Pennies Revisited

A while ago, I wrote about. . . wait, I should acknowledge that it’s been awhile—I’ve been distracted with some writing projects and things like summer and the Real Housewives— but anyway, I wrote once before about finding pennies and coins in my path.  It happens to everyone, the “lucky penny” found heads-up on the pavement, the random coin on the floor mat of the car.   At first, I picked them up, pocketing them, not taking much note.  But when I would turn my head for a moment, and turn back to spot a penny on the table, or find a shiny copper penny in my sheets, I started to think twice. 

I would find dimes, too, and the occasional quarter, but mostly pennies and dimes.    I didn’t think my children really thought much of my personal phenomenon, until they started saying things like, “Hey Mom, here’s your penny for the day!” We’d be walking in a college town, and they’d spy it first, the penny in front of the bookstore or the dorm.  The Target parking lot, the baseball field.  They all know better than to walk past “Mom’s daily penny,” because that’s what it sometimes is… daily.  

I know that pennies drop from change purses and dimes fall from pockets. But when I lean on the ledge of the Village Inn for a photo with Jono in Gambier, OH, and there’s a penny by my arm, I smile, and drop it in my pocket.  When I am cleaning Abby’s room, and I find a penny balanced on the edge of a drawer, I shake my head, and add it to my collection.  I don’t want to admit that I found one, yesterday, on Sam’s bathroom floor in a pile of dirty laundry, not a pocket in sight, but I did. 

What I am trying to say is. . . it hasn’t stopped.  The only problem is, sometimes I don’t know how to determine which coins are MY lucky pennies and which were just, you know, left in the dryer for anyone to find. 

I fully claimed the dime that washed up on the beach by my feet in the Bahamas, because I was looking for shells and found a coin.  I have no doubt about the penny that I saw (but could not grab) as I was boarding a plane, because it was shining right under my feet as I was walking onto the aircraft.  I know, it’s like the easiest place for a coin to drop out of a pocket, but I’m telling you, even though I just knew it was a “good luck, safe trip” coin, if I had grabbed it, I’d have been trampled by businessmen and wheeled carry-ons.

I wanted to dig a little deeper, and did some research (hello, Google) through some spiritual blogs and articles.  While I would never try to convince any non-believers, I found myself comforted and validated by the following opinions that were shared more than once on the World Wide Web. . . . 

On an occasion when an angel misses you, he/she tosses down a penny from heaven that you receive.

Typically, coins are contained (in wallets, pockets, purses) so when you see one in your path, it grabs your attention; coins also catch the sunlight so you spot them.  A spirit can easily realign a few coins in your path without causing fear or harm. 

Coins have value; they are put in your path to remind you of yours. 

When I was mentioning this occurrence to my parents, my mom was intrigued.  In fact, she has since sent me several articles about lucky pennies and “pennies from Heaven.”  (Side note:  for those of you who know my mom, the fact that she is sending articles is not a spiritual phenomenon, it is an everyday happening.)  We talked a lot about who might be watching over me, sending me little messages.  I have thought of my grandmothers, and I have two aunts who have passed, all of whom would be apt to check on me.  

My dad was listening, and then very offhandedly remarked, “Your grandfather used to collect dimes.”  He went on to talk about my grandfather’s way of rolling coins in the paper wrappers, but I was dumbstruck.  Did he not know that he had just solved the riddle?  That it was PopPop who had been dropping coins in my path?

It wouldn’t have been my first guess.  My grandfather was a quiet man.  So, so smart and very funny.  Perhaps this is his way, now, of keeping our quiet, smart, funny conversation alive.  

“Christa,”  he is saying, “I’m not sure of the grammar you used in that last sentence.”  He would be correct, no doubt.  

74 pennies, 8 dimes, three quarters and one silver washer.  And a $50 dollar bill.  

The paper money was lying in the grass; I spotted it while I was walking the dog on vacation in South Carolina.  I thought I was picking up a dollar, and was, of course, shocked.  I did report it to the main office at the beach club; what if a kiddo lost his vacation money, or someone who worked on the island lost a big tip?  But no one claimed it, so it was mine.  I didn’t connect it to my heavenly messages at first, and maybe I shouldn’t, but I’m going to.   Because things of value seem to be placed in my path, and perhaps my grandfather just REALLY WANTED TO SAY HELLO.

As it stands, I have collected 87 items.  The current value I have been given (read as you like)  is $52.29+ one washer.  It’s difficult, though, to put a value on finding nuggets of gold, revealing a hidden treasure, unlocking a secret code.  Mine all mine, screams my inner toddler, but not in a greedy way.  It’s a joyful cry of, “Hey, do you really not see that penny?  No?  Oh, that’s because it’s meant for me.”

Be on the lookout for “yours all yours.”  Whatever your signs and symbols may be.  Your messages or tokens, your comfort givers, your peace beacons, because heaven is dropping pennies just for you.  That sparkle in the path, that moment taken to reach for the luck, let it remind you that you are thought of, you are seen, you are valued. 

