My husband tells me I am the most stubborn person he knows.

In a good way. (Most of the time.)

He’s wrong though, because the most stubborn person around was my grandmother.

In good ways, mostly, but like everyone else, Nana had sticking points which went unappreciated by those around her from time to time.

What I loved most about her stubborn streak was her steadfast and unwavering position on aging. She simply wasn’t. Wouldn’t. And many ways, even into her nineties, didn’t.

I’m a little embarrassed, frankly, with the trepidation I sometimes experience about growing older. After a few health scares in 2016, and a political season of unrest, I’m aware to the point of anxiety.

I feel afraid.

I’m fearful of the future. Our future.

Is this living?

Nana grew up in the Depression. She raised her children and then pursued a Master’s Degree in her forties. She taught Jr. High School until retiring, and discovered an acting career in local theater in her seventies and eighties. At ninety, she was still living alone and driving.

Nana certainly had her share of hardship and heartache. She witnessed decades of political shift from right to left and back again. She knew what it was to bide her time and wait for the pendulum to reach its pinnacle and return its swing in the opposite direction.

There were times, maybe, when she should’ve held her tongue. Other times, I know she couldn’t, shouldn’t, didn’t.

She was brash and witty. Direct and sarcastic. Intelligent. Confident. And sometimes coy.

She was unafraid to speak and never waited until spoken to.

As I contemplate the week ahead, as I fear the four years ahead, and as I worry about my own aging ahead … my grandmother’s legacy stays nearby. Inspiring me. Reassuring me. Guiding me to speak, to act, to live.

It’s time to contemplate my own legacy.

I will attend our state’s local Women’s March next Saturday in my grandmother’s honor.

For best-friendship, in sickness and in health. For hand-holding and whispered prayers every morning. For thinking of a thousand, thousand ways to love. And then a thousand more.

You are my Thanksgiving.

For serving your country.

For your integrity, intelligence, and honor.

You are my Thanksgiving.

For calling. For texting. For coming home on time. For staying safe. For your tenderness with a mother who worries too much, who loves too much, who’s too sensitive, and too serious … and too, too.

You are my Thanksgiving.

For turning two into four. For your humor and your talents and your lighter way of looking at life. For being where you were needed … in the moments you were needed most.

You are my Thanksgiving.

For driving long distances to be family.

For being steady and true.

For your care and concern.

You are my Thanksgiving.

For soups and warm pumpkin bread. For listening. For understanding and knowing and hoping and wishing. For the sharing of yourself and your family, time after time.

You are my Thanksgiving.

For brownies on a Friday and flowerpots full of bright yellow mums.

For picking up right where I left off.

For teamwork.

For laughter.

For dancing girl emojis.

For love. One love.

You are my Thanksgiving.

For the many ways you inspire and motivate me. For helping me believe I can.

You are my Thanksgiving.

For reading what I write. For commenting.

For reaching, teaching, listening, and encouraging.

For hoping right alongside me.

One hopeful year after another.

You are my Thanksgiving.

 

I’ve been gathering.

Fall is a gathering season, after all.  Nuts. Pumpkins. Apples. The very last sunflower.

I may transition slowly, but once I do, I’m all in … and I fall in. 

For sure, fall’s my absolute favorite season and I have a bunch of fun bringing a little bit of fall from out there … to in here … our home.

Tiny touches … and (almost) free.

• gourds/ from the grocery store nestled in an old wooden bowl

• berries/gathered by the side of the road and plopped into a vintage crock

• mini pumpkins/scattered solo here and there

or in a roly-poly pile on the kitchen counter

• apples/of course and piled high

• acorns/collected on many walks around our neck of the woods

 

• candy corn/for a jarful of fun and frivolous

• mums/tucked in a farmer’s basket for the front porch

The berries and acorns were free for the gathering. So were the apples … a gift from a friend with some apple trees. The gourds, mini-pumpkins, candy corn, and mums are from Market Basket – where you truly do get “more for your dollar.”

Happy first week of fall! Enjoy the season’s offerings – for (almost) free!

 

Good morning from the other side of summer.

So far, September’s been slow. Intentionally slow. No hurry. Not blurry.

