Good times

It's Word of the Year time, people!!

Apparently, this is also one of the few times a year I can muster the discipline to sit down and write anything for this erratic, ever-diminishing blog. But the New Year is not the time to quibble over details or fixate on failures! Let's be hopeful, and optimistic, and believe that this is the year I will write at least five blog posts!

Or, at least one more than last year...which was one.

So, let's go for TWO!!!! 

You can tell I am filled with all of the hopes and dreams that a new year and a NEW DECADE inevitably bring. I am positively Pollyanna!

This year my Word of the Year (henceforth to be known as WOTY), came to me well before the close of 2019. I wasn't even trying to think of one, and my train of thought was really somewhere entirely different, but I've found my WOTY can be tricky that way. It likes to sneak into my subconscious when I least suspect it.

It's like a ninja WOTY.

But let's back up for a minute...

My WOTY came to me on a day when I was feeling a bit melancholy (it happens) and was fixating a bit too much on unknowns, things that are a-changing, and just generally stuff I can't really control. That's always a good recipe for melancholy.

There are good things happening all around me. I'm watching my children, especially my older two, step into new opportunities and live their lives more and more independently. That's always been the goal, right? That whole "Preparing to Launch" thing means...one day they launch. And one of my main goals as a mom has always been to allow my kids to grow up free from feeling that they owe me a certain amount of time, attention, or gratitude. I want very much to have relationships with them for as long as I am on this earth, but I don't want relationships that are coerced or borne of out of guilt. I want them to be free and to know that I am always right here...their #1 fan.

I love all the ways they are forging their own paths and making their way in the world.

But I do miss them.

2020 also brings a milestone birthday for me.

Yep, all of us 1970 babies are turning 50 this year!

For the most part, I'm fine with every new age that comes along. I tend to not get too focused on birthdays, even the biggies. But this one carries some extra...stuff.

I rarely do parties or even much else in the way of celebrating my birthdays. (Although I do refuse to ever cook dinner on my birthday. That's my bare minimum.) I'm just not that into them. But the two big-ish parties I did have, for my 30th and my 40th, were both orchestrated, directed, and insisted upon by Tracy. Now SHE was a party girl, in the very best way.

There is no doubt in my mind she would not have allowed my 50th to pass quietly.

It is also always on my heart that our favorite party girl never had the chance to celebrate her 50th.

So, on this melancholy day, I was thinking about all these good things, hard things, things that have been, things that never will be, and all of the things I'm hoping for and wishing for... and it came to me...

It was so obvious.

My 2020 Word of the Year is....

CELEBRATE.

(And if you just heard Kool and the Gang start singing in your head, well, you are my people.)

Celebrate the little things.

Celebrate the big things.

Celebrate the everyday.

Celebrate the extraordinary.

Celebrate all we have been given.

Celebrate all that lies ahead.

Find something to celebrate every. single. day.

In many ways celebrating is both natural and foreign to me. I'm looking forward to celebrating in ways that come easily to me, and also stretching myself to celebrate those things that might challenge me.

I want to celebrate for myself and for others. I really want to celebrate for others.

2020 is the year I find my inner cheerleader (a cheerleader who can't even touch her toes and never in her life could do the splits). An inflexible but enthusiastic cheerleader!! 

I'm still not going to have a big party for my 50th, but I do promise not to let the day pass without some sort of celebration, however small. It may not be entirely Tracy-approved, but she knows me and I believe she will understand.

Mostly, I intend to focus on the everyday and celebrating all the small, good things that make up a life.

An unexpected text message from a friend.
A meme that makes me laugh.
Sleeping in.
Good news shared by my adult children.
Couch and TV time with Annie.
Dog snuggles.
A husband who snowblows in winter, gathers leaves in the fall, and cuts the grass in the summer. And a million other ways he takes such good care of us.
Chips and salsa.
After school visits from my niece and nephew.
Sister time.
A good book.
Watching the cousins swimming at the lake.
Snowy winters and hot summers. (Although the snow gets harder and harder to celebrate the older I get...)
French fries.
Fresh baked cookies.
Champagne. (!!!) (TONIGHT!)

The list goes on and on.

So, off I go into this year of Celebration. If you have any good news to share in 2020, large or small, be sure to let me know and I will be the first to give you a big, "WOOHOO!!!!" (I can and will do the 'Woohoo", but do not expect splits or cartwheels. I am 50, after all. Almost.) 

