The Sacred Ordinary is on pilgrimage for the next 40 days.
You can come along on the journey at: Beauty as Spiritual Practice
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Going Away and Coming Home
When your shirt gets a stain, you should take it off and apply a product called Stain Stick. If the stain is really bad, people who know about these things will have solutions. Solutions in which the shirt can be soaked to regain its original fresh quality.
That's what Mel and I did recently. We soaked ourselves in a solution of surreal aquamarine. We took our eyeballs out of their crusty grey sockets and dipped them in three shades of diamond-studded Carribean blue. We filled our ears with the sound of lapping waves and chiming tree frogs.
In Antigua our room had no clock. We told time by the rising and setting of the sun. We knew it was breakfast time when we heard the distant clatter of plates, lunch time when we smelled fish or lasagna, and cocktail time all day long. No duties were required of us, and the only reason to leave a beach chair was to get another book to read. (or another rum drink)
Antigua is a meditation on color. We gazed on popsicle blue, snow-cone blue, Paralandra blue, the not-to-be-believed blueish green famous from 1970s backyard swimming pools. Purple-throated hummingbirds drink from red bougainvillaea blossoms. Yellow-throated warblers sip from our orange juice glasses. Little lizards lounge with us in the sun, and mango trees bear fruit in the middle of the cemetery.
Unlike Dorothy in Oz, I do not want to go home to Kansas.
When we return to National Airport, our ears are clogged and we're struggling at the late hour to understand baggage claim directions. It's unnaturally cold and the car must be found from a distant lot. I am desperate to get to bed by 2 am on account of early morning appointments.
Then the usual route home shocks me with beauty. We drive past the Washington Monument, and Memorial Bridge's brilliant night view of the Jefferson Memorial. Kennedy Center is mirrored in the Potomac River, and we pass our beloved Washington Cathedral.
I'm surprised more by the gentle joy of familiar street names. Upton, Macomb, Van Ness. The sweetness of knowing that Jeanne, Linda or Andrea live in the houses we pass, and contentment as we park in front of the stone and stucco house with red numbers on the door, and come home.
That's what Mel and I did recently. We soaked ourselves in a solution of surreal aquamarine. We took our eyeballs out of their crusty grey sockets and dipped them in three shades of diamond-studded Carribean blue. We filled our ears with the sound of lapping waves and chiming tree frogs.
In Antigua our room had no clock. We told time by the rising and setting of the sun. We knew it was breakfast time when we heard the distant clatter of plates, lunch time when we smelled fish or lasagna, and cocktail time all day long. No duties were required of us, and the only reason to leave a beach chair was to get another book to read. (or another rum drink)
Antigua is a meditation on color. We gazed on popsicle blue, snow-cone blue, Paralandra blue, the not-to-be-believed blueish green famous from 1970s backyard swimming pools. Purple-throated hummingbirds drink from red bougainvillaea blossoms. Yellow-throated warblers sip from our orange juice glasses. Little lizards lounge with us in the sun, and mango trees bear fruit in the middle of the cemetery.
Unlike Dorothy in Oz, I do not want to go home to Kansas.
When we return to National Airport, our ears are clogged and we're struggling at the late hour to understand baggage claim directions. It's unnaturally cold and the car must be found from a distant lot. I am desperate to get to bed by 2 am on account of early morning appointments.
Then the usual route home shocks me with beauty. We drive past the Washington Monument, and Memorial Bridge's brilliant night view of the Jefferson Memorial. Kennedy Center is mirrored in the Potomac River, and we pass our beloved Washington Cathedral.
I'm surprised more by the gentle joy of familiar street names. Upton, Macomb, Van Ness. The sweetness of knowing that Jeanne, Linda or Andrea live in the houses we pass, and contentment as we park in front of the stone and stucco house with red numbers on the door, and come home.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
The Monkey Bowl
I knew I'd find it eventually.
The monkey bowl is tiny - the perfect size for a spoonful of nuts or maybe three olives. Nine years ago I bought it for my mother. It was the perfect present for someone surrounded by a lifetime of precious chotchkies. She could have a little snack from it while reading.
The monkey theme is imbedded in our mother-daughter psyche. There used to be a photograph of my teenaged mother in short pajamas. Her long leg is exposed, and she's holding a toy monkey - the same one I played with as a four-year-old visiting grandparents. I stared at the picture, trying to discern if this person, as I had been told, used to be a child. I wish I still had the monkey and the beguiling photograph.
When the time came to empty my mother's house, I painstakingly combed through several lifetimes of cherished items, separating them into things to donate, share or keep. The monkey bowl came home with us, along with four carloads of albums, dishes, tablecloths, candle sticks, lamps, rugs and many many plants.
If you would like some plants, I will arrange an honorarium in my mother's memory for each one you take. Attic items are also available.
I have an Attic Rule, that is sometimes kept. Every time something is brought to the upper story warehouse, something must be brought down for charity. When I manage to bring down an armful of things I am promised a good karma day.
Today I climbed the steep stairs to get the tea kettle for our trip and the hat box caught my eye. The only reason for hanging onto this old fashioned box was out of deference to its journey from my grandmother's Ohio attic to my mother's Maryland one. I didn't want to break the chain.
When I peaked in the box, I found a straw hat that might be nice at the beach. I pulled out the hat and found, safe and sound, the sweet monkey bowl, which had traveled safe and sound to its Veazey Street home.
The monkey bowl is tiny - the perfect size for a spoonful of nuts or maybe three olives. Nine years ago I bought it for my mother. It was the perfect present for someone surrounded by a lifetime of precious chotchkies. She could have a little snack from it while reading.
The monkey theme is imbedded in our mother-daughter psyche. There used to be a photograph of my teenaged mother in short pajamas. Her long leg is exposed, and she's holding a toy monkey - the same one I played with as a four-year-old visiting grandparents. I stared at the picture, trying to discern if this person, as I had been told, used to be a child. I wish I still had the monkey and the beguiling photograph.
When the time came to empty my mother's house, I painstakingly combed through several lifetimes of cherished items, separating them into things to donate, share or keep. The monkey bowl came home with us, along with four carloads of albums, dishes, tablecloths, candle sticks, lamps, rugs and many many plants.
If you would like some plants, I will arrange an honorarium in my mother's memory for each one you take. Attic items are also available.
I have an Attic Rule, that is sometimes kept. Every time something is brought to the upper story warehouse, something must be brought down for charity. When I manage to bring down an armful of things I am promised a good karma day.
