Shattered Visions

Sometimes it takes a girlfriend in order to have a really good shopping trip. It takes having someone who knows you very well either urging you forward on a contemplated splurge—-or holding you back before you plunge ahead on one she knows you’ll live to regret.


Such was the case last Wednesday, when my oldest childhood friend, Leslie, came to visit us from Philadelphia. Her goal was not to shop, but to see Nick firsthand, and to lend both emotional and physical support as needed. As it just so happened that Nick had a built-in break in his chemo protocol, we had more time on our hands than we had previously anticipated. So we filled the days with long morning coffees, long lunches, and long walks. And-—on the last day-—more fun shopping than I’d had in a long time.


By the time we walked past the resident designer at the Lillian August Warehouse, we were both pretty much in shopping mode. Or at least she was. Part of her “Ridgefield ritual,” she started getting geared up for her Lillian August experience while sipping her skinny chai latte at the Starbuck’s next door. With shopping excursions there in years past yielding some amazing finds, a stop to the warehouse is always at the top of her list. And this year was no exception.


While she was waltzing around the place-—it’s expansive and set up with themed rooms (the Ralph Lauren equestrian look, the farmhouse style, the Shabby Chic thing, and a room filled with yummy Country French treasures)-—I zoomed in on a trio of French apothecary jars. They weren’t arranged all together; I spotted one jar in one room and the other two in another. But they were incredible. I’d had my eye out for some for a few years, ever since seeing a pair at a tony antiques shop a couple towns over. My pockets weren’t deep enough then, and although they’re still fairly shallow, they held a Mother’s Day check which seemed to be burning the proverbial hole. Money was meeting imagination in a big way, and the momentum caused by this combination was on the verge of igniting a commercial explosion.


Leslie was busy lining stuff on the counters while I was carrying delicate apothecary jars from one end of the warehouse to the other. Being a visual person, I needed to see how they looked stacked up next to each other. Envisioning them filled with all sorts of wonderfulness-—fruits or soaps or loofahs or shells or stones-—they were now nestled quite comfortably in my brain, as well as anywhere from my dining room to my master bath to the newly renovated kitchen that is still a few years down the road. I only needed my girlfriend’s ok, and I would be “there.”


She was all over it. Loved the vision. Loved the look. Loved the lines. Loved the price.


Purchasing these things was an event. It required a quick trip to the bank around the corner (they were an unexpected find, and, even selling at warehouse prices, were still more expensive than what I would have hoped). It required George, the sensitive and thoughtful designer who had offered his help the minute we walked in the front door, to be in on the whole “where-are-they-going-and-what-are-you-putting-in-them conversation.” It required the warehouse guy with the muscles to painstakingly bubble-wrap them and carry them to my car, strapping them in with more care than I routinely gave my four toddlers at launch time in the mini-van.


Leslie did her fair share there, too, purchasing a lamp and shade, as well as a handful of fabulous decorative accessories. We giggled to the car, which was by now filled with four huge boxes, strapped into the middle seat belts and edging out the gym equipment which ordinarily occupies my trunk space. It was off to the next stop, and the next and the next, before catching up with the kids at our favorite local diner for supper. Gosh. Shopping certainly works up one’s appetite.


Too exhausted that night to un-bubble my new jars-—as well as to imaginatively fill them, display them, and situate them—-it wasn’t until the next night that I had the physical and creative energy to do just that. I waited until the kids were out of the house—-some were at orchestra rehearsal, one was at baseball practice-—and until I had gone through the stack of papers on my kitchen desk. Among bills and school stuff was a disturbing newspaper article and letter from a dear friend. It seems that a mutual friend of ours was going through a tough time, the alleged details of which made headline news in the city which each of us had at one point or another called home.


So by the time I started un-bubbling my jars, I was nearly emotionally distraught. As the first jar carried a layer of dust, I carried it to my kitchen sink and gave it a light rinse. Ditto for the second jar. Dried off, both were now safely standing on my dining room Welsh cupboard, looking absolutely gorgeous as they caught not only the light of my folk art chandelier, but the glow of the sterling silver displayed there as well. But the exuberance I enjoyed while purchasing them couldn’t withstand the deeply-felt angst I experienced while un-wrapping, cleaning and situating them. With the largest jar saved for last, I un-bubbled it and carried it to my sink. But this one proved too large for the light water rinse undergone by the other two. For somehow, gently twirling it under the barely-running water, the tip of the jar touched the sink with just enough weight to send it shattering to smithereens.


This jar—-no, this EXPERIENCE!-—wasn’t out of the heavily-bubbled cardboard box for three minutes before it was hopelessly destroyed in my kitchen sink. This jar-—which forced my brain to develop brand new synapses as I imagined a dozen different decorative scenarios and my checking account to suffer brand new debits as I added up not one nor two but three different price tags—-was now a jagged memory. Hundreds of tiny slivers of glass filled my double sink and my vision of this lovely apothecary jar adding design panache to my family’ nest was completely and totally shattered. In a second.


I could only do what any highly educated, intelligent woman (in menopause) would do. I stood at my kitchen sink and cried—-or perhaps I sobbed—-for ten full minutes. Or maybe it was fifteen. Then Nick walked in the room, asked what had happened, and told me to get a life. First, I grabbed the nearest chocolate bar, which immediately made things a tad better. Then, I picked up the glass-—bit by bit and cutting my fingers along the way-—and collected it in the cardboard box which only a few minutes before held the apothecary jar of my dreams. Then I left the room to gather both my thoughts as well as some decent perspective.


My mind kept going back to my friend and his recent trouble. His vision was shattered, too. But unlike mine, which involved a mere material thing, his involved relationships. I have had shattered visions of material natures before. Plenty of times: I shifted my brand-spanking-new van into reverse in my garage, with the rear hatch door still opened, only to completely destroy it; I ruined a new Laura Ashley dress by inadvertently splashing Clorox onto it while doing laundry; brand new linens from France got ruined when I decided to use lilies in my centerpieces; the movers dragged a heavy piece of furniture across our newly hard-wooded floor only to leave a scratch stretching from one end of the room to the other. My list goes on and on.


But shattered visions strike marriages and friendships each and every day, only to yield oftentimes devastating consequences which often take years of counseling in order for any hopes of healing or restoration to take place.


It might take a girlfriend to have a really good shopping experience, but it sometimes takes a child suffering a serious illness, or a spouse enduring a gut-wrenching financial loss, or a neighbor proceeding through an agonizing divorce to expose a truly shattered vision. Shattered visions take all shapes and sizes and forms. Bereavement. Relocation. Injury. Divorce. My apothecary jar? A shattered vision, yes. But not the kind intended for heartache. We have each experienced shattered visions in relationships to one degree or another. Because we’re fully human. Shattered visions are never easy to endure. If your week includes a minor mishap, a tiny disappointment, or a “fender bender” of sorts, count your blessings. If you are experiencing a shattered vision in a relationship, rest assured that you are not alone. It’s all part of this difficult, painful excursion through life. It’ll be woven into the fabric of your existence and will, one day, provide the lesson or the insight or the perspective which you’ll need to fully become the person God is working in you to become.


I pray for healing. For picking up the broken pieces and forming something-—in the end—-which is wonderful and beautiful.

5/16/05 RM Newsletter: Gift of a Letter

Today's Quote: "What cannot letters inspire? They have souls; they can speak; they have in them all that force which expresses the transports of the heart; they have all the fire of our passions." Letter from Heloise to Abelard (from Gift of a Letter by Alexandra Stoddard)


Just returning from the National Stationery Show in New York
City, I was struck by the energetic "forward motion" of the
thousands of vendors still enthusiastic about the power of the
hand-written note. Artists proudly displayed their watercolors on
letterhead, invitations and place cards; sales reps extolled the
creative spark of polka-dotted and beribboned stationery; and
entrepreneurs remained full of hope that the power of the hand-
written word might overtake the power of email. They all came out
in full-force and crowded the aisles of the Javits Center in
downtown Manhattan for the four-day event.



I walked for six straight hours, on a personal mission to nail
down a packaging supplier for a new product I'll be launching
this fall (see below for details). Besides finding several
vendors, I walked 'til I dropped...safely into my van...only to
fight excruciatingly heavy traffic back home, with the popular
Henry Hudson Parkway closed from a mudslide last week (did you
see video on the national news?? It was horrific!! Traffic going
in and out of Manhattan is still a nightmare!) Perusing the
aisles and booths of the largest national trade show for the
stationery and paper goods market, I came away with a few
creative strategies for ROCKET MOMS everywhere:


1)Elevate your deskwork from boring to brilliant. Many of the near-
daily tasks we are required to perform at our kitchen desks
involve mundane and repetitive routines: paying bills;
reconciling the checkbook; dealing with medical statements
(ugh!); RSVP-ing to social invitations; and writing quick notes
to teachers, carpool moms, coaches, etc. This stuff can bog you
down...especially if you are a fun, sanguine personality type who
holds general disdain for all things administrative. Take heart!
There are literally thousands of colorful, creative papers on the
market today, giving you a myriad of options from which to
choose. Run to your nearest stationer to elevate this arena to
one of artistic brilliance. One of the simplest strategies for
ROCKET MOMS is transform the mundane, everyday realities of
motherhood into highly creative endeavors. This area is no
exception. Choose beautifully designed papers to respond to
invitations; convert favorite photos to stamps (check out
www.stamps.com); invest in a wonderful seal as well as some
colorful sealing waxes...and you will find yourself thoroughly
enjoying the previously dreary, dull task of paperwork. Make
yourself a cup of organic coffee, turn on the stereo and deal
with this everyday reality with an artistic twist.


2)Start a stationery wardrobe. Keep your eyes peeled for gorgeous
papers, envelopes, stamps, seals, waxes, and labels. Have you
seen the newest way of delivering sealing wax? It comes in "glue
stick" form, ready to load into your low heat glue gun. It evenly
distributes the hot wax to your envelopes, ready for stamping
with your favorite seal. Watch for beautifully packaged gift
enclosure cards, writing papers, and cards. Keep a birthday and
anniversary journal near this stash so that you will better
remember all-important dates of those in your circle of love.


