Thoughts on Going Silver

There's an adage that says you shouldn't grow out your natural hair color until you're ready to look your age. The truth is I've colored my hair for so long that when I started to think about growing it out, I didn't even know what my natural hair color was. I knew it wasn't the golden brown with two tones of blonde highlights that I'd been wearing, but my silver roots always seemed like a problem to take care of, not something I'd let flow out of my scalp.

Then I turned 65 and reality checked in with me. It pointed out that my silver roots were a clue to the color of my hair without dye. So obvious, right? I began to see that having totally silver hair might be really lovely and freeing.

I have a friend, Jenny MacLaggan, who is probably ten years younger than I am. She's lively, has great style, is in shape, and lots of fun. She cut her hair short and grew out her color, which turned out to be salt and pepper with a swath of white in front. It looks fabulous! And what about Michelle Abrams? She grew hers out and looks like she has relaxed into the fullness of her amazingly artistic, creative, intellectual self.

I also looked at my mom who has been complimented on her naturally platinum hair for as long as I can remember. She tells me things like, "A man at the restaurant today stopped to ask me if my hair color is natural, that it looks so beautiful." She's turning 93, so having white hair isn't totally unexpected, but it does look beautiful. So, I told myself, "Self, your hair might look gorgeous like your mom's if you give it a chance!" And while I don't want to look like my mom (since she's almost 93), and having men stop to talk about my hair in restaurants sounds awkward, I do admire her hair color.

I decided to give it a go. I looked at it as a midlife (if I live to be 130) opportunity for change. This would be a daring transformation that would cost me less than nothing. And if I didn't like it after I grew it out, my hair stylist would be thrilled to welcome me back to the coloring chair.

Six months ago I started the adventure and I'm so glad I did. It's true that I look my age, which is actually a relief because now I can embrace the years I've earned. Good for me that I'm 65! People say you're only as old as you feel, and I feel 65 - in the nicest possible way. I'm glad I no long have the pressure of trying to look like I'm younger than I am. I feel free to be my age and enjoy it, whatever that might look like.

Here are some thoughts to share with you on going silver. Ponder the wisdom, dear friends. Your roots might be trying to talk to you!

1.  Call your new hair color silver, not grey.
2.  Notice women with attractive silver hair and talk to them about it.
3.  Believe the fact that going silver is a trend, because it is!
4.  Don't give up until your color is all the way grown out; a short haircut helps.
5.  Enjoy not having roots! Yea!
6.  Buy clothes and makeup in colors that go with your new look.
7.  Rejoice over the time you're saving by not going to the salon every three weeks.
8.  Open a savings account for the money you're saving by not coloring your hair.
9.  Embrace the idea that you earned your silver hair.
10. Gather compliments by pointing out your silver hair to everyone in your life.
11. Have fun on your hair adventure!

Finding Words When Our Friends Were Murdered

Last month I was asked to say a few words at a luncheon for 200 women. The event took place just six days after a neighborhood couple, known and loved by many of us in the room, was murdered. Most of those who didn't know the two personally knew their extended family, so we all felt connected in heartbreaking ways with the family's tragedy.

I had a couple of days to prepare for the short talk but everything I thought of saying sounded trite and cliche and naive. Over the years I've had four close friends die of cancer. With each one there was time to reminisce, laugh, cry, and ultimately say goodbye. But murder has no process. It's shockingly sudden, senseless, lawless, and cruel.

As I struggled to find words, I wondered if what the group needed most was a safe place to sit together as a community and be sad. We needed a time and place to stop asking questions, speculating, analyzing - and grieve instead.

When I walked up to the podium the room fell silent. I can only describe the atmosphere as something like a . . . holy hush. It felt like God was infusing the room with comfort and peace. I think we were all hoping for someone to say something, anything, that would make us okay. Looking back, I'm not sure my simple words mattered as much as our collective tears and love.

I asked the family's permission to share my talk here, and I replaced their names with "friends" and "family". I hope this message will help someone who needs to know that in the worst of the worst of circumstances, life finds a way.

* * * * * * * * * *

We have a big Jacaranda tree in our patio with outstretched branches that create a purple canopy in the spring and summer. And sometimes, when I beg Morgan not to sweep, a beautiful purple carpet appears around its base.

I love our Jacaranda, but over the years its roots have made the patio uneven and dangerous to walk on. So a couple of weeks ago we called a stone mason to replace some of the bricks.

The first day the mason was at our house he called me outside to show me a section of Jacaranda root he had uncovered. It looked like the root had been growing along, as roots do, when it ran into a brick roadblock.

Maybe it stopped growing, or slowed for a while, but then it detoured around and through the tiny spaces between the bricks, and made its way back onto the main road again.

The root grew thick and strong after the roadblock, so strong that it made bricks pop up out of its way. I admired that, but at the same time I knew the sharply bent places that now dented the root would never be straight again. They would always be there - a reminder of the tight, squeezing detour the root had gone through.

I believe that by God’s amazing grace, our friend's family members are going to live through the excruciating nightmare of their loved ones' deaths, and all that will follow. But some remnant of the bent places in their hearts and souls will always remain.

As friends of the family, I hope three things:

That we will find ways to patiently respect the bent places in their lives (and in their extended families' lives), on their terms.

That we will hold onto the hope of rejoicing with them when places in their lives start to bloom again.

And that the heartbreak we feel today will lead us to love each of them in new and life-giving ways in days, weeks, months, and years ahead.

Henri Nouwen, the Dutch author and Catholic priest, wrote this:

“When we honestly ask ourselves which people in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.

The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing, and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”

Our friends were members of our neighborhood Catholic church, and so I thought they might like me to read this to you, from St. Paul’s letter to the church in Rome:

"I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Let's pray together –

Heavenly Father,

We feel overwhelmed with sadness and confusion at our friends' deaths. Please now overwhelm us with Your grace and mercy and love.

Please bring beauty and wholeness out of the pain and death that the family is experiencing. 

