Standing on Tall Shoulders

"That best portion of a good man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love." William Wordsworth


All Saints Day comes once a year to remind us of the tall shoulders upon which we stand.


The day seems long-forgotten, what with jack-o-lanterns in every window, skeletons hanging on nearby trees, and witches and monsters hiding in the shadows. Costumes have been hand-sewn or purchased, and super-sized bags of candy have been dispensed into baskets, ready for the doorbell ringing trick-or-treaters to devour.


Halloween, per se, has never been my favorite holiday. I’m just not a huge fan of spooky, dark, morose things of any kind. I don’t read horror books. Don’t see scary movies. Hate any hint of evil. Even seeing monsters and make-believe Frankensteins gives me the heevie-jeevies. Halloween—-as we know it anyway—-is a uniquely American, post-1930’s phenomenon. The pre-Christian Celtics used the day to celebrate the official end of summer; early Christians to remember the recently departed, faithful servants or saints (hence, All Saints Day). Its earlier folklore even used the practice of knocking on doors to collect monies for relief of poverty or for overseas missions, presumably to reinforce the saintlike behavior of those who had come before them.


I suppose it’s one thing to celebrate folk rituals. Folklore must go on, after all. And celebrating folklore—-I admit-—is downright fun. It activates the creative juices. And I guess one could argue that designing a kid’s costume-—or those for an entire family-—is one of the most creative endeavors of the season. But its huge secular influence-—witches and black cats, Frankensteins and monsters, ghosts and goblins, gruesome masks and fake blood-—is enough to make me want to stay home by myself and watch reruns of Mayberry RFD.

And did I mention the mischief-—or downright vandalism-—that goes on during Halloween night? Smashing pumpkins, a lovely little ritual that my own husband confessed to our kids over dinner to having taken part in (and for which he felt guilt at the time), seems mild in light of some of the stuff my teen son has witnessed (firsthand, unfortunately). Soaping windows and “t-p-ing” a house might seem like good ole-fashioned fun, but yuck: have you ever tried to clean up after being soaped or t-p-ed?


I’m going to try—-as best I can (I still have kids little enough to once again enjoy or endure the trick-or-treat ritual, depending on how I think about it)-—to celebrate the holiday by spending some time thinking about some of the wonderful folks whose lives crossed mine but who are no longer among us. On whose tall shoulders I stand. Denise was a saint who faithfully prayed for Nick each and every Sunday, even though she was dealing with an aggressive cancer herself, which ultimately took her life a few months ago. Chantal, though ten years old at the time of her death last month, taught me many lessons about life, even though she lived only a fraction of the time that I have. I’ll spend some time not only jotting down the names of recently departed saints; I’ll meditate on the lessons they taught by their everyday lives. Simple. Uncomplicated lessons. Lessons of hospitality. Or faithfulness.


And I’ll look around at those saints who still cross my daily path. Real, live modern-day saints. Like the kind older lady who helps me fill my prescriptions at my local pharmacy; she hugs me every time I go in for a refill for one of Nick’s drugs. And Nora, who works part-time there, yet remembers to send me emails of encouragement, as she faces battles and fears of her own. And Wellington, who fills up my gas tank-—as well as my emotional tank-—every time I pull into the station. He never fails to ask about Nick, and promises to keep him in daily prayer. Elmer, the restaurant owner; Ron, my pet food supplier; and Matt, my photo copy guy. Unlikely saints moving and living in my circle. Just doing regular, un-glamorous jobs. Yet bringing saintlike movements and wisdom into my everyday, workaday world.


So scoop out the pumpkins seeds and carve jack-o-lanterns. Bob for apples and bang on doors demanding candy. Keep up the secular if it brings you and your little ones some joy. But don’t forget the spiritual aspect of the day, too. All of us stand on tall shoulders. We wouldn’t be the people we are, where we are, if spiritual giants hadn’t come before us. I hope you take some time out today-—whether it’s while you’re walking your kids down the dark streets in search of chocolate and a trick or two, or whether it’s during a long, contemplative cup of hot tea—-to gratefully remember both the saints who came before us and those who live among us. Aspiring to be a little more saintlike is a good thing. What can you—-and I—-do towards that end?


Blessings,


Carolina



A Nick Note


Nick and I will be heading to the doctor’s office Monday morning to get a check on his “counts.” Hopefully, they’ll be high enough to start the maintenance phase of his protocol. If so, he’ll get a spinal tap, a bone marrow aspiration, and a handful of chemo drugs. That’ll be the worst of it for the month; most of his treatment will be oral meds, with a weekly finger-stick thrown in for good measure. He’s feeling much stronger and is really looking forward to getting this next—-and final-—phase of the three-pronged protocol underway. As always, we covet your prayers for his complete and total healing.



A Quick Note


The official launch of the ROCKET MOM SOCIETY will take place in Ridgefield, CT on Thursday, November 17th. If you live in the area and would like an invitation to become a charter member, please send an email to: emomrx@yahoo.com. Or call me! 203.438.7164. Details are almost complete and will follow next week. This is going to be TMF!!! *



A Fun Note


One of the biggest kicks I get from being a writer and speaker is talking to groups of young moms. I’ll have that distinct pleasure on Thursday evening, November 10 . Are you a member of a group looking for some good parenting advice? Great discussion? Fun and fellowship? Need a keynote? Hosting a birthday party and want to do some fun “mommy games”? Ever come to my “What Color is Your Purse” seminar? TMF. Give me a call. I’d love to come and meet your club or group, too. 203.438.7164.


Another new little venture: local cable TV. I’m in the process of starting a community access ROCKET MOM TV show. Details to follow.


Ahhh. Life is settling back into a more normal routine. I am so grateful….