“Don't pass by that penny when you're feeling blue. It may be a penny from heaven that an Angel's tossed to you.”

-C. Mashburn

“In God we Trust” - the Penny

The washer, and the Bahama dime

A couple cool pennies 

A Few of my Favorite Things

     I created a very special wreath a few years ago.  It seems like a few years ago, but it was more--I know this, because as I look at the wreath today, I see photos of babies that are now big.  I love this wreath.  It's covered in ribbons and glitter, and all of the special ornaments that Jono, Abby and Sam made throughout preschool and elementary.  At one point, that brief moment in time when they were actually toddlers and babies, my tree could hardly hold all of the magical decorations, and I wasn't willing to part with any.  Not one.  So this wreath became the overflow vessel for the stars and pinecones, the glittery school photos, the bells, reindeer and gingerbread men.  I have three-of-the-same of most, and after a few years, the wreath was as full as my tree had been.  It was magnificent, and it hung in the house, displaying my favorites.

     And then we moved.  I protected the wreath and it traveled well.  But it didn't' find its way out of our new attic that first Christmas.  Or the second, third or fourth.  December would roll around and one kiddo or another was coming home from college or waiting on college acceptances, or auditioning, or  needing a ride to Boston Mills.  The tree was always full of memories and special ornaments, but the idea of the ornaments with the tiny faces and the sparkly pinecones wasn't at the top of my list.

     Until this year.

     The tree is up, and it's half decorated.  Jono is working downtown, and Abby will be home on Thursday.  Sam just texted from school wondering about skiing this afternoon.  Everybody wants to decorate the tree (I just know it in my Christmas heart) but I do not live with toddlers in their Christmas jammies anymore.  My children are busy young adults who are studying for finals and attending office Christmas parties.

      So, as I was hanging the last of the ornaments today, I realized that something was missing.  The toddlers.  One quick trip up to the attic, and there it was, bagged carefully, hanging on a hook.  Just as easily as it was assembled, it was disassembled.  Every last one of the popsicle-stick stars and the paperboard angles will find its way back onto the tree.   Suddenly, there is so much room.

     Merry Christmas, friends!  Make sure to surround yourself with your very favorite things.

     Love,

     Christy

The Best of Intentions

Intentions.

The good, the bad, the best of.

My daughter, Abby, wears a bracelet everyday that says "breathe."  I was with her when she chose it, when she connected with it in the boutique.   When I look at her, I am not at all surprised that she feels this word so deeply.  Her theater training, her vocal technique, her yoga classes.  Then there is the stress that can arise with a packed schedule.  The word was so perfect.  Breathe, girl.

The word bracelet, the "MyIntent" bracelet is a big "thing" right now and I want one, but I've been struggling to pick my word.  The lists are endless, and I can't seem to connect.  Some have double meanings, some just sound wrong, some are slightly negative, some seem cliche, some aren't fitting enough to wear everyday.  Being that I kind of fancy myself a word-kind-of-girl, this word block is challenging to me.

Challenge.

That's another thing.

My cousin, Julianne, has challenged me to accept a 50-Weeks-to-50 challenge.  I must pick a new goal every week until I turn fifty next July.  Fifty goals, fifty weeks.  She's a few weeks into her challenge and mine starts this week.  So, I have to pick my first challenge.

I can't even pick a word.

So, this morning on my walk, I decided to combine these two tasks.

Week One of my 50-Weeks-to-50 (#50Weeksto50 on Instagram) will be to  pick my word of intention.  And as I thought about it, really thought about it, and thought about some things that will be on my list of goals to accomplish this year,  I wondered, what keeps us (me) from trying things, finishing things, putting things out into the world.  For me, it's often fear.  Fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of not finishing, fear of the unknown, fears I didn't even know were holding me back.

"You cannot be brave without fear."  ~Muhammad Ali

It feels a bit weird that one of my favorite quotes happen to be by Ali, but it is.  And that's what popped into my head on my walk.  And then there's another one of my favorite quotes, but it's actually the end of a poem.

There is freedom waiting for you,

On the breezes of the sky,

And you ask "What if I fall?"

Oh but my darling,

What if you fly?” 

~Erin Hanson

So I chose my word.  BRAVE. I have some goals to complete, and some things to try, and there is freedom waiting on the breezes of the sky.  I see a paddleboard in my future, a journal, and a finished manuscript.  I will write poetry. I will try yoga. I will bake and decorate cupcakes from scratch.  I will submit that manuscript.  Again. 

What is your intention?  What is your word?  Follow me on instagram at @christychafe and #50WeeksTo50 share your goals and intentions and dreams and challenges and favorite words.  I'd really love to hear.  

Be brave.  What if you fly? 

Enjoying the Ride

Happy New Year.   And, phew.

