Robert Browning

Operation Gratitude

There are a whole bunch of wonderful opportunities

to be of support to those who serve and have served in the military.

Operation Gratitude is just one of many fine organizations

whose mission is to open doors for us to show our appreciation to

our soldiers, sailors, airmen, Marines and veterans from all locations and conflicts.

 

It's incredibly easy to sit down and write a letter

or invite children to draw greetings

and create artwork'

these are treasured gifts that are sure to put a smile on the face

of someone who is serving

or has served.

 

Take a look at this quick summary of info:

 

CLICK HERE for OPERATION GRATITUDE WEBSITE

 

CLICK HERE for OPERATION GRATITUDE FACEBOOK PAGE

 

Check out Operation Gratitude and the many opportunities

to support our military during this holiday season!

There are so many simple ways to say

"Thanks! We love you and appreciate you!"

 

 



Bad Jokes

It's decided.

Christmas this year will be

the self-indulgent purchase

of a brand new knee.

 

My early thanks to my health insurance carrier

for getting into the spirit of things.

 

It's the first time I've ever been presented with a holiday gift

that required bloodwork, a mountain-size deductible

and a co-pay which would finance food on the table

for every child in several small

third-world countries.

 

Nonetheless, I'm grateful.

And I think my loved ones will understand.

 

Nothing says "Awww, honey....you mean the world to me!" like

a poorly delivered bad joke accompanied by a

hug that makes your eyeballs pop out.

 

That's what they're all gettin' for Christmas this year

from this arthritic Ms. Claus.

 

Presented by me

 not likely to be in a Santa suit.....

but definitely pushing a walker

wrapped in bandages all up and down my leg

and probably just slightly high

on pain killers.

 

Ho! Ho! Ho!

 



A Magic Year



Comforting Things

Life passages have a way of wrapping cold,

indifferent hands

around the images and illusions

of familiar celebrations,

stealing trraditions

before we fully realized how much

we loved them.

 

Time is unrelenting in it's

kneading and pushing

the maleable, essential elements of tradition
into unrecognizable shapes.
The perfectly balanced recipe of
family

and friends

and home

and hearth

become a dish we've never tasted before.

 And sometimes it's bitter.

Isn't that the way it goes, though?

We never know how much we really truly
I mean deeply
loved something
until we lose it.

A loved one.
A family dinner no longer held because
all the members live elsewhere.
A great old sweatshirt, perfectly worn.
A string of lights that we lace onto the tree
for year and years and years until the cord frays.
An old hymn replaced by a contemporary chorus.
A beloved voice silenced.
A tiny person, all grown up.

Passages.
Narrow pathways through which we squeeze,
guiding us from one time of life
to another.
 

 

This is a fine, well-worn flannel shirt

purchased from Sears

many, many, many years ago.

It was boxed, wrapped and tucked under the tree

back in 19-something or other,

waiting for Dad to open on Christmas morning.

 

Not MY Dad.

My kids Dad.

I gave this shirt to him mucho el lotsa years ago.

He had lots and lots of flannel shirts,

I ended up adopting this one as my own personal favorite

and now it's just plain mine.

It's my comfort shirt.

 

I take it out of storage every winter and keep it hanging

on a hook next to the drawer with my favorite

squishy winter socks.

When the evening is cold

and I'm home alone

I wear it.

It comforts me.

 

It's my happy shirt.

One that hugs me back to a sweet time of life

when my kids were little

and life was busy

with a calendar full of

places we had to be.

 

When I find myself

home alone

spending my holidays in a way I would never have dreamed

might be happy

and fulfilling

and satisfying

in light of my past family-filled gatherings

I wear this shirt

and smile.

 

Grateful for past celebrations.

Embracing life passages.



Thanksgiving Morning

This is sooooo NOT the day I had planned.

Blue-sky beautiful.

Brilliant sunshine on freshly-fallen snow.

Yikes, no wayyy is this what I had planned for today.

I was hoping for another yesterday.
I know that's not very thoughtful

considering nearly everyone in the country is

in a car

or getting out of a car

or putting on their coats to go out to the car

and head to their Thanksgiving dinner.

On behalf of all those folks,

I'm happy for you

and I won't complain.

 

I'll just close my eyes and remember yesterday

because it was perfect.

