Why YOU Should Write It Down

Yes, that's a real tree...here in Davis...at the Arboretum.


Today I went into Caroline's 4th grade class to share her great grandmother's Native American basket collection.
Normally, those baskets sit on a shelf in our den...
over-looked, dusty, forgotten.
But they tell a tale of weavers and people from long ago...
of a lady who loved to travel...
who collected baskets and carefully recorded the date she bought them, the type of basket and
the place where the basket was from...
that precious information, lost long ago.

I shared what I knew of Mary Compton Goni.
A botanist.
An avid bird-watcher.
An independent woman in a time when there weren't that many of those...
or maybe there were and we just don't know their names.

She created a place of refuge for her family
called Silver Lake.

Today, when I was talking about this amazing lady, I mentioned to the 4th graders that Mary had written a book about her life when she was 91 years old called Mary Remembers.
When Mary approached her 100th birthday, I took the time to read her thoughts and her amazing memories.

What a gift she gave.
Her stories of growing up in rural California and the remembrances of things once so important and now mostly forgotten, gave me a glimpse into a time and place I knew nothing about.
As I was telling the kids, they wanted to check her book out...ready to read her story.

If only Mary Remembers was at the local library.
Or available through Amazon.
Or easy to find on a Kindle.

Mary Remembers was printed privately as a gift for her family.
Mary printed only a hundred copies.

Tonight as I was reading it with Caroline, I turned to the last page...
wondering how she closed such an epic life.

She concludes with this gorgeous poem by Alfred Joyce Kilmer,
explaining that Alfred Joyce Kilmer was an American poet born in 1886 and
killed in the First World War.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair
Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain
Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

This poem, long one of my favorites too, touched me tonight in a hauntingly beautiful way.
I never knew she found solace here too.

Mary's final words to us.
How essential.
Simple and sacred in its truth.

What final words would you choose?

I might have to vote for Mary's.
But that's the fun of writing...
I still have time to tumble a few around, wrestle with a phrase or two...
time to ponder and wonder and enjoy the beauty of words and ideas.
Time to read more poems.
Time to linger in the language.
Time to savor and cherish...
so grateful for this precious time.

*****

I would never know Mary's echo except that she took the care to write it down.
Her experiences, her reflections, her favorite verses shared in print.
A tiny piece of herself.

Why do we hold those so close?

Does your family know your favorite verse?
Your favorite song?
Your favorite poem or book or writer or artist?

Don't you think it's time you shared?

I do.

Come Home For Love

You've probably figured this out by now...but, I'm a writer-downer.

Like a photographer, I love to memorize the moment but I use words instead.

I try to freeze the frame.

Save the scent.

Hold the moment close...because whooooosh --

it's gone.

This week-end, I couldn't write it down.

It was too magical.

Too indelible.

Too important.

My journal lay empty...like a neglected best friend I couldn't even look at it.

I had to tuck it away.

I have no time for you, little book...only her.

This week-end I got to spend with just my big girl, away at her college, submerged in her world, if only for a moment.

I loved every second!

I felt a bit like a runaway as I kissed my little guys good-bye and relied on the kindess of my sister to watch them after school and the awesomeness of my husband to hang with them all week-end as I boarded a plane.

I tried to mix in with the business travelers...

can you say rookie?

It was obvious I didn't have practice at this...but who cares?

I checked into an adorable little hotel right near campus and texted my love bug.

She was done with class for the day and so I set about running errands and crossing off things on the to-do list with her...

step 1: cut the kryptonite lock on her bike since her key was lost

step 2: get a new bike lock

step 3: get ready for dinner at her sorority

step 4: relax with the girlie :)

We found a super nice locksmith who after a few key questions decided we weren't criminals and was willing to break the bike free.

We meandered and found a bike store and found our lock.

We hung out in her dorm room, meeting people from her floor and listening to the various options for Friday night fun in Eugene...turns out there's quite a few.

We had dinner at her house and got the official tour.

Her sorority house has a laundry-chute and sleeping porches and a real house mom who is way older than me named Char.  

Such a dear, dear lady -- oh the stories she could tell!

And then, in a blink, it was all over and Mary Kate had places to go and I needed to get cozy with my book and I planned to meet her in the morning for (of all things) Zumba!