Finish Lines

"Nothing will sustain you more potently than the power to
recognize in your humdrum routine, as perhaps it may be thought,
the true poetry of life." Sir William Osler


Finish lines. We’ve all crossed them. Going through nine months of pregnancy to cross the finish line into labor. Enduring long, painful labor to cross the finish line into delivering a newborn babe. Pulling our hair out during the “terrible two’s” to cross the finish line of the third candle in the birthday cake. Discovering that the three’s have a life of their own, to cross the finish line into the four’s. Gliding through the golden ages of five, six and seven to cross the finish line of early childhood, only to turn around and realize that you’re smack in the middle of adolescence. Crossing the finish line with a new driver in the house. Followed by the finish line of high school graduation. Then College. Your wedding day.


Life is full of them.


When Nick was initially diagnosed with leukemia, I remember thinking: “If only we can get through the torturous three-year protocol. Then we’ll be fine. We’ll have crossed the finish line.” And then the words of my minister, who came to visit during that first Yale Hospital stay, lingered: “Don’t forget that life happens in the middle.” With both eyes firmly fixed on the finish line, it was easy to see that I might be missing out on everything else that was happening meanwhile. In the middle.


Funny. It seems that we measure life not only by how many finish lines we cross, but by how quickly—-or fully-—we cross them. The crossing of a finish line into the next corporate promotion is measured by level bumps, salary increases and stock options. Measured in fullness. The finish line of early education might be measured in swiftness of reading, of comprehension and vocabulary. Measured in speed.


I’m as guilty as the next person in quantifying and validating my existence by easily measured finish lines: everything from my placement on Amazon’s sales lists to the number of attendees at a seminar to how many articles I’m able to write in a month; they all add--or subtract from-—my “success.”


And I see it all around me in motherhood: moms comparing progress in their children to those of their peers, teachers juxtaposing child against child with grades and easily quantifiable data. IQ tests and achievement tests ranking one child higher than another. College acceptance letters to your first choice going to someone other than your own kid.


Nick crossed a finish line this week by completing prong #2 of a three-pronged protocol in his treatment for leukemia. He crossed the finish line of prong #1 (a 28-day treatment to get him into remission) only to begin a brutal one-year intensification phase of the chemo program. He crossed that finish line-—prong #2--on Friday. But it is rather short-lived: he’ll begin prong #3 next week and chart a year-and-a-half course until he crosses the next finish line. At that point, he’ll still have a couple of years to go until he crosses that “magical” finish line of the “five-year mark” before he is declared officially “cured.”


If we stay completely focused on the strength, speed or fullness with which we cross finish lines, we miss out on most of the good stuff. We miss out on what happens in the middle: life. I need to constantly remind myself that while Nick is running towards the finish line of complete and total healing, that his three siblings are fully engaged in living. That his dad still works a job and mom still tidies up the house, feeds the dog, washes the dirty laundry, and deals with groceries and dinner. That community service gets attention; gifts get wrapped; letters get written and times tables get memorized. That life happens while we’re waiting to cross finish lines.


I hope you spend some time this week thinking about your own finish lines. Be it getting through the next few months and crossing the finish line of Christmas, or watching your senior fill our college applications to cross the finish line into acceptance; life holds one for you in one form or another. Just don’t get so caught up in the “line” that you forget the daily interactions, the easily dispensable conversations or the quickly dismissed moments that happen in between. Don’t forget that the best of life happens between the finish lines.


Blessings,


Carolina


-------------------------------------------------------------
A Nick Note


As mentioned, Nick crossed the finish line of prong #2 and will
soon begin the third prong of a three-pronged treatment for
leukemia. He'll get a blood transfusion today, and, because his
counts are so low, get a one-week break before beginning the
maintenance part of the protocol. Finish line #2 crossed, he is
getting his sights set on Wake Forest University, where he will
begin as a college freshman in January. He'll look at the next
two months as much-needed time to regain both strength and
perspective.


------------------------------------------------------------

A Fun Note

The Rocket Mom Society will officially launch in Ridgefield,
Connecticut on November 17th! Sensing that the time is ripe to
begin a potentially international sisterhood society, we will
launch at a private party in my own hometown. If you live in or
near Ridgefield and would like to receive an invitation to join
as a "charter member," please email me ASAP: emomrx@yahoo.com.
Guidelines and details forthcoming! Full court press planned,
including the upcoming interview on the TV program, "Moms Gone
Mad," on Tuesday, the 25th.


Too young and vibrant for the Red Hat Society but yearning for
all of that fellowship and fun? Forgetaboutit. Join the Rocket
Mom Society by emailing or calling me today!!! emomrx@yahoo.com
or 203 438-7164.

The Brook's Song

Today’s Quote: “The brook would lose its song if the rocks were taken away.” Elizabeth Kellogg


Avi Salzman, in Sunday’s New York Times, describes Autumn in New England arriving “like a prom queen, draped in boastful reds, yellows and rusty browns, perfumed with wood smoke.”


I had the privilege this weekend of chaperoning 40-something musicians in the Ridgefield Symphony Youth Orchestra to a large retreat center in the Catskill Mountains of New York. Not exactly New England. But close enough.


The fall foliage was splendid, and daily walks through nature trails and around the on-site lake were nothing short of spectacular. What with the bite of the crisp fall air filling my lungs, an on-again off-again drizzle wetting my cheeks, and the occasional aroma of a leftover nighttime camp fire arousing my own childhood camp memories, it would be hard to miss nature’s extravagant call.


I didn’t notice the plaque on the wall of our quintessentially-campy cabin until this morning, when I went back to clean up after the twenty gals sharing my quarters. With sleeping bags and luggage safely tucked into another cabin for pick-up, I was sent up to perform one last bunk-check. Lifting up skimpy mattresses to look for lost clothing, pulling back shower curtains to check for forgotten toiletries, collecting garbage to lighten the housekeeper’s load, and turning down both lights and thermostats, I happened to glance up at the back wall as I was tying the final plastic garbage liner. The plaque commemorated the completion of the lodge which bears Ms. Kellogg’s name. It was shortly after reading her selected quote: “the brook would lose its song if the rocks were taken away” that I began my morning walk around the lake. For the first time all weekend, I noticed the brooks. It was one babbling brook after another, each singing its own song. And even though each day had brought a nature hike or two-—walking right past these brooks each and every time-—I had not heard their songs before.