Today I climbed the steep stairs to get the tea kettle for our trip and the hat box caught my eye. The only reason for hanging onto this old fashioned box was out of deference to its journey from my grandmother's Ohio attic to my mother's Maryland one. I didn't want to break the chain.
When I peaked in the box, I found a straw hat that might be nice at the beach. I pulled out the hat and found, safe and sound, the sweet monkey bowl, which had traveled safe and sound to its Veazey Street home.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Drawing Part Two
This morning I stacked dishes on the drainboard. Along with the dormant orchid was a tower of coffee mugs, blender parts, salad spinner, coffee carafe. I didn't put any of it away because it looked marvelous as it was. A still life of exposed roots, cutting board and cups.
Beginning this January I'm doing a small sketch most days. I've wanted to do this for a long time, but had a list of reasons not to. (I suck at drawing. I'll do it in the summer. It's a selfish way to spend spare time. People will think I'm insane. Um. Paper and pencils are expensive.)
Then I came up with a list of reasons to draw:
10. Analyzing angles and perspective would exercise my aging brain.
I feel increasing creakiness in my gray matter. Words that won't come. Forgotten names and places. An event my husband swears happened years ago. Instead of doing Sudokos or learning Spanish I will map out distances, observe shadows and learn shading. Drawing will be an anti-dementia investment so that my family will have fewer years of chin wiping and nursing home visitations.
I will combine Cerebral Core Work with Spiritual Practice.
Today I'm sketching a wedge of cheese and practicing gratitude for all I have, offering prayer that no one goes hungry, animals will not be mistreated, the earth will not be poisoned with pesticides and humans will not deform the atmosphere.
I give myself permission to do all of this with a #2 pencil and scrap of paper.
Beginning this January I'm doing a small sketch most days. I've wanted to do this for a long time, but had a list of reasons not to. (I suck at drawing. I'll do it in the summer. It's a selfish way to spend spare time. People will think I'm insane. Um. Paper and pencils are expensive.)
Then I came up with a list of reasons to draw:
- I want to.
- Lorna says sometimes we need to do those things we do badly in order to become whole.
- I want to create a sketch diary of my life.
- I can't figure out how the camera on my cell phone works.
- I want to draw as spiritual practice.
- I want to become so good at drawing that I can learn to paint.
- And fill my home with beautiful paintings.
- And sell them.
- And become famous.
10. Analyzing angles and perspective would exercise my aging brain.
I feel increasing creakiness in my gray matter. Words that won't come. Forgotten names and places. An event my husband swears happened years ago. Instead of doing Sudokos or learning Spanish I will map out distances, observe shadows and learn shading. Drawing will be an anti-dementia investment so that my family will have fewer years of chin wiping and nursing home visitations.
I will combine Cerebral Core Work with Spiritual Practice.
Today I'm sketching a wedge of cheese and practicing gratitude for all I have, offering prayer that no one goes hungry, animals will not be mistreated, the earth will not be poisoned with pesticides and humans will not deform the atmosphere.
I give myself permission to do all of this with a #2 pencil and scrap of paper.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Christmas Future and Existential Questions
I used to feel that I was going to live to be 100. After all, some people live that long. I eat right, exercise, and have not only loving relationships but good cholesteral. I thought I might go back to school. Get a PhD in something other than music just so I wouldn't end up being 92 and bored. But I don't like writing papers, following teachers' instructions or writing checks for $200,000, so I reconsidered.
Then my father died of a heart attack at 72 and my mother died of lung cancer at 69. They both had non-smoking, low fat, good exercise life styles.
I'm 52. It's possible I have 20 years more to live. or 17. or 40. or 1. Maybe I have just this month or just this minute. It makes a difference! I like to plan ahead.
I like planning ahead so much that at any given time our refrigerator has two weeks worth of menus posted under a magnet. Menus carefully designed to use the fresh produce from the refrigerator, rotate frozen items, and follow up with specific leftovers.
Just this morning I made my shopping list for Christmas Black Cake. That would be for Christmas 2012. I called La Cuisine to determine if they will have glace cherries and citron in the summer, or if I should stock them now since the fruit traditionally marinates in rum and wine for six months. This recipe comes via cookbook author, Laurie Colwin, who writes,
None of this answers my Big Existential Question about how long I will live and how to plan my life, but I certainly hope to make it to next Christmas!
Then my father died of a heart attack at 72 and my mother died of lung cancer at 69. They both had non-smoking, low fat, good exercise life styles.
I'm 52. It's possible I have 20 years more to live. or 17. or 40. or 1. Maybe I have just this month or just this minute. It makes a difference! I like to plan ahead.
I like planning ahead so much that at any given time our refrigerator has two weeks worth of menus posted under a magnet. Menus carefully designed to use the fresh produce from the refrigerator, rotate frozen items, and follow up with specific leftovers.
Just this morning I made my shopping list for Christmas Black Cake. That would be for Christmas 2012. I called La Cuisine to determine if they will have glace cherries and citron in the summer, or if I should stock them now since the fruit traditionally marinates in rum and wine for six months. This recipe comes via cookbook author, Laurie Colwin, who writes,
"There is fruitcake and there is black cake, which is to fruitcake what Brahms piano quartets are to Muzak. Its closest relatives are plum pudding and black bun, but they are mere third cousins twice removed. Black cake, like truffles and vintage Burgundy, is deep, complicated, and intense. It is light and dense at the same time and demands to be eaten in a slow, meditative way."
None of this answers my Big Existential Question about how long I will live and how to plan my life, but I certainly hope to make it to next Christmas!
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Happy New Year
There is an unofficial theory that how we spend our time on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day will set the tone for how we spend the year. i.e. eating healthy black eyed peas on January 1 encourages good eating habits.
I've long ago ruled out noisy parties and hangovers.
This year's 48 hour menu includes:
Loving Family and Friends
Nice Food and Drink
Toasty Fire
Challenging and Rewarding Work
Music
Writing
Books to Read
Yoga and Walking
Giving and Receiving Gifts
Can housework wait until 2013?
How are you bringing in the New Year?
I've long ago ruled out noisy parties and hangovers.
This year's 48 hour menu includes:
Loving Family and Friends
Nice Food and Drink
Toasty Fire
Challenging and Rewarding Work
Music
Writing
Books to Read
Yoga and Walking
Giving and Receiving Gifts
Can housework wait until 2013?