Feels like a whirlwind, doesn't it?  Not just the holidays (which seemingly flew by me in a glorious frenzy of tissue paper, confectioners sugar and glitter, as noted by the evidence I am still finding) but the entire year.   I look back on 2016 as if it were a giant revolving door instead of a calendar year;  transformations, changes, comings and goings.   I'm not even talking about the election--transitions to be sure--but so many changes and upheavals along my own journey. 

I've realized that for a girl who enjoys travel and activities and surprises, I also apparently like my schedule and patterns, so this year of "different" was not always so easily-received by me.  Abby left for college, Sam started high school, and Jono began his senior year.   Adam made a big decision to begin a new phase in his career; after twenty years in the same company, he will be transitioning into something new.  

Big changes.  Which bring about small changes.  Morning routines, daytime routines.  Who's in the office, and who's watching the Today Show-- or ESPN?  Abby is no longer singing show tunes (or Beyonce) all day long in the kitchen, but Sam has taken up skiing full-force, so I am learning a delightful new language.  (Some days the "pow" is great on the slopes, and sometimes things are "sendy." Sick.  Hella lit.)   I often trip over ski boots.  

Just when I was growing accustomed to Jono being away, he is now about to become a true grown-up.  He has thrown himself into the interview process and while  his determination and skill both astound and delight me, I already find myself mourning the fact that I will not have him home again for a four-week Christmas break.  Sad!

This will be Jono's last season of baseball.  And ours, with him.  Real change.  I am a girl who packs a mean baseball cooler, a trie baseball mom.  But I am also not unaware of the changes in the boy who is becoming a man;  one ready to move forward with the love of the game with lessons learned from the game.  A new phase, a new time.    

Abby will take the stage at Miami University in the spring.  I'm trying  not to rent an apartment in Oxford to take care of her this spring.  I want to be close enough to buy grapefruit juice and lozenges, to make sure she sleeps and eats.  To be at every single show.  This is already difficult for me.  

But this is not about me.  These revolving doors keep revolving, and sometimes, I find them spinning me right back to where I belong.   I try to ride along, and I spin and I spin, but I never get very far, chasing the change.  So I will step quietly (ahem) back, and watch the comings and goings, the new and the different.  And I will be grateful for the ride.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."  Jeremiah 29:11

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens. 

Ecclesiastes 3:1

The Last Lunch Note

*Copied-without permission-from the note I tucked in Abby's lunch this morning. 

This is the last lunch note I will write you.  

You were my “pack a lunch” kiddo.  While the boys always liked to buy their lunches, you preferred to pack yours, almost always.  

When you were younger, you would pack them yourself.  But in these last few years, the job fell to me.  Isn’t that weird?  I think most kids would have grown INTO the job, not out of it.  You got busy in the evenings, and began to count on your lunch being prepped, and I wore the “I pack a great lunch” badge with honor.   I never minded, particularly.  Well, to be fair, some mornings I would grumble and moan and the absolute last thing I wanted to do at 6:45 am was pack a lunch, but MOSTLY I loved it.  

You were a very thoughtful and meticulous planner.  I would know well in advance that you would like to eat chicken breasts and mini guacamole cups one week, or peanut butter and banana sandwiches another.  Cut up veggies.  Grapes.  And dips of all kinds.  Ranch, sour cream, bleu cheese, hummus, hot sauce.  If I could pour it into a tiny cup, and you could dip a veggie into it, thumbs up--lunch is served.

I could occasionally convince you to branch out.  The wrap-sandwich experiment, for example.  It didn’t work too well, until I cut your wrap into tiny pinwheels, then you liked it better.  OMG.  I think I finally get it. . .you’re actually still a toddler!  You like things in tiny pieces and anything you can dip into anything else.  Sigh.  Captain Obvious, where were you when I needed you?

There were the lunch crisis moments, those mornings when I didn’t think you were packing a lunch, and the call would come down the stairs at 7:19.  “Mom, can I have a lunch?”  Those were the days you got 1/4 of a cold Chipotle burrito from the fridge, a piece of questionable fruit, and a small handful of Halloween candy.  In April.  But you would still get a lunch note, no matter what.  

Every packed lunch gets a lunch note.  My boys got fewer, but they got them, and I had the pleasure of finding all of them, saved, every year, in the inside pockets of the soft-sided lunch boxes.  Something about those notes, being tucked away instead of tossed aside, made every note that much more important to compose.

Ahem.  Compose is a big word.  Write.  Scratch.  Scrawl.  Some were clever.  Some notes to you were honest.  Some were “good luck on your test.”  Other’s were “HI!” on a napkin.  Once or twice, when you were running out the door, I had to blow a kiss into the lunchbox and yell “LUNCH NOTE!”  (Whatever works in the moment, right?)  Many would discuss the latest "Grey’s Anatomy" episode, or Scandal, or "Secrets And Lies" (Where is that show, anyway?  Anyone?)  I’d try to be inspirational, or funny.  Or punny.  Or holiday-themed.  I would go for the laugh, but my daily goal was always the same:  to let you know that I was thinking of you while you were in the lunch room, dipping your cucumbers in the dip-of-the-day, hanging out with your girlies.  