And, because no WOTY is complete without a VOTY:

Happy New Year, friends!

I celebrate each and every one of you!

XO

Soup and Bread

Last night I made a soup that I haven't made in over 3 years.

The last time I made this particular soup recipe was on Friday, December 4, 2015.

I know this not because I have some incredibly organized system for recording every meal I have ever made, but because I made that soup for a special lunch, with some special friends, that turned out to be even more special than we knew in the moment we were living it.

We had planned the lunch because for the first time in over 10+ years our little Dinner Group, which we had organized when our kids were still in preschool and some were not yet even born, was not going to have its annual Santa Party.

It was a tradition we all enjoyed and loved but that particular year life was getting in the way. The kids had gotten older and had wildly varied college Christmas break schedules. There were private health issues creating concern and complication. The kids still at home had winter sports tournaments and performances. For the first time in well over a decade we all reluctantly agreed to forego the party.

This doesn't mean it's the end. We can do it next year! We will figure it out!

And a million other assurances flew back and forth on that email thread.

But I really do think, looking back, we all did kind of know it was the end.

As the Brad Paisley song says, "There's a last time for everything."

(Because there is a country music song for every occasion.)

Not wanting to let the Christmas season pass without any opportunity for connection, we decided to meet for lunch, just as gals, early in December- before everything got TOO crazy.

Again, life got in the way. In the end it turned out that only 4 of the 6 of us could meet. Tracy, myself, and two of our old, dear friends.

It always kind of surprises me when I realize I have "old friends" in Seattle. Since I didn't grow up there, there were so many years I felt like everything and everyone was new.  But I think it's fair to say that when you have been friends for 20 years, you now qualify as "old friends."

And, of course, Tracy and I were the very oldest and dearest of friends.

As we sat around the table someone suddenly noticed and remarked, "Well, this is kind of perfect. Here we are, the original four who decided to start the Dinner Group."

We started reminiscing about that day, many years before, when we were all together watching our kids play and Tracy floated this idea (of course it was Tracy's idea) of gathering together with our spouses, every couple of months, just to eat a meal and talk. That simple idea launched both many fun, lively dinner gatherings, and an annual Christmas party that our grown kids still talk about. From preschoolers to college graduates, we watched each other's kid's grow and talked about everything under the sun.

I don't remember anyone saying it this way, but I think the four of us sitting there felt like that lunch together validated something.

It was a marker of some sort in which we said silently to one another, Thank you.

Thank you for giving me connection and community and support during those busy, sleepless, uncertain years of raising little ones.

Thank you for making me laugh more times than I can count.

Thank you for bringing me food when I was sad.

Thank you for babysitting my kids.

Thank you for commiserating about sleep schedules, school choices, picky eaters, diet and exercise, discipline, homework battles, health concerns, family dynamics, fashion trends, and a million other life issues both mundane and significant.

(And, on a personal level, I hope my heart remembered to offer a special thank you to Tracy, because I'm pretty sure she came up with this idea in large part for my benefit. She was always working her magic to help me put down roots in a city that was not my own.)

The four of us ate a cozy meal of soup and bread on a cold, December day, celebrating what had been and perhaps quietly acknowledging the future would not look quite the same, even if we didn't yet know how or why or in what way.

One week later Tracy passed away.

That was the last meal she and I shared together. That was the last meal we as four old friends shared together. I guess you could say it was the last meal of our little Dinner Group.

And for over three years I have not been able to bring myself to make that soup again.

But last night I did.

It was just for my little family of three. It was cozy and warm and Annie declared it to be, "Sooooo good."

I made it giving thanks for good memories and good friends. I made it feeling grateful that even as life sometimes brings unexpected change and loss, I have known what it is to be held and lifted up by community and friends. I made it as a promise to myself to seek, nurture, and celebrate the important relationships in my life. I made it with hope that this year is going to bring a deeper sense of community and home. I made it to remember.

It made me happy to make that soup.

I think I will officially rename that soup in my own mind: Friendship Soup.

Easy.

Not at all fussy.

Simple ingredients.

Consistent.

Comfort with a capital C.

All it takes is a little time to get the flavors just right.

Just like old friends.

Thanks to all of mine. 😘

P.S.