 

 

I get up long before the sun rises

and yesterday the house was bright as day

even before I switched on a light.

There's your sign.

Snow!!!!

 

Yep. During the night.

Lots of it.

Yawning snow dog Chuck went into a fresh-powder frenzy

leaping and hopping all over the back yard

like he was a pup again.

No wonder that boy and I get along so famously.

I do love snow.

 

Pristine and freshly-fallen lightweight

made it easy to sweep a path to my car

before I negotiated my long driveway to head off to work.

 

(I mention the long driveway because it really, truly is a feat of

navigational prowess to back out of the thing when the ground is

blanketed in snow. True, it's 17 feet wide, but there is a substantial

stone planter right next to the drive and in a blur of white

some of us......no names here, of course......find it a challenge to

get to the street in reverse gear....without hitting that planter. This is neither a

positive experience for the planter or the car.)

 

I got out ok, leaving a deep, single-track path

which undoubtedly says to wandering neighborhood hoodlums

"Oh look. She went to work. No one is home. Let's clean out the house

and sell her old Tupperware for drug money."

 

(This is where Chuck comes in. Ain't happenin' boys. JUST. Saying.)

 

So. I'm on my way to work.

And it's snowing.

The sky is grey, there is frost on the windshield

and my hands are warm and toasty

(in utilitarian gloves, but that's another story for another day, although I'll note

my favorite Sherry Tinsman bracelet is especially fetching with the winter ensemble,
don't you think??)

 

 

It's my favorite kind of day.

I love driving in snow.

And my sunroof is wide open.

 

At the stoplights I look up to the sky

where the grey is shedding

beautiful, huge flakes

that land

just like the song says

on my nose and eyelashes.

 

Don't care what the cars in the other lanes might think.

I think

perhaps

they wish they were me

and loved snow, too.

 

I'm such a kid on snowy days.

Maria VonTrapp would be immensely proud.

 

By the time I got off work last night

the snow had started again

and I was pretty sure it happened

just for me.

 

There was some serious slipping and sliding my way through town

to get home but that is my idea of fun. There is nothing quite so

heart-stoppingly sweet as to fishtail into an intersection

with your eyes closed

praying the path is clear

and your left front quarter panel will live to see another day.

 

Thankfully, most folks were home

groceries unloaded

chopping celery for this mornings turkey dressing.

The path was slick

but beautifully clear.

 

Sunroof open again.

This time the flakes were fast and furious

from a dark sky.

Delicious!

I drove the long way home

through town

winding through the college campus

down along streets of old Victorian homes

just to savor the sweetness of

the Dickens kind of evening

and praying Chucks bladder would forgive me

the extra drive time.

 

And now it's morning.

Where I'd been hoping for a continuation

of last nights magical, falling snow loveliness

it's just another

fabulously gorgeous

sun-drenched day

on the prairie.

 

I shall persevere to endure.

And it does bring to mind my favorite winter morning joke:

 

What did the doe say when she walked out of the woods

on a snowy morning?

 

 

I'll never do THAT again for two bucks!!!

 

 

 

 

Sorry.

But I do soooooooo love a little seasonal irreverence.

 



Postcard

Thanksgiving for One

 

Behold, my fortunate friend, Mr. Turkey.

I'm pretty sure he's sitting on a roost

right this very minute

penning a thank-you note

of depth and heartfelt appreciation.

 

Dear Debbie,

thank you for not cooking Thanksgiving dinner this year.

I shall live to see another day....

 

 

You're welcome, bud.

One good bird spared, in the name of Thanksgiving for one.

You're so very welcome.

 

While it isn't the classic portrait of the

Great American Gratitude Celebration

here is what my Thanksgiving is going to look like this year:

 

 

Take out.

I'm going to stop at the deli on Wednesday night after work

ask the nice Chinese guys to fill a couple of foam containers

with a bit of Sesame Chicken, rice and a little egg drop soup,

grab a couple of movies from RedBox

and go home to my dog.

 

Yep.

While every other person in the entire

United States of America

will be gathered in tastefully appointed dining rooms

around big, food-laden tables

holding hands with their family members

and laughing gaily

like something straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting

 

 

I will be sitting home

by myself

petting my dog

and watching Harrison Ford

protect his family from terrorists.