This is your last lunch note.

I’ve told you everything I could possibly tell you, at least in lunch-note language.  But to finish it off, here you go:

Have a good day.

Sing out.  Sing your song.  Good luck on every audition, ever.

Don’t talk to boys, but if you do, be smarter than they are.  (Not hard.)

You be you, GURL.

Take your time on every test.  Read the questions carefully.  

Plan in advance, but if you don’t, make the best with what you have.

Be careful what you dip into.

Try the wrap.  

Take small bites.

There is no shelf life on Halloween candy.

Be brave.

Your hair looks great today.

When you are watching Grey’s, eat the caramels.  Think of me when you accidentally get a cream.

Send notes.  Leave notes.  

When you eat lunch, know that I am thinking of you.  

I’m proud of you.

Make good choices.

Be a good friend.

You are a star.

It’s a great day to save lives.

Where is Secrets and Lies?

I’m going to miss you, but I’ll be okay.  

I love you.  I really, really love you.

This is the last lunch note.  Signing off.  May 13, 2016.  XOXO 

Love

Mommy

Best Dog Friend

 They tried to warn me, those naysayers and nonbelievers.  It will be hard work, they said.  You’ll be up all night with the crying, I heard.

I’d fought it for years, but I was ready.

Now?  I heard.  Your kids are so big, and you’re doing this now?

Can’t explain it.  I was ready.

It will tie you down, some argued.  You love to travel.

Didn’t care.  I was ready.  

I gathered my research, read the books, did the preparation, bought the supplies, and made the plan.  

I was ready.

And on the day he came home, I was really, really ready.

I was prepared with the small bowls and the soft food.  There were itty-bitty snacks and soft blankets, and toys.

Pee-pee pads, two crates, three beds, seven different chewy bones, a dog car-seat, and one two-and-a-half pound Maltese puppy.  

Coach the Dog was a late-but-great addition to our family.  Small in stature, but big in personality, he offers kisses to all who will accept (and serious make-out sessions with some lucky winners).  This fluffy little puffball has taken over our home and schedule.   But we were ready.  

We were all ready to bring the puppy home.  I was not prepared to meet my Best Dog Friend. 

My Best Dog Friend came into the house in my arms on August 29th, and hasn’t left my side.  The pitter-patter of his four small paws follows me everywhere.  From the stove to the refrigerator.  From the couch to the bedroom.  From the bed to the bathroom and back to the bed.  If I am working, he sleeps under my desk.  If I get up, he gets up.  My Best Dog Friend likes to sit on my vanity while I dry my hair.  And he likes me to dry his already-dry fur. (High maintenance.)

My Best Dog Friend protects me from things I cannot see, and from my husband whenever he tries to put his arm around me.  

My Best Dog Friend warns me of possible intruders, or maybe just leaves on the porch.  

My Best Dog Friend shares my food with himself.

My Best Dog Friend cries when I leave and falls all over himself with joy--literally--when I come home...from getting the mail.

When Adam is traveling, My Best Dog Friends sleeps on the bed and makes us both happy.  (Oh, I mean he’s totally crate-trained.) 

        My Best Dog Friend keeps me company when my kids (“your kids are so big!”) are gone all day.

        I was ready to bring a puppy into the house.  I was unprepared to fall in love.

I’ve never had a Best Dog Friend.   I was ready.

God and Baseball

Be still.  (Still calling those as strikes? Really? You're missing a great game, Blue. . . )

Be still,  and (and NOW it's a ball?  You have GOT to be kidding.)

Be still, and know (you know what?  I'm going just post these pictures of Jono batting on Facebook)

Be still, and know that I (I need another water.  Does Jono need a Gatorade?  Where is the Gatorade?)

Be still, and know that I am (I am on 15% battery here.  I hate it when that happens.)

Be still, and know that I am God.  (Um, God?  I am trying to watch a game, here.)

But I wasn't.  And that verse, my very favorite, was quietly inching its way to the front of my brain.  Now, I know that God and baseball (and cellphones and Facebook) might not intertwine for most, but for me, they go hand-in-hand.  What was meant to be a peaceful morning, relaxing in the beautiful sunshine, watching my son play his favorite game, was being overshadowed by the unimportant details.

So I put down the phone, and relaxed into my chair.  And there, with God and baseball, with the sun on my face, enjoying the boy I love playing the game he was born to play, I was finally still.

I was even thankful for the umpires. . . and that says a lot.

Be still, and know that I am God.  Psalm 46:10

Singing Outside the Box

I've never been that great at "stepping out of the proverbial box."  No thank you,  new boxes.  I like the spaces, activities and schedule that I have created, and I like the people that are incorporated into my world.  So it should have come as no surprise when my best friend, Lisa, told me recently that it also takes me a while to warm up to new people. But surprised I was.