How are you bringing in the New Year?
Friday, December 30, 2011
Best Books of 2011
The Sacred Ordinary Best of 2011 Reading List.
These books were not published in 2011 - they are just the most splendidly written books that I happened to snuggle up with during the year.
MEMOIR
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings - Maya Angelou
Here if You Need Me - Kate Braestrup
Moving recollections of the author's sensitive work as chaplain during search and rescue operations for the Maine Warden Service.
36 Views of Mount Fuji - Cathy N. Davidson
An armchair visit to Japan through an American writer's eyes.
Making Toast - Roger Rosenblatt
A writer/grandfather accounts family life after the unexpected death of his daughter.
Broken Vessels - Andre Dubus
see July post: The woman with one and one half legs
Meditations from a Moveable Chair - Andre Dubus
ditto above
Truth and Beauty - Ann Patchett
The story of her unusual relationship with Lucy Grealy
FICTION
Room - Emma Donoghue
State of Wonder - Ann Patchett
Cutting for Stone - Abraham Verghese
POETRY
The Field - Lorna Cahall
BOOKS ON WRITING
The Writing Life - Annie Dillard
Unless It Moves The Human Heart - Roger Rosenblatt
The Memoir Project - Marion Roach Smith
Monday, December 26, 2011
The Pain of Unloved Presents
It's difficult to disappoint our son with the wrong present. I don't think he ever expects to really like a present, so when something is truly a wrong match for him, he easily puts a positive spin on it by saying something like:
"Where did you find this?" or "It must have been expensive."
I, on the other hand, really enjoy a nice present and hope that my husband will surprise me with something soft or beautiful or will get me a pair of my favorite exercise pants. (He did.)
Last birthday, my husband stunned me with corkscrew earrings. Corkscrews with levers, for opening lilliputian wine bottles.
"Aren't they great?" He wants to know.
I'm stunned beyond lying.
"They're great."
Later he says, "I can tell that you don't like your earrings because you didn't say thank you."
"You think I don't like them?"
His words ring in my ears on Christmas morning when I open an elaborately decorated package from Bali. We have several Buddhas around the house and I'm guessing it's another quiet praying statue.
It's a wooden sculpture of a naked woman in cobra pose. Her buttocks is unusually round and large. Her breasts are sharply pointed. Her hands and feet are long and flat to support the form. She has a ponytail.
Right away I say it. "Thank you!"
"I know you don't like it, but you'll learn to like it."
He expects me to put it on display.
"You don't like it because you're not comfortable with your body."
I do not think this is the source of my feeling about the sculpture, and note that I have not claimed any dislike.
Our newly opened presents are scattered on the coffee table. Dry sausages, cashews, canned oysters, stuffed penguins, a camera pen, a book on Italian food, and the naked yogini that traveled all the way from Bali.
I remember the pain of not liking the corkscrew earrings. Melvin's pain that I did not like his gift. My pain that I hurt him because I didn't like his gift. I'm determined to make Melvin's feelings more important than a piece of wood.
I nestle the yogini near a plant on my chest of drawers. Admittedly, she is slightly behind the plant, but she is going to help me hold Melvin's joy and love thoughtfully and tenderly. She will remind me to practice gratitude for my wonderful and caring husband. I will visit the yogini every night when I take off my earrings and every morning when I put them on, and be thankful that at least they do not have wing lever corkscrews on them.
"Where did you find this?" or "It must have been expensive."
I, on the other hand, really enjoy a nice present and hope that my husband will surprise me with something soft or beautiful or will get me a pair of my favorite exercise pants. (He did.)
Last birthday, my husband stunned me with corkscrew earrings. Corkscrews with levers, for opening lilliputian wine bottles.
"Aren't they great?" He wants to know.
I'm stunned beyond lying.
"They're great."
Later he says, "I can tell that you don't like your earrings because you didn't say thank you."
"You think I don't like them?"
His words ring in my ears on Christmas morning when I open an elaborately decorated package from Bali. We have several Buddhas around the house and I'm guessing it's another quiet praying statue.
It's a wooden sculpture of a naked woman in cobra pose. Her buttocks is unusually round and large. Her breasts are sharply pointed. Her hands and feet are long and flat to support the form. She has a ponytail.
Right away I say it. "Thank you!"
"I know you don't like it, but you'll learn to like it."
He expects me to put it on display.
"You don't like it because you're not comfortable with your body."
I do not think this is the source of my feeling about the sculpture, and note that I have not claimed any dislike.
Our newly opened presents are scattered on the coffee table. Dry sausages, cashews, canned oysters, stuffed penguins, a camera pen, a book on Italian food, and the naked yogini that traveled all the way from Bali.
I remember the pain of not liking the corkscrew earrings. Melvin's pain that I did not like his gift. My pain that I hurt him because I didn't like his gift. I'm determined to make Melvin's feelings more important than a piece of wood.
I nestle the yogini near a plant on my chest of drawers. Admittedly, she is slightly behind the plant, but she is going to help me hold Melvin's joy and love thoughtfully and tenderly. She will remind me to practice gratitude for my wonderful and caring husband. I will visit the yogini every night when I take off my earrings and every morning when I put them on, and be thankful that at least they do not have wing lever corkscrews on them.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Drawing
I ache to draw.
At morning coffee (a ritual like Matins to be prayed each day, alone or in company) a still life image emerges. Drain Board with Dormant Orchid. Beside is an inverse coffee carafe and cone, a sharp knife, the glass jar my husband uses for his morning fiber, all framed by perfect taupe tiles.
I take out a pencil.
That's when the proportions start laughing at me. I try drawing only the plant, but its leaves show their undersides and my pencil can't pry the knot apart. Instead of stamping my feet, I sigh and think about getting a teacher, but what if I STILL couldn't draw?
Trying to draw - even thinking about trying to draw - alters my perception. Now the man walking past with puffy skin is handsome in his complexity. The discarded cup in a pile of leaves is a play of texture. Even crumbs on my desk as I type are precious details that make this corner of the universe different from the rest.
But I still ache to draw.
At morning coffee (a ritual like Matins to be prayed each day, alone or in company) a still life image emerges. Drain Board with Dormant Orchid. Beside is an inverse coffee carafe and cone, a sharp knife, the glass jar my husband uses for his morning fiber, all framed by perfect taupe tiles.
I take out a pencil.