Okay, here's the recipe. It's a total 1970's dump in the crockpot type recipe with the modern addition of quinoa. 😄 I have found it works better to prepare the quinoa separately and then add it to the soup. When it cooks with the soup it just keeps soaking up all the liquid and it gets really, really thick. If it is prepared on its own, even if you still then add it at the beginning and let it cook for 4 hours, it doesn't seem to do that. For SUPER convenience, I used the frozen Trader Joes quinoa packets. I cooked two in the microwave and then added them to the crockpot. Everything else, I did as written. Couldn't be easier.

https://mixandmatchmama.com/2015/10/chicken-quinoa-soup/

Riding on the backs of whales

When I was very young, probably only 3 or 4 years old, I remember riding in my grandparent's boat on Hayden Lake. We were speeding along and the boat was bouncing up and down on the choppy water. I asked my Grandpa why the boat bounced up and down like that?

He gave me a smile and said, "Don't worry. We're just going over the backs of whales." 

Going on a whale hunt!
(Obviously I'm the only one who gets it. Whales, people! Look alive!)

I spent the next several summers peering over the edge of the boat hoping to catch sight of one of those whales. Sometimes I still do.

Around the time I was 7 or 8, I developed a strange nighttime phobia. My young, overactive, slightly weird mind became convinced that if I were to put one leg outside the covers at night, a witch would come along and paint my leg.

Looking back, it seems to me that if a witch is going to pay you a visit in the night, painting your leg would be one of the more benign spells he/she could conjure up. So I'm not entirely sure why I was so afraid of this Van Gogh-like Witch that lurked in the shadows of my bedroom. But nevertheless, the idea that I might wake up with a purple leg was enough to keep my legs safely tucked under the covers no matter how warm I got.

When my sister came along and grew old enough to participate in my fanciful adventures, I was not above manipulating her youthful innocence to join me in my bizarre inner world. She still loves to share how I convinced her that this random, lone screw on the ceiling of her bedroom was really the opening to a secret candy chute to which, of course, I held the only key. If you know how much Baby Valerie loved her sweets then you know this was rather mean storytelling on my part. But, truth be told, knowing how my mind worked and how easily I myself believed in magic and mystery, I really do think I just wanted someone else to see what I could see.

I mean, OBVIOUSLY that was a portal to a hidden candy chute. Who couldn't see that?

Oh, the places we will go, little sister!
So...see that funny little silver thing on your ceiling...shhh....don't tell anyone but....

All of this is to say that I have always had a rather rich, expansive, easily influenced imagination.

My mother loves to tell the story of how one day she had another adult come to the house for some sort of meeting. A good 45 minutes into their conversation the visitor felt compelled to interrupt their discussion to say, "I just have to tell you that those children have been playing so nicely in there!"

My mom hesitated for a moment and then started to laugh. "Children? That's just Lori." 

Apparently the visitor literally had to get up and see for themselves that all of that animated, verbose, delightful chatter was indeed the product of one, small child.

I suppose that's why to this day I never really mind being alone. Me and my constant inner dialogue are our own One Woman Show! 😃

Imagining the unimaginable. Turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. Conceiving of the inconceivable.

Easy peasy.

The problem is that as much as imagination can be a gift, it can be equal parts curse. Because sometimes it means you give life to ideas and visions and fears and worries and worst case scenarios that haven't even happened. That may never happen. That most likely never will happen.

Thoughts and perceptions that are not true, or at least you don't know them to be true.

Storylines that have never played out anywhere but in your own head.

Amplifying the voices in your head instead of the voices of the real life people who care about you.

When imagination takes the place of reality, or faith, it loses its value and the positive, creative function it can play in our lives.

When I started mulling over what I felt I was being called to explore in 2019, at first I thought my word would be FAITH.

But it wasn't quite right.

For me, FAITH is the constant undercurrent of my life. It is who I am. Even when I wrestle with doubts FAITH is still the firm foundation I can't help but find my way back to.

It is.

I needed something to DO.

I wanted a verb.

I wanted a word that felt active.

(Well...not too active. I mean more mentally active. Something I can still do while sitting on my couch.)

What is the verb of faith?

If faith is the be-ing, what is the do-ing?

On the two hour drive to my sister's ski cabin it came to me....

BELIEVE.

Believe the best in others.