I confess to taking nature for granted. We live-—my family and I-—in the middle of a large wooded lot, which is surrounded by a fifty acre nature preserve. Wildlife abounds: deer, wild turkey, rabbits, and fox are familiar creatures sharing our everyday space. I try to remember how fortunate I am, being able to view the raw beauty of nature each and every day. To drive down a long and windy driveway with an abundance of trees, wildflowers and yes, babbling brooks. Yet I don’t. And so traveling to yet another beautiful mountaintop retreat-—to co-habit with nature-—was, I admit, a splendid, though not particularly unique experience. I deliberately took in the beauty of the changing leaves (and it was especially beautiful); I deliberately used my free time each day for nature hikes (and they were certainly special); and I deliberately lingered at the evening campfire (sans s’mores) to be especially sure that the smell and the smoke of it would stick to my memory for one full year, until I could recapture the experience once again.


But it was the words on that plaque that most struck me. That especially gave me pause. Wondering what kind of “rocks” had filled Ms. Kellogg’s path. Pondering why they-—among any words or quotes she could have possibly chosen-—had inspired her. Why she chose these words to immortalize the dedication. Questioning if it were, indeed, the “rocks” in her life that fortified her to move forward, that gave her wisdom, or that taught her lessons she would otherwise have never learned, that allowed her to be where she found herself on the day in which a building was dedicated to her.


And so I took my walk around the lake, stopping for the first time to listen to the song of the brooks. To forget about having a cardio-workout or making good time. To just stop when I got to a brook and listen to its song. I noticed for the first time the abundance of rocks lining each brook’s formation. And realized that-—rock-free-—each would simply be a mere silent stream of water.


Perhaps I would not have noticed the plaque in any other year. “Rocks” would not have had the significance that they have for me today. No. Reading the plaque was serendipitous to be sure. It helped me realize that people who have something significant to offer to the world have walked a rock-studded path. That silent streams of water might be beautiful in and of themselves, but that they cannot offer a beautiful song. That the brook’s song is sweeter. Because of the rocks.


The serenity of my morning nature walks provided me with much-needed perspective. They helped to balance me. With no sound other than the wind rushing through the rapidly-changing fall leaves, the light rain hitting the ground, or the melodious song of the brooks: I came to the quiet resignation that rocks are a good thing. And that man—-throughout time-—has acknowledged the same. It was the whole into-every-life-a-little-rain-must-fall-no-one-ever-promised you-a-rose-garden thing. But out in nature-—in the middle of the Catskills-—I accepted it with peace. Not taking away from the glorious music which 40-something young musicians were producing inside a campy retreat center, it was the song of the brook that rang more majestic than ever.


I hope that this fall brings you time to retreat into solitude, too. That be it into nature or into a friend’s home; into travel to a faraway place or into the down-filled cushions of your living room sofa: that you are able to make time for solitude. For wisdom and soul-searching and decision-making and finding life’s meaning come not in the busyness and rush of everyday life, but in the moments captured in silence and solitude. In hearing the song of the brook.




A Nick Note


Nick has three more chemo sessions scheduled for this week and
will then complete his year of intensification in his treatment
for leukemia. Hopefully, his counts will be high enough after
the end of the week to start on the maintenance session of the
protocol; a more likely scenario is that he'll need a one to
two-week break before the next phase. His spirits are great and,
despite being neutropenic, he has stayed healthy and fever-free.
Please continue to keep him in your prayers.

During a visit to Chartres, I had to pose in front of these charming, handpainted shutters. The flower shop inside, was delightful.  

When a walk down a Paris side street revealed a lime green sofa setting smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk, our entourage just HAD to snap a picture of me and my favorite color obsession.  

Snipping Dangling Threads

“Being organized…frees you up to prepare you for both the dizzying frustrations and distractions, as well as the surprising opportunities and celebrations, that come our way.” Carolina Fernandez (from ROCKET MOM! 7 Strategies To Blast You Into Brilliance)


Towards the end of the summer, I took my thirteen-year-old daughter and her friend on an unexpected shopping excursion. Having gotten kicked out of Six Flags Water Park by thunder and a cloudburst, the girls voted on—and won—a quick trip to the mall on the way home. Dragging me (and younger brother and brother’s friend) to a favorite clothing shop, we were met by two denim skirts possessing magnetic powers, as they almost immediately found their way onto these girls’ torsos. Proving adorable on, we got two. The fact that my daughter’s skirt has a row of dangling threads (seems to be the new style) doesn’t diminish my liking to it. But I find myself with a nearly insatiable desire to get out my scissors every time my daughter prances by wearing it. I want to snip those loose threads. Trim it up. Have it hang from her dangling-thread free.


The story of my life.


My personality yearns for a dangling-thread-free life. For loose ends to be snipped. Garbage taken out and clean laundry folded. Thank-you notes written and emails replied to. Calendars synced up and ducks perfectly lined up in rows.


Don’t get me wrong. Oil painter that I am, I have a fairly high tolerance for chaos. Half-finished canvases have lined my family room floor—in my makeshift studio—for months. A pint-sized violin rests most days on the back of my living room sofa, rather than safely tucked inside its case. And Victor’s new oboe finds itself almost always on the edge of his bed, which remains, many mornings, only half-made. What with four kids in four different schools, a traveling husband and a needy lapdog, my life can be summed up by my girlfriend’s license plate: “BEDLAM.” Add to that our ongoing chemo protocol with upwards of nine-hour days away from home some days, and I’m ready to throw up my hands in desperate resignation.


I long for simplicity. For having loose threads snipped such that I can meet my responsibilities—with discipline—as well as celebratory opportunities—with creativity—that come my way.


