What does it say...

What does it say about me
that I have a secret longing to enter every single
sweepstakes that I see
and in my heart believe it's meant for me to
win
almost feeling the heavy ginormous check
tipping and slipping out of balance while
I smile and the cameraman points and clicks?

What does it say about me
that I love those little word things
that you sometimes have to enter to
legitimize who you are
or why you are visiting a site
that I am so easily made to feel
brilliant as I read the smudgy fonts
and so deftly type in the letters that
somehow make sense of Seuss-like
juxtaposition?

What does it say about me
that I woke my sleeping teen
the other night because
I absolutley had to have
an ice cold coca-cola and
chips and french onion dip
but was afraid to drive to Redi-Go
to get it by myself
the hour being so late
and the Redi-Go crowd so
typically creepy?

What does it say about me
that I know what I need to do
have every logical reason and ability to do
that one big or million little things
and yet I inevitably find
another load of laundry
or a (potential) threating invasive weed
in my flower bed that MUST COME OUT
before I step into the need
that I would for some reason rather
ignore
even though I typically like to be
needed?

What does it say
that I apparently
care about what IT
says or who THEY
are even though
I've never seen IT
or met THEY
and at the end of the day
(which, really, where is
that--the end of the day?)
the only one faced with
any question or any
decision
is just
me?

Do you shop at Marcs? I suppose it's somewhat like a Big Lots. The one in our town right now just re-located and so has brought a new flurry of anti-union protestors scattered around its perimeter, drinking coffee and holding signs and waving at cars and standing up for what they believe in. My dad would be at least slightly annoyed at me for waving and then continuing to park. My budget told me to do it.
Yesterday, I went in with a long list, and three toddlers dangerously close to nap time, and my alarm set on my cell phone to get me out in time to get us all checked out and to a doctor's appointment on time. It drove me crazy as I dashed about and picked up list items and corraled my troops.
Finally I made it to the checkout. The experience of the check out lines at Marcs IS probably worth at least a small protest sign, as we usually experience at least one meltdown moment as we wait. And wait. And....wwaaaiitt.
Eventually, I began to load items onto the conveyor belt, and my four year old seized the opportunity to catch a passing by manager. "Excuse me," she asked politely. "Would you please make that piano go?" She has seen the player piano at the front of the store, staged with photographs of famous musicians' tunes recorded on its rolls, inquired of me, attempted to sneak up under the cord that surrounds it to make the piece a Played by Her Piano. And today, her precocious self had reached her limits. The manager chuckled and said she hadn't ever seen it play, but she would get the store manager to ask him to turn it on.
I continued to load groceries, slightly damp with I'm-going-to-be-late for our-appointment sweat, one eye on the register, one hand on Mac who was trying to leap out of the cart (his turn for melt down) and one eye on the exchange going on with my child and the store managers. She's very direct.
Soon, the player began twinkling out tunes, and Ellerie and Connor were both startled and transfixed.
I was stopped mid-load. The tune was Karen Carpenter's "Top of the World." Do you remember it? Tears filled my eyes. No longer did I stand in the grocery store, sweating and unaware of the flat on my car that would need addressed before I reached the doctor's office to find out Mac needed another antibiotic.
No, I was once again a little girl, about the age of Ellerie. Surrounded by sunbeams, warm and safe in my Granny's living room. We were dancing and laughing as the mellow 45 spun about, sending the charmed words on the charmed notes into the charmed world of a precious moment between a grandmother and her granddaughter. I can see her smile, and I could feel my own remembered laughter in my chest, tickling my heart. My hands clutched reflexively to hold her thin, strong fingers. Happy-sad tears filled my eyes and spilled over my cheeks. "I'm sorry," I laughed to the cashier. "I haven't heard this song in over 30 years." I shook my head, but I couldn't clear the reverie. The lyrics, the love, the dust speckles of sparkly memory, swirling in the slanted shafts of that long ago, right here, sunshine-y day.
I went 33 cents over the cash I had. She spotted me. And I gathered up my brood. But bits and pieces of memory and joy and bittersweet scattered all around the check out aisle, and as I glanced about, I half expected people to sort of start floating up in the air, kind of like when the little Michael shakes Tinkerbell's dust on the Nursery dog Nana, and her bumm floats up in surprise. But they didn't float, and instead went about as usual, not realizing the gifts of yesterday had just hugged today.

