Summer came to my house where I fixed a pot of stewed tomatoes and black-eyed peas with collard greens and cornbread. It was a meal of comfort and as we sat slurping spoonfuls of black-eyed peas, I once again thought of that final episode of Big Love. I even talked about it with Robin and Summer. I said “This is what I want.” Tuesday evening was my last evening to spend with them. This time they made me dinner and we sat at the table in the Airbnb, enjoying our meal together. There is comfort in sitting around a table at the end of a crazy work day and breaking bread with your chosen family.

I have said this before. I have talked of my dream community of friends with one giant backyard and evening meals shared at a great big table. I imagine the table filled with chatter and busy with passing around serving dishes of steaming nourishment. Laugher is always involved. Demanded even. The care of the community is not the sole responsibility of one, but the responsibility of all of us. Community is not defined by proximity. Amani sent out a call for stories of goodness to pull her out of a dark funk early in the week. It did not take long for her little post to fill up with comments of goodness. Not surprising. She has a collected a large number of good humans. Many of us have a similar collection and this is our community.

Sometimes, I scroll through the list of people Facebook thinks I know and who I should send out friend requests to. I am always so intrigued by the connections between the people in this list and my current Facebook friends. I am even more intrigued by the mutual friend situations that happen in Facebook, how these friendships overlap. My community of good humans overlaps with Amani’s community because my community includes her and when I share my own stories of goodness those people in Amani’s community see’s it too. In caring for one single person in my chosen community, I end up caring and supporting an entirely different community than my own.

I still want my imaginary community of houses with a shared backyard, with a fire pit we gather around in the evenings. I want a great big table where we sit together for our evening meals. I want all of that, but I don’t need it. I don’t need it because I already have a beautiful community and we all may be spread out across the country, but we still care and support one another.

Because this is how communities work.

2022 IN PICTURES

It is the time of year where I like to take a moment and look back on all that happened in a year’s time. It’s important that I do this before I start jumping ahead to the new year. My brain is already buzzing with things I want for 2023 and lately the buzz hasn’t gotten so loud that I want to start screaming like that guy studying for his midterms in Real Genius. Looking back on the year is helping my brain be less buzzy. I did some real self care work and earned a Self Care Advocate certificate of completion. We traveled some and we had moments of being silly. We made good on a promise to take the Cabbage to Canada, but what I really see when I look back at my pictures for this year is love. I captured so many moments of love. Family, friends, friends succeeding at things, people celebrating love, so much love. I want more of that in 2023.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Don’t let yourself only love one thing. Because if you only love one thing and that thing goes away? Well…then you’re left with nothing. And that sucks. - Bunny Folger, Only Murders in The Building

When I heard this line while watching Only Murders in The Building, I made Michael rewind the scene so that I could accurately jot the line down in a notebook. The words seemed important to me for some reason. While the character speaking the line was referring to her life’s work as the board director for her apartment building, I feel that this line goes deeper than just one’s life work. It can be easy to turn all your love and devotion onto one idea.

I wonder how my life would be now if I had only allowed myself one thing, one interest, one person. I probably wouldn’t notice how I had limited myself until the one thing was gone. I drank the kool-aid of interdisciplinary curriculum during my undergraduate years and made it a point to surround myself with more than science, building my own circus family in the process. Except, in a way I did love one thing. A person. It is no secret that I still love that person even though he’s gone and has been for awhile now. I think the thing Bunny failed to realize on her last day of living was that you can love just one thing. You can devote your life to it, fully immerse yourself into it and soaking in it so that your fingers are perpetually wrinkled. You can do all of that just as long as you recognize that everything is temporary. If you can love that temporary thing that much, then you can love something else when it is gone. All that is required is that you keep your open to the idea of something else, something more.

If anything, loving one thing teaches you that you have the ability to love.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Josephine turned seven last week. I did not mention it earlier or make a big deal about it. She got a haircut and a new bone. Then I cradled her like a baby and showed her pictures of herself when she was a tiny puppy. Goodness, she was so little. I felt my heart lurch when I realized she has been with us for seven years and then I whispered to the God of puppies to please slow down time.

I’ve had a number of friends who have had to say goodbye to their elderly pets this year. When Chad and Jess lost Moses early this Spring, every time I went to their Instagram feeds, I would burst into tears. My friend Kelly and her husband said goodbye to their Sadie just this week and my heart aches for them. My friends, when you lose a pet, we are all mourning that loss with you. It just seems so unfair that these creatures who make such a positive impact on our lives do not get to stay with us through the whole of it. Oh wait…that happens with some people too, but at least with dogs, you go in with the knowledge that they can’t stay with you forever. This is why I do not celebrate Josephine’s birthday. Instead, I focus on celebrating her everyday existence.

When I took her to the groomer’s that morning, she walked in and happily greeted every person in the room. She was so happy and wiggly to meet new people, but as soon as I turned to leave, she froze with a look of shock on her face. I could almost hear her tiny voice say “But wait…what’s happening here? Are you leaving me?!?” When I ask the groomer how Josephine behaved, they always tell me how lovely she is. “Schnauzers have a reputation for not being nice during grooming.” This has been said to me more than once. The best thing about picking Josephine up from the groomer’s is when they bring her out and she sees me. Then she tries to frantically run to me, but can’t gain any traction on the tile floor and she just ends up running in place like a cartoon character until I get to her. Then she throws her tiny body at me, jumping up and down as if begging to be picked up.

This is really not much different from how she greets me at the end of every work day. No one in my life is as happy, excited and elated to see me as Josephine is. It might be true that she is always happy and excited to meet a new friend, but all that joy and excitement is multiplied tenfold when she sees me. If I leave her with Michael for a weekend, she mopes around the house until I’m home, sleeping in my bed all by herself. She intently listens for the sound of my car and will be waiting right on the other side of the door when I get home. The minute the door is opened, she attacks me with love.