3)Collect pretty storage containers. Beautiful options abound! Be
they beribboned baskets or miniature suitcases or papered boxes:
all present wonderful options for holding all of these fine
papers and accoutrements. Display them in full view so that you
will remain inspired to delve into them frequently, pulling out
your favorites and sending them for all different occasions.


4)Commit to catching up on written correspondence one day a week.
I confess to being hopelessly behind...but I also admit to always
trying to do better. Can you become convicted to writing at least
one personal letter on your "correspondence day"? With pen in
hand--filled with a beautifully colored ink (hot pink? lime green?
bright blue? purple?)--write a note of thanks or a note of
condolence; respond to an upcoming social event; or simply
transpose your children's activity calendar into your Filofax.
Try to stay on top of these things as they have a way of quickly
getting out of control, leaving you feeling guilty for being
hopelessly late, as well as feeling dreadfully irresponsible for
missing important deadlines.


5)Contribute to a letter-writing renaissance. Email has its
purpose, to be sure. Few of us could live without it. Yet who
could argue that a hand- written letter has significance beyond
what any words electronically transmitted could possibly convey?
You have been tremendously supportive and encouraging, both in
your blessings on Nick in his health battle, as well as in your
encouragement in my endeavors with ROCKET MOM. Most weeks bring
hand-written correspondence from readers whom I do not personally
know. While this yields my full support for the beauty of the
internet--without which our relationship would never have
formed--it is the hand-written notes which I especially cherish
and save. I keep a file into which each and every one of them
falls. Email may, in the end, prevail, but I am hopeful that,
like the thousands of vendors with whom I came in touch today in
New York, the hand-written letter will remain a most valued gift
from the heart.

5/09/05 RM Newsletter: Heart of the Home

The world is too much with us; late and soon
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers...Wordsworth


It started with my need for a new mixer. OK. Well, maybe not exactly. It probably really started when we bought our home in Connecticut around two years ago. The kitchen needed a make-over. Not a complete renovation-—as some do-—but a make-over, to be sure. Its footprint was fine, as was its size. Windows and doors were good, too. But it was dreary. Dark, drab and dreary.


But a re-do—-no matter the scope-—was out of our reach at move-in, just as it is now. So I’ve tried to not think about it too much.


That’s tougher than it sounds. What with me being a “visual person”-—energized by color and proportion and pattern—-and kitchen tours taking up space on every New England town’s calendar within the next few weeks, it’s almost impossible to not notice renovated kitchens. Nor to salivate over their inevitable appeal.


Such was the case this past Friday when a friend and I tromped through six fabulous kitchens throughout Ridgefield. An annual little ritual, it’s practically inescapable. Carefully calibrated to Mother’s Day-—not to mention the bursting of daffodils, the budding of most trees, and the flowering of rhododendron-—it coincided perfectly with spring fever and, as it turned out, Nick’s chemotherapy schedule.


And so it was that my friend, Nancy, and I enjoyed most of the afternoon together…roaming around gorgeous homes, indulging in wonderful treats catered by local restaurateurs, and commenting on what both appealed-—and what didn’t-—to our strong aesthetic sensibilities. Nancy is an artist, too. And she just finished her own dream kitchen a few months ago. So she has not only a good grasp of the whole kitchen re-do thing; she has a similar eye to mine and is highly motivated by strong visuals.


Interestingly, we were both struck by exactly the same things. An enormous, albeit completely--perfect home, didn’t do it for either one of us as it did for a friend whom I bumped into while there. “Isn’t this absolutely incredible?” my friend exclaimed.


Nancy and I looked at each other.


“It’s perfect,” I dead-panned.


Too perfect. Perfectly painted, perfectly appointed, perfectly accessorized, perfectly clean. Was it possible real people really lived there? Could anyone have ever actually sautéed onions and garlic at its immaculate stainless-steel Viking range?


As we walked to the car, Nancy and I reflected on what truly makes a home, anyway. And where does one stop? In this real estate frenzy of the new millennium, where success is measured by capital gains, square footage and location-location-location; how much is enough, after all? Do we really need commercial-grade stainless steel Wolf ranges and double Sub-Zero’s? Granite countertops and farmhouse sinks with copper faucets? Islands with pull-outs?


Seems like we do. A Harvard University study found that Americans spent $233 billion on remodeling and repair projects in 2003, with kitchen re-do’s topping the list. A stunning 4 million Americans will do a kitchen remodeling project of some type in this year alone!


Staggering in scope, it is easily understandable. We have everyone from Home Depot to Pottery Barn to Williams-Sonoma to Target to HGTV to thank. Oh, sure. You might not need a kitchen transformation. But seriously, do you have enough fortitude to walk out of Williams-Sonoma fiscally unscathed? And have you seen the summer plastic ware at Target? As if I needed another lime green line item in my home...it was pure will-power that prevented me from grabbing a dozen of the cutest soda-fountain-style tumblers in my favorite color on my weekend outing there...


I read recently that most people do a major kitchen remodel for one simple reason: their friend did it. Oh great. Ernie will never buy that. A brilliant tax break? We get that. Increasing the value of your real estate. Get that, too. But peer pressure?


It’s easy to see why. I mean, a wonderful kitchen is a lovely thing to behold. I totally get it. Want it. But can’t yet have it.


So in case you’re in the same state (and I have to suppose that many of you are, given the success rate of these kitchen tours) here are “5 Strategies for Infusing-Your-Kitchen-With-Beauty-If-You-Don’t-Have-The-Designer-Kitchen-You’d-Really-Like-To-Have-But-For-Whatever-Reason-Don’t:


1) Inject bold bursts of color. Be it via woven placemats at the breakfast table, colorful pottery on your countertops, or brightly-painted kitchen towels hanging from your oven bar: use generous strokes of color to put your brain on a heightened state of alert. Your cabinets might be dreadfully tired (as our mine) and your outdated appliances might leave you feeling totally uninspired. But take heart: a few brilliantly colored decorative objects can provide just the punch your sleepy kitchen needs.


2) Treat yourself to one new kitchen accoutrement. Seen Le Creuset’s latest red Dutch ovens? Or Kitchen Aid’s new apple green mixer? How about a shiny chrome coffee grinder? If a total kitchen overhaul is out of your reach, perhaps one modest indulgence will give your room that little kick-in-the-pants that it needs.


3) Change the lighting. My Country French rooster chandelier ala my latest birthday, elevates my eyes upwards...out of the direction of my drive-me-crazy-cabinets and onto something much more beautiful and intriguing. Considering its relatively minor expense, it proved a clever way of adding serious visual interest to a space which otherwise drags me down visually. Shop around. While not as cheap as a new box of candles, a new lighting fixture is often a great way to go.


4) Change things in stages. Perhaps by giving your cabinets a new paint job, you can change the look of the whole room. My girlfriend, Leslie, contracted with a house painter as well as with a decorative painter to dramatically lift her entire kitchen into a veritable work of art. The decorative painter glazed and then hand-painted different floral designs on each cabinet panel, elevating the room into one of lightness and pure beauty. The end result is stunning! Maybe by simply replacing a worn-out dishwasher you can inject a dash of modernity to an otherwise out-dated room. Or perhaps the relatively easy job of changing your countertops will give you more of the look and function that you desire.


5) Enjoy your collections. Not only did my recent trip to Paris cement my affection for le coq; it heightened my awareness of any and all fabulous renditions seen since my return. I can hardly pass by a rooster without checking its craftsmanship, size and price tag. (Sorry, Ernie.) Infuse your environment with the things that you love. Be they pictures of friends and family magnetized to your fridge…or cows or pigs or roosters (we really are a silly bunch, aren’t we?) don’t be afraid to show off your collections to their fullest. When your day is looking particularly gloomy or your hormones are raging; the little things that bring you joy will help to blow both those black clouds away from your precious little head as well as more evenly distribute those swirling shivers of estrogen.


Finally, reflect on the relativity of materialism. Nancy and I, walking back from “house perfect” on the kitchen tour, talked about how it’s all relative anyway. For what seems like extravagant indulgence (or a vulgar display of wealth, depending on your perspective) is just that: it’s a perspective. It’s all relative. What seems ridiculously unnecessary to me might seem perfectly legitimate to you. And remember that most of what we possess is viewed by some 90% of the world as pure luxury. Keep perspective. If your kitchen drives you nuts, try to maintain some level of thanksgiving for what you do have, rather than some level of misery for what you don’t.


The kitchen isn’t called the heart of the home for nothing. It’s where we put love into what we put into our body. Where we infuse our food with energy. Where we sift and dice and shake and bake. Where we laugh and learn and read and relax. Do your part to make it the heart of your home…whether you like the way it looks or not.


I wound up getting a new mixer for Mother’s Day. As bizarre a request as it was—coming from someone whose least favorite word in the English language is “practical”-—I got the desire to actually mix something up in there. (Bake a cake...or something along those lines, anyway.) And I have a funny feeling it will actually send me into my kitchen more often...whether I like it or not.

5/2/05 RM Newsletter: Marching towards Mother's Day

Today’s Quote: Mother: the most beautiful word on the lips of mankind. Kahil Gibran


This coming Sunday is our “big day,” moms. It’s the one day a year when we get officially honored for what it is that we do. I don’t know about you, but I usually find myself reflecting on exactly what my role is, anyway. Motherhood has evolved over the past two generations into a job which, many would argue, looks far different than the job our own mothers knew. And given the unfortunate—and oftentimes divisive—dichotomy between “working mom” and “stay-at-home mom” with which many categorize themselves, the job description sometimes gets fuzzier, rather than clearer. Does extensive volunteer work place you under the “working” or “stay-at-home” group? Does a part-time position at your kids’ school or at your church push you out of the group with which you always identified yourself? And our role changes, after all, as our kids grow up. Options—as well as the resulting disequilibrium in shifting family dynamics—intrude on what once was a fairly easy job description to comprehend.


