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!