Top of the World, Karen Carpenter
Such a feelin's comin' over me
There is wonder in most everything I see
Not a cloud in the sky
Got the sun in my eyes
And I won't be surprised if it's a dream

Everything I want the world to be
Is now coming true especially for me
And the reason is clear
It's because you are here
You're the nearest thing to heaven that I've seen

I'm on the top of the world lookin' down on creation
And the only explanation I can find
Is the love that I've found ever since you've been around
Your love's put me at the top of the world

Something in the wind has learned my name
And it's tellin' me that things are not the same
In the leaves on the trees and the touch of the breeze
There's a pleasin' sense of happiness for me

There is only one wish on my mind
When this day is through I hope that I will find
That tomorrow will be just the same for you and me
All I need will be mine if you are here

I'm on the top of the world lookin' down on creation
And the only explanation I can find
Is the love that I've found ever since you've been around
Your love's put me at the top of the world

The house is quiet. I am quiet. The gentle hum of the dishwaher and the high efficiency swish of my washer tell me it's either early morning, or late evening, as it's the only time my house is typically still with me in it. I need to get upstairs, spoon against my husband who is warm and sure and probably softly snoring. But the house is quiet. And I am quiet. It's good.
I've been reflecting so much lately on time, which is really an oxymoron, as, for each moment I'm looking backward, life is just moving along, sidewalk square by sidewalk square. Quietly. Steadily.
Today, I am:
Sure.
Forgiven.
Forgiving.
Content.
Optimistic.
Focused.
Relaxed.
Open.
Opening.
Happy. I am Happy.
Loved.
Loving.
With song.
Silent.
Without nightmares. (It's been almost a month for me! This is huge.)
But, Dreaming.
Remembering.
Remembered.
Joyful.

I'll tell you this: What I can remember about my yesterdays is probably both not quite as beautiful or horrid as my memory recalls. And I cannot assure anyone else of the beauty of tomorrow in any terms other than my own. But today, today was beautiful. My days are made of beautiful. From baby shampoo to oreo kisses to first job jitters to warm, soft pillows... From tears of having to try again to tears of having to say goodbye to voice changing squeaks to forgotten uniforms... From having grown up LIVING The Pain and the Great One to carting around love in my arms in one form or another since I was about, what 12? From dishes to laundry to business to pleasure... Today, my days are made of beautiful.

And my house is quiet. And I am quiet. And it is good.