And please teach us to love the bent places in each other’s lives.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen

5 Things I've Learned About Myself While Remodeling

Before we started remodeling I spent months planning, researching, shopping, and selecting. I was determined not to be like the clueless homeowners on Property Brothers who select tile the day it's scheduled to be installed. My list was check, check, checked off before day one. But when the contractor and crew arrived and the project got going I realized my checklist should have included about 200 more items, none of which I foresaw.

People say you should plan on double the time and double the budget when you undertake a remodeling project. I would add to that, "Double double, toil and trouble!", as the witches in MacBeth chanted. It's a mystery to me why some of my friends "love, love, l-o-v-e!!" remodeling, while I catch myself wishing I could have my adorable little rundown 1952 cottage back. So what if the kitchen drawers didn't close, the cabinets were hanging askew, and my oven was 15" wide? So what if the Creeping Fig grew through the kitchen ceiling? My house was charming, deferred maintenance and all.

I thought a good title for this post would be, Self-Discovery and the Art of Remodeling. But on second thought maybe that should be the title of a book I write about my saga. If I write it, it'll start like this: five things I've learned about myself while remodeling.

1. I might be a tad overreactive. When I saw that the exposed beam across the kitchen didn't align with the exposed beam over the entry, I told our contractor to tear down the house and start over. I could tell he thought I was being a bit overreactive but he handled it well. Ideally I'd rather not confront everyone on everything all the time, but inaction in that moment would have led to long evenings reclining on the sofa, staring at misaligned beams, and dreaming about tearing down the house. Sometimes being a tad overactive is what it takes to escape a lifetime of regrets.

2. A few things matter a lot. Number one on that list is having everything level and centered. I told my contractor I would hire him if every sub who walked into my house had a level in his hand. So when the center point of the new peaked roof over the entry was off-center by half a board, I told them to take the whole thing off and rebuild it. In the past I might have talked myself out of doing something that bold. I probably would have tried to ignore the problem (see sofa realization above), but now I'm thinking, Look out, Hillary! I'm sure the Oval Office is already remodeled and the move to DC would be a piece of cake, especially since all my earthly goods are packed and in storage.

3. I like the idea of being in charge more than I like being in charge. Last year I told Morgan that I would agree to remodel (which I'd been stalling him on for about for 15 years), if I could be completely in charge. Naively, I was thinking more about the freedom to choose a farmhouse sink and glass front cabinets than the stress of selecting one color of white paint from 500 possibilities. Turns out there are some downsides to being a control freak.

4. Timeless trumps trendy. I would probably love having a blue stove and a painted Italian tile backsplash, but I chose a stainless steel stove and white tiles for the splash. Granite can be lovely, but I chose white quartz. In fact, everything is white or about to become white! I know that white is trendy in its own way but it represents something about my core self and temperament. (Oh wait! Maybe it represents my future in the White House!) I think I'll feel better having a white backdrop with moveable, changeable, color and pattern placed here and there - even if it means missing some beautiful permanent possibilities.

5. I whine. I left this self discovery for last because it's really too bad that I whine. I've started making a guest list for the open house we're planning for after the project is finished, and I decided to include all the people who have listened to me whine. It's going to be a huge party. I'm wondering why in the world I have a nagging bad attitude. We've been staying at our friends' condo at the bay, about two miles from our house. It's peaceful, small, bright and cheery. The beach is literally 30 steps away (I counted), our pets are happy, the neighbors are delightful. Seals, seagulls, giant blue herons, and egrets share the beach with us. I could live here forever! Meanwhile, my fabulous designer/project manager/sister does everything for me up at the house while I escape the dust and chaos and decision making. I guess my whining, anxiety, doubt and regret are all about learning to let go and move on. And that, dear friends, is probably my biggest lesson of all. It's time to treasure what has come before, and at the same time turn the page and embrace the next chapter of my life. I know it will be worth it in ways I haven't even imagined. As 100% of everyone I know says, It will be beautiful when it's done! 

Maximize Your Life

The other day I was in the garden watering pots of wilted shasta daisies when I noticed my husband scrounging through the shed, gathering up speciality car products to detail his brand new car. It made me think how helpful and interesting it would be to write about people who detail their brand new cars. People who even think of detailing their brand new cars. So I put down the hose and walked over to the shed.

"I'm thinking of writing a blog entry called Maximize Your Life, based on what I've learned from you." It's better to let Morgan know when he's about to appear in print or in a talk, just in case someone surprises him on a Saturday morning at Peet's with the news.

He chuckled, paused for a few seconds, glanced up at me and said, "You should put all your blog entries together and send them to a publisher."

This, dear readers, is the heart and soul of the art of maximizing: take anything that looks pretty good - your car, your wife's blog, your business, your surf equipment - and make it into the best it could possibly be. Plunge ahead against all odds and what the rest of us would consider rational thought, against the doubts and opinions of others, against the uncertainties of this world. The glass is not just half full, it's on the verge of overflowing - even if only you can see it.

Several years ago Morgan and I went to a Strengths Finder class. We each bought a book and looked inside to find the access codes that took us to the online test. The results of the test would indicate our personality strengths which, we were promised, would be useful in business, leadership, team building, and life in general. I liked the "life in general" category; Morgan liked the rest.

On the back cover of the book I saw that Strengths Finder had been on the best sellers list in the New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and Business Week, and had become a standard in personality profiling. So we took the test and identified our top five strengths. Then we read our handouts, listened to the conference speaker, and participated in small group activities. In the end Morgan and I looked at each other and admitted that we had indeed gained better knowledge of ourselves and garnered new insight into our behavior, talents, and . . . strengths.

I remember three of my strengths: Communication, Connectedness, and Ideation. All three focused around words, ideas, and seeing connecting links between things. Morgan's list sounded much more practical and useful: Achiever, Analytical, and Maximizer. While it all sounded exactly like him, it was the word maximizer that made all the puzzle pieces of my life suddenly fall into place. "People strong in the Maximizer theme focus on strengths as a way to stimulate personal and group excellence. They seek to transform something strong into something superb."

For example: the first thing my mom said this morning when I picked her up for her hair appointment was, "Look what I found in the pouch of my walker after Morgie dropped me off last time." I peeked into the walker and saw two big spray bottles: High Gloss Hot Shine Tire Spray and Quik Mist & Wipe Detailer. Some of you might be thinking, "How can I get some of those? They sound amazing!" The rest of us might be thinking, "Really?"