Believe God is for you.

Believe in the big picture, everything is unfolding as it should.

Believe your children, especially your adult children, will find their path and thrive.

Believe in the power of each new day. God's mercies are new every morning.

Believe that it is not all up to you. Rest.

Believe that it will not kill you to leave the house after 5pm. (I may not practice this one until at least May or June...).

Believe that the future holds unknown blessings and adventure. (Nothing toooo adventurous, I hope).

Believe in naps. (Done.)

Believe that which is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and worthy of praise. (Philippians 4:8) Not paint brush wielding witches, or any other improbable, unlikely, unreal, scary scenario you've dreamed up.

Believe, believe, believe...

What a perfect word to center me and bring me back to what is real in 2019. I'm sure there will be any number of ways I will get to BELIEVE in the year ahead.

And for anyone who is thinking, hmmmmm....BELIEVE is a good word but I can't help but notice it's just a tiny bit Christmasy???

What can I say??

If I have to spend the next 365 days with Josh Groban singing in my head...well, that can't be helped.

And because I always pick a scripture to go along with my Word of the Year....

Bonus! BELIEVE gets two!

The first is very personal to me and is the first scripture that always comes to mind when I think of belief and the challenge of putting faith into action.

"Lord, I believe; please help my unbelief." -Mark 9:24

I soooo get this guy. Belief...easier said than done sometimes. In fact, most of the time. Love this reassurance by one of my faves, Frederick Buechner.

And this one, because it's short and sweet and brings it all back to the point.

So, there it is.

Let me finish by saying I BELIEVE in you. I believe in the spark that is gifted to each of us by the Creator. I believe you are here for a reason and whether your purpose feels large or small by worldly standards, your presence and participation are needed and necessary.

You are loved.

Believe me.

Happy New Year!

Who says?

Yesterday, I took a little drive.

I didn't mean to take a drive. It really all started because there is a bunch of construction going on in my neck of the woods and the only way I can leave my house is by way of one of several different detours. There is literally no direct route from my house to anywhere right now. It's fine. It's all fine. Everything is FINE.

Ahem.

Anyway, as I approached the detour, I had a sudden urge to detour from my detour.

I took a left and began a long, meandering drive through the south-iest roads of the South Hill. These are country roads I know like the back of my hand. They are the roads on which I learned to drive. Roads where even now you might drive your entire route and not pass a single other car. What a blessedly wonderful way to dip your toe into the world of gas and brake pedals, turn signals, and windshield wipers. And they are the very best roads for turning up the Billy Joel station and singing Scenes from an Italian Restaurant at the top of your lungs. Both when you are 16 and when you are 48....

I found myself getting a little giddy thinking about teaching Annie to drive on these very same roads. Not giddy in the sense that I am ready for that to happen. Sweet fancy Moses, no. Thank heaven we are still a couple of years away from that. But giddy knowing that she will get a chance to master some fundamental driving basics while being surrounded by nothing more than fields and the occasional deer before having to do anything INSANE like merge onto the Ballard Bridge. (Sorry, Seattle flashback.)

Seattle peeps, can I get an AMEN?!

Speaking of Amen....while on my detour of the detour I passed the Catholic Retreat center that has been there as long as I can remember. A little further up the road I saw a Sister out for a brisk morning walk. I slowed and made sure to veer as far over to the other side of the road as I could so as to give her plenty of space and not kick up any dust on her. As I approached her she gave me the brightest smile and a friendly wave.

I know my smile was equally bright because she made my day.

In that moment, I knew for sure my detour from the detour was a great idea.

Two years ago, my most fervent prayer was simply that this place would become Home. It seems strange now and even did then that Home was so elusive. I had been born and raised here. All of my immediate family is here. I didn't even have to learn my way around. There was so much that was familiar.

And yet.... My entire adult life had been spent somewhere else. A place that had become Home. I began my married life there, raised my kids there, had friends there, survived multiple remodeling projects there....

Sometimes I'm still not sure what made us hear and listen to the whisper that said, "It's time to go."

But we did. And we did. It was time to go.

I remember I kept hearing that line in the Rascal Flatts song:

I never dreamed home would end up where I don't belong.

Even so, I miss it sometimes. And of course there are people I miss. (Home is always really about the people, right?)