Controversy about motherhood is nothing new. Thousands of books, articles and commentaries have been written about our dilemmas ad nauseam. As if forty-and fifty something moms haven’t wrestled long enough with their career-parenting decisions, young moms get additional fuel for their fires with glaring mainstream media headlines—just in time for Mother’s Day. Throw in a new poll or two—as well as more advice and analysis by traditional parenting “experts”—M.D.’s and Ph.D.’s—and you have more psychobabble than the baby-burble running down these sleep-deprived mommy’s sleeves!


Articles like the New York Times “The Opt-Out Revolution”; best-sellers like Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety; and critics calling motherhood everything from a “trap” to a “cult” to a “myth” to a "mess," turn notions about our role upside down and leave moms everywhere confused and conflicted. Look at some recent media messages:


• Author/journalist Judith Warner of Perfect Madness fame claims that: “a substantial number of GenX moms (are) too focused on perfection, too focused on their children, too competitive with one another, and that it’s driving all moms crazy and providing their kids with no benefits.” She asserts that there’s an “oppressive culture of ‘total motherhood’ that “leaves no room for mothers’ own interests” with “suffocation” the direct result.


• Sumru Erkut of the Center for Research on Women at Wellesley College, asserts that: societal expectations for moms have been “racheted up by professional moms who’ve ‘upgraded motherhood to a bigger job than it used to be’” and views these moms as having “misplaced vigor.”


• New York Times book critic Judith Shulevitz, commenting on Warner (who said that motherhood has gone from “art” to “cult”) calls the job a “mess” and motherhood a “trap powered by fear of a loss of face.”


•A recent article by journalist Meredith O’Brien in an online Boston paper headlines with: The Mommy Myth: Mothers pay a high price to be perfect. (Since when did we start attaching the word “myth” to “mommy?”)


Pretty bleak picture of motherhood, huh? Hold onto your pantyhose. These journalists only paint part of the story. I dug into the facts, studied their articles, read the data and checked out their credentials. I came up with a totally different picture of motherhood and boldly challenge their assertions:


• A brand new poll (April 25) by ClubMom reveals that 63% of moms admit to feeling no pressure to live up to a “society-driven version of the ‘perfect mom.’” This same poll finds that most moms are “happy” with their family relationships.


• 51% of those GenXer’s they’re talking about have traded super careers for motherhood because when they viewed the trade-offs required to “gun” their own careers (and some believe, through direct observation of their own working moms), they decided that the sacrifices required just weren’t worth it.


• 79% of moms overall rate their own sense of well-being an “A” or “B”; 84% believe they are able to keep their minds sharp and active; and 76% rate their overall health (mental and physical) as high.


• In stark contrast to the “trap” or “mess” that these experts call motherhood, polls find that only 10% of working moms would choose to work full-time if money were no object, i.e. some 90% of moms would prefer the “trap” of motherhood to the workforce.


• Of Harvard Business School’s women graduates of ’81, ’85, and ’91—women currently in the fortysomething crowd—only 38% are working full-time.


• 26% of women at the cusp of the most senior levels of management do not want that next promotion, choosing more time at home with family over career advancement.


This job of motherhood is huge, it is vitally important, and those of us on the frontlines know it. Moms at home raising children today are there because we view our job as the most important one ever invented. I am working hard to help “put motherhood with excellence back on the map.” That’s what “rocket mom” is all about. I uphold with unapologetic optimism the distinct role we mothers play in shaping human destiny. If that’s called “over parenting” or a “myth” or a “cult” or a “trap” or a “mess,” than somebody better wake up and flip the pancakes.


I don’t have all the answers; in fact, I have only a few. I don’t pretend to be the world’s best mother; just ask my kids how often I throw up my hands in frustration and resignation. But I am intent of helping moms—and our culture at large—review and renew the importance of what we do. I don’t care if you work in the home or work in a beautiful office; divisions among moms are unhealthy. Truth is, once we have children, we’re all in this together.


I just wish to inspire you, encourage you, and celebrate with you, the honorable role we play in shaping this whole next generation to greatness. On Mother’s Day. And everyday.


Happy celebration!


Thank you for forwarding this Newsletter in its entirety to
friends and family. Please encourage them to subscribe to this
Newsletter by going to: http://www.rocketmom.com. This will help
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A Nick Note


Nick started a new round of intensive chemo on Monday. It is almost exactly the same as the initial induction round first taken when he was diagnosed in order to get him into remission. He's taken it beautifully. On Wednesday, during the ride up to Guilford (where the clinic is located), Nick commented to me: "You can't let your life revolve around chemo; you have to let chemo revolve around your life." I admitted that if I were to be diagnosed today, I'm not at all sure that I would exhibit the grace which he has. He delights us with rapidly developing maturity, and we have all found that leukemia is, in many ways, a gift. I'm sure that sounds bizarre.


We thank you for your prayers for his total recovery. They are
coming in from all over the world. They continue to bless us in
ways in which you will perhaps never fully grasp. For them, we
are extremely grateful.


A Quick Note


I will use the upcoming seminar: "What do I want to be now that the kids are growing up?" to uphold the royal calling of motherhood. The seminar will be at St. Stephen's Church, Rector Hall, 351 Main Street, Ridgefield, CT 06877 from 7:00-9:00 PM. It's open to the public and is FREE! Questions? email: emomrx@yahoo.com

4/25/05 RM Newsletter: Bonjoie: 7 Lessons I Learned in Paris

Today's Quote: "April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom, holiday tables under the trees." E. Y. Harburg


After reveling in a mountaintop experience, it often takes one a couple of days to not only regain altitude and perspective; it takes a little while to fully grasp what—exactly—just happened.


Such was our trip to France.


Escorting thirty-six young musicians to Paris for a three-concert tour proved to be an amazing experience which I cannot fully communicate in this Newsletter. My words will fall short; our pictures will miss most of it; and stories re-told with enthusiasm to eagerly awaiting family members will only reveal a glimpse of the experience. What happens when vision meets strategy, passion meets energy, and divine inspiration meets faith cannot be comprehended by those missing the mountaintop. But because it is now part of who I am, I feel moved to attempt to share it with you.


Paris was, for me anyway, the fruit of nearly fourteen years of musical training in my kids. And it found my heart bursting with joy as I celebrated it. After listening to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” played mostly with less-than-perfect intonation upwards of ten thousand times; of the foot-stomping, the eyeball-rolling, and the ‘I hate the violin’ when my children were too irritable to practice; of the 90-minute roundtrip weekly drives to Westport for lessons: watching not only my own Ben and Cristina, but the orchestra kids aged twelve to eighteen, perform Beethoven’s “Fifth” and Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” in a medieval cathedral in the center of Paris left me ebullient. Tears stained my cheeks as the music moved and carried my soul to a height previously unimagined. Friendships forged with the most unsuspecting partners, as commonalities were uncovered and shared. Barriers erected by political divisions, theological differences, and ideological disparities collapsed under the international love language of music.


It was an extraordinary experience, and I learned a few lessons along the way:


1) We stand on tall shoulders of the spiritual giants who lived before us. When one visits a city with cathedrals still standing after the frenzy of the Crusades and the numerous battles fought there, one realizes the magnitude of the spiritual convictions of those who came before us. Studying the Chartres Cathedral—and walking the halls of La Trinite and the Magdalena Cathedrals where our children performed—allowed me not only the luxury of admiring stained glass windows depicting prominent Biblical themes; it allowed me to ruminate on the vision, inspiration and dedication with which they were crafted. In earlier times in Paris, religion was not a part of life. It was life.


2) Art, music and literature are necessary components for creating a life worth living. As are good shoes, good mattresses, and good books necessary elements of every childhood; good art, good music, and good literature provide needed nourishment for the soul. Wandering through the rooms of the Louvre—and my favorite museum in Paris, the Musee D’Orsay—gave me even greater appreciation for the importance of fabulous art. They don’t call these guys masters for nothing. I am convinced that the world would be both safer and happier if everyone learned to paint, played a musical instrument or sang in a choir, and read classical literature on a daily basis. Music remains the universal language of the heart; anyone who does not understand this had better start listening to Mozart.


3) Celebrate serendipity. Already a lesson explored in both my book as well as in earlier Newsletters, it is worth repeating here, as I witnessed, embraced and practiced what I preach. Most of you may know by now that I have an inordinate amount of passion for the color lime-green (or illness, depending on your perspective). It was pure serendipity that, while walking down a Parisian street in search of French ceramics and candles, we stumbled upon a lime-green sofa setting against a bricked store wall. I started laughing hysterically. Where but in Paris would I find a lime-green sofa in the middle of the street? I promptly sat down in it, reveled in the experience, and allowed it to be captured in film. (Photos forthcoming)It was serendipity that, while walking around a tony shopping district, I was grabbed from behind, only to find a Parisian lady who spoke no English attempt to communicate to me that her surname was “La Coq” and could I please tell her where she could buy the Vera Bradley backpack I wore which sported roosters and eggs? I happily told her—in English—that it was no longer available but sign-languaged her to get out a paper and pen so I could write down the internet site where she might have some luck. The serendipity of that encounter still makes me smile. Perhaps it was serendipity that our tour guide was darn near perfect; that our flights were uneventful; that our hotel was perfectly situated; and that the Parisian orchestra, which played in a joint concert with us, was well-prepared and delightful. Serendipity or angels watching over us: we celebrated each and every tiny victory.


