Extraordinary Magic

For Ally

Extraordinary Magic

You won't believe it and strange as it sounds
Extraordinary magic follows you around
And the camera can't catch it,
You won't see it in the mirror
If I say look behind you
You turn around, it disappears
But I see it, I see it
I swear I do
I see extraordinary magic in you

Whenever I hear this Ben Rector song I think of you and your sister—I imagine most parents see extraordinary magic in their children. But in the last few weeks I’ve been reminded of your own personal magic—how a room of people brightens up when you arrive, how you seem to find just the right words to express yourself, how your smile lights up your face, lifting the mood for whomever it’s directed. And like the song says—I don’t think you see it—how you touch the people in your life with a simple smile, words of encouragement, thoughtful gestures. So what is your magic?

Empathy

I imagine all of your friends have experienced your immense capacity to empathize with their struggles. I think your own personal challenges have given you real perspective on this. Your ability to understand and articulate your own feelings and concerns and to identify them in others will take you a long way.

Artistry

You add beauty to your world—whether through your artwork, your singing, your sense of style, or a carefully arranged plate of food. Your awareness that every day things can be elevated with a little artistry will continue to add grace to your life and those of us who share it. Papa and I hope you continue to pursue all your artistic talents.

Activism

Your sense of justice and fairness have led you into your activism and we are proud of your passionate support of causes that have meaning and significance to you. You find ways to support these causes and I’m sure you will continue in the future. And your thoughtful discussion at our family dinner table enlightens all of us to recognize that we, too, can do more.

Resilience

I wrote about your capacity for resilience here. We continue to be impressed with your attitude in the face of the challenges we have all faced in these last 18 months. You and your friends found creative ways to overcome the disappointment of a senior year during a pandemic. You have always had this ability—I think this year allowed you to hone this trait and it will continue to allow you to rise to the challenges ahead of you.

Wit

You make us laugh—your sharp wit, your teasing, your ability to laugh at yourself—this is such a special quality. Laughter will support you in hard times and your sense of humor will allow you to recognize that momentary challenges can be relieved with laughter—something you’ve already discovered.

A Sense of Adventure

You just got back from a great adventure in Colorado with your sister, but you’re always ready to try something new. And you put yourself out there in doing so—whether it’s voice lessons and recitals, traveling to new places, or trying new things—people appreciate your willingness to “join in” and being a doer will take you places.

I know you’ve faced so much uncertainty—the world is a little crazy now—but you’ve managed it with grace and determination and such a great attitude. Whatever comes next (and you will discover that) you have so much to offer the world and we’re so excited to see where you go with your many talents! Congratulations to you for all you have accomplished.

And don’t forget these lyrics on the hard days:

So I'll keep my eyes open, awed and amazed
And if you start to doubt it
I'll remind you of the million ways
I see it, I see it
I swear I do
I see extraordinary magic in you

Click here for Extraordinary Magic by Ben Rector

Fare Thee Well

On the Road

6:30 am

There’s a movie that we got hooked on when the girls were little called Fly Away Home. On the surface it is about a young girl finding a clutch of Canada Goose eggs and raising them, only to learn that, having imprinted upon her, they will not fly South for the winter and leave her—thus ensues a tale that incorporates light aircraft, teaching geese to fly, and a hero’s welcome when they arrive south safely—all to the soaring strains of the Mary Chapin Carpenter song, 10,000 miles. But it is really a story of loss and recovery, of parent and child, of finding a home, but mostly of liberating the things you love to grow into who they are meant to be. 

I just spent the last three days driving Megan to Dallas, TX so she can start her professional career there with a tech start up. And to be with the guy she loves. After nearly 4 years together, it wasn’t a surprise that they wanted to be in the same city—Blake got a great job in his hometown of Dallas early this past spring and started there this summer. Megan got a job this summer waiting tables and commenced her search for work focusing on both Philly and Dallas, but my chance encounter at a conference lead to her employment with a firm in Dallas—and so life works out the way it was meant to.

I said to a friend, “This is the definition of bittersweet.” I am so happy for her—a great opportunity with a growing company doing work that is meaningful and interesting in the same place where she wants to be. But we, of course, will miss her. I know rationally this is what kids are supposed to do, but my heart weeps a little thinking of her being 1400 miles away and not seeing her regularly.  Yes, we have phone and FaceTime and texting—sending photos and tidbits daily, but nothing compares to wrapping my arms around her and feeling her close. The girls still kiss us goodnight when they’re home—a sweet family ritual—I know that now there will be fewer of those goodnight kisses. I know we’ll find a new normal…

So I am on an airplane writing this on my way home after helping her drive down and move her things to Dallas. She starts work tomorrow and I can’t wait to hear her excitement about this work she’ll be doing. And the discoveries she’ll make in her new city. The colleagues who will become friends, the friendships that will grow closer, her adventures in navigating adulthood. Listening to her worries and supporting her in the best way we can. 

We raised her for this—to be independent and strong and smart and successful in life. In the past few weeks I’ve been impressed with how many of those lessons stuck—how she values politeness and how she looks for a deal, her repeating back to us our own philosophies. I loved spending three days in a car with rambling talks about work and family and experiences. A few last conversations for me to impart whatever wisdom and advice I could before she is out of our immediate orbit. Listening to podcasts and learning new things along the way—random facts that we learned about Natural Bridge, VA and Eleanor Roosevelt’s death, Brahman cattle, gas station food and Hot Springs, AK. And, of course, we shared a lot of laughs—silly in the moment laughter that we’ll both always remember. We are comfortable companions and I look forward to more opportunities for us to travel and learn as a family.

And she’ll be home in less than two weeks for Thanksgiving. And again for Christmas. But this is the beginning of her having her own life—one that does not have proscribed breaks for summer and semester’s ends. She’ll come to stay in her old room, but will likely not live there again. She loves her roots, the place she grew up and, I hope, might one day return to them if life works out that way. In the meantime, we’ll share visits and vacations as much as we can. Again, a new normal.

Robert Frost wrote, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Of course. But it’s also a place of love and warmth, a place to stretch your wings until you are ready to fly. And a place to return to whenever you need its comfort. 

“Fare thee well, may own true love,
Farewell for a while, I’m going away.
But I’ll be back, though I go ten thousand miles.” ~ Mary Chapin Carpenter

Commencement

A Letter to Megan

When I was 21 and a senior in college, Boppy wrote me a letter (well, she typed it, ‘cause you know Boppy’s writing). She told me the story of her senior year, finding a tree at Ursinus and crying under it because she didn’t know what was in her future and she loved her school and didn’t want to leave. I’m sure she’s told you this story, because, again, it’s Boppy. She also shared this quote from Henry David Thoreau:

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.

Perfect for us American Studies majors, don’t you think? It’s such a great sentiment—keep dreaming, but don’t make dreams your goal—figure out how to make them come to life.

I’m sure you have found your own tree at Trinity. You found your place there and your people. You will have those people for a lifetime, if you’re as lucky as I was.

Daddy and I are so very proud of you for this achievement—for finding your place and knowing it was yours and for making the success of it that you have. You worked hard on your studies—going to class, writing countless papers, taking tests—with great effort. Be proud of that.

But be equally proud of the traits that have helped you grow into yourself. Some of the ones that I see are:

Tenacity—whether it’s beating a competitor on the soccer field or making sure you ask for what you need from professors or friends or finding a good deal, when you set your mind to something it is awesome to watch. You are a born competitor.

Fairness—victory is sweet, but you have always been a good sport, able to shake a hand at the end of competition, to give a second chance to a friend, to look out for your sister.

Resilience—when victory doesn’t come your way, you pick yourself up and move on to the next best thing. You share this trait with your sister and it gives your dad and I great comfort.

A sense of humor—this one will take you a long way. Your laughter and wit will get you through long days and difficult times. And it will make the good times even better. I love that you and Ally have your inside jokes and shorthand. Humor adds cement to memories.

Enthusiasm—you are always up for an adventure and you inspire those around you to get up and DO. Don’t lose that—your energy and willingness to join in make you a person that people turn to for company, assistance, and solutions.

Integrity—it’s not a surprise that you also majored Public Policy and Law. You have a strong sense of justice and you hold yourself and those around you to high standards.