That's when the proportions start laughing at me. I try drawing only the plant, but its leaves show their undersides and my pencil can't pry the knot apart. Instead of stamping my feet, I sigh and think about getting a teacher, but what if I STILL couldn't draw?
Trying to draw - even thinking about trying to draw - alters my perception. Now the man walking past with puffy skin is handsome in his complexity. The discarded cup in a pile of leaves is a play of texture. Even crumbs on my desk as I type are precious details that make this corner of the universe different from the rest.
But I still ache to draw.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Beer and the Afterlife
My friend, Bob Erskine, is a cartoonist and painter. A creative genius really. I asked him to inspire me with a blog topic.
He suggested I. P. A.
That would be India Pale Ale.
"You mentioned it last year in your yoga blog. Also, I see all of these empty IPA boxes in your livingroom."
Oh, those boxes? The ones holding firewood. Surely Bob doesn't think I drank all that beer. Hasn't he heard of going to the liquor store just to ask for the empty boxes?
Ok. I like beer. My current favorite is Triple Hop Belgian Style India Pale Ale. Sierra Nevada's Torpedo is very good, as is Flying Dog's Raging Bitch . (this refers to a dog of course) Both of these beers are To Die For on tap, but so far I've managed to hold the line against installing one in the refrigerator.
Which brings me to the topic of Beer and the Afterlife.
Many of us grew up singing,
In heaven there is no beer.
That's why we drink it here.
And when we're gone from here.
Well our friends will be drinking all the beer.
I realize now that is children's superstition, and put my faith in the likes of the early Irish Saint Brigid, who espouses a mature spirituality in her poem, The Heavenly Banquet.
I would like to have the men of Heaven in my own house;
with vats of good cheer laid out for them.
I would like to have the three Marys, their fame is so great,
I would like people from every corner of Heaven.
I would like them to be cheerful in their drinking;
I would like to have Jesus sitting here among them.
I would like a great lake of beer for the King of Kings.
I would like to be watching Heaven's family
Drinking it through all eternity.
He suggested I. P. A.
That would be India Pale Ale.
"You mentioned it last year in your yoga blog. Also, I see all of these empty IPA boxes in your livingroom."
Oh, those boxes? The ones holding firewood. Surely Bob doesn't think I drank all that beer. Hasn't he heard of going to the liquor store just to ask for the empty boxes?
Ok. I like beer. My current favorite is Triple Hop Belgian Style India Pale Ale. Sierra Nevada's Torpedo is very good, as is Flying Dog's Raging Bitch . (this refers to a dog of course) Both of these beers are To Die For on tap, but so far I've managed to hold the line against installing one in the refrigerator.
Which brings me to the topic of Beer and the Afterlife.
Many of us grew up singing,
In heaven there is no beer.
That's why we drink it here.
And when we're gone from here.
Well our friends will be drinking all the beer.
I realize now that is children's superstition, and put my faith in the likes of the early Irish Saint Brigid, who espouses a mature spirituality in her poem, The Heavenly Banquet.
I would like to have the men of Heaven in my own house;
with vats of good cheer laid out for them.
I would like to have the three Marys, their fame is so great,
I would like people from every corner of Heaven.
I would like them to be cheerful in their drinking;
I would like to have Jesus sitting here among them.
I would like a great lake of beer for the King of Kings.
I would like to be watching Heaven's family
Drinking it through all eternity.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Woo-Woo Shopping
We went to Berkeley Springs, West Virginia partly to "take the waters", but mostly as an excuse to get out of town.
Before our hydrotherapy appointment we browse the shops - buy earrings for Andrea and smell the soaps and incense. A Tibetan shop-owner welcomes us when we walk into Himalayan Handcrafts where a table of singing bowls are on display. I ask him to play one for us. I've tried before with poor results. He plays and then teaches me to hold the mallet firmly with a pencil grip. To trace the rim lightly, and when the sound arrives, to circle slower.
Melvin has his credit card. I have mine as well, but am not good with extravagances. Besides, this woo-woo stuff embarrasses me.
We play many bowls. I do not allow myself to look at prices. I only listen to the tones. Like a devil on my shoulder, my husband keeps asking, "Which one do you like?" Because I want them all, it becomes easy to justify buying just one. It's beginning to feel sinful not to buy three or seven. The tone from a small bowl penetrates my forehead. A different bowl vibrates my sternum.
I justify spending the money as an investment in my health. A spiritual prophylactic. In the mornings I will meditate and the pure tone will help carry my prayer.
My only effort will be to trace the empty bowl.
Before our hydrotherapy appointment we browse the shops - buy earrings for Andrea and smell the soaps and incense. A Tibetan shop-owner welcomes us when we walk into Himalayan Handcrafts where a table of singing bowls are on display. I ask him to play one for us. I've tried before with poor results. He plays and then teaches me to hold the mallet firmly with a pencil grip. To trace the rim lightly, and when the sound arrives, to circle slower.
Melvin has his credit card. I have mine as well, but am not good with extravagances. Besides, this woo-woo stuff embarrasses me.
We play many bowls. I do not allow myself to look at prices. I only listen to the tones. Like a devil on my shoulder, my husband keeps asking, "Which one do you like?" Because I want them all, it becomes easy to justify buying just one. It's beginning to feel sinful not to buy three or seven. The tone from a small bowl penetrates my forehead. A different bowl vibrates my sternum.
I justify spending the money as an investment in my health. A spiritual prophylactic. In the mornings I will meditate and the pure tone will help carry my prayer.
My only effort will be to trace the empty bowl.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Careful of the Quiet Ones
I go into a co-worker's office. A quiet co-worker. The kind who only speaks when spoken to. A person who only opens his lips the minimum required to produce speech.
Taking the lead, I initiate small talk, inquiring about the co-worker's recent vacation. He and his family had taken a train trip to the World Series of Barbecue in Kansas City, Missouri.
"How was it?"
Storm clouds pass the co-worker's brow. He shakes his head. It turns out national barbecue competitions are serious business. It's all about Watching Barbeque. And Watching Barbeque had not been the plan. All of that talent. All of that roasting meat. All of his family eating Subway sandwiches for lunch. The co-worker also confided that the the 30-hour train trip en famille has cured him of his love of train travel.
The story is painful and absurd. I say, "That would make a great blog post."
The quiet co-worker replies, "You're right. I've been a little dry lately. Maybe I'll use it."