4) Food plays a huge role in the celebration of life. To be French means to have a passion for all things related to food. They unapologetically indulge in the culinary arts and enjoy all of its inherent stress-relieving side benefits on a thrice-daily basis. They endorse a ‘live to eat’ rather than an ‘eat to live’ M.O. And it shows. “Take-out coffee” is an oxymoron. It simply does not exist in France. (I asked for it everywhere and never found it until I returned to JFK airport.) Coffee is meant to be drunk sitting down, preferably with a friend or two, along with a baguette or a sugar-or-chocolate-filled crepe as well. While French women may not get fat, American women visiting France just might. I embraced the French dining philosophy for eight days and came back with more “wiggle in my waddle,” if you know what I mean. Que sara sara (or is that Spanish?)


5) Charm and charisma still work. They are not overrated. From the hotel staff to Parisian waiters to the clerk at the Ralph Lauren store: all met our needs with grace and charm. When an unsuspecting yet magnificent floral arrangement brought a constant tickle to my throat, the “Polo clerk” ordered up a glass of water for me. It was delivered on a cloth napkin atop a silver tray. (When was the last time that happened to you stateside?) When our orchestra met up with the community orchestra for a joint concert, we were—every one of us—enthralled by its Parisian conductor, Sylvan. Young and vibrant, he exuded charm with his humility and gracious behavior toward us; the hot pink tie against his otherwise all-black “uniform” proved once again, the magic of charisma.


6) “Bonjour” means something. The French refuse to start a conversation without it. Once, when I barged into my explanation of needing several Eiffel Tower charms for bracelets without the mandatory “Bonjour” opening, the store clerk stopped me mid-sentence, interrupting my banter with “Bonjour, Madame, how can I help you?” How wonderful to be reminded at every turn that today is, indeed, a good day!


7) “Bonjoie” means even more. Late on the second night of our trip, bubbling with energy and excitement after traveling to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I accidentally said “Bonjoie” (jwahr) rather than “Bonsoir” (swahr). Sarah, the perfectly-fluent chaperone to which I directed this mis-step, proclaimed: “Happy joy of life to you, too!” Giggling my way up the escalator to my hotel room, I didn’t quite realize the extent of my error. But the next morning on the bus, everyone greeted me with “Bonjoie.” And so it stuck. It became our password for life in April in Paris. I can think of none better.


Our children shone like sugar-coated gumdrops sprinkled around the streets of Paris, dotting major landmarks and sweetening each and every meal. I was thrilled and honored to have been part of an event of such historic significance for our young and tiny youth orchestra. They were goodwill ambassadors for our symphony, our town, and our country. Never have I been more proud as a music lover, a parent, and as an American. Perhaps my experience sheds some insight on how you, too, can celebrate life.


Until we chat again, au revoir!


A Nick Note


Nick began a new round of chemo on Monday. He received two "surgical" procedures: a bone marrow aspiration and a spinal tap. On top of that, he got four chemo drugs, some of which were brand new to him. Yuk! He took it all in stride, like a champ. He looks better than ever and is doing beautifully. As always, we covet your continued prayers for his complete and total healing.


A Quick Note


I will be a guest panelist for the upcoming "What do I want to be now that the kids are growing up?" Seminar at St. Stephen's Church on May 3 between 7:00 and 9:00 PM. Main Street, Ridgefield, CT. Open to the public. Questions? email: emomrx@yahoo.com

4/11/05 RM Newsletter: Joie de vivre

Today's Quote: "The best thing you can do for your children is to love their father." Anonymous


Perhaps it is because we leave for Paris next Sunday. My two middle children and I will be traveling with the Ridgefield Symphony Youth Orchestra on a seven-day tour, performing in medieval cathedrals for Parisians and tourists alike in three concerts throughout the week.


Perhaps it is because I watched the book, French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure, catapult to bestseller status on Amazon and to the No. 2 spot on Barnes & Noble. Other bestsellers included Barefoot in Paris and Guy Savoy: Simple French Recipes for the Home Cook by the renowned French chef. Even Julia Child remains on the bestseller lists at most book chains.


I’ve never been to Paris, and I am a self-acknowledged disinterested cook. Truly not “into it.” Not into the gourmet thing, the foie gras thing, or the wine thing, I spend my days not in the kitchen, but in my office or my studio, writing or painting...or in the chemo clinic, hooking primitive rugs while watching medicine drip into my son’s port-a-cath. Not one to either read travelogues or purchase cookbooks—-particularly those re: French food, I find other things to grab both my attention and my time.


But because of this upcoming trip, my radar has been out for most things French. Partly because of my ignorance. Partly because of my inexperience. I desire now to educate myself, not with the hope of becoming a serious Francophile, (I’m still annoyed with them); but with the modest intention of getting up to speed.


And so it was that Ernie and I went to Bernard’s, a French restaurant in our little New England town, for date-night Saturday. It was a rare treat, indeed. Accustomed to regular date-nights, which have, for sure, been interrupted with Nick’s illness, we generally choose reasonably priced restaurants where we can relax over a meal, yet dive in and out within an hour or so. And with my New Year’s resolution to practice “dining” rather than “eating,” dinners out with my hubby-—albeit more infrequent than we would like-—generally fit this bill.


When one eats at a French restaurant, and a five-star one at that, one must plan on making it a whole evening’s affair. And, true to that custom, our dinner lasted three hours. It was splendid! Their bread, freshly baked and warm, was divine with real butter. The bisque soup was like medicine for our souls. The cheeses which Ernie chose for dessert were both rare and the perfect end to a fabulous meal. More important, to us anyway, is that Bernard’s owners are fellow youth symphony parents who have been wildly supportive and extremely generous in lending their facilities, their time, and their talents on behalf of the youth orchestra. So on several fronts, we wanted to “give back” as they have so graciously given to our own.


However wonderful the food—-and it was indeed wonderful-—it was in combination with uninterrupted time out with my husband that proved such a special treat. Not only did we appreciate fabulous food and superb service; we simply enjoyed the beauty of the environment—-the warm glow of candles, the freshly cut and beautifully arranged flowers on our table, the artwork on the walls-—as well as the luxury (and it was pure luxury) of sitting back and relaxing in each other’s company. We were fully aware of its rarity. Fully aware of its perfect timing. Fully aware that kids’ schedules just happened to jibe to make the evening work. We promised each other not to take any of it for granted, but to enjoy it for the pure delight that it was.


Maintaining date-nights with your spouse, once children arrive, can be a daunting task. When your kids are babies, you hesitate to leave them in the care of someone else. Thoughts ranging from “What if the babysitter drops him?” to “How can I wear silk while I’m nursing?” to “What if he screams all night?” can leave the best-intentioned of us defaulting to delivery pizza and a DVD.


It doesn’t get much easier when toddlerhood arrives. What with separation anxiety and the “barnacle syndrome”; tantrums and “time-outs”; and potty-training and all of the other activities junior claims to be able to do on his own—we often throw our hands up in frustration, believing that it’s just not worth the effort.


The teen years hardly bring relief, either. For just when you think it’s safe getting away, you learn all too well that two parents out of the house for a couple of hours is a guaranteed invitation for disaster. Dozens of hormone-impaired, logic-challenged youth will descend on your house like mosquitoes to a poorly-drained swamp. Word travels via cell phones at the speed of thought, and before you realize you’ve been “hit,” your home has become the veritable stomping ground of social science. Once again, your well-intentioned date-night has been relegated to years-—if not decades-—down the road.


Fewer things bring more pleasure than regular, weekly date-nights. Yet fewer things are more difficult to consistently pull off.


Just knowing that the weekend will bring a couple of hours out, alone, with my husband, helps me “keep on keepin’ on” when the mundane realities of the job drive me practically insane. Knowing that a little glamour might transform the make-up-free-workout-clothes-tennis-shoed-uniform that finds it way onto my bones most days keeps me upbeat and optimistic when carpooling and dishwashing get me down.


I cannot advise you as to how-—exactly-—to work romance and date-nights into your own reality. I can only assure you that, like fine French cuisine, its pleasures cannot be denied. They must be experienced as frequently as possible. Embraced for all of their possibilities. Enjoyed to the fullest.


I’ll write you again in two weeks, after Paris. Until then, au revoir!



A Nick Note


Nick's unbearable headache of last week turned out to be from a poorly-received...or inadvertently poorly-delivered...spinal tap. Once healed, he was back to his (almost) usual self again. He endured a week's worth of chemo last week and finished this latest round without requiring a single transfusion and without spiraling into neutropenia. His spirits are fantastic, he looks terrific, and he is exercising as often as his energy level permits. Thank you for your continued prayers. We all feel them and are confident that they are profoundly contributing to his total and complete healing.



Dining at Bernard's


For those of you living in the metropolitan New York City area, I encourage you to visit Bernard's in Ridgefield, Connecticut. For details, go to: www.bernardsridgefield.com. Please tell Sarah that Carolina sent you!

4/4/05 RM Newsletter: A Light Extinguished....A Life Lighting Others

Saturday brought the news of Pope John Paul II's passing. During
a papal reign of twenty-six years, he ministered to not only
millions of Catholics around the globe; he proved a living
testimony to the power of faith to those not even in his flock.


Although I am not Catholic, I appreciate all too well the example
of his life. A life extraordinarily lived-with passion and
purpose-it will have reach in corners not yet measured, and life-
changing influence in hearts and souls not yet fully alive. I
watched with others around the world, the light streaming from
his apartment in St. Peter's Square, and of it being extinguished
at his parting. A life of light..filled with messages and images
of hope and love.



Indeed, his determination to make the world his parish
transcended geological boundaries. Ideologically and
theologically as well, his ministry knew practically no end. He
desired, quite simply, to minister to the deeply troubled. The
disenfranchised. Those living at the fringes of society because
of cultural or economic oppression. Regardless of race. Or
nationality. Or religious background or understanding.