Most of all, we love your happy spirit and sense of fun. Your arrival in our lives made us a family and while we’ve worked hard to give you the choices and opportunities that you have, our greatest joy has always been just you. There is nothing that we love better than being your parents. There is no greater pride than watching you succeed—in class, on the field, in life. For us, you and Ally are our greatest success.

Understand that success for us is not about the size of your office or your bank statement or your home. It is not about what others think. It is about figuring out what you value and making that the focus of your life. For us it was our family and we have no regrets. We hope you find something that brings you as much joy and love!

I’ll end with another favorite from HDT:

If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

Way to go, Meggie! We love you so very much!

The House That Built Us

In January we said farewell to our family home. Ninety years is a good run for anything and I absolutely feel enormous gratitude for the gift of a shared place that was so loved by so many. 409 Oak Lane was the center of our lives in many ways. And it was a magnet for friends and neighbors—the site of end of the year picnics, holiday parties, graduation celebrations, Easter egg hunts, and three wedding receptions. It was a joyful place, filled with warmth and welcome and love. It was the place we gathered for our big moments. Where my two siblings and I got ready for our weddings. The place our children gathered with their cousins, played games of hide and seek inside, and whiffle ball and badminton outside. It was a stopping off point, a hub, the nexus of our family for many years and host to more celebrations than can be counted—from elegant weddings to laid back picnics.

I miss this place as the focal point of so much large living for our family. But I will miss the small  details of it most. The smooth feel of the brass doorknob in my hand as I entered the house, the smell of it—an indescribable mix of old wood house, my mom's cooking, and the remnants of hundreds of fires in the hearth. I will miss it's sounds—the creaks and pops characteristic of all old houses, but also the particular squeaks of floorboards that my siblings and I learned to skirt late at night. One of those was at the entryway to my childhood room. As a young adult, I had a practiced ability to broad jump over that spot in the wee hours of the morning. It was a skill that came back readily years later when a crib was set up in that room for visiting grand babies. Outside the yard is punctuated with my grandmother's azaleas and for a single week in May it is an impressionistic painting in pink and purple. I will miss the stately spread of the sycamores that shaded much of the yard, providing a canopy of cool green on a summer's day and a shelter in a light rain.

Change is often hard to accept, and I anticipated this change for months leading up to the move—how would I feel walking past 409 on my regular walks? Where would we congregate as a family? How would Mom and Dad (particularly Mom) cope with the loss of the only house they'd know as home during their marriage? It turns out that the anticipation was far worse than the reality. It turns out that a house is not home if the people you love aren't in it and 409 is now in someone else's hands and family. Mom and Dad are happy in their new place—joining activities, traveling, enjoying their new neighbors. And the rest of us have our own homes and are figuring out how to create new traditions. Life marches forward.

And perhaps the most difficult moment I've had since closing the door at 409 that last day was driving by after learning that the new owners have cut down that grand sycamore and removed my grandmothers azaleas from the back yard to make way for an addition. It broke my heart to see the yard that my grandmother and my parents so lovingly tended so reduced. It brought back a flood of memories of moments under the shelter of that tree and photos with those flowers as a backdrop. 

I am so grateful we have those photos and memories—they recall time and place and the many people who basked in the shade of that sycamore or posed in front of those azaleas—those times will be always ours to call to mind as we cherish our memories of 409. Good times...great memories. How lucky were we?

Please enjoy the video tribute that Megan created.

Unfinished Work

If you asked me when I was 17 if my mother was a feminist, I'm not sure I would have said "yes." To me, at the time, she was just a very busy lady, but our life was pretty traditional–home cooked family dinners, work, school. My idea of feminism at the time was couched in terms like Womens Liberation, lead by the likes of Betty Freidan and Gloria Steinam. These were cutting edge feminists–women who rejected traditions in order to advance what, at the time, was a radical stance. Not the mold my mother fit.

It was the 70s. In 7th grade the girls in chorus sang Helen Reddy's "I am Woman." We believed it. But many of us lived pretty traditional lives. We weren't radical, but we heard their messages. My mom says, "if you're a liberal, stand next to a radical. When they stop shouting, you're quiet voice sounds reasonable." But we'll always need radicals to push the envelope so that the rest of us can deliver our own messages.

I realize now that my mom has ALWAYS been a feminist–in the truest sense, believing that women are equally capable to men, that opportunities should be afforded to her daughters, just as they were to her son, that women are imminently qualified for any job. She did this by growing her own qualifications, by becoming the most accomplished person in the room. Her "busyness" was her working full-time as a faculty member at a women's college; being an entrepreneur running her own camps; participating in local government; leading national organizations; supporting the passage of Title IX, and quietly supporting and promoting the accomplishments of her female students and colleagues. At the same time, she and my dad grew a strong and loving marriage and raised the three of us into caring adults.

So, yes, she is a feminist. And so is my dad, who supported all of these endeavors, while managing his own thriving medical practice, working at a city clinic on his day off, and providing leadership at our church. When mom became the president of the USA Field Hockey and a member of the US Olympic Committee, dad went along for the ride–to Australia, and Egypt, and Argentina, and Atlanta. 

I grew up with a very strong sense of my own self-worth. I never doubted that I could do what I wanted, not intimidated by the sexism I've faced, but compelled to stare it down. It's no surprise that I married a feminist, too. David is the product of his own mother's accomplishments in raising four children on her own, working several jobs, fighting for child support. Together we've marched on Washington for women's rights, supported liberal causes, and have raised our girls to believe in the value of their own power. 

And when Hillary Clinton declared, "Women's rights are human rights," we nodded and agreed. But we probably became a little complacent, too. Raising the girls, working, homemaking, we got distracted by life and lost sight of the fact that there was still unfinished business to attend to. And when Hillary ran the first time, we jumped on board Barack's train–finding his message compelling. At the time, I remember friends saying, "But she's a woman. How could you NOT vote for her?" So I can't criticize women for not voting for her...

It occurred to me over the last 10 days, that my mom and Hillary are the same kind of feminist–the kind of woman who does what needs to be done, who quietly becomes the most accomplished person in the room and achieves the respect of colleagues and opponents. Who does this work because it is the right thing to do and because they have causes that are close to their heart that compel them to continue the fight. For my mom, it is about empowering young women through coaching–at 84 she continues to participate in the Shillingford-Snell Symposium–an effort to engage female athletes to consider coaching. And she loves being a grandmother to her six accomplished granddaughters and grandsons, alike. Because it IS about EQUAL rights...

And her way of promoting her causes may be slow and steady, but offers assurance that the glass ceiling will break. If not in the next election, then soon. Accomplished women of my generation, who grew up with feminist ideals and belief in the power of their achievement will continue the pursuit–I see it already in my friends and colleagues. And our male partners and friends will do the same, because they, too, have been raised on feminism. It will happen.

coaching with my mom

In the meantime, there is unfinished work. We continue to raise powerful girls who believe that they can and will do anything they set their minds to, but we will also remind them that getting there requires hard work and effort beyond the everyday. So we'll dust off our marching shoes, fight injustice where we see it, promote our female friends and colleagues, find issues that compel us. And the next time an accomplished woman runs for president we'll do more, because I went to bed on election night realizing I hadn't done enough.

If you're like-minded, I encourage you to act. In whatever way feels right. We'll be here on January 21, 2017.

In Praise of a Liberal Arts Education

Click image for full commencement remarks...

I am still basking in the afterglow of another reunion weekend with the Franklin & Marshall College Class of 1986. What a great group of people—each reunion I am reminded how much I enjoy reconnecting with my classmates—learning how we have grown into ourselves, reminiscing on our shared experiences. These are ALL smart and accomplished people who have found ways to live lives of meaning and substance.

As I approached the weekend, I contemplated the value of my educational experience. We've seen some backlash over the sky-rocketing cost of higher education, and the kind I received—at a small, elite liberal arts college—is expensive, no doubt, but I still find so much value in not just the classes I took, but in the nature of the institution and, in particular, the type of learning—a liberal arts degree. I'm thrilled that my oldest daughter is attending such an institution and that we are once again making the tours of similar schools for my youngest.

So much ink has been spent in recent years on the way colleges prepare students for careers, it seems to miss the point that what we really need to prepare them for is life. Jobs come and go—I can attest to that personally, but you only have to look at national statistics to discover that the job you have today may not exist in five years. With the rate of technological change and globalization, the job you DO have in five years may not even exist today. So how do you prepare a student for that?