I asked Morgan about it and he explained that in the trunk of his car he has a organizer with car products, surf gear, a couple of hats, and some emergency equipment. He said that while the walker was in the trunk, the spray bottles must have slipped into it. Does that sound unlikely to any of you? My suspicion is that while my mom was very slowly getting out of the front seat Morgan opened the trunk, got out the walker, grabbed the spray bottles and a microfiber cloth, quickly did a little hot shine on the tires, and mist & wipe on the back of the car. He realized he'd better get around to the passenger door with the walker, so he quickly stashed the spray bottles - but in his hurry he stuck them in the walker pouch instead of the trunk organizer.

I have benefitted enormously from Morgan perfecting the art of maximization. Sometimes it drives me a little crazy but I love how it's a one man job and I don't have to get involved. While he maximizes I have space and time to talk, connect, think, write and dream. I can go for a walk, grab a cup of coffee, and watch in amazement as he solves complex business problems, makes the most of every opportunity, works like play and plays like work.

The only thing in the back of my car right now is a crumpled, sandy beach towel and piles of dog fur that magically reappear every time Morgan maximizes my car. The good thing is that in some mysterious ways our strengths work together to strengthen each other. His maximizing is intriguing to me, alluring, and gives me stories to tell. My storytelling is entertaining to him, mystifying, and reminds him that there are always more products waiting for him in the trunk of his car.

Life Lessons from My Grandson

Our daughter and her five-year-old son came to visit this month from London. Their family always makes the trip during the holidays when English winters press in, so this summery adventure was a whole new experience for young Oliver. "Is this the same San Diego I have been to before?" "Are you sure, Mommy?" "Am I dreaming, Mommy, or am I awake? I can't even believe I'm here!"

Welcome to paradise, dear Ollie-O with your precious English accent. This is where morning clouds burn off before Sesame Street is over, daytime temps are in the mid-70s, ocean water is 69, sunsets are bright and beautiful, and balmy evenings wrap up the day. And this is where Gramsie is waiting to treat you right.

I thought it was the best visit ever, and I'm grateful they endured the eleven hour flight to get here. Our time together brought back treasured memories of my summers growing up too. I'm sure I have photos from back in the day that are replicas of the ones I just took of Oliver. Summer delightfulness, full of the things I never meant to forget --

1. Take off your shoes 

On their way here Ashley told Oliver he wouldn't have to wear shoes in San Diego because it would be nice and warm. So when they disembarked at customs, he took off his shoes and never put them back on. "You said, Mommy!" 

That was fine with all of us. We never wore shoes in the summer when we were little and neither did our kids. Our family has always preferred to burn our feet on scorching hot pavement until callouses develop a few weeks into the season. "Run for the pickle weed! There's some shade! Pick me up! Ow ow ow! Jump on this beach towel!" It's a summer ritual and Oliver understood its importance even before he got out of the airport.

I haven't gone shoeless much in recent years. I pay for pedicures to get rid of callouses, not build them up. I don't want to step on anything sharp or get stung by a bee. But after three weeks of living with a gleefully barefooted boy whose self-imposed foot torture didn't push him to put on his flip flops, I felt called to set my shoes aside, at least now and then.

2. Go in the ocean

It's an easy walk down the hill from our house to the beach. But until young Mr. Summer arrived on the scene I don't think I'd been in the ocean for two years. My usual list of reasons: the water temperature is below 68 degrees. There's kelp. It's sting ray season. Jellyfish season. Tide is too high. Great White shark sighting. The path is slippery. Grownup fun-quenchers.

Oliver's first encounter with the Pacific Ocean was entirely different. On day one of their visit we piled into the car and headed to OB, Tower 2. Ashley and I found a place to spread our towels, open my beach chair, and put sunscreen on each other's backs. While we settled in, Oliver, in his new Hawaiian print trunks and bright yellow and black rash guard, stood facing the ocean, transfixed. After a long look he laughed out loud and ran down the beach right into the water. For the rest of the day Ashley and I took turns braving the waves with him. He laughed and screamed and got knocked down countless times by waves that broke over his head. He proved himself a true beach kid, just like his mom. He had salt water up his nose, sand in his trunks, and seaweed wrapped around his legs. And he had a huge smile on his face.

My family spent every Sunday of every summer at the beach where my dad grew up bodysurfing. Oliver brought those treasured memories back for me. Sitting on the beach with him I could almost taste the plums my mom tucked in our picnics and the orange sodas we drank at the end of the day. I remembered the feel of the ridges on the inflatable rafts that bounced us into shore on the biggest waves of the day. There were memories of my Dad teaching me to body surf and how to spot riptides; and images of the elegant drip castles that were washed over by the incoming tide. That reckless beach joy drew me back and I realized it's all still there for the taking.

3. Embrace your age

Oliver told almost everyone he met that he's five and three quarters. He's proud that he's turning six. He knows that older is better, bigger, stronger, smarter, and closer to being allowed to watch Jurassic Park. I hadn't thought of aging in quite the same way but now I've reconsidered.

Oliver: "Are you really old?"

Gramsie: "I'm not that old."

Oliver: "Well you look really old."

Gramsie (laughing): "I need to look old enough to be your grandmother."

Oliver (taking a closer look): "Oh."

I'm pretty sure that was a compliment, at least that's the way I took it. I feel honored to think that I fit nicely into Oliver's "older" category. That's exactly where I want to be - in a healthy, vibrant, fun, grandmotherly kind of way. I told him I get to watch Jurassic Park and Jaws too and he was pretty impressed.

4. Relish your mornings 

My friend and I still walk every morning at 7:00 and on the way home we stop by Peet's for a coffee. On occasion we get concerned that we've turned into idle women seeking purpose, but mostly we chat with neighbors, watch babies grow into toddlers, and entertain the baristas.