He desired for people to come to grips with their innately
spiritual nature. Unabashedly-through not only his spirit and the
call placed on his life for evangelism-but through his intensely
physical and charismatic nature, his razor-sharp intellect, and
his brilliant command of language, he issued unapologetic
testimonies of man's place in God's creation. He said: "It is not
the church's task to teach unbelievers." Nor did he feel that the
church should "cry over the lamentable state of the world" or
"pretend that it had all the answers to all the problems in it."
(1) He simply provided those in his immense flock with wisdom on
how to lead godly lives in spite of the terrible conditions in
which we so frequently found ourselves.


As did most people on the planet, I had a grasp of the role he
played in the drama of the Catholic church over these past couple
of decades. In fact, as with most of us "boomers," he is the only
pope I ever really "knew." He commanded a sometimes unruly
following, through trials, controversies, and challenges to his
judgment and authority. And certainly, not being Catholic, I
disagreed with some of his mandates. But I always respected the
call on his life, and admired his convictions, regardless of the
controversy they sometimes played out in my own spirit.


Because I was only a casual observer of his life, I had no idea
of his intellectual-and creative-genius. Being extraordinarily
prolific, authoring seven books and over 300 hundred articles and
essays, he was the only sitting pope to have ever written a
commercially successful book. Before "Crossing the Threshold of
Hope" was released in 1994, it was unheard of for a pope to
author a book for the masses. Yet his book went on to become a
best-seller in America for months. One of the defining
characteristics of genius is sheer production. All true geniuses
produce. Period. And Pope John Paul II certainly did just that.


He was also a poet, playwright, philosopher, debater, actor (some
say that the theatre was his first love), and a linguist, with
fluency in seven languages and proficiency in a dozen. It is
believed that it was his ability to converse with people in all
parts of the world in their native language that contributed to
the dramatic strength and scope of his ministry. A Renaissance
man, he was highly creative, and immensely, profoundly moved by
art, literature, music and drama.


He possessed an intensely physical stature. Going against
commonly accepted papal protocol, he hugged, kissed, smiled,
winked, sang, and grabbed people when he spoke to them. He was
truly a people person. He loved to joke around, and had a hearty
laugh, with ruddy cheeks to match. Thomas E. Cook, the director
of Harvard's summer school, remarked in 1976 when he met the pope
that he was "floored by the sheer physical presence of the
man"."He exuded such a combination of power and acceptance. He
had this smile on his face and a look in his eye that said
'You're wonderful. And I'm wonderful, too.'" Late that evening,
after sharing dinner with him, Cook said to himself: "This man
ought to be pope." (2)


An athlete, one apparently knew it when he walked into a room. He
was a strappingly rigorous man. He played soccer in his youth,
and loved the outdoors. Backpacking, camping and boating were
favorite pastimes. He loved swimming laps, and refused to stop
when he entered the papacy, insisting that a pool be built so
that he could continue the vigorous schedule to which he had
become so accustomed. A lap swimmer myself, I thoroughly
understand not only the physical-but the emotional-addiction the
sport affords. It is generally in the pool, when I swim one
monotonous lap after another, that I solve the problems of my own
little world.


It was certainly part of God's eternal drama that this man would
take center stage for so many throughout the world. Gifted beyond
the norm, he clearly recognized that his gifts were God-given,
and he proved to be a wise and generous steward. For those of us
touched and blessed by any one of his gifts, we are the better
for it. I couldn't help but wonder, as I read more intently of
his life, how the world might be shaped differently had he not
had the position of authority, and an international platform with
which to share it.


Many of us have life messages as well. Perhaps not as dramatic.
Or as grandiose. But we may have felt a call to impart an
important message, or have a desire to change a tiny part of the
world. Yet we feel discouraged by our inability to spread it. By
our lack of celebrity or stature. Our lack of depth or breadth.
No international stage. Just a teeny tiny audience. (I feel like
that most days.) Take heart: God never returns His message void.
If He wants the message out there and has chosen you to have some
part in its delivery, the time will come. In His time.


Perhaps you have never felt a call on your life. Never been
touched by an angel. Never felt purpose, not to mention passion.
You muddle along, getting up each morning, putting one foot in
front of the other. The days come and they go. That's okay, too.
Your light is still shining.


The light of a life is a beautiful-and good-thing. Let your own
light shine. Regardless of the magnitude of its illumination.
Live your life such that, even after you're gone, your
light-like Pope John Paul II's-is not fully extinguished. Live
so that your light will live on in the lives of those whom you
touched in one way or another. I mourn with those of you who
mourn this week over the passing of your pope. But I have
experienced joy in the awareness of the impact of his life. Well
done, good and faithful servant!



NOTES:
1.McFadden, Robert D., "Pope John Paul II, Church Shepherd
And a Catalyst for World Change," New York Times, April 3,
2005, p. 43

2. Ibid.

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A Nick Note

Nick had an unusually rough week. After chemo treatments on Monday and Tuesday, he was thoroughly whipped, despite fantastic counts in his blood and great exams both days. Tuesday brought vomiting and total lethargy. A short visit to school on Wednesday, followed by a quick match of tennis for varsity team tryouts, left us all feeling pretty good about his recovery from the chemo but proved to be a mistake: by that night, he was feeling absolutely miserable, and has not felt much better since. As always, we covet your prayers. If you feel led to join others in the canopy of intercession for Nick's total and complete healing, we thank you. A visit to the doctor Monday morning will hopefully bring some much-needed relief.

3/28/05 RM Newsletter: Shakin' Things Up

Today's Quote: "Without this playing with fantasy no creative work has ever yet come to birth. The debt we own to the play of the imagination is incalculable." Carl Jung


It started a couple months ago. I spotted a chandelier from a dozen feet away at one of my favorite shops downtown. Charmed immediately, my mind raced on how I could possibly talk Ernie into buying it for me—or even worse, how I could sneak it home and surprise (no…shock) him with it later. Made of black rod-iron—with a primitive brass rooster suspended between a couple of curlicued edges, it “spoke to me” and I knew I had to find a place for it in my home. Trouble was: it was non-electrified. Candles only. While this certainly added to its innate charm—for me anyway—I knew that it’d be a hard sell for my husband. That it’d be the deal-breaker. Too impractical. Too unnecessary. Too French.


I kept my eye on it, visiting the shop every week or so to be sure no one had bought “my” chandelier. When it went on “clearance” ten days before my birthday, I practically jumped out of my skin. I knew a New York dealer would snatch it up and re-sell it in the city for more than double, with the lucky buyer still feeling like she found the deal of the century.


When I not-so-subtlety informed Ernie that night—at his own birthday celebration—that I found what I wanted for my birthday, he retorted, with some annoyance, that it was highly inappropriate for me to talk about my materialistic desires while we were celebrating his big day. As (almost) always, he was right. I blew it.


Unbeknownst to me, Nick and Ernie strategized that week, and Nick went to the shop, bought the chandelier, had it wrapped, and hid it in our house until we celebrated my birthday the next week. Needless to say, I couldn’t have been more delighted that this charming new addition was about to be a part of our home.


The chandelier sat on the floor of my dining room for the next four weeks. What with a seminar I had enrolled in taking up my Saturdays, with back-to-back business trips for Ernie, and with taxes due, blah blah blah….we didn’t have a spare minute to get around to hanging it (not to mention the fact that we had no idea where to put it.)


So I started walking around the house, trying to figure out where I would put my way-too-charming, way-too-impractical, way-too-French chandelier in my home. And when I did so, I realized that I needed to shake things up. That we needed to re-arrange furniture, re-distribute decorative accessories, and re-hang our artwork.


The arrival of spring generally has this effect on me. Fresh starts. Puppies. Bursting bulbs. Injections of sunshine and color. So it seemed perfectly reasonable to make sunrise on Easter morning our deadline. Getting my whole family on board, we mentally got psyched up to spend the weekend getting the house all shook up.


We went into attack mode. We sorted and sifted, re-shelved and re-shifted, re-hung and re-made. With drill in one hand and hammer in the other, we walked room to room, with eyes roaming for new arrangements, new furniture and art placements, and new uses for old things.


It took us awhile to figure out where to put the rooster chandelier. Purchased with strong magnetic attraction yet with no idea of where to hang it, we found one only by hoisting it up in several different rooms of the house. With trial and error, by re-doing and un-doing, we not only found a spot that, once hung, made it appear as if the house was practically built for this chandelier; we finished the bulk of the “shakin’ up job” at the same time that our bodies begged for beds. And when the sun rose on Easter morning, we woke up convinced that the shakin’ up was all worth it.


Life is all about shakin’ things up. If we don’t shake ‘em up voluntarily—finding something for the house or the body or the kids or the spouse; or taking the vacation; or bringing home the new pet—that requires re-arranging the status quo—it seems that life shakes things up for us. Whether we’re ready for the shakin’ up or not. Husbands change jobs. Kids go off to college. Toddlers discover the joy of running. Houses burn down. Best friends move. Loved ones get sick. All of these shake things up. Sometimes this leaves you thinking: “I was perfectly happy unshaken, thank you very much!”


And yet sometimes shakin’ things up is exactly what’s needed. Shakin’ up forces you out of your rut. It gets your creative juices flowing. It stretches your imagination and requires you to “get out of your brain” (as I kept repeating to Ernie as we scratched our heads over the chandelier thing).


As spring fever starts grabbing you by the throat, try getting mentally—and physically—prepared for the shakin’ up that life will undoubtedly be bringing your way. Keep your eyes wide open for the infinite creative possibilities that living a “shakin’ up life” affords.


Despite the way that life has shakin’ up our world—what with it turning it upside down and standing on its head—it’s keeping us on our toes. Alert and ever ready. With expectant optimism for God’s best. Each day. All the way.


Praying for blessings on your week! Start shakin’!


Carolina


A Nick Note


Nick gave us another scare this week, with fever, shakes and
chills Tuesday night (after a rigorous session on the tennis
courts for varsity team tryouts) alerting us for the possibility
of infection and a trip to the ER at Yale Children's Hospital. He
wound up having a good night after all, and a trip to the doctor
Wednesday revealed good counts and the "go-ahead" for this
weekend's trip to the Regional Finals in Syracuse. With two of
his best buddies, a tank full of gas, and a couple of dollars in
their pockets, they traveled the four hours to the weekend of
their dreams.