OMG
This silent man has a blog. At first he didn't want to give me the URL.
"It must be naughty!"
"Well. It's not that naughty..... I let my parents read it."
Josh has been blogging since 2006. He wants to be a writer! He is a writer! (except for those otherwise occupied hours from 9 - 5.)
So quiet.
All of those unspoken thoughts, shared only on the World Wide Web.
Taking the lead, I initiate small talk, inquiring about the co-worker's recent vacation. He and his family had taken a train trip to the World Series of Barbecue in Kansas City, Missouri.
"How was it?"
Storm clouds pass the co-worker's brow. He shakes his head. It turns out national barbecue competitions are serious business. It's all about Watching Barbeque. And Watching Barbeque had not been the plan. All of that talent. All of that roasting meat. All of his family eating Subway sandwiches for lunch. The co-worker also confided that the the 30-hour train trip en famille has cured him of his love of train travel.
The story is painful and absurd. I say, "That would make a great blog post."
The quiet co-worker replies, "You're right. I've been a little dry lately. Maybe I'll use it."
OMG
This silent man has a blog. At first he didn't want to give me the URL.
"It must be naughty!"
"Well. It's not that naughty..... I let my parents read it."
Josh has been blogging since 2006. He wants to be a writer! He is a writer! (except for those otherwise occupied hours from 9 - 5.)
So quiet.
All of those unspoken thoughts, shared only on the World Wide Web.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Going Away to College
Girls are unloading funky desk lamps, personal cases of bottled water and plastic bins of colorful textiles. A family from New Jersey unloads a full-length mirror in store packaging. Another freshman has a floppy stuffed dog. Everyone carries plastic Target bags.
Here's what my son brought:
"What's this?"
"Laundry detergent."
"Oh, I don't use that."
The only thing harder than raising this strong-minded young person is having to say goodbye to him. I stink at goodbyes and have been dreading this one for 18 years.
On the drive up to Philadelphia we listened to music - Appalachian Spring, Fanfare for a Common Man, and Wachet auf. I tried to engage David with stories of my own freshman year. I told him about Marie Claire Alain, the famous French organist who gave a master class for our department. To clarify her point about the chorale, "Wachet auf", she referred to my friend Gilbert's music score. The one on which he had written in all capitals, "WACK IT OFF!" Gilbert and I pressed our knuckles against our mouths, and hoped against hope that her English was not that good. It's hard to get a laugh out of my son, so I don't mind telling an off color story to achieve my goal.
It's also hard to make him cry.
Then I told the story of my own moving-out. It was my 2nd moving out, or maybe my 3rd, but my parents would not let me take my rug - my own faux oriental rug that Elaine had given me.
"Why?" David wanted to know.
"Because they knew if the rug was gone, that I would be gone."
David and his father adore each other. They still snuggle together on the sofa and walk arm in arm down the street. I've been wondering how this separation would go for them. David spends the car trip giving his very best effort to make his father angry. Melvin doesn't understand the sneaky technic and keeps snapping at the bait. David clips his long toenails and fingernails, purposely scattering the leavings all over the car seat. David wants to stop at Starbucks for a Venti Hot Chocolate, but then he doesn't drink it. He buys a Roy Rogers bacon cheeseburger at the rest stop, but doesn't open it.
Do you remember when rest stops were two outhouses, a picnic table, and maybe a pump for water? No gas station, no Quiznos, no Popeyes, no jewelry, head pillows, sunglasses or Starbucks mugs from all 50 states. Such crap. And still I want to buy things for David. Even though a small fortune is being spent on his college tuition (actually, it is not that small), I still want to buy presents. Snacks for the dorm. A stuffed penguin for company. Something to hang on the wall. Even sunglasses or a set of headphones would do. I want to give him things and make him happy. Thankfully, he saves me from myself by wanting nothing at all. Except, now and then, to spend a little time with me.
Around Philadelphia, David starts reviewing the dormitory check-in information. "In order to obtain your dragon card (necessary for food and housing) students must present valid photo identification."
"Did you bring your passport?"
"Nobody told me!"
"JEESUS, DAVID!!!!"
"This document is 20 pages long. They can't expect me to read all of that!"
Parents launch into plans A B C and D of how to get the passport. Drive back to D.C.? Fed Ex? Call his uncle? Whose Responsibility Is This Anyway? Send David back by train to solve it himself? Parents disagree, sparring in the car's close quarters.
"Why are you two getting so worked up? It's no big deal."
"$%&#$&!$!"
Upon arrival, David insists on going to the dormitory first, even though it's two hours before his assigned check-in time and we want him to pay his tuition first and find out about the elusive dragon card ID problem. We drive up to Towers Dormitory - 15 floors of freshmen humanity. The street is heavily patrolled by security who hand us a yellow parking pass for 20 minutes and instruct us that we must unload in that amount of time or we WILL be ticketed. David slowly puts on his socks and then his sneakers, which he ties carefully, evening out the shoelace ends. He goes inside to inquire and shortly comes out with three ID bracelets. Smiling, he says, "Come on up!"
After installing David's modest belongings in his dorm, we leave him to address the administrative tasks. Later in the day we call to check in.
"How's it going?"
"Great! I paid my tuition. They gave me my dragon card."
"Can we come over and give you a goodbye hug?"
"Sure! Duong is here."
When we get to the room, David and Duong are playing a computer game. Why did I think those things would disappear in college? Duong is not his roommate, but is from DC. They met for the first time one hour ago.
We visit for a short while, and then I say,
"Mel and I need to go."
"OK. Bye."
"No. No. I want a hug."
"OK"
6'3" comes over and I get my hug. Then I scurry out the door so they won't see me teary eyed.
We leave David and Duong - two friends from the old country who have met in the new world.
Here's what my son brought:
- Laptop, Laptop charger
- Telephone, Telephone charger
- Pocket Knife
- 1 sheet set, comforter and pillow (all white)
- 0 Towel
- Leather Dopp Kit
- Industrial stapler (still in packaging)
- Extra staples
- Allergy Medicine
- 2 Packs of Mechanical Pencils
- 0 Paper
- 0 Backpack
- 0 Coat
- The Clothes on His Back
"What's this?"
"Laundry detergent."
"Oh, I don't use that."
The only thing harder than raising this strong-minded young person is having to say goodbye to him. I stink at goodbyes and have been dreading this one for 18 years.