Fall is officially upon us. Leaves are falling (onto my freshly-swept deck); bulbs are begging for planting (in my just-weeded garden); and clothes are waiting to be rotated (in my recently-edited closets). Thankyouverymuch.


There’s always something.


So how do we rocket moms get our acts together in order to lead more creative, gratifying lives? While oodles of strategies are found in my book, ROCKET MOM!, here are my 4 Quick Tips for fall:


Sniff: Walk around your house and sniff our patterns of inefficiency. Last Tuesday, in a bout of fall fever and its resultant flurry of housekeeping, I realized that no one in my family—including myself—was benefiting from my art “studio” plunked squarely in the middle of the family room floor. Nearly-constant-begging-for-a-barn-studio-for-my-birthday notwithstanding, I realized that, in the meantime, I needed to create a more organized workspace for my favorite hobby. So I carried all of my extraneous canvases to the basement and hid all extraneous supplies in a nearby cabinet. I left two easels standing, each one holding a half-finished painting, and kept the rest of the area bare. Once done, I started walking around the whole house, doing the “sniff” test. Piles of clutter were perused; useless stuff was tossed. I kept sniffing until I was satisfied that things were (almost) as they should be. I venture to say that you border on the bizarre if you are capable of maintaining a perfectly perfect house while simultaneously raising kids and your spouse. But keep sniffing and keep trying.


Snip: Whatever threads are dangling, snip ‘em. Be they painful letters to write or junk mail to sort, toy closets to re-organize or car seats to vacuum….resolve to use this changing of the seasons to snip anything that’s been dangling over you. The resulting liberation is nothing short of dizzying! I confess that the piles of papers on my desk and the dozens of emails in my inbox are the two dangling threads in desperate need of snipping this week. Claim yours, too.


Sort: Clear out anything that reads “summer.” Now that the weather’s finally changing, sort out t’s, shorts and sandals; get ready for sweaters, jeans and boots. Sort through your kids’ clothing and donate or rotate. Give away items that no longer work; shuffle things around so that fall clothing is more readily accessible. Ditto for closets. Be scrupulous. Regular sifting and sorting prevents painful dredging a few years down the road. Trust me.


Stage: As Ernie took Nick to chemo on Tuesday, I had a “free” day with which to deal with my fall fever. When a girlfriend called that night to check up on me, she was shocked to hear me tell her that I had “staged” my home for fall. Having no idea what I was talking about—she admitted that her home looked the same all year long—I explained that I had put away all summer accessories and had brought out those for the fall. Floral arrangements were re-arranged, annuals were replaced with mums, and summer’s fresh colors were reinvigorated by autumn’s subdued warmth. Mantels and window sills and tabletops were given renewed status for roosters and sunflowers, porcelains and candles. Are you building collections? Use the changing of the seasons as an opportunity to showcase and stage them. Your home needn’t look like it fell out of a Ralph Lauren scrapbook or a page in the Orvis fall catalog. But it can be creatively staged to reflect the new season in which we find ourselves.


In short, use these next couple of weeks to get your act together. Allow the crisp, fresh air to invigorate and inspire you to organize your home so that you can lead the creative, energetic life into which you were called.


Blessings on your week,


Carolina



A Nick Note
Despite a week of back-to-back chemo and transfusions, one of which produced an allergic reaction so intense that he narrowly missed an ambulance ride, Nick has held up shockingly well. (Mom has held up not quite as shockingly well.) His protocol calls for two more weeks of intense chemo, although we suspect that since one of the chemo drugs is “count dependent”—and he is currently neutropenic (low counts and almost zero immunity)—that his roadmap will be extended by a couple more weeks. He’ll receive chemo and more transfusions this week and next, at least, before beginning the maintenance part of the protocol. As always, we covet your prayers. Periods of neutropenia are especially troublesome, as any sign of weakness or fever will land him—no questions asked—at Yale Hospital. He’s been incredibly fortunate thus far. We pray he responds equally well these next couple of weeks.


His best friends are home from college, due to the Columbus Day holiday. He’s enjoying their company more than words can describe, and yearns for his life to return to some level of normalcy. He’s still on target to begin studies at Wake Forest University in January.


A Quick Note
Three big projects are in the works, and I hope to be able to share some definite details with you in the next few weeks. A book project, a media opportunity and an epiphany that I experienced Friday are all pointing to some exciting new directions for the grass-root efforts of Rocket Moms everywhere. Stay tuned!


Many of you have requested autographed copies of my book, ROCKET MOM! Please send me an email and let me know how you’d like your copies inscribed. FourQ Press accepts all major credit cards! For non-autographed copies, please call our toll-free number where a customer service agent will take your order, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week! 888. 476. 2493.

God Lives Under the Bed

“Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly.”


Tough week. The memorial service of ten-year-old Chantal, marital troubles of one of my dearest friends, a 5-days-in-a-row week of brutal chemo for Nick, and the shocking news that his doctor’s own 15-year-old daughter has a brain tumor, plunged me into despair which I have not felt in months. My wings are too heavy to soar. Traveling under a storm cloud has certainly curtailed my usual “zip-a-dee-doo-dah” attitude towards life. Unable to dispel wisdom, strategies or even a teensy bit of optimism, I am sending instead a story that found its way into my inbox this week. Sent by a friend (its author is anonymous) and re-circulated again, it resonated so highly that I deemed it worthy of this week’s Newsletter. I pray that you will take a lesson from Kevin…and that it will sink deeply into my own soul so that I can meet you in full force next week. Until then….


God Lives under the Bed



“I envy Kevin. My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his bed. At least, that's what I heard him say one night. He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped outside his closed door to listen. "Are you there, God?" he said. "Where are you? Oh, I see. Under the bed."


I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room. Kevin's unique perspectives are often a source of amusement. But that night something else lingered long after the humor. I realized for the first time the very different world Kevin lives in.