In this recent article in The Atlantic, Yoni Applebaum writes, "Students are clamoring for degrees that will help them secure jobs in a shifting economy, but to succeed in the long term, they’ll require an education that allows them to grow, adapt, and contribute as citizens—and to build successful careers. And it’s why many schools are shaking up their curricula to ensure that undergraduate business majors receive something they may not even know they need—a rigorous liberal-arts education." This is the kind of well-rounded education that I had—instruction in the classics, language, religion, science, literature, mathematics, history—a broad ranging curriculum that emphasizes close reading and writing and engenders critical thinking...critical thinking—"the objective analysis and evaluation of an issue in order to form a judgment."

As an English and American Studies major, my professors helped me hone my critical thinking and communication skills—especially my writing. They encouraged discussion and careful thought, and, along with my classmates, improved my vocabulary. Because when you are careful about the words you choose, you raise the level of discourse, because a thoughtful approach leads to deeper conversations. We seem to be faced with a backlash against this kind of intellectual discourse, a tendency to dismiss it as elitist. Yet we should admire individuals who read great works of literature or study ancient philosophies and history, who strive for excellence in scientific experiments and the arts, attempting to apply the vast accumulated knowledge in the world to solving problems and to understanding the complex nature of human experience. Our national discourse is missing much of this context—we can be and are better than the sound bites we see on TV. We no longer seem to require that our political leaders be able to clearly articulate their policies. In some ways we have fallen victim to "celebrating mediocrity" as Mr. Incredible says to Elasta Girl. Catering to the lowest common denominator, rather than challenging ourselves to be better.

The courses I took in college were varied—most were good, one or two were terrible, and several were truly remarkable learning experiences. But taken as an entirety, they merely scratched the surface, the bedrock for the continued learning to come. Yet they prepared me for a broad-ranging career. In college, I found the beginnings of my voice. I learned to articulate a position by finding or creating the data to support it; I learned to read closely and to write; as one of the first classes to have Macs on campus, I learned to embrace technology to enhance my learning experience; I learned how to research a subject using primary and secondary sources; I learned how to take that research and develop a compelling thesis; and, as a four-year athlete, I learned the value of teamwork.

I celebrate my college experience for its depth and breadth. For giving me a foundation that I continue to build upon in fits and starts. For giving me confidence when faced with professional and personal challenge. For bringing me into contact with truly remarkable teachers, a few whose advice I continue to seek out to this day. And for introducing me to the class of 1986. We are smart and accomplished, committed and caring. Fun-loving, wickedly funny, more and more daring as we get older. I learned not just from my professors, but from my classmates. And that is the very essence of a liberal arts education. My best friends were college classmates—that's the other value I put on my college experience. I rounded out my education by gaining the love and friendship of smart people who I admire and who have challenged me to continue to strive to be worthy of their friendship.

Hero Worship

milkweed

“We do not have to become heroes overnight. Just a step at a time, meeting each thing that comes up...discovering we have the strength to stare it down.


”

— ELEANOR ROOSEVELT

Midlife has its difficulties, most particularly the realization that some doors have closed, if not certainly, then realistically. David will never be a fighter pilot, I'll never wear a bikini again. But it has also become a time, for me and many of my friends, of incredible self-awareness and actualization. A time of becoming who we were meant to be and being comfortable with and nurturing that person. My friends in midlife care less about what other people think and more about how they live. Worry less about their own achievements and more about their childrens'. Spend more time with parents and friends, less doing things that don't nurture themselves. We have become both more and less tolerant. More accepting and forgiving of the faults of good friends and family, reluctant to waste time on activities and individuals that are no longer positive. We choose to outgrow things and to grow into experiences. When we try new things, we know ourselves well enough to say "yes" or "no" or "maybe." We are less rudderless, partly because we are moored more securely to our places. And we have become more appreciative and accepting of ourselves—we are finding our path the best way we know how.

I recently spoke with a friend about the importance of putting ourselves first—be sure to put on your own oxygen mask before helping others. It's often hard to do—we have many demands on our time and there's always another crisis around the corner, but there is the benefit of the growing wisdom that we seem to know when enough is enough. The things we do for ourselves are some of the best things we do for the people in our lives because they allow us to step up when it's needed. To be heroic.

I look around me and I see people whose everyday lives are simple and ordinary, but happy. People whose momentary actions raise the spirits of friends and family. I've been fortunate in the last year to be the recipient of those actions—meals and care from my mother, support and love from my father, phone calls and texts from my siblings, kindness and thoughtfulness from friends and strangers—a new colleague at work, Ally's school counselor, a college classmate reaching out. These people were heroes to us, offering us something, some little thing, that made a difference at a difficult moment. The power of those deeds was immeasurable, yet most of them did it by course, by rote, by habit. The thoughtfulness came naturally. As I look back on those gifts, I continue to be overwhelmed with gratitude.

In an age where so many of the individuals we might look up to have feet of clay, I've been fortunate to discover that the real heroes in my life are the one who show up and offer kindness and comfort in a crisis, or who offer words and actions of support, or who believed in me, even when my own self-confidence wavered. They are my heroes. They have inspired me to reciprocate and pay it forward—we are all struggling with something, so being kind to yourself and then others is another act of tenacity against the everyday forces that conspire to diminish our spirits. They have inspired me to work harder to be the hero of my own story, no matter how ordinary it may seem. It is extraordinary because it is mine.

A Heart's Gratitude

When I considered writing this post, I imagined a piece testifying gratitude to all of the people this past year who traveled the path towards my new job, a year-long journey that lead to a position at an organization whose work and foundation inspires and impresses me. I started a new job on Monday, February 1. I thought I would be writing about the joy of being back at work, contributing and, of course, that gratitude.

How our lives can change in a week.

February started off with my exceptional good fortune in starting a new job at ACTS Retirement-Life Communities. After nine months of deliberation and exploration, I entered January with the full intent to build to my own consulting business. A timely call from a hiring manager and I was happily employed full time again. Monday was great--new colleagues, new computer, new office–it had that feel of the first day of school–lots of papers, meeting new people, learning the lay of the land. Tuesday was a bit more of the same. Except I got a call from Ally who was home from school, sick. "Daddy wanted me to call and let you know he doesn't feel great. He's talking to Pop right now." I wasn't too alarmed. On January 2, David fell down a full flight of stairs with the dog in his arms. The dog was fine, but David sustained a cracked rib and the indignity of being taken out of the house on a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance. It could have been far worse. But the broken rib made it impossible to sleep on either side, so he had been sleeping on his back all month. He complained that it had led to a resurgence of his reflux.

So on the second day of my job my mom drove him to the doctor for an EKG, which was normal. Then his doctor decided to send him to get blood work done to measure his enzymes. A slight elevation in his troponin had our family doctor calling the ER and insisting that David head over there. He waited for me to come home and we went right in, still thinking this might be related to his past GERD.

Turns out he was having angina...not indigestion. After several hours he was admitted to the hospital to await a cardiac catheterization to determine if he had any blockages. David is a healthy guy. Active in that he is constantly in motion, never sits, not even on the beach! He loves digging in the garden, raking leaves, shoveling snow. But his dad had heart disease...

So on Wednesday afternoon he headed in for the procedure. I got word about 40 minutes later that they had found some blockages. I was greeted by the doctor who informed me of three blockages, one that was 99%. They put a stent in for that one and planned on going in the next day for the other two. We were understandably emotional–David's close call and a sense that fate had cast a beneficent wind to blow in our direction–instead of a massive heart attack with damage to his heart, he had a stent and great heart function.

I have been through enough of these medical scenarios to know that there comes a time when the crisis is past, hospital care becomes a little routine again and it's OK to let go of your vigilance–the procedure is over, we know what we're dealing with, the patient is settled down and needs rest and you need to take a shower. I anticipated this would be the case that evening after the catheterization...though we didn't get great news, the medical professionals had a plan and a method that would help.

But David didn't seem settled. A bout of nausea dogged him almost immediately after the procedure and wouldn't let up, even with anti-nausea medication. He grew more agitated and disoriented. I spoke with a nurse about it, she felt it could be the medication making him sleepy. But he didn't seem sleepy to me and shortly after that he tried to get out of bed. I went to help, was disconcerted by his response, "Hold on, Ally! I'm not ready." Then, "Ally, I need you to help," in a exasperated tone. Again, I spoke to the nurse, this time she impatiently told me that I needed to wait until the medication kicked in–I drafted a frustrated text to my friend Bonnie, I knew something was wrong. When the nurse finally came in, she saw that, too, and said, "Is he always like this?" I said, "No! That's exactly what I've been saying!" She started a neurological test. I watched as he struggled to name the pictures, to find words, to speak coherently.