Oliver knew that every time I got home from my walk I'd have a kid's cocoa in hand. He was always sitting right in the middle of the couch in his pajamas with his teddies and blankies next to him in a big pile, hair in an adorably matted mess. He was barely able to look up at me because he was busy phonetically spelling the secret word of the day on Super Why!, but he'd take his cocoa, say thank you and open the lid to make sure there was chocolate dust on top.

I know Oliver's mornings aren't like that at home in London. No television shows and cocoa to start the day, but that's what made his mornings here so . . . delicious. No guilt, no worries, just the confidence that he was where he should be in the moment.

I'm delighted that Oliver knows how to relish his mornings when he has a chance, and he does it to perfection. It's a luxury to have a predictable time to pause and enjoy the day before it officially starts. I knew I liked that kid.

5. Climb a tree

There are three big juniper trees in our front yard, perfect for climbing. Whenever Oliver felt bored or stressed or tired, or just on a whim, he told Mommy he was going outside to climb a tree. Scrambling up to the top, and hidden by the needlelike leaves, he'd ask me, "Did Mommy climb this high when she was little?". There was something that felt so right about sitting on that upper motorcycle branch, revving his motor and pretending to zoom off on a race. He knew he needed a little space to recharge - or just have fun - and he found it in a safe place nearby, above the rest of the world, with a view.

I'm going to start doing that more often - probably not by climbing a tree. But I have places I like to sit  and dream and think and pray: at the lighthouse up the street, on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, on my back deck. I can't believe I'm being reminded to pause and reflect by a busy five-year-old, but Mr. Summer is a pretty special guy.

Pretty Gross But I Lived Through It

Yesterday I finally went in for a colonoscopy. Parts of it were pretty gross but I lived through it. Why I waited so long to have it done is a mystery and a true confession rolled into one.

At my last annual checkup, Dr. Lischke said, "So, have you had a colonoscopy?" Unfortunately he has asked that same question, with exactly the same wording - So, have you had a colonoscopy? - yearly for way too long, and my lame excuses have varied little. I told him that getting a colonoscopy was on my list but I hadn't gotten it done yet because I lost the last two referral cards he'd given me. Then to support my tenuous position, I rattled off multiple semi-valid reasons for avoiding the test: travel, busy life, family obligations. I could have added jury duty, but I didn't actually show up when I was called last year, so that didn't qualify. I cringed at how, once again, I must have sounded unbelievably flakey. He looked at my chart and replied, "Well, let's see, you're only thirteen years late."

In that moment I told myself that I wouldn't go back for my annual exam until I had gotten the colonoscopy. I would set a personal deadline and just do it. Still I stalled around and around to the point that whenever I noticed colonoscopy on my list I imagined the gastroenterologist saying, "If you had come in ten years ago, no wait, thirteen years ago, we could have saved your life."

Two months ago, which was about six months after I missed this year's annual checkup with Dr. Lischke because I still hadn't gone for the colonoscopy, my brother and his family came down from Idaho for a beach vacation. Our extended family gathered for dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Leucadia and I sat next to my cousin, Eric. I hadn't seen Eric for awhile, and I asked how things were going. He said, "Did you hear that I have colon cancer and I just finished my third round of chemotherapy?" Then he said the words I'd been running from for thirteen years, "Have you had a colonoscopy? You really need to do it. It's really important."

So after thirteen years I finally called Dr. Lenz's office, made an appointment, went to the preliminary office visit, and scheduled the procedure for one month later. They had an opening that same Wednesday but I couldn't quite get myself to go for it. Still, at long last I had an appointment on my calendar.

During the month leading up to the colonoscopy I asked thirteen friends if they'd had the procedure. I was hoping for reassurance that I wasn't the only one avoiding it, but it turned out I was the only one. Everyone else had seen it as a routine test and had gotten it done when they turned fifty. A couple of them had already had it done twice. Each one said the prep the night before was awful, but the procedure itself, under sedation, was nothing at all. They were right, of course. The new and improved cleansing drink the night before was just five ounces and tasted like Tang - that orange powdery drink mix. It was followed by five glasses of clear liquid over the next five hours - and diarrhea of course, which was . . . cleansing. The actual colonoscopy was effortless, the people who took care of me were lovely, and thankfully all was well and healthy up there in my intestines where no one had ever looked.

But in the recovery area where the beds are separated by a thin curtain, I heard the guy next to me get his results. The nurse told him he had so many polyps in his intestines that the doctor was unable to remove any of them. There were polyps upon polyps, and several were flat, on the wall of the intestines. She showed him the photos and said they would refer him to a surgeon. "You will need surgery," she said. He was silent. I'm guessing polyps don't grow overnight and I wondered how long he had postponed getting the test.

If I had gone in for the colonoscopy thirteen years ago I wouldn't have had to: have it on my list, quietly haunting me all that time; face Dr. Lischke with dread every year as he repeated the same question; come up with excuses for avoiding the test; and worry that I had colon cancer.

I'm guessing that most of you who are over fifty have already had a colonoscopy and you're reading this as simply my personal true confession. Hopefully none of you will ever be like the guy on the other side of the curtain who got the bad news. Or live in the kind of avoidance that adds a layer of stress to your life, and one more item to your to-do list.

But let me know if you're stuck in the shadowy place where I lived for thirteen years. I get it and maybe I can encourage you to step out of the guilt and worry and step into the endoscopy office. I have to say the prep was pretty gross but overall it really wasn't that bad. Today I feel relieved that I finally did it and relieved that I don't have cancer. And really proud of myself for getting it done. Dr. Lischke will be shocked - but he'll probably try to be professional about it and not fall off his chair.

Kind of makes me wonder what other things in my life I've been putting off for thirteen years?

Sea Glass Girl

I love sea glass - smooth, colored, old, rare these days. It has to be the real thing though, the kind that has a found treasure feel to it, not just broken glass from last summer. A piece of sea glass is the detail of a story almost lost but always meant to be found. Maybe it was a part of a champagne bottle left behind after a sunset marriage proposal. Or a beer bottle that kids tossed under a pier at low tide. Or maybe it was a small vial of poison silently sipped by a desperate lover before walking hopelessly into the sea, her gossamer gown flowing, aglow in the moonlight. Probably that. 