 

That's just the way it is this year.

And I'll probably drink some Bailey's.

 

 

Because that's my favorite way to end any good evening.

 

 

 



The Odd Kid in Kindergarten

 I'll tell you why I remember Norbert.

I remember him because

on the very first day of Kindergarten

he didn't quite make it to the bathroom in time.

They had to call his mom

and she had to come

so he could change his pants.

It was a bad way to start Kindergarten.

Even at 5 years old, I knew it.

And things just didn't get any better for little Norbert.

I remember his family was from another country;

his parents didn't speak much English,

which, I now understand,

meant Kindergarten was an especially difficult challenge

for Norbert's parents

and for Norbert.

Here is something else I remember about Norbert.

I just loved the little guy.

He smiled real big

and even though he wasn't your classic

Kindergarten "good looking",

(whatever that is???)

he was a charmer.

I loved it when he and I were assigned to the same play "station"

during our play rotation time.

I didn't care which station:

the coloring tables,

the slide,

the little miniature kitchen,

the math station with it's rows of math games,

and a cool, beaded abacus.

All I cared about

was that Norbert and I had great fun together.

The little guy captured my heart.

Norbert was my little heart-secret.

That's because Doug and Ben were the kids to be seen with

in my Kindergarten class.

Doug wore glasses which

everyone thought were extremely cool

and Ben had a horse.

Once again

completely cool.

Norbert pooped his pants and his parents talked funny.

A tough gig for a little guy just starting school.

I didn't care.
Norbert was my kinda guy.
I remember laughing as we played.

It was Norbert and me at the reading table,

Norbert and me coloring together.

He was weird

and people made fun of him

and much of the time

(for what reason I really don't know)

he smelled kind of funny.

But he captured my Kindergarten heart.

He wasn't cool, he was just my friend.

The last day of school was the last day I ever saw Norbert.

I played through the long, hot summer

and when I came back to school in the fall

he never showed up.

The end of a beautiful friendship.

But the seed of an important lesson planted.

Not too many years later

I had the chance to take music lessons.

Piano.

My dad was a pianist.

It seemed to make sense.

And true enough,

I thought it was so neat the way my Daddy could just sit down

and make those keys dance with his skinny fingers.

He offered to teach me.

The piano looked like so much fun.

He sat down several times and began to show me how the keyboard worked.

I loved sitting there.

I loved the way my fingers felt on those shiny, beautiful keys.

But I quickly discovered there was no heart connection.

I just couldn't pursue it for more than a few sit-downs.
Much as I loved listening to my Dad play,
beyond the beauty of the piano and it's shiny keyboard
there was no connection for me.

My heart belonged to my crayons.

And markers.

And paper.

And scissors.

And glue.

My heart-choices weren't as shiny
but the things that wrapped strings around my heart

and have held me tight from the time I could first pick up a pencil

are the creative arts

where I take materials and fuss with them

until something magic appears.

Some folks choose shiny instruments

some folks choose hobbies that make their hearts sing.
Some people jump out of airplanes and find that to be some kind of
sparkly and fulfilling.
Me?

Fussing with my hands

and the art of creating things

is what truly makes my heart sing.

It's the heart-connection I knew from the very beginning

was truly, truly me.

Outdoor Plumbing

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was so little my feet didn't even touch the floor

as a Sunday school kid visiting the outhouse.

Here's what I remember, though:

I did some deep, deep thinkin' on that seat.

Mostly about bees.

And wasps.

The ones that nested somewhere

down under the bench.

 



House

I'm living in my parents house.

Well, it's mine now.

They're gone.

It doesn't feel like mine.

I'm not sure it's where I belong.

But it's where I am right now.

Every room is a juxtaposition of our different worlds.

My life. Their lives.

So different.

Me, alone.

The two of them, together.

Me, odd and awkwardly artistic.

My mom, country-cute with lace curtains framing every window

my step-dad with his frenzy of wires and antennas and satellite dishes;

indulgences in both his genius and his hobby.

The fireplace he painstakingly built

stone by stone by neatly placed and perfectly aligned stone

on which I now stack my art work

and hippie flowers in an old thermos bottle

next to a chunk of wood I just happen to like

and a spray bottle to give the canary

a bath.

The curtains are so not me.

They really aren't.