From that moment the pace and tenor of the care we received accelerated dramatically. Vaguely I heard, "Rapid Response, room 610." I watched as the room filled with medical personnel, a sea of dark blue and white, machines rolled in, electrodes and needles, quiet discussion, sharp orders. As I stood in the corner I heard the word "stroke" and sank down in my seat. David's eyes met mine. I saw my own fear reflected in them and his own bewilderment. I stood up and went to the end of the bed, speaking softly while looking him in the eye, "It's ok, they're here to help. You're going to be alright. We'll take care of you."

And then we were rushed into the CT scan, the doctor who admitted him the evening before arriving to be alarmed at his state. I had called my parents on the way down and told them, "they think he might be having a stroke...I can't do this by myself..." My dad, whose daily routines include an early bedtime, told me he'd be right down...it was 10:30. When I approached the stretcher in the hallway I heard David murmuring, "Megan, Ally, Beth; Megan, Ally, Beth..." as if the names of the people he loved best were a totem, a blessing, a protective spell against whatever insidious creature had taken hold of his mind...

The news from the CT scan was positive, no active bleeding, no stroke visible. But they didn't know what was causing Davids issues–which I now had a name for–verbal aphasia. As we got David settled in ICU and he drifted into sleep, I sent my dad home and found my way to the family sleep room. I woke throughout the night, checked on him periodically...held his hand, but he was exhausted and dozing. His nurses kept a diligent watch over him, waking him every hour to check his responses.

The uncertainty of the night dawned to the news that his condition had not worsened, but he was still confused and actually referred to me as his mom in the early hours. The planned cardiac catheterization was still arranged and I was prepared to protest if they moved forward with the procedure before we understood the implications of the neurological event. Fortunately, we were given a reprieve. The neurologist and the cardiologist agreed. By 10 am David was rebounding, expressing himself well, even cracking jokes with the medical staff. By the time Ally came with my parents to visit, he was mostly back to himself, though the dark cloud of the night before was a blooming bruise on his psyche.

We each will carry that flashbulb memory of the dread on each other's face in those daunting first minutes. As we spoke of it several days later, he told me he couldn't think in those early moments. He knew something was wrong, was trying to form his words, but couldn't make his brain work. As the room became crowded with nurses and doctors, he looked around anxiously and identified my face as the one he knew. He didn't know who I was, but he recognized me. In the moment our eyes locked, I knew his dismay. It is that moment we won't easily forget. We learned the next day that David had a mini stroke...the neurologist showed us the tiny pinprick on the MRI that represented the dead synapses in David's brain. He has no apparent deficits from the stroke, but both the cardiologist and the neurologist understand that it was a result of the procedure on his heart–an errant blood clot or piece of plaque dislodged by the catheter and sent into his brain. So what to do for the other two blockages?

Life turns on a dime...weeks like this past remind us that this moment is all we own, tomorrow is not guaranteed for any of us, so we'd best get on with the things we always meant to do...I wrote about this experience in this post earlier. Again, we are in limbo, awaiting results of a planned stress test in a week. It will tell us how we proceed. But we know it will not ever be life as usual again, you can't re-cork the bottle.

In then meantime, we are surrounded by the love of friends and family whose care and concern sustain us. Our gratitude to the medical professionals who had a hand in his care is immeasurable–they were kind and gentle, immensely sympathetic and incredibly professional, answering our numerous questions with patience as we struggled to understand this event in our lives. We are still stunned and processing this, but we keep coming back to this sense of gratitude. And a sense that when we chose each other, we chose wisely. We are reminded again of the value of a loving and supportive partner–how a crisis reminds us that what is really important is that we have each other. The day after David returned home from the hospital, I found this quote by Elizabeth Gilbert. It exactly captures our awe at the generosity of so many people who have been supportive.

“In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay back the people in this world who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it’s wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voices.”

It turns out this  post is about gratitude...

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Resolution Reflection

“What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.”

— T.S. Elliot

Late December always brings a tendency toward reflection. The year is nearly past, magazines and news shows are offering retrospectives, even social media gets into the game with year-end round ups. Some years are full of landmark moments–births and weddings, new jobs and renovations. Other years just glance off your memory like shopping lists. For the Careys 2015 was a year of endings and beginnings, it was a yin and yang of events. Happy milestones and challenging adversity. A balance of what was and what will be. 

I suppose most years offer up their fair share of memorable events and we had some great ones this year–topped off with a high school graduation, a soulful family vacation, and a launching into a new era for all of us. 

So reflecting on our year, I would call it a year of  discovery. This is the year I learned how very lucky I am in my family and friends–people who have stepped up to help and offer support. I learned that there is real positive energy in the world and, when called upon, humans are more than happy to offer what they can. This is also the year I reconnected with people from all the moments of my past–picking up the phone and speaking with college classmates and professors who I have not talked to in nearly 30 years, having coffee with former colleagues, meeting with old friends. There is nothing so gratifying as reconnecting with fellow travelers and sharing experiences. It served as a reminder of all of the smart people who have shared my journey. It has been a year with the gift of unstructured time. A year of long drives and long phone calls. Mostly, 2015 is the year I rediscovered my own voice and gave it expression.

Despite these affirming moments I am anxious to see the end of 2015, if only to reveal the offerings of 2016. I have great hope that it will be a year of beginnings and opportunities. My resolution is to be my best self for the people who share my life–I fully admit that I have been challenged this year in that regard–short tempered and not always appreciative of the small moments that add up to a day that is, on balance, more good than bad. I vow to make this the year that I value those moments. If nothing else, that has been another lesson of 2015–how fortunate we are on so many levels.

So, this year has defined my future in ways that I am only beginning to understand. I believe it has altered the trajectory of my career. I do not know where this path may lead, but I know is has hidden curves, steep hills, and potholes. I hope it also brings some straight, broad avenues, wide-open vistas, and a few easy downhill rambles.

Unseen Things

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“Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”

— The Polar Express

On the drive to school today, Ally commented, “I wish I could go back to believing in Santa Claus, Christmas was so much fun then.”  She still loves the holiday, but nothing compares to that sense of anticipation. I told her it all comes back and is even better when you’re a parent. Which is true…

Parenting provides some strange challenges. David and I were the worst tooth fairy ever. We routinely forgot (often several nights in a row). And Megan still talks about the morning she came in complaining that the tooth fairy didn’t come—again—and David went in and pretended to search in the pillows and dropped a coin. That’s when she figured it out. I can say with certainty that one thing David and I got right was Santa–we took Santa to a whole new level…

Not only did Santa always eat the cookies and drink the milk and the reindeer also ate the carrots and the oats, but they ALWAYS left a huge mess. Carrots and oats on the roof, muddy boot prints on the hearth, logs in the fireplace displaced, cookies left half-eaten with crumbs all over the coffee table. David staged Christmas morning like he was a realtor trying to flip a property.

So the girls believed and that was the magic—their faces on Christmas morning were precious and I still smile in memory of their reactions to their bounty. Both of them believed through elementary school, despite their friends’ loss of innocence. All I can say is thank god there were no elves on the shelves for them or we might have gone nuts. One night of these shenanigans is enough.

So, in a spirit of sharing, here are David and Beth’s thoughts for keeping the heart of Santa alive. It worked for us. Good luck with your own capers...

1.  Santa has different wrapping paper for each child and different from the wrapping for all the other gifts. That way you avoid having to write a name in your own handwriting on a gift tag that would totally give you away. Of course, you then need to make sure that Santa’s paper is safely hidden from the kids (and your husband when he’s looking to wrap his gifts on Christmas morning…) And either use it all year after year or stash it away so that the kids don’t find it in July…good luck.

2.  The gas fireplace needs to be turned off well before bedtime and don't even think about having a real fire on Christmas Eve. Santa may be magical, but he’s not fireproof.

3.  Bedtime is strictly enforced on Christmas Eve (this was a fairly easy to accomplish—the sooner they got to bed the sooner the big man could come and make his deliveries).