I am so grateful to have this little dog in our lives. Josephine encompases everything I could ever ask for in a dog. She’s sweet and smart. She’s silly and sometimes naughty, but not too naughty. She’s hilarious and she’s a cuddler. She loves me with not just her whole heart, but with her whole being. I hope she knows that I feel the same way.

ICE CREAM STORIES

I wrote this post over a week ago. It has just been sitting in my drafts waiting for me to do something with it. I’m posting it now for a number of reasons. One reason is that it is something new to read while I finish compiling some thoughts from the weekend. Not too long ago, Atlas Obscura was offering a four part writing workshop on telling stories through ice cream. They have been advertising in the daily newsletter that I get in my email and the first add asked “Can you tell stories with ice cream?” I did not sign up for the workshop. I am sure I could have benefitted from it but I already knew without a doubt that of course you can tell stories with ice cream. My whole life is linked to that creamy sweet wonderful dessert. It is genetically encoded in my DNA to love ice cream. It is also genetically encoded into my DNA for my gut to not love it so much, but I don’t care. I will eat the ice cream and suffer the consequences later. I’m talking about ice cream. Not custard. Midwest is all about custard, which is good, but it is not ice cream. Look. It’s just better to not get me started, but I will say that Michael was almost forty years old before ever eating at a Braum’s and that is a goddamn travesty.

“You mean I can get any flavor ice cream as a shake instead of a drink with my hamburger meal?!?!”

Mom told me a story once about my Pepaw, her dad. She said that Pepaw would make ice cream every evening. It always contained whatever fruit was in season and growing around them, but his favorite was peach. She told me about how they would all eat a bowl of ice cream after dinner. Then they might go to the movies or church or some family activity. When they got back, Pepaw would eat another bowl of ice cream. She said “Your Pepaw loved his ice cream.” Pepaw rarely made the drive from Mississippi to Oklahoma to visit. We most always went there, but I vividly remember the times that he did come and stay. One visit in particular was right around my high school graduation. I still had school activities every day, but when I would get home, my Pepaw would say “Let’s go get ice cream.” I would then drive us in my 1980 Chevy Cavalier into Owasso for ice cream. That car was the car that replaced my first hunk of junk and it was so nice, except the air conditioning didn’t work. Still it seemed like quite the upgrade from what I had been driving. At least this car had whole, working seatbelts. Pepaw was the only person I would allow to smoke in my car. The truth is, I would never have denied him anything. I got so little time with my Pepaw and of that little time I did get, only a bit of that was alone time. During that visit, it was just the two of us driving into town, sitting at a plastic table outside Braum’s and eating ice cream. Our conversations varied, but he told me his regrets. He told me that he loved me and that he was very proud of me. This meant more to me than the ice cream because I didn’t think Pepaw really knew me. We only ever saw each other once or twice a year.

Pepaw could be the first chapter of my ice cream stories, with several chapters to follow that. Ice cream is a link to every man in my life. That boy I had a I huge crush on my freshman year of college and how the two of us would always make the ice cream run for whoever was hanging out in the dorm lobby . Chris and how he always used “let’s go get ice cream” to trick me into going to Best Buy. Michael seeing me mad, cranky or sad saying “Do we need ice cream?” and then driving me to my favorite ice cream place. Dad and vanilla ice cream. I could go on and on because there are many ice scream stories to be told.

While I was wrapped up in a yoga silk the other night, I started thinking about physical pain and how that pain gets stored in our bodies. The facia is that membrane that surrounds the muscles. Think of it as cellophane. Each moment of pain twists, wrinkles and knots that facia. Some knots are bigger than others and those are the ones we tend to remember most clearly. I can still vividly recall the pain of getting my tonsils removed at age seven and the pain from doctors attempting to reset my broken right arm when I was ten or eleven. Strangely enough I do not remember the pain of breaking my other arm two years earlier. I guess breaking both bones in two doesn’t hurt as much as cracking a bone? Once, while riding Katrina’s bicycle, I turned a corner while going too fast and I laid the bicycle down, sliding the right side of my body down the road. The memory of that moment is more vivid due to my calm reaction as I stood up. The neighbor had watched the whole thing and asked me if I was okay. I leaned over, picked the bike up and shrugged while saying “I’m fine.” It wasn’t until I had the bike parked safely and was inside the house that I allowed that pain to flood over me and cry. All of those moments are stored in giant knots of facia in my body. It only takes a nudge to bring the memory of that pain to the surface.

I have zero memories of the pain of brain freeze from eating ice cream. Oh, I know I have had it happen to me as a child and even as an adult, but the memory of that pain is not held someplace in my body for later recall. I suppose that is why I repeat the action that causes this pain over and over again. It’s why we all do. The reason that brain freeze pain doesn’t stick itself into the fascia is because the action comes with sweetness and joy. There is usually some giggling involved. Brain freeze is a physical pain of joy and that joy tends to overrun the pain. It’s like love. We love even though we know at some point we are going to end up broken hearted because the sweetness and joy outweighs the pain aspect of loving.

CAN YOU TELL ME HOW TO GET TO SESAME STREET?

No two alike

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A few weeks ago I caught the tale end of the 50th Anniversary celebration of Sesame Street on PBS. Watching it made my heart swell up with joy and then hearing all the guests tell stories of their favorite Sesame Street moments, killed me dead. I don’t think I could choose just one favorite moment. My favorite moments was every time Kermit or Grover sat on the brick wall, talking to a little kid. At the end of their conversation Kermit or Grover would hug the child. This is where I learned jealousy. I wanted to be that little kid so badly and I wanted to be hugged by Kermit and Grover. I just knew by looking at the kid’s face that getting that hug was the best feeling in the whole wide world.

