Bitchin'

If you've been reading along for a while, you know Katie and I have an ongoing thing about calling each other bitch. For Christmas, she gave me a nightshirt with a picture of three dogs and the words "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch" embroidered below the pictures. (Pay attention--the embroidered part is going to be important in a minute here.)

Yesterday morning I woke and rambled into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I pulled my Bitch nightshirt over my head and faced the mirror to decide whether or not to wash my hair. My reflection made me laugh so hard I spit all over the mirror.

Must have been sleeping on my stomach, because sleep wrinkles of "Bitch. Bitch. Bitch." were impressed across my midsection. It looked like I'd been branded.

When I told Katie, she asked if I still believe in signs from God.

Bitch.

I mean that in the most loving way possible, of course.

A Bunch of Sew and Sews

Heard about a group of women who gather once a month to make quilts for kids in hospitals and signed up to participate. Made the 45-minute trek last night and what I found was more than worth the drive.

For seven years now, a rotating group of women has gathered in the back room of this quilt store once a month. They cut and sew and talk and laugh for hours. Most of the fabrics and supplies are donated. The laughter is free. Anyone who wants to help is welcome.

Worked all evening and came home with a stack of quilts to finish binding as well as a stack of fabrics to make into weighted blankets for children with autism. Somehow, these women found out that weighted blankets help some kids on the spectrum sleep better. They came up with a pattern and instructions and started recruiting people to make the blankets. The need is great—the waiting list to receive one of the blankets is many months long.

I love to sew, particularly for kids. But what I love even more is being in the company of women united for a cause. The collective spirit and energy and creativity in that room could power the rotation of the earth if need be. I left so full of enthusiasm you'd think I'd been mainlining adrenaline.

Can't wait to go back. I wants me some more of that.

Only Now

The family gathered at my sister's house on Saturday, along with friends we've known for more than 25 years, among them a young family with two boys: 5 and 7 years old.

After dinner, we convened in the front yard for a few fireworks. The little boys were ecstatic--they ran in circles, shouting "Best 4th of July EVER!!!" These little guys are so well behaved and polite, so much fun to be around that I stayed until the last popper popped, despite other invitations. Their enthusiasm was contagious, their delight so real that the sparklers sparkled brighter, the crackers cracked louder and the fizzes whizzed faster. Watching them transported me to the time my own children were equally thrilled with small things.

Yesterday was Meatloaf Monday. Mom and I reported for duty, as usual. Before I could start mixing and measuring, I had to take set up shop in a corner for a minute, using my computer and cell phone to run one last detail to ground and get a magazine article submitted. As soon as possible, I packed up my laptop, turned off my cell phone, and headed to the kitchen.

My mother was standing at the counter, lit up like a Christmas tree. Wearing a pink baseball cap, a lavender t-shirt, khaki capris and her brand-new tan Crocs with white ankle socks, she could have been any age at all. Actually, she looked ageless: so dear it's impossible to believe she's 75.

Several people were on vacation, so five of us produced meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn, and salad for more than 500. The kitchen was hot and the work fairly heavy for so few. Mom more than held up her end of the deal, slinging 10-pound sleeves of hamburger and 3-gallon containers of corn like they were nothing. She laughed and told stories that made others laugh. She wrung every bit of possible enjoyment out of the experience.

Neither those little boys nor my mother would describe what they were doing as "being in the moment."

No mantras. No meditations. No chants.

Only joy. Only love. Only now.

Growing a Pair

On Friday, I got an email telling me I am being recognized as a top contractor (among more than 6000) for an organization for which I freelance. The email asked me for a bio and a photo to be used in the newsletter and provided the bio of the other person who has received this recognition in the company's three-year history.

Kind of cool, right? Not if you're me. I skipped past the "good for me" part, directly into the "I don't have enough education" and "there's not a single picture I can send." From there, I leaped to "who are the other people if I'm among the best." Like Groucho, I kind of wonder about any club that would have me as a member.

