A Spirit of Christmas Past

Alternate title: Ugly Sweater in the eye of the beholder

Lonnie Delopas rummaged through her carry-on looking for the earbuds she threw in there at the last minute. She would listen to music instead of trying to read. She had been on edge since she woke up this morning. She felt a difference in the energy around her. The overall volume in the airport terminal wasn’t any louder than usual, but the noise was causing her nerves to frazzle, and it was irritating.

Usually, a two-hour layover didn’t bother her, but at the moment she felt uneasy as if something big was about to happen. She hoped she would arrive safely and without incident to her destination. She had experienced this feeling before as a warning or déjà vu. She rechecked the weather status and listened for any cancelations or announcements of change. She was heading to the North East for an award and book signing. It was winter, just before Christmas, weather-wise, anything could happen. It felt strange to get back to the city where she grew up. When she first got the news, she thought: “Not a bad way to end the year;” but now, with the eeriness, she was feeling, she wasn’t so sure.

Lonnie finally fished her earbuds from the bottom of her bag, and as she sat up in her chair, she noticed a man walking at a fast pace toward Gate 19. The man was tall with thick salt and pepper hair that fell just over his ears and collar; a neatly groomed beard framed his face. He wore gunmetal square-aviator style Ray-Bans and a classic leather bomber jacket. He carried a large leather bag slung over his shoulder and finally having reached the Gate, he slowed down. He walked past Lonnie with the confidence of a man comfortable in his skin until he tripped of his own accord and almost fell at her feet. Without missing a beat, he stopped, smiled and asked: “Yeah, Is anyone sitting here?”

There was something very familiar about him. Lonnie watched him from the corner of her eye as the stranger relaxed in the seat next to her. She decided that the familiarity she found was his likeness to Andrea Bocelli. He was so close, she could smell his cologne mixed with the scent of his well-worn leather jacket. His long legs stretched out almost into her personal space, and she couldn’t help but notice his stylish dress boots. Lonnie regretted her decision to travel bundled up in comfortable, bulky layers for this trip. Suddenly, she was acutely conscious that her hair was having one of its unruly moments. Note to self, next time dress comfortable but trendy to announce that a successful creative soul has arrived. She silently snickered to herself that she even had these ideas. What was happening?

The Bocelli-look-alike was on the phone. His voice sounded familiar too, but Lonnie rationalized that she was, after all, headed to LaGuardia Airport and the familiarity she found in histone was nothing more than a strong Brooklyn accent. She had left many years ago; it seemed like another lifetime. She was a little sad that after all these years, it was no longer “home.” It was as if she were traveling to any other strange city around the country. Like herself, most of her close friends had moved away and lost touch over the years. Sadly some of her dearest friends had passed. Lonnie finally attributed her energy imbalance to nerves and nostalgia with thoughts of the “good old days.”

Lonnie couldn’t help overhearing that the stranger was back in town to see his parents for the holidays but arrived a few days early to meet colleagues at a new job “in the City.” It sounded like he was pressuring someone to make plans to meet up before he had to leave again. He’d be back the beginning of the year, but he needed to pack up and close on his house first. The person on the other line must have said something to make him burst out laughing, and with a mocking voice, he said“Tony, it’s not that easy… I love you, man!” With that, the sophisticated, fine-looking man sitting next to Lonnie couldn’t finish his sentence as he folded over in a fit of laughter. His arms were flailing, and his classy boots stomped the floor repeatedly.

Lonnie couldn’t help but turn to face him, and with his RayBans off, she noticed the big scar next to his left eye. It still looked as terrible as it did decades ago. “Tony?” she asked. “Tony Petronelli?” He stared at her, not recognizing her at first. “It’s me, Lonnie? Alondra Delopas.” She smiled. It was then that Anthony Laurence Petronelli recognized her. He remembered the warm smile that at once upon a time made him feel mushy and gooey inside. A mop of short, wild gray hair had replaced the long brown hair that smelled of lavender and roses when ran his fingers through it; but the lively brown eyes and smile were still the same. “Oh my GAWD!” he said as they hugged long and hard as old friends do.

They spent the two-hour layover catching up. Tony told her that stayed in New England after college, but his parents were still in the city. He kept up with friends each time he came to visit his family. He married had children, but once the kids were out of the house and on their own, he and his wife found they didn’t want to stay married. It was as simple as that. Since college, he worked for the same a tech-company with contracts all over the world. Tony recently took a position in the corporate office back home to be closer to his aging parents. Lonnie had also married with children. Her first husband died tragically at a young age and her second husband was a mistake. She had been teaching and writing for some time and was pleased to have a best seller in her hands finally.