Whether the original vessel was tossed out, smashed in anger, shattered on the bow of a new boat at its christening, dropped on the rocks, tossed overboard, or taken down with a sinking ship - one way or another it found its way into a watery grave. But then, as if joining a choreographed salt water dance, the glass fell into the rough and tumble of the ocean where rocks and coral and sand transformed it. Jagged edges were smoothed and polished, and a soft patina replaced the former sharp clarity and color. Years and miles and tumbles later, some of the glass was tucked safely into the sand of the shore by a final tide, half hidden by kelp and driftwood, waiting for treasure seekers. 

We went on a fall cruise to the northeastern U.S. and Canada a couple of years ago. It was fun until wild winds and 21 foot swells overtook us. Even that was exciting and dramatic until a rogue wave knocked our ship silly, leaving us listing at a 45 degree angle. Pianos slid off stages, food and dishes flew all over the place, the pools emptied. After that close call, Morgan and I went on a lovely, tranquil walk on a rocky beach near Bar Harbor, Maine. And there they were - pieces of sea glass waiting for us with hidden stories of endless storms and calms.

I guess we all feel like Sea Glass Girls sometimes. What we imagined to be the leading story of our lives was crushed and tumbled and is being remade, but maybe we're emerging with smoother edges and lovelier patinas. When things aren't as clear as we thought before, it seems that the mystery is creating depth in us. And even when we fight against it the fight is good and worthwhile and life giving. We're all in it together too, the dance of life. Look around and breath it in: we care about you. I care about you.


What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived - these are the things God has prepared for those who love God. (1 Corinthians 2:8-9)

Don't talk to me... I'm texting you!

I go out to lunch with our son every couple of weeks and sometimes I pick him up at his local coffee house instead of his apartment. It's pretty routine but one day last month as I was pulling up to the coffee house, a girl stepped off the curb and started to walk right in front of my car.

My car is a quiet little hybrid so people don't always hear me coming. Often in parking lots I get stuck driving behind pedestrians who are moseying along with no idea that I'm even there. So I figured that's what was going on with this girl. But then I noticed she was texting, had earbuds in her ears, and was completely oblivious to everything around her. I didn't want to honk since she was so close and I thought it would scare her to death. I considered shouting from the window or jumping out of the car to wave her off. But just as I was deciding what to do, she walked right smack dab into the front corner of my car. She looked up briefly, changed course ever so slightly, and continued walking across the street, texting and listening to music.

That bothered me but this was even worse. Yesterday late afternoon I went the store to pick up a couple of things for dinner, and I heard a woman with a loud voice taking a business call. Her cart was half full and parked askew by the frozen foods, blocking the aisle. Standing next to her was a little girl with her hands on the cart handle, waiting and watching her mom.

I'm not sure why our electronics madness is suddenly breaking my heart, but it seems like in so many ways it's crowding out the things I treasure in life. Relational connections, physical touch, eye contact, books with pages. When I was in London in September I started chatting with Ashley while checking my emails. She paused for a second and said, "I'm sorry, I don't talk to people when they're using electronics." That was probably the wisest thing I've heard anyone say in a long time. Why would I want to look at emails when I could have an in-person conversation with my daughter who lives a world away?

Someone told me recently about a family that has decided to put their electronics in a basket as they walk in the front door. When you think about it, we all have to drop our electronic devices in bins on the conveyor belt when we go through airport security, so we know it's physically possible to let go of them. Maybe it's the emotional component that keeps us attached and addicted. It's so much the way of our lives that quitting isn't really an option, is it?

Last night I asked Morgan what he thought would happen if suddenly, in a flash, all electronics disappeared. Poof! He said, "I think we'd revert to being cavemen." And cavewomen. And caveteens and cavetweens and cavekids and cavetoddlers and cavebabies. Cavebabies!

Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe we're currently living in personal caves where our only connection with the outside world is through our electronic devices. It doesn't matter that our caves are dark and silent because our devices are backlit and have built-in speakers.

I'm not anti-electronics at all. I have an iPhone, an iPad, and a MacBook Air. If I didn't have my phone Lynn couldn't have texted me this afternoon: "I'm at your gate... let me in it's raining!" If I didn't have my laptop I couldn't skype with Ollie-O and see his latest Lego creations. I'm pretty sure that having all of my electronics has made my life - in some ways - better, smarter, more fun, safer, and more creative.

But it's none of the above when I sit for an hour in the living room playing Words With Friends with my husband who is lying on the couch opposite me. Now and then he'll shout, "Ha! Take that, JBNease5!" but that doesn't really qualify as a conversation with me. It makes me feel left out. I do it too: taking phone calls when I'm out with someone because I'm sure the person calling me can't wait, it might be an emergency, or nearly possibly maybe an emergency. And if I read a text I know my reply will be so quick that no one will even notice I'm staring at my phone.

Truth is, I regularly text or email my friends instead of talking to them. Quicker, easier, click. I send people little red hearts instead of telling them with my voice how much they mean to me. Cute, clever, click. I don't want to do that anymore. It's lonely and disconnecting to be with people who tell you to wait a minute while they talk, text, play with, or email other people. I'm thinking of being a trailblazer instead. Maybe I can start an "iFast" movement where for one day a week we all agree to put our electronics in a basket at our front doors and fast from using them inside our houses. Maybe I can even get a corner on the "iBasket" market!

Wherever You Go There You Are

      In the early 1970s one of my favorite life philosophies was Wherever you go there you are. Long before it was the title of a book on eastern mindfulness meditation, it was the catch phrase of wanderer-at-heart students who focused on living in the moment. It was the stuff of late night discussions on the meaning of life and the existence of the universe. Evenings that usually ended with midnight runs to VG Donuts in our VW bugs followed by all-nighters chasing early morning paper deadlines. 

As a graduation gift my parents gave Morgan and me round trip plane tickets to Mexico City. It was a generous and thoughtful idea, a great opportunity to relax at a charming bougainvillea covered boutique hotel where we could lounge around the pool in our hammocks with frozen lemonades in hand. But instead we cashed in our tickets, jumped on a dusty, creaky Mexican train and headed south, destinations unknown. Our train compartment had worn red velvet upholstery with leather trim, and polished mahogany window frames. There was a toilet and tiny sink. I'm pretty sure it was exactly like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly minus Clint Eastwood.

