“But one day I’ll be gone; or one day you’ll be gone"

“We all know we’re going to die; what’s important is the kind of men and women we are in the face of this.” 

~Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

We humans seem to have a predilection to hurt one another. Pick up a history book. Turn on a cable news show. Peruse the news feed. Look at the pain inflicted, the chaos caused, the fires lit. We judge, discriminate, enslave, marginalize, lynch, cat-call, intern, bully, torture, kill. We wreak interminable harm that seeps into our collective souls. Bruises never heal. Nightmares haunt. Grief sits an endless shiva.

Do we continue to hurt each other because of the hurt? Have we not been given the tools, the wisdom, the ability to stop the cycles of pain? If misery is all we know, will we continue to pass it on, thinking it is the only way?

Many of us do not want to admit we have hurt others, especially those we claim to love. We throw around hateful words, seeing what will stick, not comprehending the deep suffering we cause. We use guilt as a weapon. We hold our love hostage, negotiating unfathomable terms. We cling to ancient grudges, not wanting to let go of the safety net of anger.

Where do we find wonder in the depths of so much pain? How do we let go without ignoring the agony of others? What is the path to compassion, empathy, forgiveness? 

I believe most of the answers to these complex questions are accomplished with small gestures. Give to a favorite charity. Smile at a stranger. Hold a door open for someone. Let go of your fears, your prejudices, your preconceived impressions. Open your mind and invite in new ideas, even if they go against everything you have been taught. Question injustice. Step away from drama, from toxicity, from people who do not serve your joy. Work on healing your damaged heart. Sit with the hurt caused by others, and then forgive them. Acknowledge the pain you have inflicted, and then forgive yourself. 

We are only here for a short time. None of us will get out of here alive. Know we are both shadow and light, yet choose to walk with grace. Free yourself from the pain that has permeated your heart, because “one day I’ll be gone; or one day you’ll be gone.”

Maybe time running out is a gift

I'll work hard 'til the end of my shift

And give you every second I can find

And hope it isn't me who's left behind

It's knowing that this can't go on forever

Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone

Maybe we'll get forty years together

But one day I'll be gone

Or one day you'll be gone

“If We Were Vampires” Songwriter: Michael Jason Isbell

The Heart of a Father

I love this picture of my dad and me. He in those ultra hip sunglasses. Me in my sassy red swimsuit. I see so much in this one photo: his youth, our smiles, the shadow of my pregnant mother who took the picture, the twinkle of my other siblings not yet born, the beginning of our life as a family.

But as time goes on, this old snapshot has faded. The colors aren’t as bright. The lines are starting to blur. I should get it restored, but I can’t bear to part with it, so it sits atop a cabinet in our family room. My sweet daddy is always there with his arms around me, always looking down on me, always there for me.

A few months after my dad died, my husband and I went shopping at a mall up north. As we wandered in and out of stores, many of the clerks asked if we were shopping for Father’s Day. My heart broke a little with every inquiry. “No, because my father isn’t with us anymore,” I screamed to myself. I realized these employees were just doing their jobs, but it cracked my veneer, and the tears flowed. I think it was the first time since his death I really accepted he was gone.

Almost ten years have passed since that first Father’s Day without my dad. Ten years of family dinners without him at the head of the table. Ten years of graduations and Christmases and weddings without his toasts. Ten years without his stories and jokes. Ten years of life spent without seeing his sweet face over a cup of coffee at Panera.

There are unexpected times when I will catch myself missing him. I see a well-dressed older man cross the street and for a moment I think, “Well, there’s dad.” I glance at a hose ready to water a manicured lawn and gulp down sobs. I think of all the moments he has missed and my eyes mist.

My dad, like the photo, is still here, though. He is in my sons' eyes, my brothers’ hands, and my sister’s laugh. He is in my nieces’ grace and my nephews’ goodness. He’s in every one of the stories my mother tells about him. My father strengthens us through our family ties and our communal bonds. He is our glue.

Both of my boys have tattoos honoring my dad. I often think of those tattoos when I’m feeling lost or sad, and I know he is there watching over them, keeping them safe, and hopefully whispering advice on how to be authentic and honorable men.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You are with me every day in the words I write and the love that surrounds me.