On the drive up to Philadelphia we listened to music - Appalachian Spring, Fanfare for a Common Man, and Wachet auf. I tried to engage David with stories of my own freshman year. I told him about Marie Claire Alain, the famous French organist who gave a master class for our department. To clarify her point about the chorale, "Wachet auf", she referred to my friend Gilbert's music score. The one on which he had written in all capitals, "WACK IT OFF!" Gilbert and I pressed our knuckles against our mouths, and hoped against hope that her English was not that good. It's hard to get a laugh out of my son, so I don't mind telling an off color story to achieve my goal.
It's also hard to make him cry.
Then I told the story of my own moving-out. It was my 2nd moving out, or maybe my 3rd, but my parents would not let me take my rug - my own faux oriental rug that Elaine had given me.
"Why?" David wanted to know.
"Because they knew if the rug was gone, that I would be gone."
David and his father adore each other. They still snuggle together on the sofa and walk arm in arm down the street. I've been wondering how this separation would go for them. David spends the car trip giving his very best effort to make his father angry. Melvin doesn't understand the sneaky technic and keeps snapping at the bait. David clips his long toenails and fingernails, purposely scattering the leavings all over the car seat. David wants to stop at Starbucks for a Venti Hot Chocolate, but then he doesn't drink it. He buys a Roy Rogers bacon cheeseburger at the rest stop, but doesn't open it.
Do you remember when rest stops were two outhouses, a picnic table, and maybe a pump for water? No gas station, no Quiznos, no Popeyes, no jewelry, head pillows, sunglasses or Starbucks mugs from all 50 states. Such crap. And still I want to buy things for David. Even though a small fortune is being spent on his college tuition (actually, it is not that small), I still want to buy presents. Snacks for the dorm. A stuffed penguin for company. Something to hang on the wall. Even sunglasses or a set of headphones would do. I want to give him things and make him happy. Thankfully, he saves me from myself by wanting nothing at all. Except, now and then, to spend a little time with me.
Around Philadelphia, David starts reviewing the dormitory check-in information. "In order to obtain your dragon card (necessary for food and housing) students must present valid photo identification."
"Did you bring your passport?"
"Nobody told me!"
"JEESUS, DAVID!!!!"
"This document is 20 pages long. They can't expect me to read all of that!"
Parents launch into plans A B C and D of how to get the passport. Drive back to D.C.? Fed Ex? Call his uncle? Whose Responsibility Is This Anyway? Send David back by train to solve it himself? Parents disagree, sparring in the car's close quarters.
"Why are you two getting so worked up? It's no big deal."
"$%&#$&!$!"
Upon arrival, David insists on going to the dormitory first, even though it's two hours before his assigned check-in time and we want him to pay his tuition first and find out about the elusive dragon card ID problem. We drive up to Towers Dormitory - 15 floors of freshmen humanity. The street is heavily patrolled by security who hand us a yellow parking pass for 20 minutes and instruct us that we must unload in that amount of time or we WILL be ticketed. David slowly puts on his socks and then his sneakers, which he ties carefully, evening out the shoelace ends. He goes inside to inquire and shortly comes out with three ID bracelets. Smiling, he says, "Come on up!"
After installing David's modest belongings in his dorm, we leave him to address the administrative tasks. Later in the day we call to check in.
"How's it going?"
"Great! I paid my tuition. They gave me my dragon card."
"Can we come over and give you a goodbye hug?"
"Sure! Duong is here."
When we get to the room, David and Duong are playing a computer game. Why did I think those things would disappear in college? Duong is not his roommate, but is from DC. They met for the first time one hour ago.
We visit for a short while, and then I say,
"Mel and I need to go."
"OK. Bye."
"No. No. I want a hug."
"OK"
6'3" comes over and I get my hug. Then I scurry out the door so they won't see me teary eyed.
We leave David and Duong - two friends from the old country who have met in the new world.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Italian Night
Here's what we planned: Dinner at Buca di Beppo, a fun Italian restaurant our teenaged son discovered. Bocco di Beppo serves "family sized" entrees "family style". This is perfect. The adults can have a bottle of wine and the family can choose just one entree for three to share. My son said Buca di Beppo's cheesecake was the best, so that was part of the plan as well. After supper Mel and I would walk to a 7:30 movie and David would go home to meet his friend for their endless computer network project.
My son and I were meeting Mel at the restaurant. We left five minutes late. Then we went back home for an unlocked door. We exited the wrong end of the train and walked the wrong direction for five minutes before walking five more minutes in the correct direction. Once at the restaurant there was an obligatory "tour", part of the Buca di Beppo experience. We saw The Pope's Table, The Cardinal's Table, The Kitchen Table and a photo of the world's largest bowl of spaghetti with a man diving into it.
Settling into our table, the family fun begins. My son wants both baked rigatoni and chicken parmesan. For an appetizer he wants either bruschetta or garlic cheese bread (I'm allowed to choose). I remind him about the "family sized portions", diplomatically stating my preference for one entree and one appetizer. SOMEONE suggests, "We can just bring home whatever we don't eat!" (The noodles with a dab of riccotta, mozzerella and sauce cost $16.95.)
I resign myself.
Next on the menu is dinnertime conversation. My son can transform any bit of friendly chat from debate into a full-fledged argument. We dabble with various topics - chain restaurants vs. independent restaurants. We discuss different types of food and learn that "Jewish Food" is not possible because it's a religion and not a country. Following futile attempts to explain the diaspora, I sputter, "I think we should talk about something else."
The servings of garlic cheese bread, chicken parmesan and baked rigatoni come. We eat everything in sight, and I am left with double defeat. My caloric intake has been tipped ominously over the recommended daily allowance, and, worse than that, I was WRONG about the portion sizes.
When the server asks if we would like dessert, my son says,
"Three cheesecakes, please."
Oh God.
"No. No. Two cheesecakes."
"I want you to try it. It's the best cheesecake."
"I want to try it too, but I just want one little bite."
"We can take it home!"
"I don't want to take it home. In case you haven't noticed, one slice of cheesecake costs $11.45."
All the while I'm holding two TWO fingers up for the server to see. Back in my day a piece of cheesecake cost 75 cents. I can't bear that it's $11.45. My bathroom scale can't bear that a slice of cheesecake weighs one pound. SOMEONE looks at the server and says,
"Three cheesecakes."
I hate this family.
I insist the server bring the cake in a box.