He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of difficulties during labor. Apart from his size (he's 6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is an adult. He reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a 7-year-old, and he always will. He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed, that Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our tree every Christmas and that airplanes stay up in the sky because angels carry them. remember wondering if Kevin realizes he is different. Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life?


Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop for the disabled, home to walk our cocker spaniel, return to eat his favorite macaroni-and-cheese for dinner, and later to bed.The only variation in the entire scheme is laundry, when he hovers excitedly over the washing machine like a mother with her newborn child. He does not seem dissatisfied. He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager for a day of simple work. He wrings his hands excitedly while the water boils on the stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to gather our dirty laundry for his next day's laundry chores.


And Saturdays-oh, the bliss of Saturdays! That's the day my Dad takes Kevin to the airport to have a soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on the destination of each passenger inside.


"That one's goin' to Chi-car-go!" Kevin shouts as he claps his hands. His anticipation is so great he can hardly sleep on Friday nights.


And so goes his world of daily rituals and weekend field trips.


He doesn't know what it means to be discontent. His life is simple. He will never know the entanglements of wealth or power, and he does not care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats. His needs have always been met, and he never worries that one day they may not be.


His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he is working. When he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the carpet, his heart is completely in it. He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does not leave a job until it is finished.


But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax. He is not obsessed with his work or the work of others.


His heart is pure. He still believes everyone tells the truth, promises must be kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize instead of argue. Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry. He is always transparent, always sincere.


And he trusts God. Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when he comes to Christ, he comes as a child. Kevin seems to know God - to really be friends with Him in a way that is difficult for an "educated" person to grasp. God seems like his closest companion.


In my moments of doubt and frustrations with my Christianity, I envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith. It is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some divine knowledge that rises above my mortal questions. It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with the handicap. I am. My obligations, my fear, my pride, my circumstances--they all become disabilities when I do not trust them to God's care.


Who knows if Kevin comprehends things I can never learn? After all, he has spent his whole life in that kind of innocence, praying after dark and soaking up the goodness and love of God.


And one day, when the mysteries of heaven are opened, and we are all amazed at how close God really is to our hearts, I'll realize that God heard the simple prayers of a boy who believed that God lived under his bed.


Kevin won't be surprised at all!” (Author Anonymous)

Watering the Grassroots

Just returning from a three-day trip to St. Louis, I feel a little bit like Pooh-—with a head stuffed with too much fluff-—and Alice in Wonderland—-with a head filled with overwhelming wonder. Each and every time I go to this forum (I started attending eight years ago) I come back with a head literally swimming with confusion and uncertainty, along with some newfound conviction...and righteous indignation to boot.


Topics ranged from our Missile Defense System to our Trade Imbalance to Job Losses to Asia to the Overmedication of Today’s Children. Hardly light material. Heated lectures were presented by Congressman and Justices, by physicians and lawyers. Most attendees were like-minded, though certainly, one could only expect that when faced with issues charged with this level of controversy and intensity, 400 folks from all walks of life—-in all age brackets, from virtually every state in the union-—we wouldn’t always be on the exact same page.


And indeed, as I sat in on my very first session, one trying-to-be-helpful attendee asked me to consider putting Nick (who’s battling leukemia) on the best-selling “Natural Cures” protocol, urging me to give up the tried-and-tested chemo regimen of forty-plus-years in the making in favor of this most recent fad. Before I could say “nobutthankyouverymuch,” I found my girlfriend grabbing me by the elbow as I felt the words “Because he’s a quack” forming quite boldly on my tongue.


Ahhh! Controversy. Not exactly something which I thrive on, but something which I acknowledge as necessary for social, economic and political progress.


I happen to hate conflict. Perhaps my distaste stems from a long-forgotten childhood experience; perhaps from pure birth order (I’m that proverbial peacemaking middle-child); perhaps it’s written in my genetic code. I do not have that lawyer’s instinct for argument, for slicing and dicing minutia, and for debating every fine point of every law on the books. I am-—as my 81-year-old “adopted” mother and conference roommate described—-much too much of a free spirit. For while I admit to heartily enjoying a good debate, I abhor intense conflict, and hate dotting all of those nasty little “i’s” and crossing those silly little “t’s.”


Not so, these presenters. They wallowed in detail. Delighted in controversy. They argued their points with passion, hoping to ignite in each one of us their urge to move their messages forward.


It is this recognition of the power of grassroots movements that impressed me this weekend. Recognition of the power of one. Of research backed by belief. Propelled by vision or divine intervention or spiritual guidance. Powered by energy and enthusiasm and determination and persistence.


Most of the world’s great movements were fueled by anger or by righteous indignation. At social injustices. Economic imbalances. Medical emergencies. Political persecution. And many of these were pushed into the national consciousness by the power of one individual who caught hold of a vision and boldly moved forward.


Amidst the “overwhelmingness” of your everyday reality: of lunchboxes and homework drills, nursings and night duty, carpools and booster clubs: seek involvement in issues of monumental proportion. Involvement not only ejects you out of your own personal problems; it injects you into the national (if not universal) equation. Something, sometime, will hit a nerve somewhere in you. Perhaps you’ve faced a life experience which has left an indelible imprint such that non-involvement would seem heretical. Dealing with childhood cancer has had that impact on me; I will be serving as a goodwill ambassador for the Make-A-Wish foundation. And Nick is contemplating medicine-—for the first time ever-—as he ponders the why’s and how’s of his personal journey with leukemia. My husband has unusually high sympathies for the plight of immigrants, as his own family fled Cuba under Castro’s regime; we now support families facing similar circumstances.


Each of us faces unique combinations of experiences, abilities and personalities which shape us into persons of unique forces for good. Working at causes far larger than those faced by our own families help us shift our focuses away from the dilemmas and concerns facing us on a close and daily basis into a much larger circle of concern. Expanding this circle, while seemingly exhausting and arduous during this overwhelming child-rearing phase, has potential for consequences of epic proportions.