But when I drive these country roads I've been driving for over thirty years... When I pick my daughter up from her bus, which happens to be at my sister's house, and tell her that "I'm just going to go in and talk to Aunt Val for a minute" (a minute, riiiiight....)... When I drive past the McDonalds in Lincoln Heights where I spent a ridiculous number of Friday nights hanging out with my high school friends... When I just "pop downtown" not worrying about time of day or traffic... When I am able to see nieces and nephews on their birthdays, or just because.... When I realize that my own daughter is herself becoming a "Spokane girl".... And when those first snowflakes fall and we are reminded once again that we won't be traveling for Christmas because Christmas is here, and we are here, and...well.....honestly....

I marvel to myself... literally marvel.... I. Live. HERE. 

Who says you can't go Home again?

A Spokane childhood was nothing if not fancy. 

What if?

"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as 

six impossible things before breakfast."

~Alice in Wonderland

If you are into personality assessments and jazz like that then you have probably heard of the Enneagram. If not, just suffice to say it's one of those tests where you answer a bajillion questions about what you "most likely" or "least likely" think, or believe, or say, or do, and then it gives you a number as to your personality type.

I'm an Enneagram 9.

I've taken various versions of the Enneagram multiple times and I am always, always a Nine.

I really don't know why I keep taking it because when I read the description of a Nine it's exactly me. I mean, like...wow, that's me. So maybe I keep taking it because I want to see if the test is fallible, or if maybe on any given day I might be less Nine-like than other days.

So far, nope.

I'm as Nine-iest as you can get.

Here is a brief description of Nines:

Nines are accepting, trusting, and stable. They are usually creative, optimistic, and supportive, but can also be too willing to go along with others to keep the peace. They want everything to go smoothly and be without conflict, but they can also tend to be complacent, simplifying problems and minimizing anything upsetting. They typically have problems with inertia and stubbornness. At their Best: indomitable and all-embracing, they are able to bring people together and heal conflicts.

Basic Fear: Of loss and separation

Basic Desire: To have inner stability "peace of mind"

Key Motivations: Want to create harmony in their environment, to avoid conflicts and tension, to preserve things as they are, to resist whatever would upset or disturb them.

"They typically have trouble with inertia..." That makes me laugh out loud every time. You know what a Nine's root sin is? SLOTH! Something I've been saying about myself long before I ever even heard of the Enneagram. In fact, I consider the sloth my spirit animal.

(And the fact that I say that with pride might mean I have leaned in a bit too much to my Nine-ness).

So, now that you know way too much about me and my peace-loving, conflict-avoidant, abundantly Nine-like ways, you may have every reason to disregard everything I'm about to say. 

You may read what comes next and think, "Well....yeah....but this is really just because you want everyone to get along, and don't like people fighting, and can't handle tension, and conflict, and hysteria."

You'd be right. 

However, it's also because I want people to be able to get along, and coexist peacefully, and allow others their dignity, and still be able to laugh together at the end of the day.

Oh, wait. That's basically the same thing.

Okay, you are still right. 

BUT....because I do know what it's like to feel all angsty and twisty and ragey inside, and because I really don't believe that is a healthy place to set up camp and hang out for too long, I have a suggestion for anyone who would like to take a break from Camp Frowny Face.

Before I share this, please know I'm really not referencing anything specific in today's world, politics, celebrity romances, or my own personal relationships. This is a technique that can be used in any number of situations and I've been known to employ it multiple times in a single day. I mean, that's kind of exhausting when that happens, but I'm just saying that while you might be inclined to think I'm writing about specific current events, I'm really not. This is just something I have been thinking about and today was the day I overcame my inertia long enough to sit down at the keyboard and write it out. 

That's how any of my blog posts happen. And why they are so infrequent.

The inertia is real, my friends.

Anywhooooo....Here is what I do when I feel myself slipping into that place where I cannot understand how anyone could possibly see this situation, or issue, or event, or person, or concept, or belief...any differently than I do. 

We've all been there. Somewhere in our heads every sentence starts with, "Who in their right minds would _______________?!" Or, "How can anyone think that ________________?!" Or, "I don't want anything to do with anyone who thinks __________________!!"

And we start mentally dividing people into camps. Of course we ourselves are sitting over here at Camp Always Right, while all of those other misguided souls are sitting at Camp Stupid People. 