But I left them up because honestly

after nursing and burying two parents last winter

in addition to all the other stuff of life

that's rolled across and flattened me like a big effing truck this year

I just can't seem to get my foot up on that first rung

of the ladder

to take them down.

So I come home at night to this mish-mash of them and me

and I let my dog lick my dinner plate

and I stare at the piles of boxes that need to go to Goodwill

and the rooms that need to be emptied

and the walls that need to be painted

and the floors that need to be pulled up

the cupboards that need to be emptied

and the basement that I haven't stepped in for two months

because it's just full of more work to do

and I put on my fuzzy socks

I wrap up in my fleece blanket

let the cat crawl up on my lap

and decide it'll all get done.

Someday.

But not now.

Not now.

Sometimes You Must Look Real Hard but.....

Purple Hug

 

I didn't tell my little artist friend that one of my best buddies

went to kitty heaven yesterday and I was feeling very sad.

 

She just showed up in my office with a sore throat.

While we were waiting for mom to come pick her up

I gave her some markers and paper

so she could get her mind off feeling sick.

 

This is what she drew for me.



 

Thanks for the beautiful purple hug, little 8-year old friend.

Hope you feel better real soon.

You made me smile.

 

 

 

Love You, Binks

This is Mr. Binks.

Hard to tell from this photo but he was

my 25-pound best friend

at a time when I really needed one.

He died today.

And I'm really, really sad.

 

He had an unbelievably interesting life.

Found, as a kitten, by my son when he was doing PT on a Marine base.

Hidden in the barracks for a few days.

He lived on the East Coast, the West Coast

and the Midwest; five different states.

He lived in an old brothel in Missouri for a year.

He loved to jump up into my lap where I would

wrap him in a blanket

and he'd sleep for hours

while I watched movies over the weekends

in a city where I didn't know anyone.

He got old.

He got sick.

He got weak.

He's at peace.

I am too.

Just really, really sad.

I could use a hug tonight so sooo bad.

 

 

Losing my buddy makes me think back on a very important life lesson I learned from cats.

That sounds weird, I know. It's not, though.

 

When I was about 13 years old I had a cat named Princess.

(Original, huh? Back then every cat was named Princess.)

She was fairly dainty, long-haired and not particularly social.

She had that royal air about her.

Didn't sleep on our beds.

She accepted attention and affection one way: on her terms.

But my sisters and I loved her.

 

One night she didn't show up for dinner.

We ran the electric can opener.

(The one sound that would make her come running from anywhere)

and she was no where to be found.

 

The next morning we discovered clumps of cat hair and blood in the driveway.

My sisters and I were hysterical.

No Princess, but clearly something bad had happened.

We searched to no avail.

Then we heard a very faint whimpering.

 

The weak little sound came from deep within a huge hedge of the prickliest

evergreen bushes you could imagine.

They were thick and gnarled with age

roots and branches twisting about from the ground

Impossible to see beyond the first few inches of the outer branches

but we could hear a faint little meowed response

to our calling her.

Princess was in the bushes.

Deep, deep, deep within the bushes.

 

And there she stayed.

 

My stepdad told us not to worry.

Sometimes when living creatures are hurt

they need to crawl off by themselves and be alone.

He said they instinctively knew what was best for them

they would tend to their wounds

and when they were strong enough

they'd crawl out of their hiding place.

 

It was a hard sell.

Days passed. Rain fell.

No Princess.

Although every now and then

to repeated calls

pleadings, really

we would hear a faint meow.

 

Each night my step-dad would put a tiny little dish of food near the bushes.

Every morning it was gone.

We couldn't be sure if it was our cat

or the raccoons and 'possums eating it

but it made us feel like we were doing something to help.

 

He would toss a few little bits of the food into the bushes in her direction.

And at night my sisters and I would cry.

He would reassure us.

"She'll be ok. When she's better, she'll come out."

 

And that's just what she did.

It took about two weeks but our beautiful kitty eventually emerged

from the bushes.

Pathetically skinny

Gaunt and weak

But alive and hungry.

We carried her into the house

and she got better and better and better

from that day on.

 

I've looked back on that experience many, many times

throughout my life as I believe it holds a deep truth about

human nature as well as the nature of animals.

 

People get hurt, too.