I encourage you to embrace indignation. And anger. Pain. Suffering. To water the grassroots movement stirring within you. And to allow it to sprout into something which might benefit the whole world. It seems like an improbable scenario. One too far removed from the routine, mundane reality of your workaday world. But somehow, somewhere, you have your place in it. I know that I do. I wish you the joy of discovery; simply attending a national conference always has this effect on me. I wish you participation in the fulfillment of your destiny.


Blessings on your week,


Carolina


A Nick Note


With the ink on last week’s Nick-is-doing-great-Nick-Note still wet, we endured a night of horror as we watched helplessly while muscle spasms sent Nick screaming in pain. A middle-of-the-night trip to Yale Hospital’s ER-—something which he fought to the end-—was aborted around 4:30 AM when the cocktail of tylenol-codeine-advil-benadryl finally kicked in. A mid-week visit to his doc proved that it was “only” muscular pain, something which we could nothing to avoid nor to help. Intense chemo sometimes does that. Relief came by the end of the week, and Nick was able to enjoy a weekend visiting friends, virtually pain-free. Today brings the start of a new four-week round, the last of this year’s intense chemo protocol. It includes a spinal tap as well as a powerful combination of three chemo drugs, all of which make him vomit more than I care to describe. We have, indeed, thrived on your prayers on his behalf. As always, we continue to ask you to keep Nick in your prayers, until his full healing has been revealed to all of our senses.

Chasing the Blues Away

The news of Chantal’s death hit me hard. It came on Friday, as I was desperately trying to chase away the predictable “back-to-school-blues,” along with feelings of hopelessness and helplessness about the victims of Hurricane Katrina…not to mention being overwhelmed by our current situation (our own fight with childhood cancer). To top it off, my husband had been out of the country for a couple of weeks on business, missing the start of the school year, the start of the multitude of activities which always coincide with such, and the start of a new round of chemo for Nick. I was physically exhausted from round-the-clock parenting duties. The many hats I’d worn-—chauffeur, cook, dishwasher, laundress, secretary, accounts payable manager, and head cheerleader-—were being tossed up into the air in frightening displays of bad juggling. A crash felt inevitable, along with a deep sense that the threatening storm cloud of “the blues” would over-run any feelings of optimism or cheerfulness which I was trying so hard to muster.


But the news of her death, instead of snapping me out of my funk, seemed to plunge me further into it. It certainly hit immediately, as one would expect an untimely death to do. I sat at my laptop, where the news of her death reached me first, not only grief-stricken, but profoundly angry for even allowing myself to experience “the blues” for even one more minute. I loathed my emotional state, yet I felt unable to crawl out of it.


Chantal was a new friend, a darling child ten years-old whom we’d met in the chemo clinic, where she was being treated for leukemia, along with our son, Nick. She’d been recovering perfectly well, having endured a bone marrow transplant with a perfect match (a rare and cherished longing for someone in that situation); her spirits were always bright, even when the drugs made her weak, nauseous and sickly-pale; and she radiated a sweet spirit, oftentimes completely unbeknownst to her, and even when she didn’t feel up to being particularly sweet. Her personal battle was nothing short of heroic. By simply showing up, she exuded inspiration to me and to everyone else in the clinic.


Yet it shouldn’t take the death of a child-—one which I cannot understand no matter how hard I try-—to chase away the blues. One should be able to just “snap out of it” at the mere click of the fingers. Right? But that’s not what experience and observation tells me. From the emails of my readers-—as well as perusals of editors of woman’s magazines, blogs and newsletters in virtually every cross-section of the western world—-“feeling overwhelmed” ranks at the top of moms’ lists. It is now nearly universal to feel overwhelmed with motherhood. Accompanying feelings of despair, desertion and depression are the “new norm.” Moms, trying to juggle the demands of “perfect parenting” (a misnomer in every sense of the word) along with careers outside of home, community service, the demands of aging parents and husband’s schedules’, can hardly find time for self-preservation. For balanced nutrition and daily doses of exercise and fresh air. Artistic expression and creativity get thrown out the window, along with dreams of “self-actualization or self-advancement. It’s as if we’re “on call” with the buzz of a cell phone or the beep of an email system. We’re needed by everyone, everywhere, all the time.


When the cruel winds of life blow particularly strongly, how do we maintain the fortitude to not only get up in the morning, but to move forward with grace, dignity and that all-too-forgotten imperative, creativity?


Acknowledge that grieving is a totally different emotional process than depression, mere frustration, or feelings of being completely overwhelmed. Everyone endures the grieving process at one point or another. It is both painful and persistent while experiencing it. For days or weeks or months or years. Allow yourself to go through the process, so that healing can take place.


Look up. Then out. The Psalmist proclaims: “I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, the Lord which made heaven and earth.” Seek comfort in your Creator, even when life doesn’t make any sense. My physical, earthly life gives me little by way of comfort in the death of infants and children. I don’t yet have much-needed comprehension of those mysteries. Only by looking up, and pleading for some sort of help, do I find rest in my soul. Prayer comforts, heals, and guides. Prayer works. Even when our questions seem unanswered and our cries seem unheard.


Seek solace in bestest friends. Girlfriends have a way of helping one sort out life’s worst nightmares. They soothe wounded spirits, aching hearts and ruffled feathers. My girlfriends balance me. Keep your friendships intact, so that when the storms come-—as they will-—you have others on whom to lean.


Replace reactivity with activity. Reacting to horrible news with pure emotion is needed, at least in those first few minutes. But at some point, it’s important to make the leap from pure reaction to action. Be it cooking dinner for someone in crisis to arranging flowers to brighten someone’s day; action begets optimism. It might not happen instantaneously, but it will happen in time. The best antidote for “the blues” is—and has always been—physically moving outside of oneself.