This can't be true.  I thought I LIKED meeting people.

"You do like meeting them," she assured me.  "But it takes you a while to see if you're going to let them in."

Really?  REALLY?   So then I asked her how long it took me to decide.  I assumed that A) she wouldn't know or B) it would be a few weeks to a month.  

Seven years, on average.  

Apparently, I'm a mean dog in a lonely, box-shaped crate.  Like, the meanest.  No new people.  No new boxes.  Go away.  Get out.  See you in seven years.  

Those who know me well will hopefully attest that this is a bit of an exaggeration.  I'm not the meanest dog, but maybe it is okay to step back and consider who and what we let in.  At the same time, we don't want to let great things pass us by.

The past couple of months, I've been seeing notices at church recruiting singers for Faure's Requiem. Dates and times for vocal interviews.  Come and sing!  Everyone in the community invited.   I saw the same notice in the Hudson Hub.  I love singing big pieces of music.  Well, I love singing any piece of music, but the idea of this was really calling to me.  I haven't sung in a long, long time, but I kept thinking. . . if I don't audition, and I'm in the congregation watching, what will I thinking as I enjoy the music? What experience might I have allowed to pass me by?

Rehearsals are on Monday nights, a night in my week that is absolutely free.  So I scheduled my interview, sang for Tom, received my score, and went to my first rehearsal.  Out of my box.   Although singing is something that feels natural, I've not sung in this setting, with this director, with these people.  There were a few familiar faces, but far fewer than I expected.  So. . . deep breath.  New box.  New people.  Surface introductions.  Sang the first movement.  Night one, big success.

At the second rehearsal, I was sitting next to Tracy again, in the Alto section.  (Note:  it is also waaaaaay out of my box to sing Alto.)  She sat down and opened her binder.  Binder!  I was there with my score and pencil, now feeling underprepared.  

"I'm doing that next week," I said, coveting. 

"Well," Tracy said.  "I sing in three choirs.  I just love to sing!  So I have to do this."  In her binder, she also had a pencil case with a mass of sharp pencils, a pencil sharpener, and all the handouts from Tom.  I was overcome with jealousy.  I have missed years of this.  

Tracy went on to tell me that she sang in the Laurel Lake Choir, and also the Hudson Community Choir.  I shared that I had sung in the Community Choir many years ago.  She asked where I had grown up (Cincinnati) and she told me she was from Lima, OH.  And there it was-- The Connection.  Lima is a town very near Indian Lake, OH, where my grandparents are from, and where I spent (and spend) many of my summer days.  It's where my parents met and still have my grandparent's home.  It's where my dad was a lifeguard and where I learned to waterski.  It's where I fell in love with the day lilies that I transplanted to my own yard.  Tracy told me she danced at the same ballroom where my grandfather's band played.  She knew the amusement park.  We both knew Hinkle's donut shop.  

After practice, we walked and talked toward the exit.  We took the elevator down and chatted some more.  Tracy would drive home, one town over.  In the elevator, she had asked if I attended church at First Congregational.  I had said "Yes, since 1998."  I believe Tracy was far more out of her box than I, and yet she seemed infinitely more comfortable.

Now, I have my binder ready.  I have made at least one new friend.  I've learned two movements of the Requiem.  The words are so familiar but the tune is not, and I have but six weeks, not seven years, to warm up to the song.   I'm already loving the experience, though, so I'm not really worried.  

 Make a friend.  Sing a song.  Walk and talk.   Open your heart and take a tiny step out of your box.  Even if it's back into a place you've been before.  

Kids Today. . . Rock!

I am a user of social media.  Twitter is my first source for breaking news and weather alerts,  Facebook keeps me connected to family and friends, and Instagram (when I remember) shows me fun and often beautiful moments from my daughter's life.  I am intrigued by the way the world is becoming connected and instantly updated; more than that-- I am amazed.

At first, I resisted.  "Facebook? No thanks."  However, once my children became members of the digital society,  I felt the need to join, connect, and put myself, well, out there.  For a few years, I was an avid user, and I still go through spurts.  But more often than not, I'm now more of a scroller.  

While I still love the technology, I've become a bit disenchanted with the overwhelming number of posts about (and I am most definitely paraphrasing) "We Are Raising Entitled Kids" and "Growing Up In the 80's (50s, 60s, 70s) was So Much Better!"    We brag, we boast, we compare, we criticize.  Kids today!  Stop being bored, kids.  Go drink out of a garden hose and ride your bikes until the street lights turn on. Work.  Get a job.  Make your bed.  Fly a kite.  When I was your age, I carried a four-pound WalkMan and listened to an Air Supply mix tape on gym-shoe roller skates.  (That's true; I did.)  Does it really prove anything at all?  To be clear, I can see my daughter right now, from here, wearing a super cool outfit.  Her tiny earbuds are tossed on the table and she is NOT wearing skates of any kind.  I think she wins this particular battle of "Then vs. Now."

