Inspiring Serendipity: a How To List

I've mentioned this a time or two before, but music has always been my first love. 

Not that I'm musically inclined, mind you. My memories have nevertheless always seemed inseparable from the soundtrack.

At this point, I could ramble on in 20 directions - each path a song, each inspiring another story, or chapter, or cinematic photo montage. 

Instead, when asked what music inspires me, I've done what I so often do with difficult questions - I made a playlist. 

In point of fact, I attempted to compel a Top 10 list of songs that define and inspire me. I was going to make this a #10Thankful-type post. I failed. 

After several days of editing my various go-to song lists, I finally whittled it down to 20 videos on a YouTube playlist. 

Unlike days of old, when I used to make mix tapes/cds for my beloveds, I'm not breaking down all the deep musings that went into these choices in a lengthy set of liner notes. 

At least I'm not today. 

For now, I'll let this collected hour and twenty minutes of music speak for me. And I'd love to hear your thoughts on these songs, or even which songs you turn to for inspiration. 

I've given this playlist the  title of "BeFierce BeKind BePositive." You can see more of my favorite songs, as well as my own videos on my YouTube Channel. 

I have but one regret: I used to be called Sissy

My mama called me
Sissy in a Southern way
to this day, I miss. 

I protested once: 
Mommy, please don't call me that - 
I spat - I hate it!

In her eyes I saw
She took my words literally 
to heart - like a knife. 

No salve could I find. 
The wound - too deep - persisted
Still pained when she tried. 

My mama called me 
Sissy in a lovely way
I'll forever miss. 

I honestly don't believe in regret, and as I've written, it is my practice not to collect them. 

But if there were one moment in my life I could change, it would be this one. The careless, harsh words of my angsty teenage self could be apologized for. They could be forgiven, but they could never be forgotten.

Perhaps, given another 15 years to work on her, Mom might have been able to call me "Sissy" again without it catching in her throat, half-spoken.

Instead, over a decade after her death, I console myself with my own voice as I call my own daughter "Sissy" nearly every day. 

This is Day 11 of the
National Blog Posting Month challenge.  

Practical Magic: Conjuring More Beautiful Bedtimes with my Daughter

Saying goodnight to my daughter is always, um, an adventure.

Some nights she is sugar and spice, sweetness and light; while fairy dust floats in the air, her pudgy little hands pull me down for more kisses!

Smooch, smooch, kiss, kiss, peck, peck...

"100 kisses, Mommy!"

Rapid fire kisses, machine style.

"That's 99 kisses, Mama..."

"So one more, huh?"

"Yep. 99 is next to 100. So one more kisses."

One more kiss to end her day with smiles and love.

Feeling that warm glow? I try and hold onto those gauzy golden memories...

Because the reality is most nights end with so much screaming and so many tears you'd think this child was being beaten instead of being put into a nightgown.

One night, a bad mix of overtired and distraught, my girl was in full-on tantrum mode, screaming, crying, flailing.

Finally, when nothing else was working, I blew in her face. Not sharply, mind you, more like a gentle breeze.

And she stopped crying just long enough to crack a smile.

Suddenly we were back to our very early days. My girl, who never wanted to sleep in her crib alone, and me, who just needed her to sleep so I could sleep too.

"You know," I told her, "you used to cry when you were a baby. Nothing I did would help. One night I was so tired - I cried too! Then, with noting left to do, I blew softly on your face and you smiled. 

Just like this... 

And even if you start up again - in that moment your smile gives us both hope.

Your brief smile reminds you that you CAN smile again.

But it reminds me that I can find a way to help you smile.

As long as we know that we can be sure we can get through the tough times...

That is what hope is."

What do you fear you could endure?

What is your biggest fear? There's an interesting question for someone who struggles with anxiety. My mind immediately jumps to Franklin D. Roosevelt's first inaugural address: 

"...let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts..." 

It turns out, however, there is one thing I fear more than my own fear. A few summers ago I came face-to-face with my fear. I'd love to say I overcame it, but... 

This was nothing like meeting a tarantula, although my whole life I have been petrified by spiders. Literally, if confronted by one, even the itsy-bitsiest of arachnids can send me into heart-pounding, frozen in place, panic. Unlike my friend Lola, I'm not concerned about them laying eggs in my mouth, or accidentally eating them, or even being bitten. The entirety of them being just freaks me the hell out. 

Logically, I know they serve a greater good, so I do my best to live and let live. If a spider is in my space, I can break through my panic to capture it and set it "free." Sure, there'll be a tremendous amount of squealing and running in circles shouting "ewwwww," but I'm a mom. Mom's get shite done. 

Now, if you ask others what their biggest fears are, I'd wager many will admit they fear death on some level. Particularly as we embrace the realities of parenthood, the idea of a premature death can be terrifying. 

While I get that, personally I've reached an age where my own bodily harm and questions about my mortality are frightening only because I am afraid what my loss would mean to my children and my husband. 

My husband, on the other hand, now we've come round to where my deepest fear comes from: his death. Even writing about this creeps me out, in a superstitious way. 