Sometimes when people get emotionally hurt

they need to crawl into their own evergreen hedge

where they can rest and lick their wounds

and go about the business of recovering

away from any of the fussing those who care

are likely to offer.

It's self-care.

Basal.

The most primal sort of recovery process

one that is instinctive:

the need to be alone.

 

 

Well,

I'm a fusser, by nature.

There is nothing I love more than to come alongside someone who is hurting

put my arm around them

hug them

stand close to them

listen to them

care for them

just be near them

so they don't have to be alone.

 

What I've learned through the years

is to reflect back on how Princess knew best.

She knew she needed to retreat

and take care of herself.

 

People are like that too.

When someone says they need to be alone

I leave them alone. But I remember what my step-dad did, too.

He checked on her often from a distance.

He put little dishes of food where she could find them.

 

That's what I try to do with people who are hurting, too.

I respect their need to be alone

I pray for their healing

and I push the smallest little offerings of caring

close enough so they can find them

 

Healing will come

in due time. People know

by nature what they need the most.

 

Sometimes the very best way to come alongside someone and love them

is to keep our distance.

 

 

 

 



Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

 

Deleteriously Delicious

 

( Courtesy of the definitive Gospel of Vocabulary i.e....according to Webster.

Thanks, Merriam.)

 

I love this word.

I've always LOVED this word.

It's like a verbal cookie for me.

You know the kind....sweet, with just enough chips?

 

Deleterious.

Spelled with just the right number of mildly harsh consonants

ordered in such a way that,

when spoken with accent applied to the correct syllable

the whole word just kind of launches out of the throat

exiting the mouth in a marvelously definitive and lovely way.

It's a good, good word.

 

Post-it note to my brain:

Use this fine word more often.

~

I stood on the edge of Thursday
looking ahead to this weekend
with some trepidation.
Life stuff.
Work stuff.
The panorama was just too overwhelming.
I wasn't sure how I was going to do it all.

Friday the sun was out so bright
the sky was so blue
there just seemed to be every possibility
somehow
some way
I'd get it all done.

Treating myself for being such a brave girl at the dentist yesterday
I squeezed my little race car (Saturn. ha!)
into the drive-up and pondered
the Starbucks possibilities.
A late-bloomer to coffee and pretty much a creature of habit.
I like it dark, dark, dark and bitingly flavorful.
With a messa cream and sugar.
True coffee-addicts would say that's not coffee.
To each his own, folks. Leave me to my beans.

On special days, I hit the Starbucks drive-through.
On ordinary days I'm much too stingy to expend 1/3 of my daily calorie budget on a cup of coffee.
Too poor to afford the cost, too. But today I thought.....let's just dive all-in for the weekend, shall we?
Let's try something new.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh BABY!!!!!!!!!!
My boots are dancin' now, for sure!!!

Chestnut Praline Latte.
Deeeeee-RISHUS!!!!!

Here is how I described it to my Facebook crew:

Driving along, minding my own sweet biz when....out of the drivethru window I am unexpectedly and deliciously assaulted by the most arresting burst of flavors! Soooo just close your eyes and imagine a happy little chestnut rolling its chubby, roasted self around on your tongue, when all of a sudden a team of wild little pralines arrive from seemingly nowhere and explode in your throat. And imagine too, that the lovely young man with the bright red (very festive) gauge things in both his ears is the best listener ever, and actually DID make your Chestnut Praline Latte extra extra H O T. Heaven.
 Lovely sips of heaven!!!

Got it?
My new favorite Starbucks beverage, for sure.
Now, full disclosure so we don't all run off half-crazy

 Indeed.

Sip with caution.
But....on that occasion quite-special
do sip.
Ohhhh yes, yes, yes! Do sip!

So.
Enough digression.
Back to the subject of favorite words
and the point of this entire rabbit trail
of verbal meandering.

"Facts in hand, of the deleterious results rabid consumption of her
new favorite coffee beverage would have on her fitness, health and teensy tiny little wallet,
Debbie allowed herself but one Starbucks beverage per week, as a
less-nutritional but highly satisfying substitute for breakfast."

Sorry, eggs.

 

 

And yet.....MORE Miles to Go Before I Sleep

 

If I've got somewhere to go

someplace to be

I don't mind 4:00 AM.