4.  Be sure you have your extension ladder available…you’ll understand why.

5.  Have a boot and some water handy

6.  Food for Santa is left on the table and must be eaten or returned to the cookie jar. For this reason Santa should not get “special” cookies unless you plan on eating them—kids are smart enough to recognize the cookie that they carefully decorated for SC when you’re eating it Christmas day for desert. “Hey, that looks like the cookie I set out for Santa…”

7.  The reindeer get oats and carrots. That’s it. None of that sparkle stuff that kids bring home from the school party. Sparkles are not good for reindeer (or the rug). Carrots need to be chewed a little but oats can be returned to the can after you’ve scattered a few for effect on the ROOF. Yes this is where the ladder comes in—at 2 AM you need to climb onto your roof (preferably in your slippers) to scatter oats and carrots. Because the reindeer don't come inside, but they really need their snack…

8.  Presents must be artfully arranged and stockings carefully stuffed. The dog should be in bed with the kids because he REALLY likes wrapping paper.

9.  Create some mud with the water and dirt from your garden. Put the boot in it a leave a muddy print on the hearth. It doesn’t matter that it hasn't rained in weeks and that the ground is frozen solid.

10.  While one of you is gallivanting on the roof, the other should be carefully drafting a letter from Santa that highlights the kids’ accomplishments and lets them know they were good…then you need to copy it in red or green pen in indistinguishable handwriting (this is often where the spirit of joy wears thin, because Santa’s handwriting starts to look like Daddy’s…and it’s nearly 2 AM)

11.  Be sure that you have cameras ready, Christmas music in the CD player, and coffee set up before you head up to bed.

12.  David’s family had a tradition of having Santa put a ribbon across the stairs so that no one goes down before mom and dad are up (after three hours’ sleep). This is the last thing to do before you crawl into bed, because if the kids wake up and there’s a ribbon across the stairs then they know Santa was here already. DO NOT GET CAUGHT AT THIS POINT or all will be for nothing.

13.  Go to bed. Wake up 15 minutes later on Christmas morning. Enjoy the delight of your children.

14.  Before any child can go downstairs, an adult HAS go down and push the button to get the coffee brewing—don’t miss this step...

We still put the ribbon up, we are still up late, but now we don’t live in fear of ruining the girls’ childhood fantasies. It’s still a joy to come down on Christmas morning, to bake coffee cake and drink coffee, to give and receive gifts with special meaning, and to know that each Christmas creates its own gift of memory.

Belief is at the heart of all of these things...whether you put your faith in a higher power or nature or the good will of those around you, this is a time of year when many people reveal their better selves through gifts of time and energy, thought and deed. It is at the heart of what this season represents, faith in things unseen, belief that better times will come...

“You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.”

— "Is There a Santa Claus?" The New York Sun, 1897

Merry Christmas to all!

Resilience

Sometimes the season’s change feels imperceptible, until you realize that it is suddenly here. It is that moment when you look out the window and see green buds on the trees where there were only bare branches or a carpet of fallen leaves where there once was grass. It happens for me each year as we move from autumn into winter and I see the goldfinches in the backyard displaced by juncos. I love the late summer antics of the goldfinches—their erratic flight through the garden, perching on the spent remains of our coneflower and black-eyed susans, their sudden burst of flight as I enter the back gate, a flash of bright yellow against the dark greens and russets of our September garden. Then, at some point in late October I recognize a change in the music of the garden, look out the window and see not yellow, but grey–the juncos have taken over the yard. These little birds are the tenacious harbingers of winter. Their rugged nature keeps them in my yard all winter, roosting in the rhododendron, puffed up against the cold. They seem to survive through an act of will and instinct and brighten our winter days with their jaunty faces. There are other winter birds—the flashy cardinal, the noisy chickadee, solitary nuthatches—but like the goldfinches in the summer, the juncos are my favorite winter bird. Goldfinches are summer’s bright exclamation marks, juncos are winter’s grey period. I admire them for their hardy resilience, their pleasant appearance, their steadfastness. I guess that vitality and perseverance are innate to these birds and that’s what I admire in them.

I’ve written much this year about hardship, overcoming it, facing it. It has been a tough year, no doubt about it. Especially for Ally, who has been directly burdened with much of our misfortune—pneumonia in February, hair loss in April (from the stress of the pneumonia), concussion from the accident in July and the subsequent loss of her field hockey season to that injury, and the sudden, heartbreaking death of a classmate and friend from her nursery-school days in November. What a year…

And yet she remains optimistic, well-balanced, good-humored. Her resilience in the face of all of this reminds me of my favorite juncos. As we move through fall and into winter, she is in high anticipation of her favorite holiday. If we allowed it, Ally would play Christmas music year-round. She knows all of the tunes—modern renditions, traditional carols, and vintage standards—she loves them, sings them, infects all of us with her spirit and enjoyment. Her enthusiasm is indicative of her nature, her charm. Though she is concerned with issues of justice and integrity, she is wickedly funny and droll—poking fun at herself as much as the rest of us. Though she is often anxious, she is the first to remark on our considerable good fortune, often admonishing us, “choose your attitude.” A good friend, sister, cousin, daughter who doesn’t shy away from telling the truth, but always offers support and loyalty—a trusted confidant, thoughtful and caring. She smiled and joked through hospitalization and hair loss and concussion, graciously thanking the many people along the way who made her troubles a little easier. Just as the juncos, I think it is her nature to be cheerful and resilient. How lucky for her and for us?

As for the coming holiday, Ally enjoys the anticipation as much as anything, so my wish for her is a long countdown filled with all of her favorite songs.

An Early Morning Walk

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The best part about my walk is getting out into the world and witnessing all this beauty. I am even more fortunate in having a walking partner who values the scenery and waits patiently while I take out my iPhone for these photos. This always serves as a reminder that sometimes it really is all about the view along the way and not the destination. Walking this same route through the seasons reminds me that there are small gifts waiting every day—the dew-filled grass, a frost covered flower, a hawk flying overhead, a patchwork of leaves at my feet. Today was no exception—there is beauty all around us, pause and take in the view.

A Hard Conversation

September is Suicide Prevention Month. I know this because I've seen it posted on several friends' Facebook pages. It's likely your family has been touched by this insidious killer–it's the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S.–I know mine has. Stigma keeps many people from talking about it, but it is past time we stopped avoiding uncomfortable conversations which could offer support and solace to families and to their loved ones dealing with depression, anxiety, and other forms of mental illness.

Nearly 15 years ago we lost my sister-in-law, Christine. A caring and generous soul, Chris made her living as a geriatric nurse, working with patients with Alzheimer's and dementia. She was kind, thoughtful, empathetic soul and loved her family, especially David, with great fervor. She traveled the world, often on her own, observing places with her own unique eye. She returned from those trips to Portugal or Belize or New Orleans with memories and photos and artwork, filling her home with the souvenirs from these trips. She was smart, confident, and strong. Until she wasn't...

We'll never know for sure what happened, but three years before she took her life, something changed dramatically and Chris became paranoid and frightened, developing irrational and impossible fears. David spent a great deal of time with her, convincing her that these fears were not real, coaching her, restoring her to her former self-assurance, only to find to she had regressed the next week or day. We sought medical help, support from family and friends, read articles and books, but nothing provided the relief she sought. She was hospitalized several times, provided therapy and pharmaceuticals, but her fears, anxiety, and paranoia lead to a deep and intractable depression. Still she had moments–she loved our girls and enjoyed time with them, allowing Megan to dump the contents of her purse and explore them, holding baby Ally in her arms, joining us for quiet dinners and family celebrations. And opening her home to us, inviting the girls into her quiet back yard to explore and play. It was clear that she knew she was loved and that she truly loved us. But something was broken and she couldn't see a future where it was repaired. For months leading up to her death we were visited by an ominous premonition that had us lying awake at night, concerned for her life.

On a cold night in early November David drove the mile and a half to Chris' home to check on her–it was a Monday night and we hadn't heard from her all weekend. I asked him to call if he was going to stay as he often spent hours with her bolstering her mood. Nothing prepared me for the raw, violent pain in his voice over the phone, "She's dead, oh God, she's dead." 

And then we were survivors...for David, again. His family has been scarred by suicide four times...aunt, cousin, mother, now sister. If there are miracles in this world, one is that this man has created a happy life out of the wreckage wrought by others. Chris' death was no different. In its wake he lost the company and care of his remaining siblings–it's hard to define why, but a family fraught with mental illness creates its own defenses and survivors find their own way through the darkness. There are always questions, there are rarely answers.