Do my children feel entitled?  I hope not.  Or spoiled, mean, rotten, evil, nasty, cranky, selfish or any number of things that I wouldn't want them to feel.  Sick, angry, hurt, scared, hopeless, hungry, sad, bullied or worried.

Kids today.  Geez. 

It's entirely possible that, at some point, I may have shared a post like the ones I am arguing against.   I can't remember if I have or haven't.  And if I have,  I am hereby disenchanted with myself.  It's not that I necessarily disagree with all of the articles, or with the clever captions on the cute stock photos about parenting--they often make me laugh out loud!  

But I wonder, do the kids laugh when they read the the posts about kids?

These kids are our children.  They grew up in a digital world, one that provides instant updates and one-day shipping,  iPhone notifications and friend requests.  The fact that we, the adults, continue to post about the entitled, spoiled, bored kids of the world feels entirely unjust.

The truth is, they're probably not reading the posts.  They've likely moved on to the next big thing, and we are already one step behind.  But just in case, it would be nice to post with kindness in reference to our own children.

And I know that we ALL do.  I see the birthday messages, the sports photos, the messages of good news and the beautiful vacation pictures.  I've seen magic happen with prayer requests and stories shared.  The possibility for good is seemingly endless!

The digital world is allowing us a connectedness that is both instant and far-reaching.  It makes this big world feel smaller every day, as we branch out and share our stories and our lives.  I'd rather learn from these crazy "kids today" about what this new digital world has to offer, than try to convince them to live in the world where I grew up thirty (ahem) years ago.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pair of royal blue Adidas skates to find. . .  but at least I have a playlist on my iPhone.

The Sample Lady

I wish everything was served on a toothpick.  I'm the best guest at an appetizer party--hot, cold, passed, served.  If it's small and bite sized, I'll give it a whirl.  And I'm increasingly amazed at what people can stab onto a small stick and serve at a party.  I remain duly impressed.

When my children were small, I wasn't very good at fighting the food wars, and chose instead to pretend that my kitchen was Sam's Club, and that I was the sample lady.  "Cheese cube?" I would ask.  I presented the orange cubes on an Elmo plate with a small heap of pretzel sticks.  Not only was it a great game (stick the cube on the pretzel) but it was a perfect snack, and a cute appetizer.  Toothpick, pretzel-- it's all the same to me.   For years, I served chunks of pears, peaches, veggies, and bananas all with tiny pretzel toothpicks.  It was a party on the highchair tray at every meal.  (Note:  Cheerios and pretzels is like ring-toss, and it's super-duper fun!)

Yesterday, I noticed that a large box of frozen chicken sandwiches was still in the freezer, untouched. I had purchased them thinking they would serve the purpose of a good, quick snack between summer camp, theater, and baseball games, but since they were unfamiliar, no one had tried them.  *GASP! NEW FOOD ITEM! THE CHILDREN ARE INCREDIBLY FRIGHTENED*  So, as I was cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry, I heated up two sandwiches, cut them into sixteen small wedges, and grabbed my trusty toothpicks.   I put the "appetizer" onto a white plate on the counter, and ignored it.

"What is this?"  my youngest is intrigued.

"Nothing,"  I said, turning away and boiling water for pasta.

The sandwiches had been in the freezer for weeks, taking up space.  I had actually offered them up a few times, and was shot down on the basis of "never having had them before."  That's right.  You will live the rest of your life eating only things you have had before.  Enjoy your long life filled with waffles, pasta, pizza, Gatorade and cereal.

 "I just thought you guys might like a snack," I said, "but dinner will be ready soon."  My mom-voice implies: WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT EAT THOSE BEAUTIFUL MINI SANDWICHES.

I would not look my children directly in the eye.  I would not ask them to try a bite.  From the pantry, though,  I could see them walking past, grabbing the bites of sandwich.  Like their mother, they cannot resist a tiny taste on a fancy plate.

"Those are pretty good, Mom," said my oldest.

"I'm so glad," I answer.  "Don't ruin your dinner."

My daughter grabbed another on her way through the kitchen.  "Not too many!" I call.  In a few days I will tell them that they can have a whole sandwich anytime they like.  But not yet.  I am wielding a private sense of power with my secret chicken hors d'oeuvres.

I wonder what else we might try if it was offered in fancy packaging and in the least overwhelming serving?

It reminds me of when my girlfriends took me skiing for the first time.  I was convinced mostly by my fancy new skis (toothpicks?) and the idea that it was only a six-week course (appetizer?)

And as I grab a mini-chicken sandwich wedge (obviously) I promise myself to be open to the samples that are being handed to me on platters every single day.  It just can't hurt to try.

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There Was a Turtle. . . .