It was one of those formational experiences that led to the discovery of my inner five-star resort self, but at the time I figured that wherever I went there I was -- even if it was stifling hot, sticky, and smelly. Every single day of the trip I wore a summery white cotton dress with bright flowers stitched on the bodice, with my red Dr. Scholl's sandals. I might have enjoyed the two weeks better if I'd taken a few more things in my little day pack but I didn't want to lug anything around. Minimalist travel perfected.

Morgan loved everything about the trip. He brought me roses from local markets before I woke up in the morning. He ordered Huevos a la Mexicana and freshly squeezed juice for breakfast; sipped cold Carta Blancas under umbrellas scattered around town plazas diffusing the noontime heat; and munched on fresh giant shrimp by moonlight. He explored ruins and relics and perfected his Spanish. It was worth getting devoured by mosquitoes at a hidden cove because turquoise water lapped coral sand beaches. And getting "the touristas" was just part of the adventure. In so many ways he was -- and always will be -- a romantic adventurer at heart.

Today I'm sitting on a United Airlines flight from London to San Diego via Chicago. I bought extra legroom, no one's sitting next to me, and the plane is only half full. I have on my noise canceling headphones, cozy cashmere socks, and I'm reading Andre Agassi's autobiography on my iPad.

It's trendy these days to complain about the act of traveling, but I bet few of those complainers traveled hardcore like we did back in the day: no money, no baggage, no plans, lots of adventure. The true wanderers-at-heart might think of grumbling when the flight attendant says chicken or beef? but then they remember and catch themselves.

Personally I can't think of anything to whine about right now. I'm so grateful I got to go on this trip. I was there for Oliver's first week of school, when he was excited and worried in his little uniform, carrying his school book bag. I got to tie balloons in the trees for his fifth birthday party, and hide bouncy balls in stumps of trees and tall grasses for the scavenger hunt. I got to see O learn to skateboard in the park and build Lego masterpieces with his dad. And best of all I got to talk with Ashley over endless coffees and orange brioches, on buses and the underground, at lunch in town, on errands in her neighborhood, everywhere.

It's still true that wherever you go there you are. But whenever you go wherever your heart is, you get to come back with a heart full of treasure. And I'm pretty sure that's what traveling is all about.

The Beauty Vortex

      I saw my dermatologist last week for an annual checkup. His office is upstairs in an inviting two story Spanish style building in La Jolla. There's a spacious balcony that runs in front of the second story offices and down below is a Saltillo tiled open courtyard. Lush palm trees stand in a center planter and masses of red geraniums circle the base. It looks as if years ago it might have been a seaside motel where glamourous celebrities escaped Hollywood glitz.

Dr. B's waiting room is handsome and personal. There's a glass-front case full of his grandfather's old-fashioned medical instruments and text books. Framed photos of mountains and rivers and ski slopes point to Dr. B's leisure pursuits, and on this visit there's a book of New Yorker cartoons on the coffee table in the corner. An inscription inside says something clever about Dr. B's intelligent wit.

Every year it's the same drill. Dr. B opens the waiting room door, says he's so glad to see me, and ushers me into the examining room. And every year we have this exchange:

                Cathy:  I want my skin to look like yours. 

                Dr. B:  Are you wearing sunscreen? 

I am not at all convinced that Dr. B has flawless skin because he wears sunscreen, no matter how many different brands of it he has on the ledge above his antique writing desk. But knowing him, he probably started protecting his skin at a very young age. I was busy frying my skin with cocoa butter and baby oil back then, which is why I go to the dermatologist now.

Anyway, after inspecting me head to toe, Dr. B sat back in his grandfather's chair that matches his desk, took off his huge black magnifying glasses, and said,

                What have you been doing for skin care? 

I was tempted to give him the old Washing with a mild cleanser and wearing sunscreen ruse, but I decided instead to get brave and go with the truth. I took a deep breath.

                Truthfully? I've been sucked into the vortex of the Nordstrom 
                cosmetic department. 

                Oh no! he said, feigning surprise. Please, not that! 

I insisted unconvincingly that most of my visits to the vortex have involved trying samples, but I also admitted that I've been on a rather expensive personal quest for the perfect eye cream. One that would eliminate dark circles, puffiness, and years. He must have heard this before because without missing a beat he said,

                It's all a waste of money. There's only one thing that works. 
                Here, I'll give you a prescription. 

I left Dr. B's handsome, personal office wondering if maybe I needed a 12-step program for vortex captives. I held a prescription in my hand for the only thing that works and it didn't feel satisfying at all. No subtly elegant packaging design, no marketing enticements, no free gifts or special Nordstrom scent. Nothing.

What I didn't tell Dr. B is that a couple of months ago one of the vortex companies sent me a sample of their eye cream. It was absolutely, totally perfect and I could buy it without a prescription. But when I went to order it online I discovered it cost $600 for a half ounce. Morgan wanted to know why the most expensive vortex company in the world knew my name and address. It does make one wonder. Maybe they knew about my quest and thought that sooner or later I would fall hook, line, and sinker for someone's ploys. Maybe they wanted to reel me in before anyone else snagged me. That's a scary thought.

On the way home from my appointment with Dr. B I stopped by a different vortex store at the mall, one that only sells cosmetics. As I walked up and down the aisles I saw women and men of all ages questing for beauty, and I realized my eye cream searching days had come to a quiet end. It was fun for a season, albeit a rather long, expensive, and mostly ineffective season. And sadly, after all the samples and wooing by the vortex, I somehow felt less beautiful than before. As I walked out of the store, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors and decided it was time to opt out of the vortex lie and enjoy being me. Set free.

The Mexican Lime Tree

     

        We have a 36" green glazed planter in the back half of our patio, just past the wooden arbor smothered with flowering Mandevilla. Terra cotta shows through the glaze and creates the lip of the pot, matching the worn bricks on the ground. It was one of those way too heavy purchases that causes delivery men to groan to each other: Let's quit our jobs before she buys anything else! But I loved the thought of putting something unexpectedly enormous in my patio and bought it on the spot.