Meanwhile, we have been opening dozens of cards and emails from
well-wishing readers all over the country. We know that you are
praying for his complete and total healing. We feel it! Thank you
so much for your many expressions of support. They have kept his
spirits high and those endorphins racing. As promised, weekly
updates will be forthcoming.

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A Quick Note


I will be conducting a seminar: "Your Purse is the Clue to Your Personality" at St. Mark's Nursery School in New Canaan, CT on Tuesday, March 29 at 10:00 AM. Using research on the four personalities as developed by Florence Littauer, I will help young moms discern their own personality by taking a humorous look at how the purse one carries provides the clue to personality type. We'll also explore how different personalities impact the family dynamic. If you'd like me to present this seminar to your group or club, please give me a call: 203 438-7164, or send me an email: emomrx@yahoo.com.

3/21/05 RM Newsletter: Caught in the Angst

Today's Quote: "But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed." Isaiah 53:5


Welcome, spring! It’s finally here…although you’d hardly know it in my neck of the woods. Freezing cold all day Sunday—with rain drizzles destroying plans for outside recreation and overnight snow flurries prohibiting the much-anticipated meltdown of lingering accumulation—it feels every bit as “winter” as it has for these last long several months. Yet because spring is officially here, I’m caught between the desire for celebrating its freshness and vitality, with the inescapable resignation that shoveling snow is, indeed, still part of our everyday reality.


Such is Holy Week. Caught in the angst between celebrating the Resurrection at Easter, yet feeling overpowered with remembrance of the grief of Good Friday, my internal struggle, as a Christian, is palpable.


Even though nature cannot hide the fact that, despite what the calendar claims, it is not quite ready for spring—bulbs still hide underground, after all—commercial forces ensure that we are fully enlivened with spring’s tokens: jelly beans, fluffy chicks, and furry bunnies abound! Spring’s vibrant-colored linens have replaced winter’s darkly-colored varieties at bed and bath stores; patio furniture has replaced fireplace grills at home improvement centers; and boxes trimmed in flowers and bunnies clad in cellophane have replaced all vestiges of Valentine’s Day chocolates at candy shops across the country.


I had the distinct pleasure of sharing a brief respite from the dreariness of our New England weather with an afternoon stroll through a local garden center on Sunday with a friend. The bunnies were out in full force; they’ve never looked cuter. What, with arms cradling flower-laden baskets, backpacks yielding carrots, and perfectly-held necks fashioning bonnets: they brought festivity to the day in unparalleled style. Standing next to wicker baskets overflowing with fresh hyacinths, pansies, daffodils and tulips, the mood signaled celebration, creation, and joy. Being a sucker for both fresh flowers and adorable bunnies; I couldn’t escape without both tucked securely in my bag. The visual—and olfactory—stimulations were practically intoxicating, and the leisurely stroll was “just what the doctor ordered.”


But it’s not about the bunnies. Even though they’ll take up inordinate amounts of tabletop real estate in my own home during these next few weeks, and as much as they lift me out of the doldrums of winter and into the sublime of spring: the fertility properties of bunnies (which brought them to the forefront of imaginative celebrations of generations before us in the first place) have little to do with the days ahead of us this week.


During Holy Week, we move—day by day—from sadness to enthusiasm. From the valley of darkness to the tunnel of light. We glide past struggle and hold onto hope. We endure suffering only to embrace healing.


Such is the power of the Resurrection. This most important day in the liturgical year for Christians around the world requires that we shift our attention to the supreme act of Jesus, our Christ. After remembering the agony on Good Friday, we celebrate the resurgent power of the Resurrection on Easter.


But it entails conflict.


I’ve been unusually conflicted lately. Perhaps it’s because it’s just that time of year; the Lenten season typically has this effect on me. Perhaps it’s because our son is battling a life-threatening disease; my equilibrium is thrown off, what with long treks to the chemo clinic and my house falling to pieces in my absence. Perhaps it’s because I have too many dangling threads hanging over my head; unanswered questions can, indeed, tangle the synapses.


We’re supposed to be unusually conflicted during Holy Week. We’re supposed to both confront sorrow and celebrate victory. We’re supposed to both share in Christ’s struggle and find joy in His saving grace.


Yet most of us despise conflict, and aggressively seek ways to escape its discomfort.


However tempting it is to focus your energies all week on Easter Sunday: on resurrection, renewal, and celebration; …allow yourself time to sort out the conflict of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. To focus on the agony. For as you grow more fully aware of the sacrifice that Jesus made on your behalf, you will gain immeasurable joy at the power of the Resurrection. It is the Resurrection which gives us light and power in our lives. It provides us with the ever-present realization of God in our lives, this day as much as that day two thousand years ago. It is the Resurrection which provides the power that drives and the power that saves.


But it came with a price.


So go on decorating with bunnies and splurging on flowers; indulging on marshmallow chicks and dark chocolate eggs. Easter is a time for celebration, to be sure. But allow yourself—this week—to internalize the conflict of the cross. Holy Week is one time of year where your internal struggle should be palpable. When you should be caught in the angst. For we cannot get to Easter, after all, without coming to grips with Good Friday.


Blessings!


Carolina


A Nick Note

Nick endured two days of chemo this week to emerge feeling good, albeit a little bit drained. Never complaining, never fussing: he has been a champion! He'll try out for the varsity tennis team at his high school today, following doctor's orders--as well as his own desire--to get and keep those endorphins swirling throughout his healing body! As always, we covet your prayers for his complete and total healing.

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A Quick Note

Need a shot in the arm to "keep on keepin' on?" Take Arnold Schwarzenegger's advice (with a Rocket Mom twist) by reading my recent article, "It's All About Reps." Copy and paste the following link in your browser window: http://www.leonieslight.org/view_article.asp?id=246.

3/14/05 RM Newsletter: Unexpected Turbulence

Today’s Quote: "The purpose of human life is to serve, and to show compassion and the will to help others." Albert Schweitzer


It’s been a tough week. I learned of a dear friend’s melanoma only to find out a couple days later that another friend lost a baby at twenty-three weeks into the pregnancy. Little Katie, the twenty-two month-old darling I’ve fallen in love with at the chemo clinic, found herself back at Yale Children’s Hospital for three days (she’s fine now); and Nick developed fever Friday night that nearly sent us there, too. All day Saturday, my stomach stayed in my throat and my heart hung heavily in my chest, while my mind swung rapidly into overdrive, calculating best and worst case scenarios for those I hold dear.


Unexpected turbulence.


You’ve no doubt been there, too. You find yourself sailing along through life—perhaps pinching yourself that life is being so good to you, with everything seemingly going your way—only to find yourself realizing the very next moment that something is terribly, horribly wrong. Happy and confident one moment, you’re absolutely miserable the next.


And yet we learn, as we age, that this is exactly how life works. That it ebbs and flows. Certainly, some of us seem to endure more suffering than do others. I’ve observed families who appear—on the outside—to live extraordinarily charmed lives. They never appear to suffer. And yet others seem to hit every major bump in the road, unable to enjoy even one full year of smooth cruising without being jostled around by one pothole or another, even though they desperately yearn for an uneventful journey through life.


As we Christians honor this season of Lent and prepare for Passion Palm Sunday, we remember the turbulence that Jesus faced. Riding into town on a donkey to the ebullient chants of the townspeople—they heralded his arrival waving palm branches and singing with excitement and joy: “Hosannah! Hosannah to the Highest!” Little did they know of His impending encounter with turbulence of unparallelled proportion. Only He knew, as it was foretold by prophecy and revealed to Him through His Father.


While attending a seminar yesterday, my colleagues and I played a Lenten game using two eggs: one hard-boiled and one raw. The leader passed both eggs around the room and asked us to figure out which was which. We had the typical reaction: we shook them (raw eggs have an air pocket so supposedly you can feel this once shaken); we spun them (hard-boiled eggs spin more sluggishly); we tried to weigh them as if on a balance. Once we settled on which was which, the instructor took the one we deemed as “raw” and smacked it over a bowl, while we braced ourselves for the mess that was to come.


After a loud smack, it was discovered that the egg was empty.


My initial reaction: “I’ve been bamboozled!!!” I was told it could be hard-boiled or raw. We were not told of a “door number three.” I felt cheated. Denied a fair shot at the correct answer.


Ahhh. Such is suffering. We feel cheated. Denied. We want to level the playing field. And quickly! We set ourselves up for two options but never entertain life’s “door number three’s.”


This is precisely what happened to Mary when she visited the empty tomb of Christ. (But that’s an Easter story and I’m getting ahead of myself….)


I couldn’t help but reflect on “the egg game” as it related to the events that played out in my week. I know you can relate, too: Going through life getting comfortable with doors one and two. And then life hands you “door number three.” Unexpected turbulence. No way to prepare for it. It never entered your radar screen. It just popped onto it one day out of nowhere. When Nick was feeling overly fatigued, we figured he had mononucleosis or Lyme disease. Doors one or two. But life opened door number three: leukemia. Unexpected turbulence, indeed.


When unexpected turbulence hits you—or someone you love—with full force, drop to your knees. Fold up your hands and bow your head and lift up your loved ones in prayer. Even if you do not yet have faith in prayer’s power. It remains the overwhelming response by most people when faced with life’s door number three’s. I have believed in the power of prayer since I was a child. As my faith has grown, I have come to grasp its miraculous power! I confess: we need your prayers. We feel your prayers. We take great comfort knowing that people on five continents pray regularly for Nick, intercessing on his behalf.