I’m not sure that I learned my ABCs or numbers from watching Sesame Street. Actually, I don’t remember learning my ABCs as much as it just seems like I always knew them. I was reading before I started kindergarten. The lessons that I did learn from Sesame street are far more important than the ABCs or learning to count in Spanish. Sesame Street taught me that the world outside of my white rural bubble was filled with all kinds of people. Different colors. Different beliefs. Different needs. So much difference yet we all need, crave and offer love. For a long time I thought that maybe Sesame Street was making it all up. I would walk around the grocery store with my Mom and look at the people around me. You could not walk into the grocery store without saying hello to someone you knew. We all knew each other. We were all the same color, same religion. I would look around and wonder “where are those families that I see on Sesame Street?” Sesame Street showed me that my life was missing diversity.

I learned more about diversity and loving kindness from Sesame Street than I did from my own church.

Last night, I watched Joan Ganz Cooney and Dr. Lloyd Morrisett accept Kennedy Center Honors for Sesame Street. Big Bird and Elmo and Grover and few others all took the stage to celebrate. I still stare at Big Bird with the same awe and joy as I did as a small child. Sesame Street still brings joy to my heart and when the whole audience stood up and started singing along to Sing A Song, I knew that this joy is contagious and true for all of us.

So, what about you? What’s your favorite Sesame Street memory?

THANKFUL FRIDAY

4 ever

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We love. It is inherent to our nature, to love, to desire, to want to be desired. Love comes in many different forms. The love a mother has for her child is different than the love she has for her partner who helped create that child. Love is big. Love is small. We all love. The old saying of “you can’t always choose the one you love” holds some truth. If love was a choice, I’m not so sure it is something I would choose some times. Love has consequences. Love can be illegal. Interracial marriages were illegal for years. It wasn’t until 1967 that Supreme Court ruled that banning interracial marriages violated the 14th Amendment. Same Sex marriages took much longer to be recognized, but there are now 26 countries recognize same sex marriages.

There are at least 14 countries where homosexuality is punishable by death.

You could be put to death for love.

This year marks the 50th Anniversary of the Stonewall riots. Our government kept lists of known homosexuals and favorite meeting places. Cities would routinely do raids to rid neighborhoods of gay people. In the early morning hours of June 28th, New York City police raided The Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village. The usual protocol for these raids was to line everybody up and check IDs. People dressed as women were to accompany a female police officer to the bathroom where they would have to ‘verify’ their sex. That night, the patrons of the Stonewall Inn refused. No one produced IDs and no one was accompanying a female officer to the bathroom. The Police just decided to haul everyone in to jail. Crowds started forming outside while patty wagons pulled up out front and police started loading patrons into the wagons. One woman who was struggling and yelling and complaining about her cuffs being too tight was hit in the head with a baton. She looked at the crowd and yelled “Why don’t you do something?” That’s when the crowd became a mob and things got violent. Crowds surged forward to help those being arrested. Things like bottles and rocks were thrown. The riots and demonstrations against the raid would last for six days. The Stonewall Riots are considered by many to be the event that would expand the LGBT civil rights movement. Two years later, New York City would host the very first Gay Pride Parade. The Stonewall Inn was declared a National Monument in 2016. I have a stamp for it in my National Parks Passport.

It is hard to imagine the Stonewall Inn riots happening today. It’s hard to imagine a lot of things happening today, yet here we are. Still hating and discriminating. Some times I get really bogged down by this. How is it if we teach God is love and love is an inherent human nature, can we still be so hateful to one another? Then I am reminded that those who hate, hate because they were taught to hate. They hate because they were not shown or taught to love. They hate because they are jealous of the freedom to be the person they are and love the person they love. They are jealous of that acceptance, of the comfort that comes with being true to one’s self. I don’t say this to excuse them. But if you know the why, you just might be able to find a way to change it.

Love trumps hate.

I am thankful for those who came before me who have fought so fiercely for love.

YAYA MAGIC PANTS

Light catchers

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We gathered at the Yokalanda Lodge and Camp for Youth. The camp is nestled in the Yokalanda Woods. Established in 1957 by Earl and Rosie Feldstein, the camp has been a summer haven to underprivileged youth from all over the country. There are twenty cabins scattered through the hills and at the center of it all is the main lodge. The lodge is the beating heart of that camp. The main open room of the lodge is where all the campers gathered for meals and inside crafts. Depending on the weather, s’mores and stories were shared around the large fireplace that sat it one end of large room. In 1965, Earl died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack. Finding herself unable to manage the camp, Rosie sold the camp and property to Billy and Ayleen Hershel.

Billy and Ayleen had originally planned to turn the camp into a commune. They had invited fifteen of their closest friends to join them in communal living, raising goats and growing their own vegetables. Ten of those friends agreed. That first year started off with the worst winter the area had ever seen with record snow fall and below freezing temperatures. The goats that didn’t freeze, were taken by wild animals. The hilly landscape proved to be too rocky for planting. The ten people who had agreed to join Billy and Ayleen all agreed now that communal living was not for them. Billy and Ayleen were forced to sell out to Carry and Diane McNabb. Carry and Diane turned the camp back into a summer camp for youth. After all this time, the two women still ran the camp, though in recent times and with less funding, the camp has seen better days. To make ends meet, Carry and Diane have opened up the Yokalanda Lodge in the off seasons to various retreats. Just last month an up and coming tech company rented the retreat for a managers training session. The Pakempsey Shakespearean Company rented out the camp for a whole month while they rehearsed their summer traveling program of King Lear. This weekend the Yokalanda Lodge was hosting a small group of artists for a weekend of workshops built around unlocking creativity.