Maybe you are more diplomatic and don't actually call them Stupid People. Maybe you even like or love some of those Stupid People but secretly seethe knowing they think ____________. But the bottom line is we have usually put masking tape down the center of this universal room we all live in and... lo and behold we happen to be on the side of all that is good and righteous, and everyone else is....over there.

I'm not being judgey because I do this too.

It's kinda human nature. 

Okay, enough meandering and over-explaining. Let me get to the trick.

It's great because it's only five words so it is really easy to remember. 

When you feel like you just can't deal one second longer with those people or that person who think(s) differently than you do, say these five words....

What if I am wrong?

Sit with that for a second. Or a minute. Or five minutes.

Don't start justifying or talking back to yourself or making mental counterarguments.

Just ask the question and sit with it. 

Then, take a trip down that imaginary alternate path. Envision what being wrong might look like. If you can't fathom any possible way you could be wrong in the big picture, is there something smaller you could consider? Is there one piece of the puzzle you could take out of the larger equation and study it differently?

Is there one small thing, or idea, or concept, or "truth" you could flip on its head and truly explore the idea of discovering you were wrong?

And if you were wrong, what then?

This can be painful. I've done this with some of my most deeply held beliefs. I've done this in situations where I felt wounded and irrefutably wronged (at least in my own mind). I've done this with my faith and it took days to recover from the sloth-fest that ensued as a result.

It's not easy to do it right.

But it's also the easiest thing in the world to do to get yourself unstuck.

I'm not saying that this will or even should change what you ultimately believe to be right or wrong. But what it might change is how you feel about the people or person you disagree with. When you make room for other perspectives, even just a little, you make room for the possibility of understanding...and maybe even, peace. 

For me, this is an exercise in humility. It is challenging myself to remember that I do not hold the key to all of life's truths and answers. I am not in possession of a crystal ball that allows me to see into the minds and hearts of others. I am human, and fallible, and limited, and self-absorbed, and short-sighted, and stubborn, and lazy.....and sometimes I. am. wrong.

It also reminds me how much I hope that when I am wrong, or other people think I am wrong, that those who love me will still always give me the benefit of the doubt and believe the best of me rather than the worst. 

I could be wrong right now and this is a terrible idea to suggest to someone else.

If I am, I'm sorry.

You don't have to do this.

Plan B is grab your favorite chips, adult beverage, something sweet, and a cozy blanket, and then watch Elf.

That should work, too. 

When all else fails....

All creatures great and small

Have you been reading about the Mama Whale here in the Pacific Northwest?

That sounds like the beginning of a setup to a punchline but the story is far from funny.

I can't stop thinking about it.

As of yesterday, which is the latest news report I've found, she has been carrying her dead baby for over a week now. The sweet baby whale lived for a short time after birth and then passed away for reasons no one can determine at this point. Apparently it is common for mother whales to carry a stillborn whale for a day or so after birth, but this length of time has perplexed even those who study these magnificent creatures in depth and at close range.

In the article linked above, the executive director of The Whale Museum on San Juan Island asks this question: "One of my questions to biologists is...'Does grief change once you've met the being that you've carried?" She goes on to say, "So she carried this for 17 months before it was born, and we know that it swam by her side, so there would have been a bonding, a birthing experience...So there's a part of me that believes the grief could be much deeper because they had bonded."

I'm not a biologist but I can most certainly answer that question.

When I first read about this Mama Whale I immediately recalled a field trip with my oldest son when he was in about the 2nd grade. Along with other parents, I was chaperoning a trip to our IMAX theater which was showing some movie about elephants. (Sidenote: Elephants and whales are two of my top five favorite mammals). 

The movie chronicled an elephant family group having to travel a long distance to find water. As all elephant groups are, it was female led and there were so many touching examples of the ways they all look out for one another and care for another. At one point they come across another female elephant whose baby has died. They surround the grieving mother offering her support and comfort as she struggles to leave her calf.

They do finally move on because the baby in their own group is beginning to struggle with the long journey and lack of water. It starts to feel quite perilous and I felt myself growing nervous as to how emotional this movie might become for our little band of 2nd graders.

Although, truth be told, I was probably more nervous for myself.

I wasn't alone. As we reached peak drama in the film my sweet friend Molly, who scarcely ever utters a negative word or thought, leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "I swear to God if that baby elephant dies, I am outta here." 