 

I'm a morning gal

so I can pop up out of bed in the wee-est of the hours

for a purpose.

 

Notsomuch a fan of the waking-up-in-the-wee-hours thing

if the only purpose it serves is to find me

staring across my room into the dark

ruminating on every little thing troubling me of late.

 

Life.

Money, kids, health, future, prayers, wishes, regrets, guilt, love, faith

purpose, friends, enemies and whether my car will get me through the winter.

They're all stacked up

with a thousand of their pesky little trouble friends

right over there in the corner of my bedroom

where no one can see

unless it's 4:00 AM.

 

Yesterday was one of those mornings.

Helllllllllllllllllllllllo 4:00 AM.

Yep, it's me again.

 

But yesterday there was kind of a reason.

I had a dental appointment scheduled at 8 AM.

Root canal.

Eeks.

 

(Feel free to envision the cozy chair, the needle coming towards my mouth,

the sound of the drill, the vibrating of my jaw......

yeahhhhhh, all manner of fun things.)

 

 

You'd think so, anyway.

Right?

 

Well.

The root canal.....seriously.

It was nothin'. PIECE. OF. CAKE.

I almost fell asleep

although the whole vibrating jaw thing....

NO pain, mind you....but couldn't quite drift off.

Almost, though.

Almost.

 

Face still numb, an hour after the dentist I

found my favorite, all-time best friend boots.

I thought I'd lost them in one of my many recent moves.

Nope.

The lost are found.
The feet are happy.

And speaking of feet................

Uhhh, yeahhhhh.
Only the best movie EVer!!
Found my Happy Feet DVD in the same perchance
dive into the storage unit that revealed my sweet boots.

So. Despite the fact it started early....wayyyy too early.
Despite the fact a dentist was sticking a needle into my jaw at
zero-eight hundred thirty.

The day had earmarks of unfolding into something lovely.
As long as I would keep my eyes open to notice.

Love days like that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Through Strangers Eyes

We had an exercise in Mrs. Hildreth's class

High school English. Junior year.

Once each semester she would pass out little scraps of paper.

On the scraps she had written the names of other students

with whom we'd shared class for the past months.

Our assignment was to make observations about

the person whose name was written on the scrap.

She collected the notes.

And passed them back out to us.

The first time she explained what we were going to do

I got sick to my stomach.

I didn't want to stay in class.

I was gripped with this irrational fear

all the same, very real to me

and I almost approached her desk to ask for

permission to leave class.

I was distressed at the thought of how I would handle

the hurtful things I might read

in my classmates comments.

I imagined myself sitting at my desk, unfolding and reading the comments

trying to act nonchalant

all the while dying inside

wanting to cry.

I should have had more faith in my classmates.

And more faith in me.

"Sweet"

"Likes to make people laugh"

"I think you're probably shy but you still aren't afraid to speak up"

"Good writer. I like it when you read your work out loud."

Seriously??

Were they really talking about me?

Who wrote these nice things, I wondered?

I had no clue anyone in class felt these nice things about me.

I read the notes scribbled on those little scraps of paper once and tucked them deep into my purse.

Over the coming weeks, I read them over and over.

Is that really me? Am I really those things?

The comments put a smile on my face

and confidence in my toolbox.

Even the smallest compliments are like pebbles dropped in a body of water.

There is no measuring the extent to which the ripples may multiply

goodness into the heart of someone

who might feel like just another faded flower on the wallpaper.

Behind the Curtain

I wonder

if we knew how differently people truly felt

from the way we guessed

just by looking at their windows from the outside

would we feel less alone 

 because we'd realize

they're just like us

after all

Random Thoughts and a Sharpie

Don't Make Me Fly

 

If you've got an hour or so I could list

all the reasons I don't care if I ever got on another airplane.

It's a long list.

Long.

 

I'm not afraid to fly.

Not at all.

My dad retired from the airlines after a 35 year career. I took full

advantage of my free-pass privileges over many, many years time.

I went places. I saw things.

I ate great food.

 

Later, I traveled on business.

Went lots more places. Saw lots more things.

Ate lots more great food.

 

I was privileged to experience so many, many things as a result of all the travel.

I lived in absolute wonder each and every time my plane touched

down in a new city and I looked out the window of a rental car or a cab

or a hotel limousine and thought to myself

"Wow. I can't believe I'm here."

