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.