“The heart of a father is the masterpiece of nature.” - Abbe Prevost

A Room of My Own

Most writers need a space to call their own. Some have lavish offices with grand desks. Others prefer small closets. A few write at coffee shops, and others find inspiration at the kitchen table. Stephen King wrote in On Writing that he had always dreamed of having a massive desk that dominated his office. After his initial success he acquired one, but after six years of pounding out stories while drunk or stoned, he got rid of what he called “that monstrosity,” and replaced it with a small desk he tucked in a corner of his office under the eaves in his Maine home. Sober for over thirty years, he still works at this little desk, “with bad eyes, a gimp leg, and no hangover. I’m doing what I know how to do, and as well as I know how to do it.”

Most writers will tell you the key to writing is this: find a space that inspires you where you can write and read most every day. It is a pretty simple formula. My little loft office has been a work in progress since our move a year ago. I’ve relocated my desk at least three times, trying to find the perfect light. I don’t play music. I find it distracting. I prefer the quiet snores of our fat, furry cat who often plops himself down by my feet. I recently acquired a cozy reading chair where I often curl up with a book and a cup of tea.

At the corner of my teal green desk sits my talismans, a collection of items that inspire and calm me. The crisp white linen handkerchief and felted soap are gifts from author Elizabeth Berg. The writer’s workshop I attended at her home a few years ago gave me the confidence to continue this journey. The ceramic frog is a symbol of good luck and abundance, both of which I welcome. The Hummel is from my Aunt Bug’s collection. I cherish this tchotchke because it is reminder of all the strong women in my life who guide and love me. The coffee cup was a going away gift from one of student teaching classes almost forty years ago. This cup sat on all my desks throughout my teaching career. It is chipped and stained, but, like me, despite all its imperfections, it is still here. I bought the little green bird at a local shop because it looks like Kevin, the bird Russell and Mr. Fredricksen save in the movie Up, a story about love and friendship and following your heart. One of my favorite old neighbors gave me the little pie pen. Even though I’m not a true food blogger, I often write about how pies are not only dessert, they can be stories of flaky joy and hot messes.

I write most every morning, first jotting down rambling thoughts in my journal and then moving on to writing, research, proofreading, or editing. My writing grounds me. It holds me up. It is flawed, but it helps me sort through difficult questions. It is my therapist, my anti-depressant, my bartender, my friend. With each word I discover the strength to stumble through rough times and gratitude to appreciate simple bliss. I appreciate when others find wisdom or comfort through my words, but selfishly, I mostly write for me. 

This space is mine. My desk. My computer. My journals. My books. My chair. My space. My words. My wonder.

Because, as Stephen King wrote, “It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn’t in the middle of the room. Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.”

The heat, a friend, and a boy named Max

There are times when you search for wonder. You travel to new venues, seeking magic. You peek in museums, dance at concerts, and walk unknown streets. You may discover wonder in a quaint corner restaurant or a conversation with a quirky bartender. Sometimes, though, wonder comes to you. It quietly taps your heart with its truth. This is a story about how on a humid Friday in June, the heat, a friend, and a boy named Max dazzled me with their gifts of wonder.

I was back in my hometown for a quick overnight visit, squeezing in appointments and overdue visits with old friends. Before I headed back, I dropped in on a girlfriend who had just returned from an European river cruise, and I wanted all the details. Even though the day was warm, we donned our Nikes and set out on a walk. As we approached the path that traversed the park, I began to feel lightheaded, but we continued on our way, chatting about Ann’s trip and then moving on to more serious life issues. I began to feel this pressure on my chest, as though someone had shut me in a small, dark closet with little air. We stopped a few times so I could rest, hoping my strength would return. We were approaching a small neighborhood park where I knew there was a drinking fountain. If I could make it there, I would be okay, but at the top of the hill I plopped down on the sidewalk. I couldn’t go another step. I had stopped perspiring and a wave of nausea crept up my throat. Ann quickly moved me to a piece of shade and took off to get her car. I sat under that pine tree, feeling both scared and embarrassed. Wonder had grabbed me by the throat and snatched my breath.