It’s become important to see the life I’m living in up-close detail and absorb it all. Such an in-depth relationship with everyone and everything around me can’t be managed by a speeding drive-by kind of living too quickly, with barely a break for a breath, or beauty, or soul-searching.

So I’ve slowed. And I can’t for the life of me remember what the God-awful rush I used to live in was all about anyway. Why the frenzy? The rapid heartbeat? The constant cascade of must-be-dones? Sleepless. Breathless. Less. Less.

And I’ve got me some routines. Like lighting candles at the end of a day. Like holding hands. Sharing a sit-down on the porch. Kicking acorns down the road. Sometimes, I just sit silently because sitting in silence is all I need right then and there. I don’t live a life of leisure – but I’m living more leisurely.

Does that make sense?

It’s not that I’m worry-free. Each and every life has some. Now and again, a little or a lot. We’ve lived with our worries. And we worry still.

The slowing doesn’t mean freedom from pain, or sorrow, or problems. Life’s deadlines and appointments must be met. Bills arrive in the mail needing payment. There are obligations, commitments, and tasks. But I’m learning (again) life’s easier to live when I do the next right thing, whatever that may be.  Move paper. Shift piles. Wash dishes. Tidy. Straighten. Sit. Walk. Rest. Breathe. Wonder.

I no longer measure time by checks on the list, to-dos that were done, or goals reached. I am not counting calories, miles walked, or hours of sleep.

I’m living in a season of: what do I need?

And gratefully … doing just that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I went back to school today.

Actually, I’ve been in and out of school all month long, but today was the official first day of school.

It’s always a bit of a mystery, that first day. No one really knows what to expect. On day one, both the tall and the small share the same hopes, heart-fluttering nerves, and   what-if worries. We all feel a little giddy (and maybe giggly) because we didn’t sleep well last night. And all of a sudden, the day begins and before the end of the first hour, it feels as though we’ve been back awhile.

We arrive with one foot left still in summer and the other walking forward into fall.  Day one is fresh and forgiving of past mistakes. Our new shoes arrive at the front door unscuffed by the past paths we’ve walked, and our notebook paper waits clean – no marks, smudges, or erasures.

It’s almost like New Year’s Day. We sharpen our pencils and get right to work, a checklist of goals just set and still easy to remember. All of us stand right there at the starting line. Poised and ready to run.

Because we know we can. The first day of school is here and the last day of school is so far behind us, we can’t see it clearly anymore and all we really know for sure is … this … this will be our year.

When we go back to school, we all have dreams and there are people all around us ready to help us reach them.  We each have questions and friends all around us who want to help us find answers. We are not alone.

Wouldn’t it be great if everyone went back to school in the fall? If we all set learning goals and found time to write, read, and figure things out every day? What if we found nourishing people to surround us and support our lives and our dreams, and what if those same people forgave our mistakes, remembering we’re all still learning?

What if?

I love when my students ask, “What if?” It tells me they’re wondering. They’re thinking. They’re taking chances, risks, and plunges.

Have you asked, “What if?” lately?

Maybe today’s the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m noticing the difference between what I say and what I do.

There’s a gap spaced – this wide – between the dreaming and the doing, the imagined and the actualized.

There’s power in this noticing and a certain freedom in the observation.

I know.

I would’ve thought there’d be judgement too, but there isn’t. No blame either.

There’s just me. And those dreams I can see but haven’t yet reached for.

We make time for what’s important to us.

Upstairs, three chests rise and fall, sleepwalking through their dreams while I sit here alone at the dining room table face to face with mine. It’s early. Dark. And quiet. The clock across the room reassures me:

There’s still time. 

I’m tempted to explain. Offer excuses. But that’s only another way to delay. It’s another diversion away from what I say I want. And the clock’s still ticking away up there on the wall.

So here’s what I’m thinking: I choose.

Every single day. I choose the dream and the doing – or not.

Because that’s the thing. They’re two separate actions. Dreaming. Doing.

Maybe some dreams stay dreams living in place on the outskirts of day-to-day living. A dream meant only to delight, to savor. A moment of diversion from all the other doings in our lives..

A dream. The doing.

There’s time for both.