I can hardly believe, REALLY, that it's been since November since my last post. But you know, I've lived a whole other lifetime since then. REally. Thanksgiving was crazy--had a minor surgery (which aren't they always a little more major than minor indicates?) the day before, so I'd done all the dinner prep the day before that, and then on the day of little Connor reached across a votive candle (he had snuck up to the counter to snatch a cinnamon roll that wasn't done cooling), and his sleeve caught on fire. Terrifying. Jason beat the flames out barehanded, and I raced across the kitchen to tear away the shirt, ignoring bandages, stitches... Isn't that the way when moved with great passion and intense desire? I needed to rescue him. That was my only goal.
So then Christmas rushed in with the Holiday Shopping that I had SO determined to be SOOO prepared for that I would completely avoid it... AND, I stayed up wrapping all Christmas Eve. But HEY! I promoted to DM for Arbonne, amidst holiday bazaars that didn't turn out as I'd expected, and the UPSdownsUPSdownsUPS as I tried to measure success and failure.
New Years Eve at Mom and Dad's. The edgy ache of sorrow that Uncle Mark was not there. The sad place in my Dad's eye. My dad is so handsome, so strong. I feel pain in my heart, tears pressing out, just thinking of how his smile is just that ever so little bit... less than it was. Odd, isn't it? How continued life gives these rich rich blessings that deepen the warmth and resolve and ABSOLUTE joy in love, but it takes away, just a little by such such little, the freeness of a smile. There's a bittersweet burden of... well, of remembering.
Anyways. The night before we left for there, I got this call from B. I love her now, but at the time she was just this face on an Eye on Arbonne, this several page spread of determination. I mean it! Every sentence was like a mile marker of grit and I can do all things through HIM. And then, she talked (it wasn't our first chat--we'd had others in which I felt that innate admiration. my wish is that everyone finds someone for whom this feeling can blossom) about this upcoming Exchange Event, and she might deny it, but I'm pretty sure she just prayed my butt right onto a plane headed for Amarillo. THE last place in the world I figured I needed to be, what with Christmas returns, and holiday blues and all.
IN FACT: a few days before, I sat down to type. Wanted to pour out my soul in this black and white so that I might come back and sort it out later. All I could do, all I could muster, was to log onto Facebook and type, "Is it just me?" And cry--those really, not fun, man these are breaking my heart, silent tears.
Anyways. I went to Amarillo, bags packed full of clothes that still had tags on them, layered with years of dusty, heavy stories I'd been toting around for at least three decades. And I met her, this friend whose soul must surely share at least one web or orb of fingerprint with mine. She's staggeringly beautiful. And to look at her, she's pretty too. (Are you following me?) Being near her is like... Well, when I was a little kid, I used to be fascinated with my kaleidiscope. Loved the sounds the beads made, each little trickle turning something lovely even lovelier. So peaceful that world of turn by turn color, most radiant when held up to the light. That's what spending time with Buffy is like.
And I swear she ran me all around that ruggedly, brutually magnificent area with its funny names like Taco Villa and Quik Quak the day I arrived. So surreal to be so far away and just perfectly right at home. I think my spirit sighed audibly. And that's not even the good part!
I was there for this Exchange Event. Did I mention that I had packed a little cynicism, skepticism, criticism, obnoxiousism into my carry on? Evidentally, weight borne only on the soul doesn't cost extra--not in money.
But, an hour into the presentation on, well, I can only say with all confidence that the presentation, if you're a part of it, is on EXACTLY what your innermost core NEEEEEDs, I found myself asking Keith for forgiveness (he must think I'm crazy), but I needed to trash my carryons. Critically, vitally important it was, I knew to open my heart All the way.
And oh baby.
I have this little notebook that I carry with me eveyrwhere. It contains my notes from the Exchange. But I'd completely wig if I lost it. Because there are these little pieces of me written all over it. And listen: this is huge. Prior to this blog, I never really saved any writings that came from that deep place inside. It never seemed to match with what I thought was written on my forehead. I'm still amazed.
And that isn't even the best part.
Like a true Magic Bullet Infommercial, if you wait: THERE's MORE!!
In the shape of this forum of people I've been introduced to... Lots from Arbonne, lots from... well, that place of Ether, swirling around bumping thoughts and emotion and people's beings together. I really kind of think pieces of me were floating around there too, and just bit by bit I'm coming back together.
I have a thousand things to say all of a sudden. As if it's imperative that I type and type and type my heart onto the page. Commit to the changes I am seeing are so clearly needed. Find SUCCESS for my family.
Meet my husband again and again until all that we have are the posts of "Look at this gem we found once more today", whether through trial or treat, to record our journey together. We're not there yet.
I found my children too! Found their beautiful, passionate wills and dreamy imaginings. Figured out where I wasn't showing up, and I'm not talking about sporting events.
My faith. Ah that. Yes, well, ignited is the thing. But I don't want a flash flood. I want a controlled burn, steady, strong, created to fufill a purpose blazing with light.
So you see? It's been a lifetime since November, but I think, for the first time ever, I was shocked to see that I hadn't written about it. Even though this post has certainly not done a lifetime worth of justice.
And to you who are part of my re-shaping, who are the brilliant gems tickling across the glass of my soul: thank you. My loving hasn't been complete without you.

It's not the big things. And there have been sooo many. It's the little things my husband does that humble me. Humble me as in: wow. He never asks to be recognized. wow. he is so consistent with it. wow. he will be so annoyed when he sees I've posted about him.
It's like this:
he charges my toothbrush. cleans the kitchen when it REALLY needs it. puts my folders together for my Arbonne classes. organizes my desk area (this one borders on being a huge thing.) carries boxes out. in. out. in. all in the space of one day. actually curled the curling ribbon on some of the gift bags I was finishing. vaccuumed up the mess I made. took the toddlers to Wildlife Safari and feed the deer. (again bordering on big.) rakes the leaves and a ton of other has-to-get-done-stuff. jumped in and gave baths and made lunches and did all of the things I usually do but couldn't this weekend. brings me coffee on sunday morning to help me wake up. doesn't complain, really ever.
I dunno. It seems like I'm always so ready to let him know if there's something he needs to do. Or fix. Or try harder at. And I hate it that I'm like that! Because in my heart--no, deeper than that--at my absolute core I know what he does. How much it matters. How much I depend on him doing it.
And I know he wishes I was more organized and on time and consistent. Less emotional, more practical, better at managing my time. Did I say consistent?
But he loves, loves,loves me where I am. And helps keep my head just above the dunking level.
And like I said: he'll be annoyed. But I needed to write it. Needed to let him know I know. Needed to see it for myself in black and white. Tell him that I am thankful for him everyday, not just the 15th day of November, or in the few words that would fit onto a facebook post... iloveyou