A friend recently spoke about her own dark time with anxiety, telling me she no longer saw suicide as a selfish act, that in the throes of a deep depression you could not see another way out.

I don't know what momentary or menacing process lead Chris to take her life, or what would have kept her from doing so–that is the biggest challenge to friends and family...what could we have done?

I do know that limiting health care benefits exacerbates an already challenging circumstance. In an age when we still know so very little about how our brains operate, it is confounding that insurance companies can still limit access to good therapies that work, given time. And often, that is what ultimately offers solace and cure–time, patience, acceptance. So suicide prevention is really about better mental health care.

But is is also speaking openly about the wreckage that comes in the wake of suicide–scars and questions, blame and abandonment. These are hard conversations to have, but an important part of prevention and critical to healing for survivors. It is a long road to forgiveness, finding mercy and absolution for ourselves and Chris. The knowledge that we did what we could and were there for her, listening and supporting, helps. As is our certainty in her love for our family. Though I do believe rationally that suicide is preventable, I worry about the message we send to families of victims when we make that statement. We still question, could we have done more? If we had called on Friday or Saturday, would she still be with us? Suicide attempts, while not purely an impulse, are transient. One out of every twenty-five attempts are successful, so it can be an issue of timing.

We will never know. And we remain immutably transformed by her loss.

"Teen"

“September 11
and I remember another day
not quite a year earlier. It is how I track time
A day the world took notice, and the day 10 months earlier when our private universe collapsed
They are linked for me, a way of marking anniversaries, how long has it been?
15 years nearly
years filled with unattended birthdays, anniversaries, graduations,
a hundred missed celebrations
more marking of time
I see you, head bent over a baby, a child (not your own, but so adored)
I catch glimpses,
there you are in the supermarket or walking on the street or sitting on that bench
moments glance off my memory, your voice, a slight smile,
my ears strain to hear your laugh
anxious for that sweet melody, crowded out by pain, uncertainty
I cannot hear it, though I know it, imagine it, your voice is silent.
Wounded.
You are not here.
You left.
Too soon to see that baby grown tall and elegant, to see that child strike off on her own
Your choice and yet somehow not
Forgiveness is absolution, pain has a short reach but a long memory.
Regret and gratitude walk hand in hand
Though you are not here, you are present.
Your spirit in the home you made for us.
It is not enough.”

Resources:

National Association on Mental Illness

Fortune's Favors

I have been considering the nature of luck lately. By many measures, the Carey family has hit a run of bad luck in 2015—Ally was hospitalized with pneumonia and complications twice, our elderly cars are feeling their mortality, I lost my job in February, and last week the Subaru was dealt a fatal blow when it was rear-ended, sending Ally to the doctor with a concussion. We've faced numerous setbacks and difficulties, but the first six months of 2015 have presented unusual challenges. So, I've been thinking about good fortune, the caprice of the universe, serendipity.

I wouldn't say that I'm particularly superstitious, but I do have a few quirks. One of them is lucky pennies...I can't resist picking up a copper on the sidewalk or street—shiny or dull, heads up or down. I love the feeling that somehow fate is smiling down on me—that singular moment of gratification when I discover a coin and pocket it. It lightens my mood and my outlook for the day, regardless of whether the notion of luck holds true, it is still found money, though tiny increments. Those increments add up over time—we have a container full of found coins (mostly pennies) from the last 5 years—it is nearly full, heavy with promise and fortune. A lucky find amortized over the years. A small offering in the vast expanse of the universe.

Much of nature tends toward balance and symmetry—from butterflies to snowflakes, spiderwebs to galaxies, the universe seems to favor order over chaos. Those who believe in karma would speculate over our past actions, karma being a law of moral causation, what might we have done to be faced with our state? I choose to believe that our current run of luck is nature’s method of ensuring our growth and development, a nudge in the direction of our future prosperity and happiness. 

This natural alignment leads me back to our string of bad luck—and wondering if luck is really just how you perceive your current circumstances—an exercise in practicing affirmation for what we have, measuring our situation with a hopeful attitude. It’s not always easy, but I daily remind myself of our good fortune in supportive and generous family and friends who have offered us encouragement and endorsement, assurance and blessing. 

So I attempt to view this in a positive light. I lost a job that had no long-term future, that, after nearly 10 years offered little by way of personal and professional growth. Not having a job over the past few months has offered opportunities that I wouldn’t otherwise enjoy—rare days with my family, attending all of the events that were the last hurrah of Megan’s senior year, time spent on long walks with friends without concern for being elsewhere. One forgets the boon of free time in the chaos of work obligations. Losing my job allowed me to spend a full two weeks with my parents, siblings, and our children in Avalon, NJ—a yearly gathering that I have squeezed into weekends for the past ten years—I cannot place a value on the time spent under one roof again enjoying the company of the people I love the best.

Change comes daily—slowly or suddenly—all we can do is respond to it with our best efforts, understanding that, as John Lennon wrote, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.”  And yes, though the world loves symmetry, it devolves into chaos pretty regularly—the regular intervals of ocean waves break on the shore to the circulating grains of sand, the Fibonacci sphere of a dandelion casts its seeds to the wind, the dramatic circulation of a tornado leads to devastation.

mpenaroza.wordpress.com

Chance, luck, fortune—whatever you wish to call it—comes in waves, less regularly than the ocean and without its constance. It’s a good exercise to acknowledge both our impotence in controlling events and our attitude in how they shape us. When Louis Pasteur wrote, “Chance favors the prepared mind,” he was speaking of scientific observation, but I have always felt that he believed that luck is partly attitude. If fate is a whimsy of the cosmos, good luck lies mostly in our perspective and openness to change. I choose to view this year’s luck as a reminder that fate has mostly cast its favor on the Carey family and to try practice gratitude for our blessings. I am not always successful, but I shall keep trying. And I’ll keep picking up those pennies.

An Expression of Love

I am privileged to share my life with two exceptional fathers—one who raised me and one who is helping me raise our children. They are very different parents, but their parenting is founded in unconditional love.

David chose to stay home with our girls—it is one of the most consequential decisions we've ever made. It defined the quality of our daughters' childhood, and continues to shape them in ways that are beyond our comprehension. 

For David, fatherhood is a full contact experience—he took it on with his typical energetic enthusiasm. I love being a mother, but David thrives on fatherhood—it is his defining achievement and his most proud accomplishment. 18 years ago, stay at home dads were not nearly as prevalent as they are today and he faced confusion and misjudgment on occasion, often having to explain himself. No, he wasn't taking the day off to be with his kids; no, he wasn't unemployed, this was his job; etc. And he routinely reported a level of prejudice as he took the girls out—a disconcerting wariness amongst the (mostly) women he encountered at playgrounds and parks. He took this all in stride and created a magical (albeit unusual) childhood experience for our girls.

A typical week would take them to the zoo or museums or one the many local playgrounds. Or to more unusual spots. A favorite outing included watching the planes land at the Philadelphia airport, enjoying the thrill as 747s bore down on them, just above the treetops, the compressed air from the engines swirling the leaves of the trees. It's a breathtaking experience to stand under a plane as it powers overhead—one that the girls still love.

Often, though, David simply created a unique experience out of a mundane task by engaging the girls—talking with cashiers and trash truck drivers and park rangers—he was 100% absorbed with them, answering questions as thoroughly as possible, creating an educational experience out of each encounter. He has always erred on the side of truth, believing that giving the girls a forthright answer was better than euphemisms...which lead to a few somewhat uncomfortable moments for the girls and, quite possibly, the people around them. I recall his taking them to the zoo when Megan was four or five. They discovered the giant tortoises doing what animals often do in the zoo and she asked the question every child asks. This lead to a dissertation on tortoise sex including talk of penises and vaginas. He called me at work to tell about the trip and his response to her (really the first of many uncomfortable questions). My response was, “Couldn’t you just have said they were making babies?” after learning that there were several other children enjoying the tortoises and getting enlightened via David Carey’s sex education. I often wonder what their parents told their them after they left the zoo…He certainly has never shied away from the tough questions and I do believe that the girls know they’ll get straight talk from their dad whenever they pose questions. Except when it comes to Santa, but that’s another essay…

David loves a good game and his joy in play was evident to the girls—he was Megan’s first playmate, Ally’s favorite buddy—a constant source of fun and laughter as they were little, a cause of smiles and eye-rolling as they got older, but always delighted to participate. He is a pied piper in a room full of kids—they seem to know that he is the source of the fun.