The day the planter was delivered, I met my gardener at the wholesale nursery and bought a Mexican lime tree. It's the kind with little round yellow fruit that are juicy green inside. The guys loaded the tree into the back of Maximino's truck with five bags of soil holding it in place. When we got back to my house Max placed and planted the newly adopted tree in the patio and there it grew and flourished. And all was well for three years.

Then about a month ago, when it was time for regular fertilizing, my husband helped me drag a big bag of citrus food out of the shed and offered to help dig it in. It was really nice of him, but instead of measuring out two cups of the grainy mix to sprinkle around the trunk, he dumped almost half the bag into the planter and dug it into the soil. To be fair it was half a bag between three potted citrus trees and it could have been a great idea to give the new tree a super boost, but it didn't turn out to be. (Morgan thought the incident was kind of amusing and he's chuckling right now reading this. Chuckling!)

Anyway, four days after the fertilizer mishap all the leaves from the new tree turned crunchy brown and  fell lifeless onto the bricks. Actually there were still a few leaves on the tree but they were fluttering and falling as I stood watching. It was tragic. I tried to flush out the extra fertilizer with long, deep soaks from the hose but the runoff was a terrible deep copper color that dyed the bricks, so I gave up.

I was kind of a brat about the whole thing, but not a total brat. I tried to focus on how funny this would have been as an additional scene in "Father of the Bride". Steve Martin would kill the new tree while trying to be helpful, the girls would roll their eyes in disbelief, and then they'd call Franc to save the day. That made our real life situation seem semi-funny. Semi-funny.

After several weeks of avoiding the back half of the patio altogether, and after Morgan tried repeatedly  to convince me that "The tree still has life in it!", he agreed to cut it down. We were ready to start over with a new tree and forget the trauma of the old one. It was sad because Morgan truly believed in the tree and was willing to nurse it back to health. I wondered aloud if that meant putting more fertilizer on it and rather quickly morphed into a scary version of the Queen of Hearts. Off with its head! Not my best hour.

So Morgan cut down the tree to 28". I only know the height because I went out there to measure it. It looked - I don't know - odd sticking up out of the dirt with no branches or leaves, in a lovely 36" glazed pot. But after congratulating myself for moving on emotionally -- which I don't do well -- I started to dream about a Bearss lime. Nice, juicy variety, no thorns or seeds.

For a long time the planter and the tree continued to sit right there, outside Morgan's study, looking desolate. I wished he had dug it up and put it in the green recycling bin instead of leaving the stump there to haunt me. It looked lifeless and ugly, a dead monument to what had been.

But then this morning something amazing happened. Morgan was at his desk trying to work and I was leaning back on his massage chair trying to chat with him. I saw him look up from his computer and glance outside, and then suddenly he grabbed the window sill and leaned toward the open window. "Hey, look at that!" he said triumphantly. And there they were - beautiful, lush little green leaves popping out all over the stump. I'm pretty sure I saw Morgan and the leaves do a silent high-five, and the story began anew.

There's a saying that God brings beauty out of ashes. The times I've noticed that happening in my life it seemed like the remaking was completely unrelated to my attitudes or judgments or decisions or endless efforts or faith or lack of faith. It was more like a life force that shoved and pushed its way through the hopelessly dead and abandoned parts, insisting on life. And nothing could stop it. Just like you can't stop (and why would you want to?) the green growth that appears out of the ashes of forest fires, and the new leaves that jump out of unwatered stumps of a trees. Life pushes through.


"He has sent me to comfort all who mourn...
To give them beauty for ashes,
The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they may be called trees of righteousness,
The planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified."

Isaiah 66:3

International

I'm not sure I like being an international mom anymore.

My husband and I probably started the whole international thing by raising our children in other countries when they were young. Even when we came back to San Diego there were lots of vacations in Mexico, reenforcing the idea that international was normal. Pepperdine followed for the girls with a school priority of creating global individuals. Florence for Ashley, Heidelberg for Christina, traveling around Europe. I suspect most students who study abroad file it away as a life building college experience and aren't overtaken by permanent travel lust. For our daughters the smell of jet fuel triggered a genetic response to live somewhere, anywhere that involves hours and hours of travel time to get there. It's not escape exactly, it's filling in some missing places that must be filled.

Anyway, the story continued. Christina to Jerusalem for school and Tanzania to teach. Right now international living is temporarily on hold in her life while she pursues ordination but it will reappear in good time. She'll mix career and countries in the best possible way and I'll cheer her on. I'm already cheering her on. I can't wait to see how it all unfolds and I just got my passport renewed.

Ashley knew she needed to implement a plan after college to avoid the free fall that some kids go through, so she moved back to Florence for a post-grad program. That seemed fun. Who wouldn't want to move to Florence for a year? But as the year wore on I started to realize that Ashley's whole life might become an overseas experience. She left for Florence with long blonde southern California hair and came back with Italian stylish short black hair and a Prada outlet satchel over her shoulder. I felt thrilled and proud and sad at the same time. There are things moms just know and I knew.

After Italy the England chapter began. More school, moving through. Then, pivotally, she met Nicholas and the rest is why I truly am an international mom. It's no longer a semester or year abroad, it's life. And it's my life now too.

The thing is, the underlying truth is, that I believe Ashley needs to live in another country. In third grade she told her class that when she grew up she wanted to live in England in the countryside and write stories. I hear myself repeating that story a lot. I want her hopes and dreams to unfold in unexpectedly fulfilling and wonderful ways, and because that involves living far away I embrace it. Still I miss her.

I love London and being there makes me forget my missing-you-blues. Young Oliver is one of the most interesting people I've ever met: adorable, complex, funny, smart, sweet, tall. I love seeing Ashley living out her creativity in ways that she probably doesn't even notice. I love watching her tender, patient, intentional parenting and noticing how much it touches and surprises my heart.