     I read today about a woman in Quebec who faces a maximum sentence of life in prison for causing two deaths.  She stopped her car in traffic on the highway in order to rescue a small bunch of ducklings.  A motorcyclist and his daughter, traveling behind her, were killed when they ran into the back of her van, unexpectedly stopped in the fast lane.  

     She was trying to herd the ducklings out of traffic and into her car.  She has said in court that if she had it to do all over, she would not have stopped. Of course not.  In the moment, I’m sure she was trying to do the right thing; perhaps, the only thing that seemed normal.  It would feel so wrong run over a group of ducklings on the road.  I’m certain she never considered that two people would die while she was trying to save the birds.  I’m sure she wasn’t thinking.  It doesn’t make what happened right; not at all.  It makes it all the more heartbreaking.  

     She would never make the same decision again.

     Two days ago, I stopped with my friend Lisa and my son Sam, to watch a turtle cross the road.  We pulled into a driveway on Rt. 303 and at first considered going to rescue him (her?) as he stopped right in the middle of the busy road.  It became clear that we could never really get to him, and he really was quite large.  Like a tortoise.  (As we discovered later, he was a snapping turtle.)  In the end, we watched and worried as he journeyed across.  We were not blocking traffic, but people were noticing us, and I wonder, were we causing a distraction?  For a while, the turtle was right on the center yellow line, seemingly stretching his head to look both ways.  The dried mud on his shell made him appear less like a giant turtle and quite like a tiny stegasaurus.  We saw drivers veer around the turtle.  We even witnessed one car speed around another, to avoid hitting a car which had slowed for the turtle’s crossing.  

     Semi trucks roared by, both ways.  Every time, we screamed.  “Go turtle!”  or “Don’t hit the turtle!”  We covered our eyes.  It was touch-and-go.

     It was actually surprising how fast (relatively) that the turtle crossed the road, once he had a safe window in which to do so.  Surprising, too, that he seemed to understand the surroundings and the traffic patterns.  Eventually, all we could see was the rustling of the tall grass and brush by the side of the road, into which our giant (relatively speaking) friend had finally escaped, safe for now.  Then, nothing at all.  Adventure, over.

     We retreated into the car.  I supposed we really couldn’t have rescued him.  And if we had tried,  we may have done more harm than good--to him, to us, to another driver.  It’s a moment that makes me pause and question:  how many moments of grace have I been given?  How many times have I NOT had to think, “I would have done it differently?”  Every hour?  Every minute?  Quite possibly, constantly.  My life goes on as usual, filled with millions of tiny choices and decisions.  Grace. 

     I could have herded ducklings.  I could have saved a turtle or made a wrong turn or veered off the path or chosen the wrong crowd.  But I’ll never know, because I only know what IS.  A life made up of moments of grace.

     The wife of the motorcyclist who died said that she did not blame the driver, and that it was time to move forward.  She had no ill will toward anyone.  

     So why did that turtle cross the road?  We may never know, but I wish him a life well lived, and safe passage for the next time.   And for all of those whom I am thinking of while writing, I wish for you a life filled with moments of grace and safe crossings as well. 

~There, but for the grace of God, go I.~

Fallling

 

 

      I am in a constant state of recovery from injuries sustained during falls.  I fall down stairs,  I slip on icy driveways, I fall out of bed, and I trip over uneven sidewalks.  I also fall UP the stairs, I trip over nothing at all, and I slip on perfectly sunny days.  I walk into walls,  I bump my head, I bang my shins, and I stub my toes.  While this is not exactly falling, I often fall because of the bumping, banging, or stubbing.

     I spill things, I break things, and I drop things.  Things literally fall away from me.  Yesterday, I opened the trunk of my SUV, and a jar of spaghetti sauce rolled out of a grocery bag, and smashed onto the garage floor, splattering the cement and the surrounding snow with tomato sauce and shards of glass.  I very, very carefully cleaned the mess (which, incidentally, looked like a murder scene but smelled like an Italian restaurant) using gloves and a broom, but still managed to cut my finger on an invisible piece of glass.  After I had retrieved the remaining groceries, I closed my own trunk on my own thumb.

     Last winter, I was getting into my best friend Lisa's car, parked behind the bookstore, precariously near a pile of snow.  I tried to balance on a small strip of clear pavement while pulling the passenger door open, but my hand slipped, and I was sent careening into the nearby snowbank.  From my new, very cold, vantage point, I could see Lisa, laughing.  I know she would have helped me if she hadn't been warm and laughing so hard.    I forgive her; she has caught me often, pulling me from far more difficult situations than a snow pile.

     It's just the way in which I live.  I am forever bruised, both physically and on the inside, where I house my dignity.

     But there are other ways to fall.

     I fall in love.  With my husband, truly and madly, whom I married 22 years ago today, and with my children, the very second they were born.  I fall to the right, I fall for movie stars, and I fall for nearly any prank thrown in my direction.  I fall into a good book, and I more often than not, I fall for the twist at the end.   I have been known to fall to my knees.