It still makes me giggle thinking of it. But it's a laughter born of deep solidarity and understanding.

Sometimes you have to laugh just so you don't cry.

Mama Whale, her baby, and their shared story have made me think about a lot of things. Part of me thought I wanted to write more about grief, and loss, and why it is that humans seem more able to extend deep empathy and support to a whale than to another human being, but...I don't really want to.

What I really want most is simply to find some way to communicate to her...

I see you, Mama Whale.

Oh, do I see you.

May you find healing and peace.

As it should have been.
 I hope there is a Whale Heaven and this is what she will find waiting for her someday. 

Dancing in the rain

I have been fortunate to have a few friends in my life that go way, way, way back with me.

I have one friend who I have known since we were born. Well, since she was born...I arrived a month ahead of her. I have another friend who I have known since we were about three years old. And another friend who I have known since I was five or so.

It is without a doubt a blessing to have people in your life who have traveled that long and far with you.

It is also a curse since they remember every hairstyle, every boyfriend, every fashion incident, and no matter how much you think you've got it together, you always know there are a handful of people in the world who know beyond a shadow of a doubt that underneath it all you are really a great big weirdo.

I love that.

In beginning my quest for TRUST, I have been trying to conjure up times in my life where I remember feeling completely and utterly at peace. Times when I felt so completely safe that I wasn't giving a second thought as to whether what I was doing was right, or wrong, or acceptable, or enough. Times when the world's gifts and my intentions all aligned and together we glimpsed...paradise.

As unlikely as it might seem, one fuzzy memory that keeps popping up for me involves these two cherubs right here.

My buddy Christie and me.

Don't those two little nuggets look just chock full of sugar and spice?

Mother of Pearl...don't let them fool you. 

One day, when we were about exactly the age of this picture here....(so, babies, basically) we had a sleepover at my friend Christie's house. I have no recollection as to why since it seems to me we were kind of young for sleepovers, but our moms did a lot of swapping of childcare and babysitting, so who knows what lead to such an exciting adventure for two little friends.

You would think the sleepover would have been adventure enough.

But, no, in the wee hours of the morning, long before anyone else in the house was stirring, Christie and I woke up and made our way to the family room. Looking out the big glass doors, we noticed it had rained in the night. In fact, it had rained a lot in the night.

As we peered outside we could see large puddles covering the ground and water pouring from gutters. 

It was like the world had become a magical land of waterfalls and wading pools perfectly sized for two pint sized fairies.

So, what else were we to do but to go exploring?

We. Left. The. House.

I'm sure we started out in Christie's own front yard but at some point we ventured down the street to where it took a slight dip and a large amount of water had accumulated. It probably wasn't all that much water really, but to us it felt like a swimming pool.

A swimming pool that was in the middle of the street. 

In our pajamas we waded in that oversized puddle, splashed in it, stomped and danced. 

I don't remember feeling cold. I don't remember feeling afraid. I don't remember feeling at all that we were doing something naughty or dangerous. 

We felt glorious.

Eventually, it probably did start to get cold so we made our way back to her house but we couldn't let the opportunity to shower in a waterfall pass us by, so we finished up by standing underneath the downspout "washing" our hair and making sure that not one square inch of our little bodies remained dry.

It was at this point we were finally discovered.

You can imagine that Christie's mother was not nearly so enchanted by our Wonderful World of Water. Or the fact that two tiny girls were wandering around in the street at dawn.

I clearly remember seeing her mouth moving and arms waving as she rushed us inside and thinking, "What's wrong?!"

I know Christie thought the same thing because she and I have remembered and retold and regaled each other with this memory over and over for the past 40+ years. 

As mothers now, we find it equal parts horrifying and hilarious, but in general the hilarity wins out.

But in all the times I have recalled this story, I've never thought about it in terms of TRUST before.

Without question though, that's what we felt.

We trusted the world was safe.

We trusted each other.

We trusted our intuition and our instincts.

We trusted ourselves.

We trusted that when we were ready to go back home, it would be there.

And maybe, there was a small part of us deep down that knew we might get in a little bit of trouble for this...but we also had complete trust that we would be loved anyway.

It's never a surprise to me that Jesus says if we really want to enter the Kingdom of Heaven we have to become like children.

Dancing in the rain doesn't hurt either.