Sometimes we believe that since all wounds are healed with time, that in the meantime there is really nothing we can do to help family and friends—or complete strangers!—deal with the surprise behind door number three. But nothing could be further from the truth. When unexpected turbulence hits someone in your circle of concern, you can pray. You can send a handwritten note. Rare treasures that they are in this email universe of ours, I save almost every one I receive. I can assure you: during our crisis with Nick, handwritten notes have elevated days filled with fear to ones full of hope. Flowers and food work, too. Remember, love is a verb! (See my the archived “Love is a Verb” Newsletter). Act on your instinct to tangibly express concern and love. Trust me: your small act of charity will prove exactly the right touch. Nicholas Chamfort wrote: “In great affairs, men show themselves as they wish to be seen; in small things, they show themselves as they are."


I’ll be praying blessings on your week!


Carolina

A Nick Note

Nick enjoyed a relatively comfortable week only to develop fever Friday night. It hovered near the mark that requires an immediate visit to Yale Children’s Hospital for a mandatory 48-hour stay. With close monitoring and much prayer on his behalf, his temperature fell below that level and we were spared a hospital ordeal. He’s taken the weekend easy and is grateful for March Madness to keep his mind occupied. Meanwhile, all three of our other kids are fighting colds, coughs, pink eye, or some combination of those three. Of course, this presents a threat to Nick, as he is extremely immune-compromised. Please keep our family in your prayers.

3/07/05 RM Newsletter: Own the Net

Today's Quote: "Thank God every day when you get up that you have something to do that day which must be done whether you like it or not. Being forced to work and forced to do your best will breed in you temperance and self-control, diligence and strength of will, cheerfulness and content, and a hundred virtues, which the idle
will never know." Basil Carpenter


When I took up the game of tennis about eight years ago, it required years of private lessons and clinics in order to learn--in my forties--a totally new skill set. Most of my girlfriends, particularly those raised in the south, had picked up this sport in their childhood. And because I felt like I was missing out on a lot of fun (southern social life practically depended on the sport), I decided it was as good a time as any to get in there and give it a "go." Yet as my husband lovingly reminded me during those angst-filled early days: "You're probably the only forty-year-old woman in Kentucky who has never picked up a racket." Thanks, honey. I needed that. Those early days were filled with frustration at my lack of ability to hit the ball with any consistency; at my immature grasp of strategy; and of the fact that I was the lowest common denominator for the sport. To call this beginning period a humbling experience would be understatement.


One of my coaches along the way drilled into my head that when you're at the net, you "own the net." This charming little piece of advice has always stayed with me. Now, as a doubles player most of the time, I find myself silently reciting it--sometimes over and over again--when I take my turn at the net.


Particularly in very competitive games, I remind myself of the importance of owning the net when it's my turn to play it. Being in "ready position" with my racket, my hands, and my knees. Going for poaches when possible (the weakest part of my game);
anticipating where the opponent will return the ball; aiming for obnoxious angles.


Excusing the analogy for those of you who do not play the game (I hate when golfers do this to me!) the application to home life is particularly helpful. As I was cleaning up messes all week long, for some reason, the "own the net" phrase kept popping into my head. And I found myself becoming somewhat reassured by it as I
went through the mundane motions of my days. So I'm hoping that it will help you, too.


For example, when I finally attacked the four stacks of papers on my kitchen desk (a totally separate entity than my work desk, my kitchen desk is the catch-all for school papers, medical bills,invitations, coupons, theater tickets, and kid stuff), I reminded myself to "own the net." This messy area of the house is a physical space that I need to "own" whether I like it or not. Being a free-spirited artsy type, I despise all things administrative. (Seriously, I get chest pains even thinking about
doing paperwork). Spending Friday afternoon going through our son's enormous medical bills--the insurance companies don't understand how to configure bills that make sense to the customer!--was not exactly my cup of tea. But someone had to do it, and
that someone was me. I had to take ownership and deal with it. I had to own the net. And so I turned on my favorite classical music station on the stereo, made myself a great cup of coffee, and spent five hours going through the tedious task of dealing
with, pitching, paying, and filing the awful mess on my desk. (It was really ugly.) Once done, I felt an enormous sense of satisfaction. I owned the net.


Do you ever get the laundry room blues? You know: you walk into the area and it's one stain after another. A pile of whites next to an even larger pile of darks. Add to the mix a "snow day": wet mittens, wet socks, wet towels, and dripping boots are wonderful little accoutrements of northern living. An extra load or two never turns me on, but up here in New England, I need to get used to it. I need to own the net in my laundry room...or it will own me! So rather than rolling my eyeballs and stomping my foot, I remind myself to just own it. To just start doing it before it
gets out of control. To make a game out of separating the pinks from the reds and the jeans from the towels. For tossing the frozen outerwear into the dryer before it's too late. When things get really awful--like they did for me the other night when I walked into my laundry room to see a handwritten note by my thirteen-year-
old daughter, pinned to the brand new polo shirt that she bought with her own money, that read: "EMERGENCY!!! Get this stain out tonight so I can wear it tomorrow!" right next to the chocolate stain that resulted from an enthusiastically-mixed batch of birthday brownies she made for a friend of Nick's--I needed some dark chocolate myself just to get though this newly-discovered crisis. (Never hesitate to pop chocolate into your mouth before any laundry room chores by the way.) Whatever, own the net there, too. I'm sure it's part of your everyday reality whether you want
it to be or not.


Ditto for chauffeuring your kiddies around town. Huge potential for boredom and battle fatigue, huh? Own the net. Put a favorite CD in the stereo, use the time to teach an object lesson, or just let them vent about the problems in their little worlds and put on your listening cap.


Same thing for that nightly bubble bath ritual. Surely you have the drill down pat by now. But sometimes those extra puddles on the floor and the escaping rubber duckies just push you right over the edge. So sing a silly song as you wrap your freshly scrubbed babe in his favorite hooded towel and own the net. I used to sing the "King Farouk" song, bundling my kids into hooded-towels-turned-coronation-robes. I sang a goofy song every time I wrapped them up. The sometimes exhausting ritual (I was usually worn out by bath time) maintained some sense of charm as long as I could keep good cheer...and own the net. Those kiddie bubble baths are long gone now, yet my teens spend more time in the bathroom than I could have ever imagined (or remembered spending myself). And teach your older kids to own the net, too, by showing them how to scrub a sink, wipe down a shower stall, and spritz the mirrors.


Owning the net means everything from getting your kids off to the right start in the morning with a healthy breakfast to ensuring healthy lunchboxes to forcing them to bed on time to disciplining them when they break curfew. It means shopping for new clothes when they need them and removing stains when they make them. It means sweeping crumbs off your kitchen floor and cleaning cobwebs off your front door. It means sewing on the buttons when they fall off and stitching up the seams when they rip apart. It means taking care of the myriad mundane details that can either plague
us or inspire us as we work the front line.


Owning the net also means consciously infusing your rooms with beauty, instead of believing that "beauty happens." It means looking for ways to add color and texture, pattern and symmetry, and flowers and sunshine to the corners of your world. To me, it means stitching needlepoint pillows and reproduction samplers. Hooking folk art rugs and painting in oils. Owning the net at home requires it to not only have all systems up and running smoothly; it means having them oiled with beauty and charm.


As you go through the motions of your day--understanding full well that some of them will be "funner" than others--remind yourself to own the net. It goes with the territory. And, if truth be told, we recognize--be it through battle fatigue or
through unexpected joy--that it's all territory which we feel particularly privileged to claim.


And as you gain proficiency in this thing we call motherhood, you'll be surprised to find that owning the net comes pretty naturally after awhile. Your hands, arms and legs will be in ready position, you'll be on the lookout for oncoming balls, and
you'll even be able to hit obnoxious angles.


Blessings!


Carolina

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A Nick Note

Nick starts another couple days of chemo today, having a break last week. Monday and Tuesday should hold some pretty brutal treatments. Please keep him in your prayers. We pray daily for his complete and total physical healing. He continues to receive
cards from many readers of this newsletter, many from folks he's never even met! It warms our hearts to know that he is enveloped by a canopy of intercession on his behalf! To those of you who continue to hold him tight, thank you!

2/28/05 RM Newsletter: Love is a Verb

Today’s Quote: “We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us! But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love. (1 Corinthians 13:12-13 from THE MESSAGE)

Love reigns supreme. We know it. We feel it. And yet when we read the qualities of real love, we understand that they are impossible for our human nature to meet:
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end. (I Corinthians 13: 4-7 THE MESSAGE)

We can’t keep our cool under pressure. Can’t put up with anything. Have you ever peeked inside your teenager’s bedroom and felt your blood pressure rise? Or examined your toddler’s toy messes only to feel an immediate wave of nausea? Grace and charm under pressure? Forgetaboutit! Good grief: my kids leave the kitchen a wreck and I practically go into orbit!

Can’t keep from wanting what we don’t have. I’ve wanted to remodel my kitchen ever since we purchased this house a year and half ago, yet I cannot afford to do so. I flip through kitchen decorating magazines, yearning for the time when I can create a room of beauty…secretly desiring what I do not have.

Don’t strut? Ever watched American Idol or The Apprentice? Quintessential strutting. Humility and meekness never even entered those equations.

We live in a culture that is anti-love. We’re told to watch out for #1. Go for the top—at all costs. Compete against our enemies—as well as our friends. We’re fair weather friends and distant relatives. Neighbors in crisis but unavailable otherwise.

Yet we know that love reigns supreme.

Why love? When we find it so impossible to love in our humanness. The King James Version of 1 Corinthians uses the word “charity” for love. Yet when we think of the common usage of the word, we think of giving to the poor. Almsgiving. Tsunami relief efforts. But that is not the meaning of the word in Greek. The Greek word is “agape.” Love for others that stems from a love for God. Love that is impossible to attain without first loving God. Charity without love for God puts too much emphasis on us. It focuses on how good we are. How generous. How thoughtful. Yet that is not the true meaning of this deepest form of love.

Agape love always seeks the highest good in others. It always looks for the best. Wherever. Whenever. In whomever.