The cheesecake arrives. I try a bite. It's good. It's better than the rigatoni and would have been a more satisfying main course. My son doesn't think it's as good as the last time he had it. He doesn't think it will taste good the next day. Melvin says, "I can bring it to work for lunch!" I forbid him to put it in my kitchen refrigerator. It must be kept in the one in the basement where I won't mistake it for my morning cereal. At this point we have a heated discussion about whose refrigerator it is and what rights I do and do not have about its contents.
My son's cell phone rings. It's his computer date. He's late for their appointment. It's now 7:40, ten minutes past when our movie, a 30 minute walk away, begins. I roll with it gracefully.
"I wasn't that interested in the movie anyway. Really I just wanted a nice dinner with you guys and to try this fun restaurant."
We go to the subway together. When the crowded train arrives, Melvin and I instinctively grab the only two available seats. One wordless glance from our son conveys: What am I, chopped liver that I don't get to sit down? If you really loved me you would not be so selfish and leave me standing in this aisle.
"Well, you could sit on my lap..."
Immediately, all 6'3" of his loving 18 year old man-self plops into my lap, his arm gently brushing the Wall Street Journal of the man sitting next to us. My son has a gynourmous head of fluffy red hair. He is not a person to overlook. Every passenger of the subway car directs his vision to their books or telephones or shoelaces as my son rests his head on top of mine. At the next stop some seats become available.
"There's a seat behind us. Would you like one?"
"No. I'm perfectly happy right here."
My son and I were meeting Mel at the restaurant. We left five minutes late. Then we went back home for an unlocked door. We exited the wrong end of the train and walked the wrong direction for five minutes before walking five more minutes in the correct direction. Once at the restaurant there was an obligatory "tour", part of the Buca di Beppo experience. We saw The Pope's Table, The Cardinal's Table, The Kitchen Table and a photo of the world's largest bowl of spaghetti with a man diving into it.
Settling into our table, the family fun begins. My son wants both baked rigatoni and chicken parmesan. For an appetizer he wants either bruschetta or garlic cheese bread (I'm allowed to choose). I remind him about the "family sized portions", diplomatically stating my preference for one entree and one appetizer. SOMEONE suggests, "We can just bring home whatever we don't eat!" (The noodles with a dab of riccotta, mozzerella and sauce cost $16.95.)
I resign myself.
Next on the menu is dinnertime conversation. My son can transform any bit of friendly chat from debate into a full-fledged argument. We dabble with various topics - chain restaurants vs. independent restaurants. We discuss different types of food and learn that "Jewish Food" is not possible because it's a religion and not a country. Following futile attempts to explain the diaspora, I sputter, "I think we should talk about something else."
The servings of garlic cheese bread, chicken parmesan and baked rigatoni come. We eat everything in sight, and I am left with double defeat. My caloric intake has been tipped ominously over the recommended daily allowance, and, worse than that, I was WRONG about the portion sizes.
When the server asks if we would like dessert, my son says,
"Three cheesecakes, please."
Oh God.
"No. No. Two cheesecakes."
"I want you to try it. It's the best cheesecake."
"I want to try it too, but I just want one little bite."
"We can take it home!"
"I don't want to take it home. In case you haven't noticed, one slice of cheesecake costs $11.45."
All the while I'm holding two TWO fingers up for the server to see. Back in my day a piece of cheesecake cost 75 cents. I can't bear that it's $11.45. My bathroom scale can't bear that a slice of cheesecake weighs one pound. SOMEONE looks at the server and says,
"Three cheesecakes."
I hate this family.
I insist the server bring the cake in a box.
The cheesecake arrives. I try a bite. It's good. It's better than the rigatoni and would have been a more satisfying main course. My son doesn't think it's as good as the last time he had it. He doesn't think it will taste good the next day. Melvin says, "I can bring it to work for lunch!" I forbid him to put it in my kitchen refrigerator. It must be kept in the one in the basement where I won't mistake it for my morning cereal. At this point we have a heated discussion about whose refrigerator it is and what rights I do and do not have about its contents.
My son's cell phone rings. It's his computer date. He's late for their appointment. It's now 7:40, ten minutes past when our movie, a 30 minute walk away, begins. I roll with it gracefully.
"I wasn't that interested in the movie anyway. Really I just wanted a nice dinner with you guys and to try this fun restaurant."
We go to the subway together. When the crowded train arrives, Melvin and I instinctively grab the only two available seats. One wordless glance from our son conveys: What am I, chopped liver that I don't get to sit down? If you really loved me you would not be so selfish and leave me standing in this aisle.
"Well, you could sit on my lap..."
Immediately, all 6'3" of his loving 18 year old man-self plops into my lap, his arm gently brushing the Wall Street Journal of the man sitting next to us. My son has a gynourmous head of fluffy red hair. He is not a person to overlook. Every passenger of the subway car directs his vision to their books or telephones or shoelaces as my son rests his head on top of mine. At the next stop some seats become available.
"There's a seat behind us. Would you like one?"
"No. I'm perfectly happy right here."
Monday, September 12, 2011
Ellie in Yellow
I remember Ellie in yellow
hiding behind her mother's dress,
afraid to come in for her piano lesson.
Now she wears the high heeled shoes of a lady.
She knows to keep them on for two hours
and no longer than that.
She knows how to walk with sure steps
up to the big black piano
where she plays Beethoven.
Her hair is dark and longer than anyone's,
and in her trim skirt and yellow blouse
she gives her music to God and Everybody.
hiding behind her mother's dress,
afraid to come in for her piano lesson.
Now she wears the high heeled shoes of a lady.
She knows to keep them on for two hours
and no longer than that.
She knows how to walk with sure steps
up to the big black piano
where she plays Beethoven.
Her hair is dark and longer than anyone's,
and in her trim skirt and yellow blouse
she gives her music to God and Everybody.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Man Mugged for Bible
"Authorities are looking for three muggers who punched and kicked a Bronx man before stealing his Bible. The NYPD says the attack in Fordham Heights was captured on surveillance video."
- From news services
- From news services
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Rose Gardens
Thirty years ago we walked in the rose garden at Hartford's Elizabeth Park. It's an amazing place, but we thought it was ordinary because it was just, you know, the park. There was a pond where we fed leftover bread to ducks. We brought apples for a snack, and ate some bread if we were still hungry.
Then we walked to his apartment and watched the shades of light change on the wall as the sun went down. We ate smoked gouda and canned asparagus on a wooden table with a red and white table cloth.