We had plans to meet in front of the recreation center on campus at 10am.  I show up a few minutes early since I'm not at all sure how Zumba works and was hoping for a cheat sheet.

No one was there.

Doors locked.

Zumba on hold.

Turns out that the rec center is pretty much as slow to open on a Saturday morning as the early morning work out crew is.

These are college students after all and weekends are sleep-in zones.

At 10:05am, a million sorority chicks with their moms show up and here comes my girl too.

We head into this amazing place for exercise and fun and we meet the most adorable Zumba teacher in the world.  She teaches us some steps and holds our hand but mostly she gets us going...

dancing and living the words of these Top 40 songs.

Getting older, I've noticed I'm way more sentimental...does this happen to you?

Seeing all of these girls in their work out gear, their pony tails, their bright shiny smiles standing next to their moms tears sprang to my eyes.

Watching this giant group dance and bounce and move to music made me so teary-eyed I had to go into full 

talk-myself-off-the-ledge mode:

You can do this, Beth.

Stop it.

Mary Kate will not understand why you're crying.

Stop it.

Get it under control.

Dance...enjoy this...hold it close...this is one of a kind.

And so I let that music right into my body.

There were at least 100 other people dancing and moving so I didn't mind if my moves were a bit off.

I danced for all of the moms who aren't healthy enough to dance.

I bounced for all of the daughters who couldn't be there.

I thought of the many many mothers who wished they could dance with their daughters and because of a poisonous relationship or a trauma or a distance they just couldn't.

I thought of my friends without daughters...

and my friends without moms.

While I danced I cried.

And sang.

And rocked it out.

I sent out into the universe praise and love for the moms who were working so hard to be a part of this with their daughters.

I hoped their daughters noticed.

I admired the uber-fit moms but knew I wasn't part of their tribe.

I thanked my body for every single step.

I cajoled my heart...and vowed to be more cardiovascular focused in my exercise routines.

But mostly, I couldn't stop smiling...

watching this daughter of mine dancing and singing and getting down with her bad self.

I thought of the many times she danced around our house, singing it out all in the shower...the Top 40 hits blasting from out of her room and in my car when she was home.

How did it go so fast??

The tears of time passing and recognizing just how brief this all is also came to visit.

Deep breaths, Beth.

Time is up, Beth.

Slow clap it in...you made it though Zumba!

After Zumba and a delicious breakfast we ran to the mall, got some printer ink, and went to a drug store for those essential items that no student wants to spend their precious money on.

After that, it was more hanging out in the dorm.

Full fly-on-the-wall status.

It was so comfy listening to these girls talk and tease and make plans...plans for that night and plans for the next quarter and even plans for next year...all in the space of an hour or two.

So many plans...so much to do...so many dreams to chase.

I could have hung around all night...

but they had plans and people to meet and moments to squeeze tight.

Just like that it was time to head home...kiss good-bye...remind myself that it will only be a few more weeks until she's home, dancing under my roof one more time.

In Eugene, I found a cloth bag with the graphic that's on the top of this page.

It stopped me in my tracks:

"See the world, come home for LOVE."

Yep, that's your job, Mary Kate.

Get out there and see the world.

You're doing an awesome job of just that...

but please remember the second half:

Come home for LOVE.

Love is always here.

Always waiting.

Missing you and loving you.

And so very proud of the adventure you're living.

Carpe Diem, Baby Girl.

My Secret

"Gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder." -G.K. Chesterton

It's that time of year...counting blessings; pausing to notice the little things; time to gather with family.  My very favorite holiday approaches and so I suppose I should share my not-so little secret.

When Patrick was in the thick of battling leukemia, probably about two years into the three year battle, I decided to try to keep a Grateful Journal for Lent.  Lent, for those of you who haven't hung around a lot of Catholics is a 40 day journey leading up to the miracle of Easter.  It's considered a time of sacrifice and personal reflection...a time of stripping away the superficial trappings of our life. As a child, you are told to "give up" something (most often it is a treat like chocolate, soda, ice cream) so that you can get in the frame of mind of sacrifice and selflessness.  