Tony made plans to attend the book signing. Lonnie said it would be nice to have an old friend there for support. Her book was a Christmas story she told him, inspired in part by one of her favorite Christmas stories, O.Henry’s “Gift of the Magi,” and without warning, there in the middle of the busy airport terminal, the unthinkable happened! Tony brought up “The Sweater.”

One winter Lonnie bought a cranberry colored, 100% wool, alpine sweater at a specialty shop in the small city near her college. Her new best friend Bertie, Roberta Borkson, had taken her there. Bertie was an avid skier, and she was going to get a sweater for her boyfriend to wear on their ski trip over Christmas vacation. Lonnie went along and started having her own ideas about the beautiful sweaters she saw.

Lonnie and Tony met at a lodge in the Poconos Mountains two years earlier during a winter camp sponsored by a local youth organization. She noticed him on the first morning when she and her friends came in from a walk just as the snow started to get heavy. Tony was sitting quietly by the fireplace, with a mug of hot chocolate as he listened to a couple of friends getting agitated about football teams. The girls went straight to the fire to warm up which caused a distraction for the boys and their sports.

By dinner time, they were all old friends. They had been laughing, telling stories and playing table tennis as the time slipped away. Lonnie and Tony somehow always managed to end at the same table for meals, and on the bus ride home, he shyly asked if he could call her. The group was heading back to the Poconos during the Christmas break. Lonnie pictured Tony in his new alpine sweater by the fireplace and her in a beautiful knitted cream colored hat and scarf she had seen downtown.

Tony and Lonnie exchanged gifts as soon as she got home from school that year. Lonnie was pleased to find the beautiful soft cream-colored hat and scarf set. Tony started to open his with a great big smile, but as he parted the thin sheets of tissue paper, his smile appeared frozen. “Reindeer?” He asked. He could not hide his shock. There were indeed, gray reindeer parading in between oversized snowflakes across the top of the sweater from one shoulder to the other. It was apparent that he disliked the sweater. Lonnieoffered to return it, but Tony regained his composure and being the sweet young man that he was, nobly put it on to go out with friends that evening so as not to hurt Lonnie’s feelings.

The sweater was a hit among their friends, but not it a good way. One did not see many alpine sweaters with reindeer around the Bay Ridge neighborhood in Brooklyn, NY. There is a reason there are no scenes with Tony Manero dancing his Saturday Night Fever in a cranberry red alpine sweater with gray reindeer and snowflakes. It didn’t fit the character.

On that cold winter night in the early 1970s and during the trip to the mountains, their friends warned Lonnie that she would never live that one down. And so it was that fifty years later when fate serendipitously crossed the paths of these two senior citizens with teenage grandchildren of their own; Anthony Laurence Petronelli brought up the cranberry red alpine sweater with the gray reindeer. All they could do was try to stifle the laughter until their bellies hurt and the years seemed to melt away.

The photos used here are not my own; they were found online and “no copyright infringement is intended.”

Gratitude and Thanksgiving

I sat here in front of a blank page for a while wanting to write something but couldn’t get started. The season brings many memories, most with warm and loving feelings. From our earliest days in Brooklyn to most recent holidays in Florida so much has changed around us. The family has grown and spread out around the country. Last year we spoke about having one big family holiday like the old days at some midpoint probably on the East Coast. It’s not as easy as it sounds. It’s still a work in progress. We gather in smaller groups, now. Some of us have become part of other families while others create new traditions with friends.

As I reflect back through the years, I think of the faces at the table that have come and gone; friends who’ve moved away, partners that didn’t work out, loved ones who have passed. I am amused thinking how the contents of our table have changed through the years as well. Often persons who join us being a part of their traditions. Through the years we’ve added things like homemade stuffing, collard greens, sweet potato casserole with pecan toppings from the South; kremsnita, a phyllo cheese pie from Croatia, or yucca marinated with onions, olive oil, and vinegar, common in the Carribean.

Thanksgiving was not a tradition in Puerto Rico for my parents growing up in the 1930s and 40s, but I remember in Brooklyn in the 1960s we celebrated it every year with my cousins, aunts, and uncles. Our parents blended their traditional foods and flavors with what was usual holiday food in the NorthEast. Growing up we would have a roasted turkey prepared with a rub of garlic, salt, and oregano; it was the same type of seasoning Puerto Ricans traditionally used for roast pork during the holidays and special occasions. We had baked sweet potatoes or yams and guineitos en escabeche; pickled green bananas that were marinated days before. These were served alongside a dish called arroz con gandules; it’s like a paella, prepared in one pot with pigeon peas, peppers, onions, garlic, cilantro, and tomatoes or tomato sauce. My mother loved to cook and often made pumpkin pie, flan, and Pillsbury sugar cookies.