Certainly, serious emotional crises call for a different course than do everyday, run-of-the-mill “blues.” Monthly hormonal swings do, indeed, qualify as “run-of-the-mill” by any woman’s measure (even if they do not register as such by your husband’s). As do excessive carpooling, numerous trips to the pediatrician and the grocer, or visits to the elementary school principal. Let’s face it: chocolate therapy and retail therapy usually provide just the right fix for all of the above. I’m the first to admit: a long day at the chemo clinic invariably finds me opening a dark chocolate bar and out-of-the-closet indulgence, square by square. And “run-of-the-mill blues” are able to send me for a retail therapy (or two). But they’re temporary fixes to the serious challenges which inevitably afflict us all. In the end, it is faith, hope and love that get us through the rough spots in life. Yes, these three remain. And in the end, it really is all about love. Perhaps it will be love that guides you during your week. I wish you all blessings...


Carolina

Reunions and Reconnections

“The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved.” Victor Hugo


Just one image of a tearful reunion validates the importance of human connections. We saw plenty of them after the 9/11 tragedy: frantic phone calls finding displaced loved ones; hospital visits locating injured and missing family; and the gift of time healing injuries and trauma of the highest order resulting in reunions of hope and harmony. All reunions bringing to life the love and laughter of the living.


Katrina has brought over two hundred of her own thus far. Our televisions bring these into our evening sofa ritual, rounding out the otherwise extraordinary degree of human suffering which we’ve witnessed as fearful bystanders over the course of these past two painful weeks.


Few things grip me more than watching the strong embrace of a reunion. Be it husband to wife, mother to child or friend to friend: the call to human love-—after love of our Creator-—is our highest calling. And when one hasn’t seen someone for awhile, or when the embrace is unexpected from fear of the unthinkable, that embrace is of the sweetest kind.


This weekend held my high school reunion a few hundred miles from home (I know you can do the math so I will not reveal which one!), and I contemplated attending until one of my dearest friends from my old hometown asked if she could come and visit for a few days during the exact same time. It would be a reunion of our own, as we had not seen each other for almost two years. Because we talk often on the phone, and email each other even more frequently, we were totally up to speed with each other’s lives. No new earth-shattering tidbits to unload; no new revelations to explore; no new experiences to reveal other than those of the previous week.


Morning coffee on the deck brought us both up-to-date on girlfriend chatter-—what with the seventy-degree near-perfect weather we’ve enjoyed, it could not have been a more perfect way to start the day—-and mutual friends’ comings and goings were put back on my radar screen, as were accounts of our friend’s kids, spouses, and in-laws and outlaws. Long walks and leisurely lunches in cafes normally reserved for birthdays and anniversaries; long car rides scouting out destinations heretofore reserved for special occasions; and late night pillow talk shared only once every couple of years…all accumulated into a memorable reunion with one of my favorite people in the world. And a spur-of-the-minute decision to go into New York City on Saturday could only be described to my husband-—who I did not see until Sunday morning—-as “imagine two giggly school-girls on MasterCard.” We smiled our way down Fifth Avenue with exceptionally good behavior, being ever-mindful of how much damage we really could inflict with plastic if we weren’t truly careful.


It is embarrassing to admit that I had not seen my own sister-in-law and her two children for about eight years until a reunion brought them to our home in Connecticut in July. That same week brought my cousin, whom I hadn’t embraced for seventeen years. I “scored” only slightly better with my own brother, whom I had seen two years ago when we lived in a home one house back.


Relocating to five different homes within four years-—corporate creatures we are-—has certainly exacted its toll. It’s a human toll. Oh sure: furniture always gets banged up during a move. Small items get lost (I still haven’t found three much-needed lampshades and we’ve been totally out of boxes for two years.) Carpets and wood floors get stained and scratched. Small pieces of jewelry slip out of boxes and bone china slips past road-weary fingers, getting cracked and chipped in the process.


But the human toll is far greater. Keeping human connections on solid footing while that magic carpet is being pulled out from under you requires near super-human strength indeed. What with calendars getting tossed into the garbage by the moving company’s (and moving boxes’) mandate; finances getting realigned by repairs, reconfigurations and renovations; and energy zapping hopes of artistic creation and recreation (or even procreation, for that matter)...travel to far-flung family and friends could only be described as pure luxury.


But reuniting with my long-lost family has given me pause. It’s forced me to think of ways in which I can mesh the overwhelming nature of motherhood: baseball, tennis and football practices and games; violin lessons and orchestra rehearsals; teacher conferences and school Open Houses; community volunteerism and church lay speaking; laundry stains and grocery line queues; vocabulary drills and middle school essay reviews...with the demands of keeping human connections on course. It’s forced me to think of ways in which I can keep friendships developed across five state lines intact, as well as ways in which I can grow those blossoming in my own backyard.


As the images of Katrina unfold this week, reunions of joy heighten our otherwise downtrodden spirits. The overwhelming nature of my own little world along with the overwhelming nature of this new world order, filled with memories of 9/11 along with tragedies in Madrid and London; the Asian tsunami along with fears of Ophelia; Iraq and Afghanistan; SARS and bird flu; $3 a gallon gasoline and the impending heating oil crises; leukemia and chemo: the dizzying complications of both first-world and third-world countries leave me feeling at once hopeless, hapless and helpless. In the end, it is family and friends-—reunions and reconnections—-which make creating a life worth living worth all of the effort which that entails.


All blessings,


Carolina

A Plea for Being Outrageous

Today's Quote

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." Hebrews 13:2


The lazy dog days of summer have officially ended; the sand has been vacuumed from the van’s floor mats; new shoes, clothing, pens and notebooks have been purchased; and classes have resumed.


Weeks of Newsletters have been planned; new products have been pitched; desk and files have been weeded out and cleaned up. I’m back in the saddle.