Yesterday held well visits for my 3 yr old and 18 month old. You know what that means: vaccinations. Oh I felt so bad! They were so cheerful--they always are right before the shots. And then you have to hold them still, while the nurses poke them, all while they're looking right into your eyes, all teary, as if to say, "REALLY? You were a part of this conspiracy all along?!"
The bad news is, this particular torment follows our decision to only pass out tiny amounts of Halloween candy at a time. Oh for the days of gleeful abandonement and sugar intake. Actually, this was never a particular crave of mine. I had my favorites, like banana taffy and whoppers, but the rest I mostly used to bribe my little sister. I remember dumping it all out on the rust-colored shag in our living room, smelling the mixed-sugar, leaf- thrown-in treatness of it. Scrambling to be the first to hand my dad a Snickers bar. Poor mom. She had been the one to dress us in costumes that she had painstakingly Elmer's-glued together.
My favorite costume was my Wonder Woman one. From what I recall, the eagle emblem done in said glue and gold glitter was a spot-on replica. Not to mention the stars on the blue shorts that matched. I have a vague recollection of questioning my mom's decision to put the starts on shorts, rather than the briefs that Linda Carter wore, but she was not to be swayed.
Nor was she to be swayed the year she created the Hershey's Kiss. Now this costume was the coup de ville of all costumes, being resurrected several times for various functions. The year of its debut as the Kiss, my mom somehow configured a hula hoop, sheet, fishing line, and lots and lots of aluminum foil to perfectly resemble a Kiss, complete with a paper tag on top. The costume must have taken her some time, because she kept it hanging in the basement to be overhauled into a Christmas tree (my sister was, of course, the present) and the fat lady (picture layers and layers of crepe paper) for the Kiddie parade float in which our neighboor crew depicted a circus. I greatly disliked this configuration of costume design, the only perk being that I was given a pop tart to nibble on throughout the parade.
I'm somewhat amazed that Halloween has come and gone already this year. Pumpkin carving (my 3 year old cried when we took out the first scoop of "guts"), hot glued costumes (My four year old asked to be Queen Frostine from Candyland five hours before Go time--how easy we have it these days, eh Mom?), candy collection (the haul will sustain my three teens at least through the month), and cobwebs that can be dismissed as decor all put to rest for another year. This fast-forward effect brings tears to my eyes, almost as quickly as the thought of the next well-visit.