Because, the thing is, I saw it happen. One day, 16 months ago, I watched in horror as my tall, strong, stoic husband slowly collapsed to the floor of a toy store. For reasons that are still a medical mystery, he had a full body grand mal seizure. 

During those long minutes I held on to his hand as he convulsed, soothing him and begging him to stay with me. His eyes rolled back, blood eventually ran out of his mouth, and as his body relaxed in it's unconsciousness, I had a just enough time to imagine what life would be like for me, for my children, if we lost this man. 

I have never been so terrified in all my days. 

Would we endure? Of course, I know we would. As I know my loved ones would go on should a dire fate befall me. 

But if you're asking what I fear more than anything? 

To endure a life without my husband. 

Join me all November long for new posts as part of National Blog Posting Month. 

I Found Something Precious in a Crystal Ball

When we are small children objects appear without explanation.  Registered as little more than shapes colors on walls and high shelves; set pieces picked out according to someone else's esthetic. 

Some tchotchkes, however, call to the mind of a child.  

To this day, I cannot tell you where the crystal ball came from, nor how it came to sit upon my dresser. 

Yet, it was always there. I cannot remember one day of my life without it, truly. It was, and remains, one of the most fascinating things I have ever encountered. 

As a small girl I marveled at how someone was able to fold aluminum foil inside the sphere. It was clearly impossible, but in my limited experience no other substance had ever caught the light in the same way.

Hours and endless games could be spent playing with my beautiful crystal ball.  

Yes, in my head it remains a crystal ball, though it's not even glass. It's something more akin to a Lucite-acrylic. Did this tarnish its value? No, not in any way. In fact, as I grew older, more observant, this inspired deeper contemplation. For there were clearly bubbles inside. The mushrooms (they have always been mushrooms to my imagination) were not foil after all!?! Rather, and perhaps more extraordinarily they seemed to be pockets of air. 

I don't mind telling you, my mind still has a hard time working out how these shapes were blown inside a molten plastic. If I ask you to imagine someone blowing glass in reverse, perhaps you'll understand the conundrum as I see it. 

It's a crystal - Nothing more. But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams.  

~Jareth - The Goblin King from the movie Labyrinth~

I had been mulling over the magic of my crystal ball for twelve years by the time David Bowie spoke his lines as The Goblin King. 

A lifetime of turning the orb in my hands. Musing about the fairies who lived inside those mushrooms. Pondering the strange world of the gnomes who'd bestowed this gift to my bedside upon my birth. Rolling it in such a way I could see myself wandering a hillside in a lush green land across the sea. 

Precious time spent with my imagination trying to unravel mysteries of science, time, and a lifetime of questions and discoveries I could not even give words to. 

Although often clouded by dust and neglect, this silly trinket, my oldest muse, still sits on the window ledge by my bedside. A touchstone for me, yet merely visual background noise to the other players on this stage — in my life.

Join me for a new post every day in November.

Sweet Orange Memories

The day was overcast and rainy. Mom drove north to Maine, rather than driving south from New Hampshire toward home, because she just needed to see the ocean. Walking into the sand, she hung her bag on the tree that stood on the rocky edge of the beach. 

Like this photograph, there's not much to the story. Like hanging her purse on the tree, it was just a very “Mom” thing to do.  But I have never lost the feeling of this moment, even when I thought the photo itself had been lost to time.  

It took me a decade after mom died, and having 2 kids of my own, to get over my grudge against the month of May. The double whammy of her birthday coupled with Mother's Day, and May was as flat and grey as this photo. 

Learning to be a mother, without my own alive to talk to, I often focused on what was missing. Last year I realized I had to find my way back to what I was lucky enough to have. I also had to find a way to make that monumental task a bit less daunting. Since they say the way to tackle something difficult is to start small, I made a point of recalling the little things. 

Buttered Rum Lifesavers! I spotted a roll one day in a checkout line, and in a flash I was 6 years old, digging in my mommy’spurse. I could practically smell the Revlon lipstick blotted Kleenex. Then thatmoment of delight when she would say with a smile, “Sure baby. Here you go.”  Did mom know that 30 years later her words would be so much sweeter than the candy? 

As parents I think we all know those glittering, exceptional moments when the gauze slips over your vision and you want the world to just stop and let you soak in all the undeniable perfection. No one crying, everyone giggling, contentedly enjoying the same slice of time. I live for those moments. Or maybe it’s that I live in them? Either way. 

Do you ever stop to ponder if your kids recognize that same moment? Does it imprint on their brains the way it does ours? Lately I wonder more and more – what mental snapshots are they taking? 

I have vivid memories of watching rain splatter on the suburban streets of my youth. Sitting with my mom in the hatchback of our car, garage door open, waiting for the lightning flash so we could count until the thunderclap hit us. Sometimes we’d be snuggled in blankets, huddled close. Usually there was no real conversation. We were just listening. Together. 

My 5yo son also has a vivid memory. He loves to recount the adventures we’ve taken; he’s partial to the times we’ve checked out the vacancies in our apartment building. He and his little sister love tearing around the empty rooms, playing hide & seek in closets, their squeals bouncing off the bare walls. Twenty years from now will he still be delighted in this perk of being the Super’s kid?