Their little neighborhood is arty and full of moms and dads pushing strollers. Push chairs that is. There's a big green park with lots of trees, ice lollies, a playground, and a path all the way around. On Church Street there are authentic, mouth watering ethnic restaurants everywhere. I've learned how to say trousers instead of pants (underpants), how to stick my nose in a book and not look at people on the underground, and how to buy minced meat instead of ground chuck. And how to say wah-ter instead of wadder.

But it's expensive to go to London even if I use airline miles, which I always do. It's far away. I guess that's obvious but it really is a long trip on a crowded plane with TSA sniffing around in my personal space. Once I flew business class, indulgently using up a ton of miles. It was the way air travel should be and I swore I'd never fly coach again. That was once. Still it's worth everything to walk down the boarding ramp onto a 777 and head east. I'd do it today in a heartbeat.

If I had a first class pass and could take Christina along, if I had a flat in Stoke Newington awaiting my arrival it'd be just right. Morgan's Parkinson's Disease makes the unavoidable walking in London difficult. He's a good sport and doesn't show that it's not easy for him, but it isn't and he admits that he'd rather be in the ocean where physical life is so much easier.

Thinking of travel with Christina makes me laugh. She's fun to be with, knows the ropes, and is available no matter what. One time I called to ask if she wanted to go to London with me to babysit Oliver for a week while his parents went to a wedding in Italy. I'm pretty sure she didn't even take a breath before saying yes. Didn't check her calendar or anything. She's probably packing right now just reading this.

I think I might need to plan something... maybe Oliver's birthday... or later fall... spring at the latest. We'd settle in upstairs at the pub in one of their six boutique hotel rooms. Play and visit. Maybe try for a few little side trips on trains zipping past hedgerows and rolling hills. Then back to London for a shopping day on Oxford Street... lunch with a view at John Lewis... Top Shop for Christina... Anthropology for Ashley. Coffees later at the Blue Legume, fish and chips (with mayonnaise to dip the fries in) with Oliver, some animated chats with Nick over a glass of wine and Ashley's instinctively gourmet cuisine. $$$. Fun fun fun.

So there you go. Maybe I should start a small business assisting moms whose kids are moving abroad. I wonder if there'd be a market for that? I wonder if I'd be enthusiastic and encouraging or just whiny. When I think of it there's some of all of that along the international way.

Parker

I have the best dog in the world and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Sure, he has eaten the Thanksgiving rolls off the counter once or twice, and finishing off a plate of decorated cookies on Christmas morning has become one of his personal traditions. But the Parker Miller Fan Club generally sees his foibles as endearing, balancing out his otherwise stellar behavior. Sometimes I wonder if Parker is sweet because we're his fourth owners and he is forever grateful. Or maybe it's the genetics of his breed, but however he gained his best dog in the world status his story is worth telling.

Several years ago I suffered an episode of severe depression. I got the help I needed but the months of being ill were hard for me and everyone around me. During that time I read two books on depression in women and both of them suggested that getting a dog would be a good way to get out for daily walks and focus beyond oneself. Looking back I can't imagine why the authors thought getting a dog would be a good idea for a depressed woman. It sounds like a setup for stress, work, and disaster but I was willing to give it a try.

Having no energy and little interest in pursuing anything, I didn't really want to search for a dog. The idea of my new dog finding me sounded much more appealing so I decided to pray about it and see if God would send me a dog. I didn't want to be too picky but I thought it wouldn't hurt to be specific. If I could choose, I prayed, I would like a two year old male yellow lab with nice manners, a smaller build, born out of state (less likely to be one of the 100 pounders I saw around the neighborhood); and most importantly, I said, I wanted a dog who would be absolutely devoted to me. After a few weeks of my prayer project I gave up and took matters into my own hands. I searched the internet and talked to breeders about expected litters. I contacted service dog organizations about labs who hadn't made the final cut and who needed home placements. I looked at dogs in shelters. And in the end I chose a puppy from a wonderful couple who bred labs. I agreed to send a deposit and wait until the puppy was old enough to leave its mother.

I wrote out a check and put the addressed, stamped envelope on the dining room table. As I walked into the kitchen I heard my neighbor calling me through the open window. She asked me to come outside for a minute. Nancy was a dog groomer who lived up the street and worked out of her garage. She remembered that our black lab had died five years earlier and she hesitated, not sure how I'd take what she had to say. There was a dog staying with one of her clients, Michelle whose husband had cancer and was not doing well. Things were difficult enough with the pets Michelle and her husband already had and they were unable to keep this dog. Nancy had offered to help Michelle find a forever home for Parker, a two year old yellow lab.

Parker was born in Florida and given, along with his litter mate, to a young vet tech. The girl moved to San Diego but was unable to find an apartment that would allow her to have two dogs. So she gave one of the dogs to a boy she met and asked him to keep the it until she found a place to live. A year later when she reappeared to reclaim her dog, the boy told her he was the one who had fed and trained Parker and he refused to give him back. Sometime later the boy moved to Colorado to attend a community college. He left Parker with his housemates who fed him leftover pizza and let him roam the neighborhood.

Parker had a dog tag with Michelle's address on it, since the boy used his parents' house as his permanent address. When Michelle found Parker in her backyard for the fourth time, rescued by strangers from his wanderings, his ribs were protruding, he had no fur on his belly, and he was timid and nervous. She made the decision to take Parker away from her son's friends, and then called her son in Colorado to tell him she was going to find a new family for Parker. Michelle called Nancy to ask for help and Nancy talked to me.

Michelle and her husband lived only a few blocks from our house and we set up a time to meet. When we drove up their driveway Parker was out in front chasing balls. Male, yellow, small build, born out of state, beautiful face. I got out of the car, squatted down and called his name. Parker trotted over to me, dropped his ball and wagging with his whole body licked my face and hands.

The first month Parker lived with us I never had to say no to him. His manners were impeccable. And still he lets me go in the door first, stays with me off-leash on long trail walks, follows me around the house, carries my gardening tools, brings the newspaper in every morning. He even adopted the kitten we brought home.

Apart from some minor lapses of judgment and year round shedding, Parker has proven himself to be the best dog in the whole world. He's hopelessly devoted to me and I'm so glad we found each other.. along the way.