It’s something that you do. It’s a verb. Love of humanity is a reflection of the love which we have for our Maker, and is manifested outwardly in positive, uplifting actions to others. Love is a verb. It means being kind to one another with acts of kindness. Tender-hearted with acts of tenderness. When others weep, weeping with them; when others rejoice, rejoicing with them.

Real love is not premeditated; rather, it is spontaneous. It literally burst out of us in extraordinary ways. Neighbors—as well as total strangers alike—have shown our family real love these past four months since Nick was diagnosed with leukemia. A veritable wellspring of love has erupted throughout Ridgefield, our tiny Connecticut town. Generous acts of mercy during this time of uncertainty have been expressed on a near-daily basis. Rather than people saying: “We’re thinking of you,” or even “We’re praying for you,”—both of which are appreciated very, very much—they’re acting on love. They’re bringing dinner after we’ve endured full days of chemotherapy in a town 90 miles away; they’re driving our children to tennis and violin lessons when I’m trapped in traffic on I-95; they’re sitting with Nick when he’s feeling too crummy to get out and about on his own. One family, the Davidson’s, even took our youngest son, Victor, on a week-long ski vacation during our winter break, as we were not able to leave because of Nick’s chemo schedule.

Extraordinary, extravagant love in action.

Love is a verb.

Oswald Chambers perhaps said it best in My Utmost for His Highest: “If human love does not carry a man beyond himself, it is not love. If love is always discreet, always wise, always sensible and calculating, never carried beyond itself, it is not love at all. It may be affection, it may be warmth of feeling, but it has not the true nature of love in it…There are times when it seems as if God watches to see if we will give Him the abandoned tokens of how genuinely we do love Him…We have to get rid of this notion "Am I of any use?" and make up our minds that we are not, and we maybe near the truth. It is never a question of being of use, but of being of value to God Himself. When we are abandoned to God, He works through us all the time.
There are dozens of people out there who desperately need your touch. Shut-ins who could use good cheer. Elderly folks in nursing homes, who never see a strange face, hear a song sung, or pat a fluffy dog. Moms who have suffered miscarriage who desperately need to hear that they will be okay with time. Neighbors who have just lost a parent who need a hot meal. Friends who are confined with the flu who need a pot of chicken-noodle soup.

I pray that you will feel moved to one extraordinary, extravagant act of love this week. Love is a verb. Go in love.

The Love Chapter/Love Psalm: 1 Cor 13 (from THE MESSAGE)
1 If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love, I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.
2 If I speak God's Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, "Jump," and it jumps, but I don't love, I'm nothing.
3 If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don't love, I've gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I'm bankrupt without love.

4 Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.
Love doesn't strut,
Doesn't have a swelled head,
5 Doesn't force itself on others,
Isn't always "me first,"
Doesn't fly off the handle,
Doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
6 Doesn't revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
7 Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end.

8 Love never dies. Inspired speech will be over some day; praying in tongues will end; understanding will reach its limit. 9 We know only a portion of the truth, and what we say about God is always incomplete. 10 But when the Complete arrives, our incompletes will be canceled.
11 When I was an infant at my mother's breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good.
12 We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!
13 But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.


A Nick Note

Nick started another round of chemo on Wednesday. He took the two
days of therapy (Wednesday and Thursday) extremely well, only to
crash over the weekend. It's very powerful stuff. Please continue
to keep him in your prayers. He's received several cards and
handwritten letters this past week. What fabulous words of
encouragement...and love in action! Thank you!!!

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A Quick Note

Today's my birthday and I'll be celebrating all day long. In
addition to celebrating with my family and friends up here, I
want to take this opportunity to tell you that I will be
celebrating our friendship, too. Thank you for being in my
world. You have encouraged me this past year, have helped me
to grow spiritually, and have walked in step with me during a
particularly tumultuous time. Words cannot express the
gratefulness I hold in my heart for your presence. Know that
I will be holding all of my readers deep within me--
especially today.

2/21/05 RM Newsletter: Childish Folly

Today’s Quote: “Folly is bound up in the heart of a child….” Proverbs 22:15

I threw out my back this weekend. Whether it was on the tennis court or in the weight room, I'll never know. Regardless, it's been a miserable experience. Heating pads. Sofa time. More painand discomfort than I was ready to deal with.Yesterday, gathering impatience with too much HGTV (I think Icould now single-handedly renovate my bathrooms, excavate mykitchen, and re-decorate my son's bedroom on $100); too much news(it's all so depressing); and too much of "the art of doing nothing," I called out in near-desperation to my thirteen-year-old daughter: "Cristina. How much do you love me?""That depends," she shot back. "What do you want?" She knew the drill."Will you please make mommy a cup of coffee? Fill the water to the "3" line on the pot and measure two of those small scoopers inside the coffee canister into the unbleached filter." I have very precise measures for coffee; if I'm treating myself to the experience only once or twice a day, it's got to be just right. Icouldn't let it be blown because I had failed to give proper direction....

About ten minutes later, there was no sign of coffee. No percolating sounds, ringing like Pavlov's bell to my salivating spirit. No fabulous aromas, wafting towards my upwards-tilted nose. No evidence of that last loud noise of air and water mixing through the system signaling that the process has ended successfully.In too much pain to hoist myself off the sofa-but longing too much for that freshly-brewed perfect cup of Heine Brothers coffee-I gradually maneuvered myself towards the kitchen to checkout the situation. Cristina was out of earshot, as repeated attempts at getting her attention met with silence.I saw a very disappointing still-life: A coffee pot sat with water filled to the "3" mark on top of the coffee-maker burner. A quick flip of the filter proved that she had, indeed, filled an unbleached paper filter with coffee. And she had turned the switch to "on."At this point, I had to find my daughter. The conditions for an object lesson were too ripe. Screams from the bottom of our staircase finally made it to her bedroom, where she was particularly pre-occupied with make-up and hair. She bounced down the stairs into the kitchen, where I escorted her over to the coffee machine. "Cristina. Do you notice anything wrong with this picture?"She studied it a moment. "No, Mom. I did everything you asked me to do. I put the water to the "3" mark, measured two scoops of coffee into the filter and turned it to "on."I hovered over the coffee pot, waved my arms as best Icould-enduring back pain while at it-and said "Abracadabra. Turn this water into coffee." No response. "Abracadabra. Pleeeeeease turn this water into coffee." Cristina giggled."OK, Cristina. We don't believe in magic. We believe in prayer. Let's see if God will turn this water into coffee. Dear Lord...."And then she made me stop."But mom, I don't get it. I did everything you told me to do."It took me a minute-or two-to react with an appropriate response. I knew this poor child is not lacking in the brain department; I had her tested for Florida's gifted program-and she got in. I knew her hearing was good; she did listen attentively to my directions-and she did everything exactly as I had instructed. So how could this early-teen, who had seen me make coffee a hundred times in her lifetime, not get that in order for the water to convert into coffee it had to be poured into the machine. That water cannot jump from a pot into a filter. That ground coffee beans, no matter how special, organic, and handpicked with proper labor standards, could not cascade into the pot unless they had been in contact with steaming water! Had I failed as a mom?!?No. I just had a teenage girl with swirling hormones and a brain on space-drive. She was going to an out-of-town mall that afternoon with two of her best friends, and her excitement over the prospect of new clothes, new faces, and new shops simply crowded out brain space for anything as mundane as making a cup of coffee (for her bedridden mom).

Sometimes kids do the stupidest things. We look at them and scratch our heads and think "What in the world were they thinking?" And we know they've been taught and guided and parented well; they've been fed and bathed and have gotten enough sleep; they've been rocked and read to and attended to. And yet they still do the darndest things.We need to be constantly reminded-and our kids doing silly, stupid stuff on a fairly frequent basis will be reminder enough-that they are works in progress. That they have a long way to walk up the learning curve. That things that we take for granted as "common sense," "street smarts," or "having a good head on your shoulders" come in a variety of shapes and sizes. That we should never assume that a three-point plan will get the project to completion. Sometimes, you need that fourth point.

As you move about this whirling, swirling sphere of motherhood, try to remain patient with your young ones underfoot. Some are too hungry or too excited to listen. Two-year-olds have tantrums to get attention. Some are hormone-impaired. They break curfew, sneak out of the house, and assume that all movies playing at the theatre are just fine by you. Some have an "in one ear and out the other" modus operandi. They didn't hear it, didn't see it, didn't do it. "Not me" did it. (Does "Not me" live at your house like he does at mine?)

Be patient. Be calm. Keep parenting. Motherhood can be particularly discouraging. I've been discouraged a lot lately by my own kids failing to do the things they've been taught-over and over again-to do. Laundry lies on bedroom and bathroom floors rather than in the central hamper; dirty dishes stand stagnant on bedroom desks and basement tray tables rather than freshly cleaned in dish drainers; beds display crumpled sheets rather than ones properly tucked in. It's not like my kids don't know how to do this stuff. I've patiently-and repeatedly!!-taught them how to pick up what's dropped, clean what's dirty, and fix what's broken.But kids are still in development mode. And they will move forward one minute only to move backwards the next. And then they'll step sideways for a day before they sprint ahead for a week. I suspect we'll all find-one day-that they'll turn out just fine. Not necessarily because of our efforts in parenting. But in spite of them.

So move onward and upward. Stay the course. Parenting is not for cowards. Be in-your-face when you need to be. And relaxed when that's the right response.

Wishing you patience for the week ahead! Carolina

A Nick Note

Nick's counts were high enough last week to go to school but too low to start the next round of chemo as planned. So he had the week off. He was thrilled to get to school everyday and get up to speed with his workload there. Spending time in class with his friends was especially satisfying; being able to enjoy his normal routine always lifts his spirits. We were all thankful for the break, and used the opportunity to get caught up in all the things which have fallen behind around here. He starts the next round Wednesday. Please keep his endurance and stamina in your prayers, as well as his complete and total physical healing.