His made-up games were simple in execution, complex in imagination, and provided hours of amusement. He was always creating opportunities for them, from digging holes at the beach to creating snow mountains in our yard for them to sled down to building bonfires on the rocky coast. And he was far more lenient with them than I would have been—

allowing the girls to play in puddles and mud, to throw the folded laundry around and jump on the sofa, to create strange concoctions out of flour and cereal and dried pasta and water, to paint on the kitchen floor.

And he acquiesced to them bringing home all kinds of creatures—from tadpoles to parakeets—we have had more pets than I would ever have allowed: 3 hamsters, 3 parakeets, 5 hermit crabs, 7 guppies (one who lived nearly 6 years), a bunny and, of course, our beloved Schoodic the Dog. This doesn't include the fish and tadpoles in the garden pond. From those pets they learned about life and loss, a little bit of responsibility, the virtue of taking care of something helpless, the joy and sweetness of unconditional love.

From their dad they learned the power of showing up and participating, the joy of a simple walk in the woods, to savor play and fun. They learned to create art and music. They both understand the value of hard work and a good deal. He taught them to listen to soundtracks—both the natural soundtrack around us and the ones in the movies. He cultivated in them an appreciation of photography, both as artwork and as an expression of love—their favorite childhood moments are captured on film, for even as he was engaged with them, he was recording every minute, both in stills and on video, creating enduring gifts to his family. A treasure of sharing and absolute love.

I don’t know how these things will continue to shape the girls. As they’ve gotten older, they tend to turn to me more—a natural progression, I think. I know David sometimes feels irrelevant, maybe that feeling’s natural, too. But I know it’s not true. I see daily his influence on them and I know how his guidance has shaped them into strong, smart, savvy, talented, caring young women who love music and photographs, the rocky Maine coast, and the way the light plays across the water. I know they are passionately sentimental and will bear those memories into whatever future they make for themselves. And, though they love and appreciate him now, I know that only when they become parents will they fully realize how very lucky they are.

Day Trip

I remember a trip I took with my dad. It was our last summer in Vermont and my mom was retiring from directing the Merestead Field Hockey and Lacrosse Camp. I was a junior in high school and my dad and I spent the day in rare accord. Motivated to make the most of our last day off, he was inspired to revisit our previous camp locations—Camp Songadeewin in Barton, VT and Camp Dunmore in Salisbury, VT—all in one day. I went along for the ride. 

We departed at the crack of dawn, heading up to Lake Willoughby and memories of Fox Hall, granite outcroppings, cold crystal-clear lake water, rides with Uncle Lenny in the trash truck, the red barn, Mt. Piscah—all of my favorite childhood memories in one spot. I remember this place viscerally, with every cell in my being. I can recall the smell of pine in the woods, the scent of the hot granite after a summer shower, the cool, cool feel of the lake, the shape of the downhill curve in the road that took us to the beach and the wide open vista framed by the two mountains there. I can feel the draw of gravity down that hill to the beach, the slapping of my sneaker-clad feet against the asphalt, have the view tattooed into my consciousness, and would recognize the shape of those mountains anywhere.

Dad and I wandered around the camp, boarded up and vacant, but still pulsing with the heartbeat of so many memories, vivid in our minds. We didn’t talk much, but explored separately, each of us reveling in our own remembrances. We took a few pictures, spoke with the camp’s owner, stopped at the foot of the hill to take in that awsome view, recalled the story of my friend Heather’s falling out of the car at the turn in the road, along with her blistering anger at being tossed—she was fine, even her orange Fanta survived the fall…

We drove along back roads across the state to Camp Dunmore where I explored memories of camp pranks, thunderstorms that swept across the lake, dropping an unbaited hook off the dock and catching and releasing what seemed like hundreds of sunfish (my mom questioned whether maybe it was just the same one with a very sore lip), visits to the fish hatchery, to A&W and Calvi’s for ice cream in Middlebury. This is where I discovered of my own athleticism; learned the skills of cradling and dribbling, catching, throwing, and hitting; started to appreciate the value of teamwork and coaching. It is where I lay on a cot listening to the radio with other teenagers—tunes that still recall that time to me and often draw me back to that place.

As we drove back to Castleton, we stopped in a country store and in a generous gesture, Dad bought me a small painted wooden box that I admired. I still have that box. I value it as a simple token, but also as a powerful reminder of a day with my dad—a unique and harmonious day in our tumultuous relationship. We spent 7 hours in the car that day, drove over 300 miles, on one tank in his diesel VW Rabbit, spoke sparingly—caught in our separate memories of a state we both love.

35 years later, we both remember the day for its audacity and for its peace—a long drive and a short détente during my provoking teenaged years. I loved this day for the rare shared experience, but I love it more in retrospect for the powerful memory that it holds, for the affinity I still feel with my dad because of it; for the tenacity and yearning of that memory, wrapped in the sight and smell and taste of places we loved, shared with a person I love.

Graduation Rhapsody

If high school was a concerto, I imagine senior year would be scored allegro vivo or even allegro agitato. Picking up on a powerful melody developed during junior year it is a fast-paced whirlwind—a modern composition full of discord and flourishes in a minor key that ultimately resolves into a beautiful and melancholic largo.

Such has been our year. The stresses of academic performance, participation in numerous activities, testing, researching, applying—finally—the disappointments and successes, the anxiety of waiting, and the triumph of a decision, leading to a final resolution and a little sense of calm (before the storm of heading off to college.)

It’s never easy to witness your child under stress, nor is it easy to be the parent who pushes. In this blog entry on the college application process, Pete Van Buskirk writes:

“…it isn’t easy to give up control and expect an 18-year-old, with little-to-no experience, to make the right decisions in managing a process of this complexity when the stakes are so high…As a parent, you have done your job in that you have brought her to the point where she can begin speaking for herself. Now, it’s her turn.”

Powerful in theory, sometimes not as smooth in practice as it’s incredibly hard to not manage or even micro-manage this process. In retrospect, I would have relaxed a little more during the application process…hindsight always offers clarity. In any case, we are facing the final few weeks with the knowledge that she is going to a school that she chose for all of the reasons she thought were important. And we hope….

We hope that she takes this phenomenal opportunity and her unique talents and reaps a fabulous harvest from the seeds that we’ve sown together over the years. That she meets people whose companionship and friendship will take her through the experience and beyond and that, in 30 years’ time, she still turns to those people in times of joy and sadness. That she grows into herself, continuing to mature as the confident, smart, talented, happy child she was into the remarkable young woman we see emerging. That she risks new experiences. That she grows in worldliness and sophistication, but never loses her appreciation for simple things like a walk on the beach, a quiet rainy morning, the companionship of a good friend. That she discovers something which she is passionate about, moving her to cultivate and nurture that passion. That she is fulfilled. And happy. And safe.

This has been a year of endings—a final soccer game, a last concert, prom, awards banquets—all leading to graduation. But it is a launching also, an opportunity to review and appreciate what was accomplished and to discard the trivial and cherish the best and move on to a future that promises wonderment and vitality, growth and adventure.

And as we listen to the score for this year, our hearts swell and our eyes fill, bereft at the thought of her absence, proud in her accomplishments, overjoyed in her possibilities. The music slows to that largo and we revel in our gratitude.

*Italian music terms:

allegro vivo—fast, lively
allegro agitato—fast, agitated; restless
largo—rather slow; stately

A Road to Nowhere...& Everywhere

I recently read this piece online extolling the virtues of long walks and chronicling the variety of smart people who use walking as a means to channel their creativity—it cites the likes of Steve Jobs, Beethoven, Goethe, and Charles Dickens. And, of course, Thoreau took walking to a whole new realm. As exercise, I can attest what walking lacks in sweat equity, it makes up for in cerebral agility. Most of my creative writing germinates during my solo walks, an opportunity to turn things over in my mind.