The weekend consisted of various workshops of various themes such as How to Monetize Your Art, Authenticity and Integrity in Creativity , Conquering Your Fear of Success and Telling Your Story. There were trust falls and roll playing and vision board building. But the real breakthroughs happened outside of those workshops. In the evenings, after their communal vegan dinner, the artists would break off into smaller groups gathering around campfires and on cabin porches. There was always wine and the occasional passing of joint and they told each other their deep fears and they opened their souls to each other. It was in these moments that true cathartic release occurred. Tears flowed. Realizations were made. Plans were formed. Pacts were made. Bonds were formed. By the end of the weekend, as cars were being loaded up and cabins were being swept clean, the artists of that weekend retreat found themselves each quietly trying to process their experience from the past two days. Words were barely spoken until all were loaded up and ready to head out on their separate ways. They gathered to say their goodbyes. This was the moment that proved to be the most difficult of moments. They found themselves unprepared to say their farewells. They held each other tight as tears streamed down their faces. Then they got in their cars and headed out on their separate ways, fortified with their experience of this retreat and knowing that they would always have each others love and support.

That’s probably the best way to put into words what this weekend was like for me. I spent it at the Yokalanda Lodge. I have the bug bites to prove it.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

This man and knowing that the power is back on at our house fixes everything.

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Tuesday morning, I realized that I couldn’t handle another night without heat. So I sent a text to Terry asking if he would take Josephine so that I could deal with laundry and Michael and I could go stay at work. He agreed to meet me around lunch time at my house to get Josephine. Terry walked into our house and said “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to take Josephine. I’m going to take your laundry. Then you and Michael are going to come to my house. I will have dinner ready for you. I’ve put clean sheets on my bed and you and Michael can take my bed for the night.” And that’s why Terry’s a GD hero.

After work and my appointment with Dr. Mary, I stopped by the house to gather necessary toiletries. I pulled onto our street and all the street lights were on. Our power had been restored! I drove over to Terry’s who greeted me with clean clothes and large class of wine. He made spaghetti and brownies and we sat at his table talking about all of the things. It was just the two of us and the dogs. Xander was plugged into his video game on the couch. Clint was plugged into his video game upstairs. It was warm and homey and simply lovely. Then I went home with clean clothes and a played out Josephine and a to-go box of spaghetti. The lights were on in the house. The furnace was going. Michael had started picking up our refuge camp of a living room. There was a letter in the mail from Talaura containing the cutest enamel elephant pin. It was like the sprinkles on the end of that day.

I have such a hard time asking for help. It nearly killed me to send that text to Terry and all I wanted was for Josephine to go some place where she would be warm and not stuck in a crate. And I got so much more than that. Kelly said something in yoga class about how we need to dig in to make connections. I don’t dig in enough. At least I don’t think that I dig in enough to get such love and support. If anything this week has taught me how important those connections are and how important it is to maintain them, to dig in and to give as much as you get. I am thankful for the good people I have in my life. I am thankful for the connections I have made.

I am also thankful for electricity and warm houses.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Chickens

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I stood looking out the kitchen window as I washed our breakfast dishes. It was that time of morning when the sun is just about come up. Every thing was tinted dark and cast in shadows, like looking through sunglasses. I noticed one of the chickens poke her head out of the coop. She tentatively stepped out onto the ramp. It was Marguerite. I watched her as she pecked at the snow that rested on the ramp to the coop. A few seconds later, Foghorn peaked her head out the coop door and looked around. She carefully stepped forward to stand behind Marguerite. Neither of them ventured further than the first few rungs of the ramp and did not stay out long. The two of them carefully turned around and made their way back inside the coop. I assume they are nestled on their perch inside the coop. The four of them packed in there on the perch puts off enough warmth to keep them comfortable.

We’ve had the chickens for almost three years now. Technically, this might be our last year of eggs. They haven’t laid an egg since late September I think. That’s the time of year they all molt and lose their feathers. The chicken run and coop become littered with an array of colored feathers and the chickens take on a patchy Kramer-esc look. Bed head. They roll out of the coop in the mornings with bed head. Michael and I talk about what to do with one of the chickens when they die. We can’t bury them in the back yard. We might be able to put in a chicken graveyard in the front yard. Michael’s afraid he’s going to just have to put the dead chicken in a bag and put it in the dumpster, the same thing we do with the dead things Albus brings home. (Most common sentence in our house starts with “There’s a dead squirrel…”)

We also talk a lot about a new chicken coop. This chicken coop, along with the chickens, has been sort of like our first pancake for chicken raising. Our coop is difficult to access, making it hard to give them water. They recently decided to start laying their eggs inside the coop, but away from the nesting box. I cannot reach eggs that they lay outside of the nesting box. Michael has to reach his long arm into the coop and retrieve the eggs. There’s not a door to the run section and so it has to be lifted up to change out their water. I finally figured out a way to do this on my own, but all the chickens escape when this happens and I’m left with trying to figure out how to get them back in the coop. Josephine does a fairly decent job of herding, but it also looks like she’s attacking more than herding. The chickens end up fleeing to the safety of their coop. We talk about leaving the door open to the coop during the day and just letting the chickens roam free during the day, outside the safety of their chicken run. This has just been talk because secretly we both fear that something bad will happen to them.

Our original plan was to get three chickens. At the last minute, I picked up a chick and cradled her in my hands and said “Maybe we should get four in case one dies.” We took four chicks home and they have all survived. Each one has their own personality. They are not lovey dovey chickens. They barely tolerate being held and they have to be chased. They don’t come up to willingly. Matilda will bite you. But we love them. We love them enough to talk about doing it all over again when we lose these four.

