88 Years

At the beginning of the week, I attended a funeral for my step-mother's sister.

At the time of her death, she was 88-years old, and had five children, 11 grandchildren, 19 great-grandchildren...and had been married to her husband for 60 years.

I listened to the pastor recount memory after memory of reading to her grandchildren, making homemade ice cream for the Fourth of July, logging in over 9,000 volunteer hours at a local hospital, serving as the confidant and non-judgemental keeper of everyone's secrets, hand cracking walnuts to give in small mason jars over the holidays and always having hand wrapped goodies for kids in her family and those who happened to stop by.  She had an extraordinarily full, rich, lived in 88-years of life.

I didn't have much time following the service as I drove to to give a presentation.  But sitting in traffic, it hit me that at the age of 43, I am nearly half-way to where she so graciously journeyed.  Who knows how long that I will live or be married or how large my little family will grow to be...but along the way, I wondered what she was thinking.

Is it possible to savor it when you're in the thick of it?

Can you only fully appreciate it in the reflection?

Can you not know the beauty when you're entrenched in the details?

Or does the small stuff not add up to the big stuff, but rather, just count by itself the most?

My son, Sam (13) is getting taller and more independent by the minute.  And this year, will see him graduating from eighth grade and heading to high school.  What does that even mean, and why is it happening? 

Yesterday, a boy called on the phone for Kate (11), and she graciously accepted a play date of Legos and Hogwarts dialogue, all the while, being thrilled that her Kool-Aid died hair would look cool for the excursion.  What the what?

And Claire (7) reminded me that this is her year for full-on Tae Kwon Do and First Holy Communion.  And, yes, in that order.  Sweet Mary Mother of God.

They really do just grow.  And, I guess, so do we.  And then, we die.  All of us.

And no one knows when your day is.  And no one knows how many years you get. 

But man, sitting in her funeral, I thought, "I want that."  I want Paris and Tuscany and penning a novel, too.  But really, when it's all said and done, I want that.  A room filled with babies and couples laughing and reminiscing about all of the ways that she was the glue that held their family together.  And when you think about it, that's not hard.  It's just intentional.  It's a choice to choose to be available over and over and over again for the people you love.

And she got to do it for 88 years.  Christmas cards, homemade fudge, salsa, football games, informal and formal gatherings.  She was present, until the end.

Such a powerful lesson for me to know that it can hurt to see them growing, with the inevitable leaving on the horizon...but if you know them, really take the time to invest in them, they'll always come back to share their stories and eat your fudge (or maybe in my abode, drink my coffee).

Here's to 88 years of real living...

I Go Before You

When I look back,

I think I ran my brains out...or maybe, my heart.

I'm not sure, but for almost six years, I got up at 4:30 in the morning, and ran and ran.  I curated play lists, scouted routes--independent of anything except my kicks and ear buds, I ran through neighborhoods, parks, races, and I was happy...really happy.

Until one day, I wasn't. 

I couldn't get myself up and out...not even with really witty Instagram motivational quotations.  Instead of feeling free, I felt angry about leaving the house when it was dark.  It probably doesn't help that simultaneously, I started teaching graduate classes, cultivating my private mediation practice, and working at my kiddos' school.  Maybe, I was burned out.

And then, for some reason a few months ago, friends started asking me to run races, and instead of looking at my squishy mid section and flabby legs and politely declining, I said yes.  And now, I have four races on the books. 

In preparation for a summer race, I've been trying to run five miles every day--which is going to be the death of me.  On one walk to the park, my 11-year old daughter Kate said, "sometime, can I run with you?"  To which, I instantly responded, "absolutely!" It's kind of like the coveted talk where I dream that she asks to drink coffee or wine or write poetry with me....all of which have yet to happen.

Staring at a big hill she said, "can we practice now?  I mean, like on this, and be done at the top?"  I gulped, "sure."  Half way up, she backed off, and huffing and puffing,  I said, "do you wanna stop?"  "Naw, keep going," she screamed.