I did that "giving up" thing for decades...rotely, thoughtlessly, practically effortlessly.  I patted myself on the back as I avoided Starbucks for 40 days...smiled as I wouldn't have any chocolate with friends during another set of 40 days...felt actually proud of myself for resisting my daily lunchtime Coke for a different set of 40 days...and then it got old and tired. Flat and stale.  Lent felt like a time card that I simply punched and waited for the paycheck. I felt stuck in grade school religion and began to be on the look out for something else...wondering if there was a more grown up way to venture through a 40 day journey.  

Once you start looking, things start revealing themselves...and as soon as I began to think about it, somebody said something mind blowing: "How about DOING something each day for 40 days?"  Instead of focusing on "doing without", make your priority to take action.  I glommed on to that big idea and decided that was my challenge.

I had always wanted to try a Grateful Journal but I got bogged down at the thought of doing it every day.  Besides, it was like a hot movie that everyone is talking about: overexposed and annoying.  I was tired of the trite: "count your blessings and you'll be happy" mantra that Oprah and other gurus were offering up. My kid had leukemia.  I had a crap ton of laundry and a perpetually dirty house.  My other two kids were, well...kids: demanding and needy and attention-seeking. 

But on the rainy first night of Lent in 2004 I decided to grope in the dark for an ancient blank journal stuck away on a random bookshelf and begin my first official Grateful Journal.  My rules: 

1) Write in it every night for 40 nights

2) List at least 5 things I am grateful for

The first night was easy.  I was motivated.  It was raining (and we needed rain) so I already had two things: finding my journal and the rain.  The next three tumbled out and I plopped into bed...deeply satisfied with my experiment.

As the universe likes to do, Day 2 was an entirely different story.

Patrick was sick that day...weirdly sick.  He was stuffed up and could barely breathe.  He was listless and without his usual sparkle.  I couldn't put my finger on it but I began to have that unease that mothers have when their subconscious knows what the conscious self hasn't yet figured out: 

crap is going down and fast.

Patrick came toddling up to me at about 4 in the afternoon and his coloring was off...way off.  He was pale in an eerie way.  I lifted him up and hugged him close.  He was raging with a fever.  Suddenly I pulled him back to look deep into his eyes...something was definitely not right.  He was so stuffed up and full of gunk he could barely breathe.  His breathing was shallow and difficult.  He tried to snuggle in to my shoulder but instead of that moment feeling comforting it felt like a wounded animal seeking refuge.

The alarm bells started going off inside my head.  I felt panic lurking around my doorway.  I knew an enemy was prowling.  I was holding my vulnerable, sick little boy and suddenly all the pieces fit together.  He's not just sick...he's fighting to stay alive!

I had two other kids at home and I was very aware that I could scare them silly if I went down Crazy Street -- which incidentally is exactly the street I wanted to travel.  John was too far away to come and rescue any of us.  The neighborhood was empty.  How could I call 911 and travel with other children too?  

Swirling around my mind are these frightening thoughts:

How much time does Patrick have?  Is he getting enough oxygen?  Will he pass out from such difficulty breathing?  Can so much phlegm drown him? What does this mean? What's going on with the leukemia?  Does he have a life-threatening virus? What can I DO?

I suddenly remembered my friend, Michele, whose husband Jim is a fire fighter.  I called her on the off chance that he might be home and that he might come with me to the hospital and that Michele could take Jack and Mary Kate.

He was.  He did.  She did.  Thank God.

As I drove begging for a speeding ticket, Jim sat in the back of my car with Patrick in his car seat. He talked to me in the most soothing voice giving me updates on Patrick's breathing and how Patrick was doing.  He will never know what his gentle kindness did for me in those moments but it is stained on my brain like a water ring on a wooden table...clear as can be.

Halfway there, Patrick vomited. All that gunk had to go somewhere.  Turns out that your body knows what to do in deep distress...it just gets rid of the gunk.  Thankfully, Jim was unfazed.  Miraculously, Patrick's breathing rapidly improved.

We made it to the hospital and when I turned around and saw Patrick his color was so much better that I finally could breathe myself. We had made it!  He might have something terrible going on but we were at the right place. We could get help. I hugged Jim with so much grateful appreciation I could barely let go. We had a chance.