WHAT IS LOVE, BABY DON'T HURT ME

Morning

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My first lesson in love and romance came from one of the many romance novels that cluttered the corners of the house. Mom tended to gravitate towards authors such as Judith McNaught, Danielle Steele and Maeve Binchy. When given some cash and a trip to the book store, I bought Christopher Pike and Dean Koontz and even sometimes, V.C. Andrews. Sometimes out of nowhere the memory of My Sweet Audrina will rise up in my brain. I'll shake my head and say to myself "Gah, that book was so fucked up." It really was. No young teenage girl has any business reading that book. Any way...that was back in the day when a book lasted me about a day. I'd finish up something and just grab whatever happened to be next in the stack of books by Mom's bed. 

side note: I started reading these books when I was about twelve or thirteen. It is very obvious that I had little parental supervision or my parents (Mom) just didn't really care what I was reading. It wasn't until I was about sixteen when an adult question me about a book I was reading. I was reading The Firm and the stranger sitting next to me on a flight to San Diego looked at me and said "Aren't you a little too young to be reading that book?" I had, of course, perfected the teenage eye roll and general unresponsiveness. 

Those books, even though I knew they were fiction, imprinted me with an idea of what to expect in finding your one true love. And also sex. Those books also imprinted me with some idea of the physical aspects of love. Considering that I can count on one hand the number of times I witnessed any sort of affectionate contact between my parents, these books became important guides in affectionate contact. This is what I knew about what happened when you encountered The One. First there would be a general spark of electricity resembling lightening during the first contact, the first contact being something like a handshake. Then the two main characters would finally kiss. The heroine's thighs would burst into flames and she'd swoon into the hero's rock hard chest. Other fireworks and explosion would thus ensue. 

It was around the time I'd kissed the second boy I'd ever kissed when I realized that those books where most likely over exaggerating the whole experience. I have never been struck by lightening. Not even with Chris. I also would not describe my sexual arousal as thighs bursting into flames. Nor have I ever felt like swooning. I had a friend in undergrad who thoroughly believed that it would all be just like the way it is in the books. Days of Our Lives was a very important part of her day. I remember asking another girl in the dorms once who was getting married, how did she know he was the one. I remember her shrug and say "I just knew. No big deal. He was just the one." They were only married for a few years, but I assume that in that moment she really did believe he was The One.

With Chris, I just loved (love) him. With Michael, I also just love him. Michael left out on his scooter one morning. I was not too far behind him. I was just putting my scooter helmet on when I could hear my phone ringing in my bag. I pulled the helmet off and fished my phone out only to miss his call. I could hear sirens in the distance. It took me three tries to get him back on the line. He was fine. He'd forgotten his glasses and was just calling to see if I'd left the house yet. I told him his call had scared me. We rarely talk on the phone to each other. He said that he was sorry to scare me, but my worry must mean that I do love him. I responded with "Maybe I'm just concerned for your well being." Because I am the Han Solo of this relationship.

I sometimes wonder about that girl from undergrad who believed in the fairy tale version of love. I hope she hasn't been disappointed. I hope she's figured out what I did. The real thing pales in comparison to the fiction. 

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Cheers! Happy Birthday Jay!

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 4 likes

Yesterday, someone asked my what day it was and I energetically replied "Tuesday!" Apparently this week worked out so well for me that I was willing to extend it. That or maybe I did figure out how to make extra time, but I can't tell you the details because then I'd have to kill you. It's not like I hit the end of this week without thinking "oh Saturday, let's make out." It's just that I did a pretty good job of filling up this week with good things. There were two days of scooter rides, two evenings spent in the good company of my boys (one of them turned 40! this week), and there were five yoga mat encounters. I fed the chickens yesterday and found one egg. It was warm when I picked it up. The chickens have been on an egg laying vacation. I think this one egg is a sign of more eggs to come. 

This has been a good week even if I didn't get the house vacuumed before Mom shows up this evening. Sorry Mom. I got dirty floors and for the first time in probably forever, I really kind of don't care. This week has just been too full of dog walks, quite moments, love and laughter to worry about vacuuming. I am thankful for all of this. Last night Terry asked me to tell us all about one good thing that had happened to me that day. I sat there slightly stumped, not because I couldn't think of anything, but because I could think of many things. New projects. That granola bar I packed in my lunch that saved my bacon when my stomach started growling at ten. It stopped raining long enough to walk the dog. An evening spent in the best company. And quite simply, I am thankful for all of this. 

I realize that all of this sounds very Pollyanna. I can promise you that more often than not there are days and moments when I struggle to be thankful for even the simple things. I can also tell you that before I started making a point to notice the joyful moments, I didn't see joy even when it was smack dab in front of my face. I am truly thankful that I've learned to make a point to notice. I am thankful Mom can come up for a visit this week. I am thankful the sun has come out. I haven't heard from Tiffany or Tom today (they are getting hit with a hurricane), but I want to be really thankful that those guys are okay. I am thankful for favorite songs popping up in my playlist. I am thankful for you.

Happy weekend everyone and happy Thankful Friday!

THE BIG SWIRL

Bling

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Michael has gotten real hipster with his beard and mustache. If he uses enough beard wax, he can twirl his mustache up into a curl on either side of his face. Yes, it's a little bit ridiculous, but I cannot express how much I love it. It's a little bit hilarious and a little bit sexy. Lately he's been thinking about suspenders and adding them to his work clothes. He wears dress clothes to work with a tie and everything. Over the weekend, he bought himself a set of suspenders and this morning he put on his blue and white checked shirt with his pink paisley tie and his new suspenders. I can't even. I came undone. I mean, usually I get a little turned on when he's all dressed for work, especially when he rolls up his dress shirt and his forearm is showing, but add the suspenders and well...I of course returned the favor by saying something about slowly taking all of that off him and rendered him speechless. 

That's something I'm really good at. Michael can talk quite a bit, but I can take a handful of words and say them just right as to turn him into a stammering rendition of Porky Pig. 