And so, I did, slow and steady up the incline.

When I got to the top, I cheered for her as she ran/walked the remainder.  I told her that she was strong and brave and that if she could do this hill, she could do anything.  Hills are hard, but rewarding.

To which she retorted, "I knew I could, because you did first."  I got big tears in my eyes. 

The following morning on a solo run, I hit a hill.  Ill prepared without water and salty sweat streaming into my eyes, I thought of Kate.  I pretended that she was behind me watching what I did, noticing how hard I wanted it.  And I promised myself that I would go before her.  I would do it, so that she would know that she could too.

There are countless shitty components of motherhood.  Discipline, back talk, hormones, incessant whining, homework, sibling fighting, entitled shenanigans, bitchy attitudes...but in the midst, you realize that someone very, very important is watching.  And that ultimately, your actions speak infinitely louder than the gibberish coming out of your mouth. 

In that moment, for a brief second, it becomes incredibly clear, that you have the opportunity to influence another more than anyone else in the world.  And you get to choose whether you'll go first and make positive change, or whether you'll squander the privilege. 

I've made my share of mistakes, but in that moment, I climbed the hill...and so did she.  And someday, she'll go before someone else, and hopefully, she'll climb, even if it's hard...I guess, especially if it's hard.

Here's to climbing...gradually, intentionally knowing the importance of going before another.

Ode to Kate on Your 11th Birthday

My Dearest Kate,

Today, you are eleven.

And I am elated, sad, joy-filled, nostalgic, hopeful...and well, in awe.

I see so much within you, and quite frankly, the majesticness of it brings me to tears.  You are extraordinary. 

I've never met anyone who lives and breathes for making things.  Paint to canvas, fabric to the sewing machine, hot glue to yarn, milk/egg cartons, La Croix cans, glitter, charcoal, brushes, clay, oil pastels...you are constantly creating new and inventive pieces. 

Your latest passion is to create realistic dolls and costumes.  You fashion their hair out of yarn, paint and harden their eyes in the oven, sew their costumes, and make their shoes.  This is one of my favorites...your miniature Kate doll.

When you're not painting, you're dancing or playing the piano.  In another year, you'll be primed to be on Pointe slippers in the ballet studio and taking lyrical classes.  Constantly humming a song and writing notes/words to your own pieces, you are not afraid to let your voice speak, and your body move in the world.

Just this past month, you decided that it was time to start traveling, and so with the help of your grandma, you got on a plane and spent 8 days away from home in Reno, Nevada with daddy's family.  We missed you so much, but loved that you were loving every moment of baking, crafting, and making memories.  On the last day, when asked if you were home sick, you said, "Next summer, I want to stay for a month."

Still a voracious reader, we talk about painting in Paris or baking in Tuscany or writing in Maine.  And when your little sister talks about getting married and having six babies, you say, "I don't know.  I've got a lot I want to do before I think about that."

Like dying your hair or riding millions of miles on your new bike (gears make things easier, right?) and starting your own business.

I'm not going to lie to you, Cat-uh-lone-ay, it's a bittersweet thing being your mama.  You really are the best.  You're kind and compassionate and thoughtful and wicked brilliant and beautiful and sweet and feisty and beloved...and man, I just want you to want me to braid your hair and drink chocolate milk forever. 

But, I know, that's not what you're supposed to do.  

You're supposed to meet a million amazing people, explore a thousand adventures and try on lots of different experiences.  You'll rise and you'll fall and you'll figure out who you are and what makes your heart sing.  But along the way, know that I'm here...noticing you, cheering you on, hoping beyond hope that all your dreams come true.  And when they don't, and you have to recreate your dreams, I'll remind you of the inventor you've always been, the singer who never loses the joy in her heart, and the girl who loved the other side of the country so much that she wasn't afraid to stay for a month.  And even though I'll cry when you go, I'll always hold dear the amazing, extraordinary, inspiring person you are.

I love you to the moon and back....the Happiest of 11th Birthdays,

Mama