 

I met people.

I took pictures.

I journaled memories; a thousand memories.

 

And now I'm done with it.

One day as I was sitting in an airport lounge, waiting for yet another flight home,

 I noticed the bottom seams around the edges of my suitcase

were worn and the zipper was a little wonky. I can't begin to guess how many

miles I'd rolled that thing through airports, carrying everything I needed for the coming days.

 

Well.

I sat there and stared at the suitcase for the longest time.

It was clear, I'd have to replace it.

Or quit flying around.

So I quit.

I was tired of it.

Time was, so often, of the essence.

Now it isn't.

I want to see lots of things.

But I want to see them from the view down here on the ground.

I love road trips.

 

There are a couple things I do miss, though.

A couple things I love about flying.

The first thing I love: the people I met.

 

Yep, I am that annoying person that sits next to you on the plane and strikes up a conversation.

Relax, man. I'm NOT the annoying person who persists after you've politely

made it clear you want to...nap. Or read. Or just stare out the window.

I'm really, really polite.

 

I'm also a bit of a screaming kid whisperer.

 

Yep.

I used to sit in the airport lounge, waiting to board my flight, watching for moms

traveling alone with kids. That's tough duty and I've put in the required hours over the years;

I raised kids; I flew with my kids lots of times.

I've got my Mom in the Airport Badge and I'm not afraid to use it.

I'd spot the moms and if they had a screamer on their hands

I'd try and work my way to a spot beside them and help them with the babies.

 

Flying isn't a whole lot of fun when you're a little kid.

Air pressure hurts your ears and makes you cry.

The space is crowded.

The noises are funny.

People are weird.

There's nothing to eat but those dang Cheerio's your mom poured into a Ziploc

bag and when you throw them all over the plane, people look at you funny.

 

Yep, I'd sit next to those kids and engage them with my ability to draw kittens and bunnies

and dinosaurs. Or I'd invite them to play a game of connect the dots. Or sing about ducks.

Or let them play with my car keys. I was flying with my beloved little 3-year old granddaughter
one time when the plane had a service call and we sat at the gate, buckled into our seats
for five hours. FIVE hours. With a 3-year old and no food.
We played connect the dots.
Like, forever.
She was happy as could be.
(Did I mention it was five hours?)
Yep. I'm that good.

 

So I just like to step in and help a weary mama out.

Maybe it's weird, but I always thought it was fun to turn a little
scrunchy frown upside down. And it was fun to make the children happy, too!

 

There is one other thing I really, really loved about flying.

I loved how I would get up in the wee hours of the morning

and it'd be raining and gloomy and even as the morning

progressed there was nothing but a grey, drizzly world to behold.

We'd all file onto the plane

after taking the last final sips from our Styrofoam cups of lukewarm coffee,

buckle into our respective seats,

lean back, close our eyes and pretend to sleep until takeoff.

 

Some days it took five minutes.

Some days it took less.

I always looked out the window during takeoff.

Outside the window is where the magic happens.

 

Up, up, up we would climb

with that funny sound and pressure kind of thing that you feel

when a big airplane is working it's way up to a cruising altitude.

We'd disappear into the clouds, fighting our way through layer upon layer

of cumulus whatever-us, still climbing.

And then....all of a sudden the nose of the plane would break through

with the rest of us back in the cheap seats close behind

and in a moments time we were cruising in brilliant sunlight.

bright and ever-present in a way the earlier darkness

suggested just wasn't possible.
In the dark, wee hours, it felt like the layers of darkness

would just last forever, yknow? Like maybe God had played some cruel trick

and stolen it from the sky.

 

Nope.

Not at all.

We broke through, leaving the dismal clouds and cheerless weather below us,
 cast off like a heavy blanket to the earth's floor.

 

I loved those moments.

I savored those moments as some of the best ever.

My breathing deepened.

I had to squint because the light, in contrast to the somber shroud
we'd left behind was just so intense. 

Like rebirth.

It was so wondrous.

So amazing.

So real.

 

That's something I miss about flying.

But I carry the beauty of those breakthroughs with me.

And sometimes the memories of how darkness always, always, always 

is overcome by the light

 comfort me as I wait for my own sun to shine again.