Then, I get a phone call reminding me of a life before this one. I sent in paperwork weeks ago to close out an account that Chris had had. I didn't know about the account until recently. I had supplied them with a death certificate and a notarized family tree starting and ending with me and Chris. Yet the place still had to call and ask me if I had obituary. I went blank. Obituary? I stumbled around online looking for one. I finally came across one that was in the Chickasha News. It contained a bad photo of Chris and a short paragraph announcing the memorial service. The whole thing made me wince. I can't believe I didn't write or have someone write and submit a proper obituary when Chris died. I didn't even think about it at the time. I didn't really think about a whole lot of anything at the time. 

"Couldn't pay my respects to a dead man. Your life was much more to me." - Neko Case

I could only imagine what the woman on the other end of the line thought as I sent her a link to this homely obituary. I wanted to tell her that she should have heard the things his friends said about him at his service or to go read through his facebook page. We all thought (still think) the world of Chris. We were just too surprised by his death to write about him. When I hang up the line, I'm perturbed that they would even be calling me to ask about an obituary. Don't you think a death certificate is enough? What about that whole depressing little family tree I sent in? The woman did ask about that. "No children?" said in a voice dripping with pity. I wanted to respond "thankfully, no." but instead I just replied "no." A widow is sad enough on her own without the added element of children.

This is almost a typical day. There's always a trigger. Some triggers are worst than others, like that phone call or when that one Mumford and Sons song starts playing. I see Chris, throwing his head back and opening his mouth wide to sing like a Muppet. This image is replaced with an image of Michael making a bad motorcycle sound as he drives us down the road and then watching him crack himself up over it. I'll read some political crap in someone's feed on Facebook and think about how Chris would write a response so sharp you wouldn't know you were cut until you noticed the blood and fallacy of your own statements. I always look at Michael when getting ready to leave a tip because he does the math without even really thinking and it is always correct. Chris genuinely laughing at something, probably the Simpsons. Michael laughing while twirling the ends of his mustache. The memories I have swirl together with the memories I'm making.

It is not a bad blend of colors.  

LAUGH, LOVE, EAT

Monday

"Monday"

It's been weeks since I've had my usual Saturday morning ritual of sitting down at my favorite bakery with my Fortune Cookie journal. Our weekends have been full of museum visits, impromptu trips, and good visits with out of town friends. I realize that I could make time to write in this journal at any time, but there's something about Saturday mornings. I tend to be awake before most of the world and there's something about the stillness and quiet of these mornings that makes it easy to sit and write. This Saturday, I woke to drizzly rain and in that quiet and stillness, drove to the bakery. I placed my order, made myself comfortable at the counter table and pulled out my journal. I opened the journal to next prompt and paused. Laugh often, love hard, eat and repeat. 

Of course. Of course this would be the fortune cookie prompt that I would get after weeks of inactivity, just three days before what would have been my eighteenth wedding anniversary. We were going to get married on March fifteenth, but then remembered that we should "beware the ides of March" and chose the sixteenth instead. Chris made me laugh often, that's for sure. He made everyone laugh often. Chris had this sharp dry wit that was smart and so well timed. I have not met another person, with the exception of maybe Chad or Talaura, who could make me laugh so much. And love? He was my first love, so of course we loved hard. Fierce. It was the kind of love that gave you confidence. We could do anything, handle any misfortune, survive any tragedy as long as we had each other. The whole eating thing was practically a hobby for us. I remember at one time, Chris bought a couple of dinosaurs because he had an idea for a food blog called Dinersaurs. I think the T-rex had a monocle. Most of our vacation stories centered around all the restaurants we experienced. Our whole reason for visiting Eugene OR was to eat pizza at the Pizza Research Institute. Laughter, love and eating were a continuous loop in our life.  

I sold my old Nikon on Craigslist over the weekend. It was my first DSLR. My first fancy pants camera. Chris gave me that camera. I don't know if he bought me that camera because he believed it would foster and encourage artistic qualities in me or if he just bought it because it was a new shiny gadget. Chris was a magpie for any kind of new electronic thing, but he was always encouraging (almost pushing) me to be more creative. Either way, it doesn't really matter. That camera served it's purpose. I learned to be more observant of my surroundings and little bit about light and aperture settings. It was the learning camera. In the same way, my relationship with Chris turned out to be the learning relationship. I just didn't know it at the time. I learned that it was possible to be in a relationship that didn't require constant arguing. I learned that two people could communicate wants and needs with out complaining. I learned that not all relationships were like my parent's.  Constructive communication, compromising and the give and take are the valuable take-away lessons from my time with Chris. I learned how important it is to laugh often. I learned how important it is to love hard and fully and to find the joy in eating. I learned the importance of that continuous loop. 

I marvel at how life changes, but stays the same. Michael bought me the new Nikon, probably less because it was a new shiny gadget and more because he believes in my creative talent. He's told me that I have a better eye for seeing things that not everyone sees. Maybe that's true. I am probably more practiced in the art of observation than some, but only because I work at it daily. Michael makes me laugh often. Maybe not in the same way as Chris did, but he makes me laugh. I love him and his willingness to say yes to every little scheme I come up with. Our joy of eating has expanded beyond the new restaurant find by bringing new ingredients into the kitchen and cooking things together. The loop goes on, just maybe in the opposite direction or the loop is more elliptical than circular, but it's still a loop. Sort of like the rubber band from my rubber band sketches. Malleable. Our lives are malleable, bendy and stretchy. 

Maybe that Fortune Cookie prompt should have said laugh often, love hard, learn continuously, eat and repeat. 

LOVE THURSDAY

Shadows and light

"Shadows and light"

Since the weather has turned too cold to walk outside even while wearing my new coat, I take little walking loops through the building here at work. I have a system. I go up to the third floor, walk one wing over to a different stairwell and then up to the fourth flour. On the fourth floor, I walk two wings and then back down to the third floor to walk to a different stairwell that takes me to the second floor. I know. It all sounds pretty maze like. Stay with me. On the second floor, I walk three wings and over to a completely different stairwell. I take this stairwell down to the first floor and then walk the wing down to my office. It's not as long or as interesting as the inside walking route that Robin and I had mapped out across OMRF and the OUHSC Campus, but it it is a nice get-off-your-ass for ten minutes kind of walk. 