We have only rarely been apart from each other since that time. And when we are apart, we have a letter (remember those?) or a telephone call.
In 1981 we were just finishing college.
This fall our 18 year old son will begin college.
We wish him academic success, good friendships, gardens,
and rose colored sunsets.
Then we walked to his apartment and watched the shades of light change on the wall as the sun went down. We ate smoked gouda and canned asparagus on a wooden table with a red and white table cloth.
We have only rarely been apart from each other since that time. And when we are apart, we have a letter (remember those?) or a telephone call.
In 1981 we were just finishing college.
This fall our 18 year old son will begin college.
We wish him academic success, good friendships, gardens,
and rose colored sunsets.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Woman With One and One Half Legs
My friend, Fern, teaches yoga for all abilities. She works with older people and not so old people who sometimes do yoga sitting in chairs and moving what they can. When they finish class, they've had good yoga practice filled with healthy, mindful breathing, stretching and loving attention for their bodies and souls.
The yoga studio I go to is more of the sexy-hot-pants variety. This is unfortunate since I'm more of the fitting-into-my-pants variety, but I work with what I've got.
This morning at sexy-hot-pants yoga we practiced in a circle, each student a spoke of the wheel facing center. Most were lithe young women. A few people taking the class were also teachers. I spot them not only by the quality of their movement but by the quality of their focus. They don't follow the teacher's lead, but follow their "inner teacher", noticing what their body requires in each moment. This morning that meant while the rest of the class was standing in Warrior I, one teacher/student was in a kneeling lunge.
This beautiful yogini had intensity and focus that made you notice. Her practice was 100%. She gave herself over to glory. She also made massive adaptations to her poses. That inspires me since the fitting-into-my-pants practice is such a work in progress.
The beautiful yogini wore black knee length shorts. One of her legs ended at the hem line. She was missing the portion of her leg from the knee down. A round plastic nub was at the bottom of her shorts.
I've been thinking a lot about legs and motion. Last week I happened across "Meditations from a Moveable Chair", a beautiful collection of personal essays by Andre Dubus about his life as lover, father, person of faith, writer, and accident victim/survivor. One of his legs had been amputated and he could not use the other. Dubus so craved the feeling of his body in motion that each morning after daily Mass he wheeled his chair around the slopes of the church parking lot for an hour while singing at the top of his lungs. (he sang torch songs)
Thank you, Andre Dubus for your beautiful essays. Thank you, teacher for your inspiration.
The yoga studio I go to is more of the sexy-hot-pants variety. This is unfortunate since I'm more of the fitting-into-my-pants variety, but I work with what I've got.
This morning at sexy-hot-pants yoga we practiced in a circle, each student a spoke of the wheel facing center. Most were lithe young women. A few people taking the class were also teachers. I spot them not only by the quality of their movement but by the quality of their focus. They don't follow the teacher's lead, but follow their "inner teacher", noticing what their body requires in each moment. This morning that meant while the rest of the class was standing in Warrior I, one teacher/student was in a kneeling lunge.
This beautiful yogini had intensity and focus that made you notice. Her practice was 100%. She gave herself over to glory. She also made massive adaptations to her poses. That inspires me since the fitting-into-my-pants practice is such a work in progress.
The beautiful yogini wore black knee length shorts. One of her legs ended at the hem line. She was missing the portion of her leg from the knee down. A round plastic nub was at the bottom of her shorts.
I've been thinking a lot about legs and motion. Last week I happened across "Meditations from a Moveable Chair", a beautiful collection of personal essays by Andre Dubus about his life as lover, father, person of faith, writer, and accident victim/survivor. One of his legs had been amputated and he could not use the other. Dubus so craved the feeling of his body in motion that each morning after daily Mass he wheeled his chair around the slopes of the church parking lot for an hour while singing at the top of his lungs. (he sang torch songs)
Thank you, Andre Dubus for your beautiful essays. Thank you, teacher for your inspiration.
Friday, June 24, 2011
True Worship
Be a gardener. Dig a ditch, toil and sweat, and turn the earth upside down and seek the deepness and water the plants in time. Continue this labor and make sweet floods to run and noble and abundant fruits to spring. Take this food and drink and carry it to God as your true worship. - Julian of Norwich  | ||||
Monday, May 16, 2011
Sacred Objects
The structural engineer declared our house sound. He also gently suggested the slight sag in our bedroom floor could be eased by lightening the attic load.
Mel and I both want to clean out the attic which is stuffed with old life vests, holiday mugs, a turn table, 2 Monopoly sets, a penguin lamp, a wooden duck, a food grinder, 60s T.V. trays, and much much more.
Yesterday I learned that Laurie, whose baby was due last Wednesday, did not have a rocking chair, and so I was very happy to pull ours out of the attic for a worthy cause. Mel and I bought the chair when our son was just a few weeks old, and since he was the orneriest non-sleeper, he and I spent MANY hours in it - him nursing and me reading novels, or just kissing and sniffing his head.
I didn't tell Laurie, but there is a little milk stain on the chair. How could I give the rocker to a stranger when it had this precious mark that had passed between my son's mouth and my body? Laurie and I were both happy with the exchange - she for getting a free chair and me for giving the sacred artifact to someone I hold in affection.
The little guy that I used to rock in the chair is going away to college this fall, and I still kiss his head when I have a chance, now through a massive red afro. And I still give it a little sniff sometimes as well.
Mel and I both want to clean out the attic which is stuffed with old life vests, holiday mugs, a turn table, 2 Monopoly sets, a penguin lamp, a wooden duck, a food grinder, 60s T.V. trays, and much much more.
Yesterday I learned that Laurie, whose baby was due last Wednesday, did not have a rocking chair, and so I was very happy to pull ours out of the attic for a worthy cause. Mel and I bought the chair when our son was just a few weeks old, and since he was the orneriest non-sleeper, he and I spent MANY hours in it - him nursing and me reading novels, or just kissing and sniffing his head.
I didn't tell Laurie, but there is a little milk stain on the chair. How could I give the rocker to a stranger when it had this precious mark that had passed between my son's mouth and my body? Laurie and I were both happy with the exchange - she for getting a free chair and me for giving the sacred artifact to someone I hold in affection.
The little guy that I used to rock in the chair is going away to college this fall, and I still kiss his head when I have a chance, now through a massive red afro. And I still give it a little sniff sometimes as well.
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