My Boy. Most days he wakes up before the Sun, the sound of his heavy footfalls on the bunk bed steps are amplified by the monitor that still sits by my bedside. Truly, he sounds like a small elephant crashing through any dream world I might be in.

Although I curse his complete inability to sleep until after dawn, I already miss the way he used to barrel into our bedroom, bounding onto my side of the bed. “Look Mom! It’s the sunrise! The Sun is rising!” Grabbing my phone to check the time, I got into a habit of taking a photo to post on Instagram later, even as I’d whisper, “Yes! Isn’t it a beautiful start to the day?” Then I’d try to coax him to lie down for a few more minutes.

Now, avoiding Mommy trying to get him to rest more, he heads to the living room; I find myself reluctantly rising to joining him on the couch, hoping to play the scene out there instead.

Let’s be honest, as this kid gets older I am learning I need to take my cuddles when & where I can get them.

So as we sit quietly in the dark, our sleepy eyes dazzled by the Sun’s bright orange light rising over the skyline, I can’t help but wonder if all these mornings of cuddling up will blend together. Leaving only the gauzy memory of a picture perfect sunrise.

A Million Stories in the City: Why Do I Love One About a Cigarette?

Last night my train of thought stopped on a memory from the Leap Day before last. Which is, of course, eight long years ago.

Back then I was a thirty-something working woman. A daily commuter. A regular smoker. Just a few of the ways it was a different life entirely.

Lifesavers & Lipsticks: Starting Small

Somewhere I have a black and white photo of my mother’s purse, hanging off a tree limb, on the edge of a beach in Maine. It’s not a particularly great photo. But I still remember the moment I took it, thinking it looked odd and a bit lonesome. 

We’d been at my cousin’s wedding in New Hampshire. The day after the wedding was overcast and rainy. Instead of driving south to head home, Mom first drove north. Just so we could stop for a while at a beach. She needed to see the ocean; walk in the sand. Like the photograph, there's not much to the story. It was just a very “Mom” thing to do. Like hanging her purse on the tree. 

As parents I think we all know those glittering, undeniably exceptional moments when you want to stop time. People often talk about that split second when the gauze slips over your vision & you want the world to just stop so you can soak in all the perfection. No crying, kiddos giggling, everyone content & enjoying the same slice of time? 

I live for those moments. Or maybe it’s that I live in them. I’m not sure, but they rock. 

My hair combed flat with a wet comb, stretched tight into a section and then “snap!” Over an over, Mom dipping the comb in the water glass, rolling my hair in those pink foam Goody curlers. Then she’d tuck my little head into the 60s bonnet hair dryer. You know, the kind that was like a big shower cap that inflated with warm air. It was so loud, but the air always felt as wonderful and warm as my mommy’s smile. 

Do you ever wonder if your kids see that moment? Recognize that perfection? Does it imprint on their brains the way it does ours? 

Lately I wonder more & more - are my children holding on to the same moments? 

Sitting in the open back end of the car, with the garage door open, watching the rain splatter in the suburban streets. Hoping for lightning so we could count until the thunder clap hit us. Sometimes we’d have to snuggle in jackets, or blankets, or huddle together. Usually there was no real conversation. We were just listening. Together. 

As the calendar turns to May I have no choice but to think almost constantly of my mom. As a child the month of May was Mommy’s month. Not only is there mother’s day, but my mom’s birthday is the 19th. Often we would end up celebrating her on back to back weekends. But after she died, well, I’m sorry, May, you officially became My Least Favorite Month.

I have decided that a decade of holding a grudge against 1/12 of the calendar is probably long enough. So this year I’m working hard at shifting my focus off of what is missing, to what I was lucky enough to have. 

Which, by the way, is monumentally hard. 

With all hard things the advice is to start small, right? So I’m making a point to recall all the small moments. 

Lifesavers. Along with the usual tissues, lipsticks, combs, and whatnots, as a child it seemed Mom's purse was almost certain to have Lifesavers. She liked all kinds of hard candy, but those little fruity rings were second only to dried out gummy bears. The oddity of gummy bears that had been purposefully left out to harden didn’t start until I was much older, though. 

As a kid, I could dig through the tissues and probably find a few linty orange Lifesavers to swipe. Actually, Mom was pretty liberal with handing out the orange ones. (Naturally, I thought it was a treat, until I realized that she just didn’t like orange candy.) The absolute best was when she had a whole role of cherry or butter rum. 

I spotted a roll the other day in a checkout line, and in a flash I was 6 years old, digging in my mommy’s purse. I could practically smell the Revlon lipstick blotted Kleenex. Then that moment of delight when she would say, “Sure baby. Here you go.” 

So much sweeter than the candy. 

Do you have a favorite moment with your mother, grandmother, aunt, etc? What moments with you are you hoping the children in your life will remember when they are grown? 

I would love you to share them with me! 

One lucky reader already won a copy of I Still Just Want To Pee Alone! 
Just in time for Mother’s Day! 
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