That route changes. Sometimes I turn left instead of right. It wasn't always as long. I used to just do the two wings on the fourth and second floor. I had figured out that this was about 1500 steps. I would do this three or four times a day and along with my treadmill time this would give me my goal steps for the day. I added in the extra steps when it got too cold to do the loop outside. At first I was grumbly about it. People would see me just walking around randomly. I probably look really goofy too with my giant headphones on my head. Then things started to change. There were people I'd say hello or good morning to. There were labs I started to get more familiar with and the best discovery has been the unexpected pockets of light I have discovered. At certain times of the day, sunlight streams in through the various windows forming shadows and patterns that are spectacular and they are constantly changing. One morning I turned the corner to see a giant eye reflected on the wall. An hour later it was gone. 

Every photography book I've ever picked up has preached the importance of light and most specifically, the importance of natural light. Karen Walrond from Chookooloonks is always telling us to "LOOK FOR THE LIGHT!" and I thought that this was something I usually tried to do. When my camera is in front of my face. I've been trained that the minute I put that camera view finder up to my eyeball to look for the light. It's just that now I realize that I have started to look for the light, camera or no camera. I think we all understand the healing effect sunlight has on our souls. So I encourage you today on this Love Thursday to seek out a spot of light and maybe stand in the middle of it for a minute of two. 

Happy Love Thursday! 

LOVE THURSDAY

Instagram photo by Cindy Maddera * Dec 10, 2015 at 2:23am UTC

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 2 likes

Last year year, Michael drove me through a neighborhood that he swore put up a huge Christmas light display. He said that every house on the street would be covered with lights. There were no lights. He drove up and down the streets through the Brookside area thinking maybe they were just a street over. They were not. Finally he had to admit defeat. That neighborhood he remembered didn't exist anymore. Something similar happened that same Fall when he tried to take me to park that was supposed to have had the most amazing over look. We walked all over that park. There was no overlook. 

Friday night, we went to Michael's Christmas party. I find parties where I have to be social and make conversation to be exhausting particularly at the end of a long work day. But I went. I plastered a smile on my face and I made conversation and I made sure the Cabbage didn't stick her fingers into all the slices of cake on the dessert tray. I was relieved when were all finally in the car, heading home even if a headache had started to pulse on the right side of my temple. We passed the Plaza Lights and both the Cabbage and I oohed at all the lights. A few blocks later, Michael turned right when he should have turned left. I gave him a sly look and asked "Are you trying to be romantic right now and drive us through Christmas lights?" He replied "I will always drive you through Christmas light displays even if they are in a different neighborhood than I originally thought as well as parks with Fall leaves that don't exist any more." 

Michael never really paid much attention to the Fall leaves or the Christmas lights before. Now he goes out of his way to find these things for me. He knows that the colorful leaves make me point and shout. He knows that the Christmas lights make me clasp my hands together and grin from ear to ear. He has no interest in holiday activities, but he will drag all the Christmas boxes up from the basement for me and he will take them all back down. He will do this all again when it's time to take Christmas down. Michael even made a note that we need to make room on the ribbon board for all the Christmas cards that he expects we'll get this year. His willingness to please me and make me happy still confounds me.  I mean basically he's saying he'll drive to the ends of the earth for me. It's not that I don't think I'm deserving. It's just that I'm surprised that every time I start a sentence with "Do you think we could....?", he always answers with "Of course we can." 

It just still surprises me. That's all. Happy Love Thursday!

LOVE THURSDAY

Instagram photo by Cindy Maddera * Nov 14, 2015 at 3:53pm UTC

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 3 likes

A while back, I was watching the news. There was a story following the refugee crisis. This was a day or two after images of a lifeless toddler on a beach circulated the internet. The boy had been on a boat full of refugees that had capsized. That little body on the beach made people sit up and pay more attention to the crisis and chaos of Syria. This news story that I was watching had the reporter walking along with refugees as they tried to get across boarders. There was a man with two children and one plastic bag of belongings. He's a doctor. He has a medical degree. There was a woman who was a teacher. All of them fleeing their homes because their home has become a war zone. 

I think it's easy to see the hoards of refugees as just poor homeless people. We see them dirty, living in tent cities, and they become something other than normal in our my brains. We forget that these people are not much different from us. They are doctors, teachers, educated, hard workers. They are husbands, wives, mothers, daughters, fathers, sons. Before the bombings. Before the violence. They had normal lives. Just like you. I've been thinking about this and trying to write something for days now. I have deleted everything because I just don't know how to organize my thoughts in a way that doesn't sound like I am preaching to a choir. But I know that I am preaching to a choir. 

I don't know why or how my ancestors came to this country. I am Scotch-Irish, so I can only assume famine and persecution was a pretty good reason for risking a voyage across an ocean to a land you knew nothing about but just knew it had to better somehow. It's hard to imagine that people still believe this, but they do. Immigrants and refugees even today, when asked why come to America, they all say it's the land of opportunity and place for a better life for their families. How humbling that is to know you're part of a country like that. Yet there are so many of my fellow Americans who do not see it that way. They say no to letting refugees take sanctuary in the United States. It's not safe. I think about the things we have done because of fear. In 1942, we imprisoned 127,000 American citizens because of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. It is a part of American history that is deeply regretted. 