There is also the therapeutic effect of walking with a friend. I find such an enormous benefit as I go though my own angst-ridden days, in sharing some of that burden with another person, especially someone who isn’t intimately involved with the main characters. A walking conversation has the same benefit that talking to my kids in the car does—you know, those intimate conversations that don’t take place face to face at the dinner table because everyone’s watching you. My walking talks with friends range from raising our young adults and teens to finding fulfilling work to caring for aging parents and spouses to discussing and diagnosing our weird ailments (which all fall into the category of menopause) to worrying about relationships with our kids, our husbands, our siblings, our parents to griping about our jobs and bosses, our thickening waistlines, the increasing difficulty in finding really good fitting bras/shoes/jeans. It’s eclectic and mundane and ever so helpful in maintaining a balance. There is a powerful comfort in knowing that I’m not alone in this journey, that I have friends who are travelling the same path.

These discussions provide moments of communion. They are revealing and expressive, honest and forthright—a sharing of experience and empathy. I’m lucky to have friends far and near with whom the camaraderie of a shared walk is integral to our relationship.  I enjoy walking with these women for the perspective on life they can bring to our talks. Our walks provide an exceptional time for undistracted conversation. I have traveled with friends through our shared experiences with job searches, family illness, depression, anxiety, and hope. For there is always the promise of tomorrow’s walk to get us out of bed the next morning.

And yet it is my solo walks that offer me equilibrium, that give me the time and space to contemplate. No fancy equipment required—all I need is a pair of sneakers and stretch of road and I’m on my way. My friend Bonnie once told me that women at a certain age experience a compelling desire to be grounded and that walking is the ideal exercise for that, feet striking the pavement, one foot in front of the other—a no-nonsense undertaking. For me, it is both ballast and sail. A time for problem-solving and fancy-flight alike…an unfettered stream of consciousness birthing poetry and stories and shopping lists. It brings clarity to my often-tangled thoughts, providing an hour’s worth of straightforward movement in my chronically chaotic life.

“An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.” — Henry David Thoreau

Unsung Hero

Friends know I like to tell that story of my mom's forgetting to pick me up after choir practice at the church when I was a kid. It wasn't a random forgetful moment, but a regular occurrence that eventually turned into a ritual of my getting rides home with the choir director, arriving just as dinner was being placed on the table and my mom's "Oh, Beth, when did you get home?" To which I disdainfully replied, "It's Thursday...you forgot me at choir...again..." 

I recalled this experience to a dear friend and colleague, Dottie, who knew my mom professionally, to which she replied, "I'm sure that never happened, your mom is so organized!"

Which is true...at the time we were speaking, she was teaching a time management course to the undergraduate students at Bryn Mawr College. I smiled at my friend as we waited for mom to pick me up after work (we both worked at Bryn Mawr and car-pooled.)

After about 15 minutes, I turned to Dottie  and said, "I bet she forgot me."

She replied, "She'd never forget you. She just got held up." Several minutes later Mom arrived and Dottie related my comment.

Mom's reply? "I got almost to Rosemont before I remembered her!" 

It's a story of being a third child. By the time my parents had me they were parenting alumni, what I brought in challenges, they seemed to overcome with experience and a typically 1970s laissez faire parenting style that would dismay my own children. For example, by the time I was in high school the rule was you miss the bus, you get yourself to school—walk, ride a bike, take the train—they'd write a note, but wouldn't provide transportation. I learned my senior year how quickly damp hair freezes in cold weather when you run for the bus. My girls would be appalled.  And yet, in these cases, I never felt neglected, unloved, or dismissed.

Nor did I truly ever appreciate my mother, having only recently come to a point in my life where I am in utter amazement at all that she did. At a time when many of my friends' moms were homemakers, Mom worked "part-time" as a physical educator at Immaculata College, co-owned and directed several field hockey and lacrosse camps, served as chair of the township Park and Rec Board, sang in the church choir, had an active social life playing tennis and skiing with friends, AND had a home cooked meal on the table every night...E-V-E-R-Y night. Then she cleaned up after dinner, typed my last minute papers for school, and relaxed in front of the TV, setting her hair to Johnny Carson.

The dinner on the table every night has me in awe as the Carey family routinely has dinner "on your own" or "make do" meals, sometimes out of necessity of timing, many times out of sheer fatigue.

And that big mahogany dinner table literally expanded as needed. Besides the five Shillingfords, we were joined daily by my grandmother and Uncle Willie, who both lived with us. And myriad others dropped in—neighborhood kids and friends who happened to be there at serving time, an occasional colleague or student of Mom's...

But there in the center of it all was Mom—svelte and poised, always ready to make an eloquent speech or to offer advice, be a friend or a mother, whatever was needed in the moment. She's still there, now chief champion and defender of the clan, with my dad, attending every concert, award ceremony, performance, meet, or game for her grandchildren and still mothering the three of us through our various struggles and cheering on our triumphs.

Parenting doesn't shape children in the way any parent expects it to—children are shaped incrementally by breaths and moments crystallized in time and tattooed on their psyche. I don't know if my mother forgot me at choir because I was an independent child, whom she could confidently assume would find her way home or if I became an independent woman because my mother allowed me to find my own way. It doesn't matter. I am ever grateful for the lesson. And my knowledge of her belief in me. 

Camp

Life has so many seasonal rituals, times when you know where you should be and what you should be doing­­–buying school supplies at the end of August, carving pumpkins in October–they become ingrained in your psyche. There are other, more personal rituals. I never enter autumn without missing the heft and weight of a field hockey stick in my hands and the smell of linseed oil in my nose...

Late June for me means camp...I was a camp counselor during my summers in college and in that brief time I was stamped with a love of musty cabins, pine scented woods, sweet tasting lake water, and the most stunningly blue sky you can imagine. I have never gotten over it, I pine for it mid-June when I should be driving north to Vermont to partake in the ritual of pre-camp–a week of daily physical labor and evening gatherings.

I still cannot imagine a better job, even though I earned a total of $400 dollars that summer for 9 weeks of work. I loved being in familiar surroundings, in a state that I loved, on a lake at the base of a mountain in the summer. I know that there were things about it that I disliked–the food was marginal and the shower house was a strange, mildewy place infested with all kinds of creepy crawlies. But still, add to the stunning scenery and pure physical beauty of the place the sweet decadence of summer love and there is nothing to compare. It wasn't work–it was...camp.

I was never a camper–was not one of those children who spent 4 or 8 weeks of the summer away from home, only to come back 3 inches taller and independent with friends and experiences beyond the confines of my hometown. Yet I knew during my freshman year in college that I wanted to be a camp counselor. I inquired of a family friend who owned a camp whether she knew how I might get a job as a counselor and she hired me right then on the phone. Job accepted I headed north for what I will always consider one of the most transformational summers of my life.

Camp is the reason I still make the trip north every summer–to lakes and rocky Maine beaches. It is the reason I feel compelled to give my girls the sensual experience of sliding into a summer lake, of dangling their feet off of a dock while the fish nibble at their toes, of sitting by a campfire while the night sky offers up a concert of meteors, of climbing to the top of a mountain on a clear day to view the patchwork of scenery below. It is the reason I look for more miracles in nature than in church and the reason I relish in those simple beauties.

You see it latched onto me, camp did. It was achingly beautiful on a summer morning to come out of my bunk and see the mist rising off the lake, the dew still on the grass, girls holding my hand on the way to breakfast. Children being tucked in at night and telling me they loved me–the adoring worship a 12-year-old girl has for her 18-year-old counselor. Camp for me that summer was love–the love of kids, the delicious love of a handsome boy, and an overwhelming love of a place I had known since childhood. It was like coming home, finding the place that fit and never wanting to leave.

I did leave and returned only one more summer, but I have never stopped searching for a substitute–how do you make a real living as a camp counselor? How do you capture the essence of camp–that carefree, transient joy of pure play and fun? Or the silliness of camp pranks? Or the unfettered freedom of being on your own? Or the sublime anticipation of meeting a boy and lying under the stars? Or the sweet melancholy of a dying campfire? Or the awesome beauty of the Milky Way laid out above you on a crystal clear night?

I often find myself trying to capture the essence of that summer. I sign up to join the three-day elementary school trip to camp or volunteer as a girl-scout leader. There are moments of joy, but there is a difference.  Nothing comes close to being 18, in love­–with a place, and a boy, and an experience–it has a life of its own, an existence all to itself and it lives on in brief sparks of remembrance. It lives on in the smell of the pine woods, the taste of a spring-fed lake, the lingering warmth of a dock after the sun has set, or the smoky tang of a campfire.

And I am transported back in time.