And then the images came: thousands of dehydrated, hungry, sleep-deprived hurricane victims, wading in putrid water with frightened babes on weary shoulders; cots, like dominoes, lined up in filthy, foul-smelling stadiums; busses spilling diesel fuel for destinations hundreds of miles from homes that no longer stand. Mothers crying out for lost children, husbands crying out for lost wives, and grandmothers crying out for life itself.


Out went my freshly-minted pearls of wisdom, along with desires for one last sneak to the beach and a weekend of self-indulgence.


My heart has been pierced by those images, and I have wrestled with that nausea-producing kicked-in-the-gut sensation since Friday, when I finally sat still long enough to fully absorb the devastation to our gulf coast.


One could not be fully human if she were not moved by the visuals portrayed via our media. These TV visuals became magnified because of my own visual of an hour or so before: returning from our son’s chemo clinic (where he is being treated for leukemia), and heading south on I-95 towards home, I watched thousands of cars and vans crawling out of the metro New York City area, heading north for some of New England’s wealthiest enclaves. Cape Cod, Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard and Watch Hill-—they all called for visitors and vacation-home-owners alike. The interstate was filled with work-weary travelers all seeking one last respite before the official start of fall. They hardly budged, these gas-guzzling vehicles; the highway was packed in all three lanes. Many would literally sit for hours, fuming with frustration at fellow drivers who would not move forward fast enough as well as by the soaring expense of their idling engines. I hate to presume, but, being that the risk is so slight, I will venture to say that most such travelers were well-fed, well-hydrated, well-dressed and well-heeled.


The contrast to the TV images of the next hour proved a glaring disparity so painful that, as if by centrifugal force, I found myself ejected off my down-filled sofa and onto my office chair, sending emails to the broadcast media, begging for answers to this rescue mission crisis. The image of cars and vans sitting in traffic en route to weekend cottages and second homes contradicted any sense of comprehension of the images of the convoy of military tanks and commercial buses (wading through bacteria-infested water) en route to makeshift shelters in cities hundreds of miles away.


How could we allow ourselves to sit idly-—let alone vacation heartily—-while our fellow citizens struggled for mere survival! Could we really lock up our weekend homes for the “off season” knowing that tens of thousands were now homeless?


I have nothing against home ownership…and certainly nothing against second or third homeownership, either. I am a bona fide capitalist, after all. But the contrast between the have’s and the desperate have-not’s is brutally stark, and it needs to be addressed in the most practical-—as well as in the most creative-—ways imaginable.


Be Sensible


It almost goes without saying that donating to the Red Cross or through your religious or community organization of choice is the safest and surest way to help relieve the suffering.


Or purchase a case of bottled water and drive it to a station set-up to handle goods and material donations. Many stations are scheduled for pick-up by the military for drop-off to the temporary housing areas.


Be Creative


Look at your material possessions in a new light: are you holding on to things that you know you’ll never use? Do you have multiples or bulk supplies of common, everyday items that should be put to use in this national emergency? Do you own a business or work in an industry whose products or services could be easily donated to the stricken?


Be Outrageous


Could you buy airline tickets for an entire affected family and fly them to your vacation home...and let them use it rent-free for those months during which it would otherwise be lying vacant? Could you adopt a family and take them in to your own home until they regain equilibrium? Do you own rental property which you could lend out? Could you lend them your second car?


It’s an almost outrageous plan. It would be inconvenient. Hospitality almost always is. It could be uncomfortable. Treating perfect strangers as family almost always feels that way. It would be disruptive. Deliberately turning one’s world upside down is never the natural state.


But the refugees would emerge forever changed.


As would you.


One thing that coping with childhood cancer has taught me is that life always carries unexpected turbulence. Just when you’re cruising at a comfortable altitude, something, seemingly out of nowhere, smacks you right in the face. It’s always inconvenient. Always uncomfortable. Always disruptive.


Hurricane Katrina came with a few days’ warning. But its devastation caught most everyone by surprise. Unexpected turbulence. None of us are immune. Some of us have witnessed far more than have others. And we’ve learned, in our struggle to regain altitude, that sitting idly by is just not acceptable.


I hope your heart has been similarly pierced. Perhaps its gaping holes will demand your attention. And a leap into the outrageous.


A Nick Note


Nick has seven more weeks of intense chemo to complete before he goes into the maintenance chemo part of his protocol for ALL leukemia. He’s handling it like a champ, despite the fact that his support group of best buddies have all left for college. Separated by not just miles, but by those first fresh college experiences, he’s a bit down-hearted. Feeling like he’s missing out, but resigned to the fact that there’s nothing he can do about it, he looks forward these next four months to chemo, chemo, and more chemo. We’ll be doing our best to keep him occupied and in good spirits, but it’ll be a challenge. Please continue to keep Nick in your prayers. We, of course, pray for his complete and total recovery.


It has been extremely touching to receive emails from readers-—most of whom I have never met—-telling me of how your family continues to keep Nick in your children’s daily prayers. I always pass these messages to Nick, and they truly hearten him as well. We simply cannot thank you enough for intercessing on his behalf.


A Quick Note


Several new ventures are in the works. One is proceeding with a high degree of probability, and will, hopefully, offer you even more tools for parenting. Coupled with ROCKET MOM!, the book, and this Newsletter, more resources coming shortly should set you on the right track. Give me a few more weeks to get that off the ground. Word on another book venture is just a few weeks away; I promise to keep you posted! Lastly, I’m hopeful that a possible new media opportunity will work out. (There’s that long-shot.)


Here at FourQ Press, I’m always working on projects that will help make you view your job as the most important one ever invented. As much, I’m working on tangible products towards that end...stay tuned.



A Helpful Note


I recommend with confidence, World Concern (based in the Seattle area) as an organization through which to channel support for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. You may direct inquiries to: www.worldconcern.com. Or email: Rebecca Sill. rebeccas@worldconcern.org

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
to move our grass-roots efforts forward. (If you wish to forward
excerpts only, please contact Carolina.)


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