Sadly, I don't even know what happened to Jim after that.  I just remember dealing with a doctor that didn't know Patrick at all or any of his history.  Without even checking him she gave me a very condescending answer to Patrick's ills: pneumonia.  She was smug in her diagnosis.  All I can recall hearing is something like: "Your son has Down Syndrome and it's common knowledge that Down's kids always get pneumonia."

Patrick had never had pneumonia in his entire life.  My face was red, my anger was sitting like a ripe fruit just waiting to get picked.  I tried hard to not lose it but in my head I was screaming:

"Patrick might have Down Syndrome but he sure as hell isn't a Down's kid and who are you to stereotype a diagnosis when my kid is so sick!"

Turns out, the lady with a medical degree was right. He did have pneumonia which gave him a free ticket into the hospital and me a chance to simmer in anger.

I was SO mad.  Mad that Patrick had leukemia. Mad that he now was in the hospital for who knows how long.  Mad that he was so sick. Mad that I had to watch him go through so much. Mad that my family was separated. Mad at pretty much everything. 

Right in the thick of that quicksand, I saw my Grateful Journal -- tucked into my bag, taunting me, my very empty journal.  

Day 2...yeah, right.

I acted like a stubborn child refusing to do homework.  No. No way. I'm NOT writing in that stinking thing.  I am most definitely not grateful. I had hours to whittle away.  I was adamant in my avoidance.  But as I grew wearier and wearier, I chided myself. 

 How could I quit on Day 2?

So, begrudgingly, I took out the journal.  I opened it and began writing.  I was convinced I'd write five short items.  I ended up writing six pages.  Turns out underneath that simmering anger was an entire casserole dish of grateful appreciation -- mounds and mounds of people and moments that were wonderful in this terrible day: Jim and Michele at the top, a hospital that would give Patrick care, transportation that worked so that I could get him there, the ability to ask for and receive help, the diagnosis of pneumonia wasn't life threatening and very treatable, for Patrick's attitude, for the nurses who were tending to us and on and on.

Once I stopped writing I started crying.  Seeing all of those blessings written there made them even more real...and yes, sacred.  On one of the worst days of my life I could see the beauty in that day.  

I was transformed.

All it took was living through that to see that keeping a Grateful Journal would allow me to see the sacred in the mundane, the tragic, the difficult and the very ordinary days of my life.  I've been doing it ever since.  There's no way I can stop.   Eight years of grateful living and trust me...it is my secret.  If I skip a day or a few, I can feel my perspective shift.  I get irritated a bit more easily.  I focus on the annoying.  I nit pick.  All I have to do is open up that journal and suddenly my blessings are laid before me...ready to be cemented in print.

My kids hear regularly: "I'm going to put that in my grateful journal!"  If they do something amazing...in it goes.  I have counted John in there so often that I now get sheepish counting him -- like that's an easy out.  But it's fun to see what comes up often.  It's amazing to reread and humbling to see the string of days so beautifully beaded by the sparks of everyday grace. Truthfully, this blog is just a more sporadic internet version of the original.

I want to challenge all of you to try it for the month of November.  Don't get stuck on the type of journal or the manner of writing -- spelling doesn't count. :)  Just stop and write each day for 30 days five things you are grateful for.  I promise that you will notice beauty, kindness, gentleness and love surrounding you like angels every single day.  Even on your hardest days they will be there.

Thanksgiving will hold your heart closer this year.  You will have a grateful heart on that most sacred day.  Your cup will be full.  

Come on...give it a try! And at the end of the month I really want to hear your stories.  I want to know what comes up in your journal time and time again.  I want to hear the magic of the blessings that were there every day just waiting to be noticed. Tell me and I'll tell you my favorites of November too.

In the meantime: Happy Thanksgiving!

The Meatball

"Life is like a bowl of spaghetti, every once in a while you get a meatball."

 -- Sharon Creech, Newbery winning author of Walk Two Moons

I had the joy and unexpected surprise of getting to hear Sharon Creech speak to a roomful of beginning teachers.  Two days later I had the pleasure of going out to dinner with her.  My take away from her story was inspiration, the thrill of teaching, the joy of writing and the mystery of how a series of events line up in a perfect way to create someone's destiny.