Risk. The scary thing about taking a risk is the uncertainty, the not knowing what will happen but hoping the risk is worth it. The consequences of not taking in some of these refugees is far greater than running the risk of allowing a terrorist to enter this country. It's funny to me that so many seem more afraid of the terrorists that exist outside this country than they are of the ones that are already here. The ones who threaten students and hurl hate. Timothy McVeigh. But that's another rant. The consequence of not providing sanctuary is that you've turned a whole country of people against us. The consequence is that we just create more terrorists with our lack of compassion. The consequence is that we lose our own humanity. 

There are bible school lessons that have always stuck with me. Love thy neighbor. Treat others as you would wish to be treated. Love one another. These are simple lessons taught across a broad spectrum of religions from Christianity to Muslim to Buddhism. Scary things are going to happen. Bad things. Loss. All of it just the other side of a coin. It is how we react and deal with these fears that defines our character. What kind of human being are you? What kind of human being do you want to be? We can let our fears decide that for us. I prefer to tell my fears to fuck off and chose for myself. 

LOVE THURSDAY

Roasting season

"Roasting season"

It's usually September when I head to the Farmers' Market to buy ugly tomatoes. I buy a box of them. I pick the ugly tomatoes because they're cheaper and looks are not as important as what's on the inside. I buy a big box of the ugliest heirloom tomatoes and then, with a full bag of fresh produce already balanced on one shoulder, I finagle my way back to my car while mumbling to myself that I can make it with out dropping this box. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. Once I'm home, I repeat the process because why make more than one trip from car to house? Then I spend all day Sunday roasting tomatoes. I wash and cut the tomatoes in half, slather them with olive oil, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, throw in some smashed garlic and rosemary and basil and then roast them at 350 for two hours. Then I package them up in quart sized freezer bags and freeze for tomato soup and spaghetti sauce. 

It is October now and I realized that I never made it to the Farmers' Market to buy tomatoes. I thought I would just skip it this year. We didn't end up using all the tomatoes I roasted last year. Michael is not as keen on tomato soup as I am. When I mention it, he makes a face, but when I make it he eats it right up and asks for more. So I didn't really feel like making up batches of roasted tomatoes this year. Then sometime last week, Michael came in from the garden with a bounty of green tomatoes. I placed them in the window to ripen and Tuesday night Michael noticed that all of them had turned red. He said something about it and I told him that I was going to roast them. It was then decided that the tomatoes wouldn't last until the weekend to be roasted. So I washed them. I sliced off the tops and cut them half. I slathered them with olive oil and sprinkled them with salt and pepper. I tossed in some smashed garlic, rosemary and basil and I roasted two trays of tomatoes. 

And I realized that the real reason for roasting the tomatoes is not for the soup that they will become. It is the ritual of the roasting. The action of putting the tomatoes together to be roasted is like walking a meditation labyrinth. The oils from the herbs, cling to my hands and I smell of rosemary and basil. It doesn't take long for these scents to fill the house. In fact, it doesn't take long for the whole house to smell like it belongs to an Italian grandmother preparing Sunday dinner for her family. The oven heats up the house, making it feel warm and cozy inside. Homey. Roasting tomatoes makes everything feel homey. I had not planned on roasting those tomatoes until the weekend. It seemed like too much work for a week night. I think all of us can relate. Weeknights are for quickly slapping together a meal to be eaten while watching TV and just sitting after a long day. Weeknights make it easy to forget that the true heart of a home is the kitchen.

I found my heart. Happy Love Thursday!

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Filtered

"Filtered"

The other day I watched a guy on an orange Vespa, just like Chris's, drive down the road and disappear around the corner. Then I felt a million tiny needles prick my heart. Recently I noticed that trees looked like the ones on the Talahina Drive during that trip we made to see Dad during Thanksgiving. It was one of the last visits I made where Dad actually knew who I was. It was the last good visit. These are the kind of bitter sweet visions that when they flood my brain, they force me to lay flat on the floor staring at the ceiling while waiting for them to fade away. The other day I read a blog post written by a woman who recently lost her husband. She said something about not being good at loss. I wanted to tell her that no one is good at loss. There's no grading system for grief. There's no good or bad. You just deal or you learn to accept that grief is just always with you in some way or another.

In fact, I've noticed the you'll reach a point where you think "hey! I'm doing A Okay!" and then grief will sneak in and give you a titty twister worse than any playground bully. Because we have memories. We remember things like how Chris and I used to zip around town together on our scooters and how there were few moments when you could catch Chris with grin on his face. When he was on his scooter, he would grin like a fool. Those were good times. I remember all those times Dad would just randomly show up at work and take me to lunch and how even on that Thanksgiving visit before he forgot me, he was cracking jokes. Grief is that little alarm that goes off telling you "It's time! It's time to remember!" This is where you determine if you are a glass-is-half-full or a glass-is-half-empty kind of person. This is where you choose how to let those memories affect you and your present life. 

I am thankful for each memory because before it was a memory it was an experience. I was a part of that. I was an active participant and that's what I am most grateful for. I am grateful for those scooter rides with Chris. I will even admit to being a little grateful that he didn't replace that scooter after he wrecked it. I missed our rides together, but it provided me with independence and something of my own when it was just me riding around on a scooter. I am thankful for those lunches with Dad. I am thankful for that last really good visit with him. Sometimes I am even thankful for the grief. The fact that I can still get waylaid by grief at times is proof of the value and importance of those relationships. 

I am thankful for evenings on the couch where the cat and the dog both think they have to be on the couch with us. It's just a pile because the couch is tiny. I am thankful for crisp morning rides. I am thankful for trees that look like they are on fire with their red dazzling leaves. I am thankful for the dead mouse Josephine brought me this morning. Actually, I told Josephine how nice it was for her to bring me a present, but I wasn't really all that happy about it. But between her and the cat, maybe we'll see less mice this season. That is something to be thankful for right there. As always, I am thankful for you.

Here's to a beautiful weekend and a wonderful Thankful Friday.