It seems to me that our culture is so... odd in so many of its traditions, and today my thoughts swirl around the passing of a soul. Around the dying, we talk in hushed tones, and choke back our tears and shy away from saying we'll miss them, or that they are embarking on a magnificent journey that we all are at least a little afraid to take but will someday as well. As if our denial will create delay, or change the inevitable, or make anyone feel better. And each of us with our own slant on the approach, we try to make it all be okay, for ourselves, for someone else... Well. We do what we are capable of, right?
I try not to cry at the funerals of the ones I love the most. And if you know me, you know what a ridiculous oxymoron this is. I cry when I pray. When I'm happy. When I'm laughing. Weep at others' sadness. The world's hurts. My own sins. When life just gets too big. All of these times, tears melt my resolve, my sorrows, my worries, my stressors. But when I say goodbye, I try so very hard not to cry. Maybe it's because I am afraid I couldn't stop. Or, maybe I think someone else needs to use the tears more. Or maybe I think, somewhere deep in my heart that if I just don't let the hurt out, it will just somehow cease.
I hate to see my dad cry. He has this wonderful face that is so kind and strong at the same time. But when his full smile crumples and his chin crinkles up, and his brown, brown eyes fill with tears, my heart just breaks. I've never seen the effects of myself making him cry. And I'm sure I have, but I'm glad I haven't seen it. But I've seen him cry over his dad, his mom, my sister's cancer, and, now, his brother's death. The last days at hospice were heartwrenching, I'm told. I was spared this scene, stayed here in this part of my world, waiting those last days for the goodbye call.
We have the cancer call go around alot in my family. Just got another one last week. My dad's other brother. It's that call where things in the moments before it were at least one semblance of normal, and then the moment after it's that freefall of the different same. Anyways, the goodbye call is worse. It has a singular aloneness at its disconnect, and I hate that.
But this week, the goodbye also brought a measure of guilty relief. It was over--it being the struggling, aching, hurting, dying, wondering waiting, leaving. And the tradition of baked spaghetti and cold ham and paper plate luncheon began with all of its nodding and hugging and... yep, crying.
And you know what? I am so glad. For the first time in a long time, I allowed my heart to feel it--the sincere well wishes and Irememberyou and the embrace of yesterday's memories. And not only was it okay... It was good. You should know that in my mind I see this Grinch's cartoon heart getting bigger and bigger until the weight of it tips the sleigh and takes the presents to all the Who's in Who-ville. And the likenesses, I won't even go into in this post. You know Who you are.
Instead, I'll finish with what I had to say at my uncle's funeral...
Who in this room was surprised that my uncle's heart remained beating, strong up until the very, very end? Who was really surprised at the determination behind his fight? Who really marvelled that a sanctuary could be filled and then some with people whose lives he and his magnificent family had touched?
Far, far back into the stretches of memory, I see my uncle Mark, strong, lean, handsome, tall. I feel his fingers in my hands as the soles of my little four year old feet match themselves up on top of his so he could walk me around my granny's kitchen. Feel the weightlessness of being a wiggling sack of potatoes, bounced around in the big backyard. I see him always entering the picture right on time, whether dropping in for a visit from the Air Force or congratulating me with a Lucy Peanut trophy after an accordian contest--just never missing the important things. Remember my curiousity about him being smitten over that beautiful, tall blonde girl with the tan, tan skin who I would have to share him with, but who would bring about these little blonde dolls that I would snuggle and cart around and tuck into bed on all those nights of babysitting. And at least a million more moments of memory.
It occured to me recently that I had been given the happy blessing of being a middle child all of my life. That, true, I was oldest sister to just one sister, and boss of many younger cousins. But I had older siblings as well, in the form of these larger than life aunts and uncles. Especially Uncle Mark. Fierce protector of all things he loved. Loving more people more fiercely than he would ever let one. Sharp tongued and quick tempered, but never really wanting to cause pain, and never, never a hypocrite. QUick to apologize, quicker to share a tear when life's burdens made someone else hurt. What a role model, this uncle brother.
I think the hardest thing about a funeral, other than the sorrow of Missing, is the reconciliation of a life that's been written all over the page, with the finality of the pen having been laid down, its singular hopes, dreams, passions now silent. But the beauty, in its grieving, aching, empty, quiet way lies in the next pages waiting for new life--because the impressions of those pages before were written with such surety and conviction that love has imprinted itself over and over again, invisible to the eye, but felt in the heart.
So. One part of the Runion story--what a privelege to be here in its moments--finishes today, a legacy, a prestigious club of loyalty, love, nitty gritty living as a family.
(and then I finished with "Milk", the piece you may have read from my last post, reposted here)
Say to me, "Family" and I think:
Noise. Arguing at the dinner table on Sunday after church. Pass the milk.
Rumpled Sunday comics because someone got there before you. Pushing each other past the breaking point, by anyone else's standards, and then:
Coming right back to Pass the milk.
Holidays and gift wrap and painted wooden ornaments
and birthday cake in a bowl drenched in,
you guessed it: Milk.
Static crackle baseball games on the screened in porch,
wondering just what is the appeal of that foamy drink that
sticks to their mustache
and smells so awful
except when it's mixed with shrimp and Old Bay.
Go cart races and swinging in the apple tree
Touching the tender, dreams are real, sunshine-studded childhood
so alive in my heart, unbreakable
Pass the milk.
Too many cooks in the kitchen,
chiefs in the wigwam,
bosses with big opinions who might try to micromanage but only
for your own good
Bloodlines that go deep with genetic tendencies like
ignitable passion
and touchy blood sugar if dinner is late
and I will be there for you always even if it's just to
pass the milk.
Family.
What a legacy these
mistakes and apologies
jokes and sad sentences
hugs and shoves
encouragement and bitter honesty
memory and reality
Bending annoyance into love
making the only thing that really lasts
a sure promise of you cannot you will not ever disappoint me
And always, always I will cherish you
even when you have to leave
and I'll be here ready when you need me to
pass the milk