A few minutes later I spied a dark-haired boy jogging towards me. He shoved a water bottle in my hands and said, “My mom said to to drink this.” I asked him, “Do you know Ann?” He nodded. I gulped down the water while he kept me company. During the next fifteen minutes I learned Max was an only child with two dogs. He loved video games. He was going into fourth grade in the fall. He was signed up summer school, but “Not because I’m stupid; it’s immersion,” he said. When I attempted to return the bottle, he said, “There’s water left. You need to drink it all.” Max’s innocent chatter helped me recover my breath and my dignity. When Ann pulled up, we both piled in her car to return Max to his mother. I later learned he was the son of one of Ann’s work colleagues, and when she saw their yard sale, she requested Max run some water to me while she retrieved her car. Wonder appeared in the form of an eleven year old boy clad in flip flops, black sweat pants, and a green jersey.

When we got back to Ann’s house, she sat me down on her kitchen stool and demanded I drink more water. She Googled my symptoms, convinced her Web MD diagnosis was heat exhaustion. I needed salt and hydration, she said, so as she laid out a spread of saltines, cheese, fruit, and lemonade, I listened to her husband tell more stories of their glorious trip up the Danube River. She wouldn’t let me leave until I had a cool shower and more water. We cozied up on her couch until I felt well enough to drive. She finally allowed me to go, but not before giving me clear instructions to take it easy the next few days. Stay cool. Drink lots of water. Avoid any strenuous activity. Wonder was a nurturing friend with ice-cold pink lemonade and a pocketful of mothering love.

I learned a few invaluable lessons that hot and humid day. One, do not walk in the mid-day heat, especially if I’ve had lots of coffee and not enough water. Heat exhaustion is a serious and terrifying condition I do not wish to repeat. Two, I am grateful for the bounteous joy that is my friend Ann. She is fierce and formidable and fabulous. Three, I do not have to always search for wonder. Often it sneaks up, leaving me breathless and deeply moved. Max’s presence that afternoon was a wonderful example of an amazing wonder.

I will continue to keep my eyes open for wonder because it just may surprise me with unexpected joy.

“Look at everything always as though you were seeing it either for the first or last time: Thus is your time on earth filled with glory.” - 

Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

The Wonder of Forgiveness

“Let us forgive each other - only then will we live in peace.” -Leo Tolstoy

We hang on tightly to resentment. We don’t want others to steal it from us. It makes us feel safe and smug. It justifies our anger at the betrayal, the theft, the wrong. We sit with it as it festers.

Lately I have been hunkered down with my anger. Its heaviness whispers dark pestilence. Each breath labored; every step burdensome. I have been enveloped in a fog of pain.

Bitterness is easy. We cast blame. Unhappiness is not our fault. It lies within the misdeeds of others. They are the reason for our suffering. We wallow in our victimness.

Today I am letting this suffering go. I pray for peace, and in doing this I am letting go of their pain, their hurt, their demons. I am freeing myself, because none of it is mine.

Forgiveness is difficult, because with it comes reflection. If we forgive, we must let go of the grudge we have harbored for so long. If we release resentment, what is left?

I become a fierce freedom fighter for my own peace, venturing out of the shadows. I cut the chains which bind me to the hurt. This lightens me, and even gives me wings, and with this release I begin to heal my singed heart.

If we let go, we are free. When we forgive, we release ourselves from the chains of the past. Here’s the truth: we cannot change history. It has been written. Some wrongs were self-inflicted, others possessed malice toward others, and a few unintentional burns still smolder.

Offering up forgiveness to others and to myself is a daily practice. When the rage begins to seep into my psyche, I say a simple, silent prayer, “I forgive.” And when I do this, lightness appears. This quiet thought gives me pause. I begin to let go of hurt and pain and remember there is peace in forgiveness. 

Forgiveness is love. It is loving yourself, embracing all that is flawed. It is loving others, acknowledging we all stumble. This is my journey. This is my wonder.

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.” - Mark Twain

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” - Mahatma Gandhi