Katie called as I was fretting about the bio and pic. Picking up on my distress, she asked what was going on. When I explained, she said, "Oh, Mom. Grow a pair. You're smart enough to get the award. Surely you're smart enough to write a decent bio."

When I grow up, I'm going to be as pragmatic as my darling daughter.

Hallelyur!

The pathology reports are back. The abnormal growth in Dad's lung is not malignant.

Let's aks Jesus!

Now that we know what it is not, we need to find out what it is. He'll have a PET scan next week to figure out what's next. The growth can't stay there--it's causing his lung to collapse and fluid to collect, which results in repeated pneumonia. But that's a problem for next week. Today, we sing and dance and give great thanks.

Thank you for your kind words of support, your prayers and remembrances. It all means more than you can know.

Love.

Commando

After I recovered from the divorce, I fell in love. Hard. That courtship and the years that followed remain some of the happiest of my life so far.

My new love and I took a canoe down the St. Croix River on the 4th of July. It was a memorable day, one where our picnic got rained out and I skinnydipped for the first time in my life. When I got back to my car to change out of my swimsuit, I discovered I’d forgotten to bring panties to wear with my dress for the dinner portion of our adventure.

With no other choice available, I went commando--the first time in my entire 40 years on the planet I’d stepped outside my own home without a full complement of underwear. It felt daring and dangerous, another step toward the new woman I was becoming. It became something of a theme: Over the next few years, I “forgot” my panties in a variety of memorable ways. (Once I let a pair sail out of an open convertible speeding through the night down Highway 1 in the Florida Keys. Always wondered who found them.)

And every single time I thought, My mother would absolutely die if she knew I went outside without panties. Die or Kill. Me. Dead.

Last night, Mom and I went over to swim in my sister’s pool. Deb showed up about an hour after she was supposed to meet us, just as we were getting out of the water. We got back in with her for a while, and by the time we left, Mom and I were both pretty well fried.

Changing in the little guest bath, I looked at my pile of clothes, thought, “Who cares,” and slipped into my running pants and a t-shirt sans undies. Just easier. I folded my panties and carefully tucked them into the bundle with my towel and wet swimsuit, thinking, Mom would die, but if I’m careful, she’ll never know the difference.

As we walked to the car, my 75-year-old Mom danced a funny little jig on the driveway. “Whatcha doing, Mom?”

“Well, I thought I lost my panties in Deb’s bedroom. I found ‘em after I got dressed, but I was just too tired to bother. And now…,” she lowered her voice, “I am outside without my panties. It feels kinda good.” She waggled her butt at me and laughed.

Shocked the pants off me. Or…it would have if I’d been wearing any.

Sheep vs. Goats

On the way to the farmer's market last week, Mom and I passed opposing factions demonstrating on opposite sides of a street in front of a Bible college. On one side stood a group of people waving signs like "God Hates Jews." These people were screaming and gesturing wildly.

On the other stood a group of people whose signs said things like "God Is Love." These people were standing quietly, firmly.



Dad and I had a long talk about God and heaven this weekend. He's worried about whether he's a sheep or a goat. Frankly, this makes me boiling mad. To imagine that you are or are not acceptable because you were or were not circumcised or were or were not raised in a particular faith or did or did not have water sprinkled on your head as an infant--any of it, all of it strikes me as well beyond absurd. It pains me that lessons from his childhood haunt Dad now.

After a lot of discussion, I finally told him this: Anything that creates an "us vs. them" scenario is from humans, not from God. We are all part of God's family, and God accepts and loves us all. As humans, we choose actions or attitudes that take us closer or further from God, closer or further from peace and love. But, as Carl Jung believed (quoting Desiderius Erasmus), "Bidden or unbidden, God is present."

There is no reason to scream or carry on. We can stand quietly in the sure and certain knowledge that God is love. For all of us. For each of us. Doesn't really matter whether we're sheep or goats: All are acceptable in God's sight.

Many paths. One God.