     My favorite season?  You don't even have to ask.  It is, and always has been, winter.  Did you fall for that?  I'm kidding of course.  It's fall.

     And while "things" tend to fall away from my person, I think perhaps the universe has made up for this by the amount of wondrous love that clings to me.  Children that snuggle me, even in their teenage years.  A husband who wants to hang out with me a lot.  A twelve-year old boy who wants to be so close to me on the couch that I can't move my legs.  A best friend who knows so much about my schedule that she can remind me of my own appointments, drive me if necessary, and bring me a cardigan because I might forget.  Group texts with special friends which act like a touchpoint in my day.  Parents, friends, family, in-laws--all who are connected with me on a daily basis.  I may drop the pasta sauce, but I'm a magnet for the things that truly matter.

    I couldn't fall if I tried.

     If you are a faller, like me, take heart.  The next time you trip, remember your open heart, full of ways in which you fall for the world around you, and remember those who have been placed there to catch you.  When you drop something, remember everything that sticks to you like a heart-shaped Post-it note.

     Fall for falling.  It's not so bad.  Bruises are badges of living your life out loud.  Oh, that's another thing--I'm really loud.  But that's another story...

Notes from the Journey

Dear Friends,

     I hope you are staying safe and warm during these winter days :)  As I was keeping myself connected with my friends from the comfort of my family room (thank you Facebook and Twitter!) I decided to look back to the very beginning of my blogging journey.

     Since "Notes from the Journey. . ." took it's first steps on a different site, I've provided that link for you below.     Some of the most recent posts are duplicates, but please scroll through the original site, or find archived blogs which are listed as well.   Maybe you will be reminded of something that was meaningful to you then, as I continue my journey on this beautiful new site.  As always, please let me know what may have resonated within you.  I love to hear from you.

Happy February!

~Christy

Notes from the Journey. . .


"Above all, love each other deeply because love covers a multitude of sins." 
1 Peter 4.8

Six Word Memoir (.com)

It is cold outside and the vegetable soup that I ate for lunch was warm, but uninspired.  That's a bit how I feel today.  Warm, but uninspired to complete the list of tasks and goals that I wrote last night.  I am a list maker, and now I have spawned three additional three list makers, but that's another story for another time.  (Note to self:  blog post about lists.)

Also, there is a Secret deodorant on the kitchen counter, which begs all kinds of questions, not the least of which is, "why is this distracting me?"  Not the second-least of which is "why have I left it there all day, as if it's going to NOT be on the counter at some point?"

I fear I am growing accustomed to temperatures preceded by a minus sign, because I'm starting to feel pretty good outside when it's around 13 degrees.  I'm trying to keep Peter's Russian temperatures in mind, really, I am.  My addiction to the weather app on my phone is frightening, as is the frequency of notifications I receive because of my settings.  But again, I digress.

Digression has been the theme of this day.  No, procrastination.  Or, perhaps, distraction.

My list of "things to do" today included both "write book ending" and "edit draft." Those two items have been staring at me from my list since December, so after I procrastinated even more by switching the laundry and checking the freezer for tonight's dinner options,  I wandered toward my desk.  Wandered, yes, like I had nowhere to go.  Aimlessly walking through my house thinking, "well, if I happen to see my computer, I guess I'll sit down and type."

Drat.  There it was.  I knew that the fifty-thousandish words that I had written in November were waiting for me somewhere in the cloud to mold them into something readable.

Like any prepared writer should, I opened up my laptop, and perused eight different websites about writing.   I read about writing for a good, long time.  Good job, me.  One of the websites I stumbled upon was sixwordmemoir.com. If you haven't ever tried to write a six-word memoir, please try.  Whether or not you decide to post it on the site or not, it is interesting and fun.  But mostly, it is more challenging than you might imagine.

The blank space was open before me.  Six words.  Six words.  I had no words.  In November, I wrote over fifty-thousand words as part of a novel writing challenge.  Apparently, I have none left.  I used them all.  Every. Single. Word.  I could not, for the life of me, find six.  Until I did.  And then I couldn't stop . . .


I had no words left inside.
Deodorant on the counter. Why?
Snow is good.  Sand is better.
Writing a novel is super easy.
Six word sarcasm is super funny.
I think I am still procrastinating.

Anyway, try it out.  It's fun, and it's enlightening to see what others are writing and posting.  While some are funny and clever, there are many six word posts that are powerful, a few words that express more than pages and pages ever could.

My mind felt very closed to the rough draft that was waiting for me today.  I could not have been less inspired to pull out that theoretical red pen to edit myself.  However, in the end, it was writing the uber-edited six-word story that opened the creative door.

What are your six words today?

As I prepare to tackle the rough draft that awaits me (in six-word chunks?) I look forward to adding "write memoir" on my to-do list tomorrow.   Can I change the story of my life every day with a six-word edit?  Count me in and pass the red pen.

COUNT ME IN PASS RED PEN (6)