Sharon Creech was a high school English teacher for many years.  She had a fantastic childhood with many siblings and a stable family.  She went to college, got married had two children and found herself divorced and searching for an escape.  She interviewed for a teaching job in England but at the interview the man interviewing her made a snap judgment about her personal situation and determined that the job was too much for a single parent. He told her flat out that she wouldn't be good for the job or the students and ended the interview before hearing any of her qualifications.  She was so shocked and angered by his reaction that she wrote a three page letter outlining her qualifications and explaining how her single parent status was actually a benefit to her students...she would be compassionate and understanding...less rushed to judge and punish.  

She got the job.

But then, she found out the salary.  She faced the truth that the salary was so minimal that she really couldn't responsibly take her two children and herself overseas on such a small income.  She made the phone call to let the school know.  However, the man she was supposed to speak with was in a meeting.  She was told to call back at lunch.  But before she made the call she went to lunch herself.  She found herself at a communal table in an Indian restaurant in Washington, DC.  Eating alone, she heard a mother speaking to her daughter next to her.  They both had British accents. Sharon began speaking to them, pouring out her story and her inability to reconcile the wages of her job offer with the supreme effort of moving across an ocean and abandoning all she knew.  The woman's reply:

"Oh, you simply must go!  There's the Thames, and the theater and the adventure.  You simply must go!"

Like some neon road sign on a dark night, Sharon knew she must listen to those words.  She made the decision that made no logical sense.  The one that wasn't planned out perfectly.  The one that wasn't safe.  She moved to England.

"Leap and the net will appear."

When she moved to England, she ended up meeting the man that would eventually be her husband.  She taught English and filled up her soul with great wisdom from great writers.  She focused on teaching writing and literature and slowly over eighteen years the percolating words started bubbling out of her.  

She had to write her own stories.  The first two were novels for adults.  They got published but they didn't take off.  Then she began a novel for children.  She had a publisher but after a year's worth of work, the publisher declared her main character "unlikeable" and told her to go back and rework it.  After another year, the editor told her that the character wasn't believable.  After a third year, she was sitting in a Chinese restaurant in London and received a fortune cookie with a Native American saying:

 "Don't judge someone until you've walked two moons in their moccasins."

Instantly, Sharon knew that she had found a clue to her story.  The novel would have a Native American flavor...the title would be Walk Two Moons. She began writing in earnest and when she showed it to her editor, it was accepted.

A few months later she received a phone call -- the American Library Association had chosen her book as the Newbery medal winner for the year.  She thought it was her brother playing a joke on her.  She laughed it off until it became clear it really was the American Library Association calling her.  She had no idea how many Newberys were given or how big a deal this was.  Let's be clear: only one Newbery Medal winner is chosen a year for "the most distinguished contribution to American literature for children."

Her first children's novel won the Newbery...and it was published in England!

"You simply must go!"

That was 1995, since then Sharon has gone on to win the Carnegie Medal (the Newbery equivalent for Britain) for her book, Ruby Holler.  She's won Newbery Honor book awards and many other notable awards for children's literature for her many other compelling books.  One of my favorites: Love That Dog.  In short, she followed a winding road that lead her to her purpose.  In her acceptance speech when she received the Newbery she mentioned a line one of her students had used in his own graduation speech: "Life is like a bowl of spaghetti.  Every once in a a while you get a meatball." and went on to say: "I guess this is my meatball."

Her humble joy in writing, her insatiable curiosity about what others are thinking and feeling and her love of children and their creative way of viewing the world all meld together in her works.  At her core, she is a teacher.  She uses her words like a magnifying glass to your heart, helping you to discover your own feelings and thoughts on difficult topics like grief, isolation, independence, childhood.  She nudges, cajoles and pushes you to see your own story within hers.

I can't help but wonder what her story today would be like had she stayed in the States and played it safe.  I can't help but think of that British voice inside an Indian restaurant in Washington, DC telling her that she "simply must  go" as an angel lighting the way. I can't help but be grateful that our paths crossed for several hours.  

Today I'm grateful for Sharon Creech: her courage, her words and her instruction.  She's a reminder for me to live bravely, to write and write and write and to listen to the angels whispering all around.