All the years of memories tend to blend together, and in my recollection, I remember our faith practice of gratitude and singing; in old photographs, I see dancing. I distinctly remember lots of laughing and warm smiles. My mother had started experiencing symptoms of her illness, and my dad took to drinking every day after work and yet, I remember feeling safe and loved. With all their personal struggles, they made us, their children, a priority. For that alone, I am eternally grateful. I think that supportive foundation helped me tackle a lot of challenges throughout the years.

It was that feeling of love and security that I wanted to re-create for our kids. My siblings and I did. My daughters and their cousins remember the holidays with the same nostalgia. They want to pass on the same love, laughter to their own children. Thankfully, as the family grows, they have added new traditions along the way.

Today as I contemplate the holiday season, I wonder why Thanksgiving is not a more important holiday in this country. Of all the holidays, I think Thanksgiving can serve to unite us as a nation. Many cultures and religions practice gratitude. From earlier times people have celebrated a good harvest giving thanks to a higher power. Even folks who are not “religious” recognize that living in gratitude and being appreciative is to be in a good state of mind. One would think that given the emphasis that our leaders place on God’slaws and God’s rules, that they could agree to celebrate gratitude with more enthusiasm. Giving thanks seems to be a common denominator, even if you are a humanist you can be grateful for your particular abilities and achievements.

Perhaps someone’s White House can one day hold a service and invite religious and secular leaders of diverse groups to a Thanksgiving dinner. There is something about literally breaking bread together that unites people and overcomes barriers. I know it’s not even remotely on the agenda for this administration but its something to consider for the future. I understand that similar activities have been attempted at different times without success, falling apart at party lines, but I am sitting here living in the moment during a season of hope and so I continue to believe in our democracy.

I am mindful that not everyone feels the same during this season, perhaps some can’t find anything to be grateful for, not past or present. Itis actually very common to feel sad and alone especially during this holiday season. I would encourage my readers to open your eyes, look around and reach out to a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker and perhaps invite someone to join you. My family has never had excessive material wealth, but there has always been room at the table for one more. To those who may get an invitation, don’t turn it down. Its never too late to make a pleasant memory.

I am thankful that you stopped by today. Peace be with you.

Oh coffee, dear coffee

Friday RDP: Coffee

I like to say I’m a social drinker when it comes to coffee. My favorite is espresso, and I have such weakness for its aroma. The taste must not be bitter or harsh as it goes down the throat and lands warm in one’s belly. It’s not unlike a fine brandy that goes down smooth and velvety but then can burn a hole in your stomach when

it hits bottom.

Lately, tea sits better in my stomach. Black English tea with oatmeal cakes for breakfast is part of my morning ritual and green tea infused with fruits for during the day. Sometimes, an herbal tea gets me through the night. When I’m visiting with a coffee drinker, however, I can’t resist the smell, the heavenly fragrance of a good cup of coffee; the intoxicating aroma of espresso does make me a bit tipsy, and I struggle with the temptation knowing I will regret it later.

Although you can get a great coffee smell and of course good coffee from the single cup pods, I prefer an authentic espresso maker. To be clear, I’m not talking about the big digitalized models that take up half one’s counter space; I’m speaking of a small pot on the stove top. It brews coffee by passing boiling water pressurized by steam through ground coffee. I’ve concluded, that the secret to both good tea and coffee is in the boiling water – a hot running boil. Sometimes if I’m feeling really daring, I will have my espresso with milk, steamed and made foamy with a handheld frother. I know I’m going to lie awake thinking about it tonight, then I can say “ I couldn’t sleep last night because of the coffee.”

Seriously though, besides the physical pleasure from the coffee, I also have an emotional attachment. I don’t have to taste the coffee to feel I’m at my mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen table feeling safe and loved. When we were young, we would have a cup of hot milk with a couple of drops of coffee. We felt so grown up when we were able to participate in having a “café con leche” with the elders.

Many years later when I lived alone in an apartment building in an old mill city in New England, there lived an older gentleman at the end of the hall near the exit door. Every morning as I set out to go to work, I would be assaulted with the smell of freshly brewed espresso. I knew he was making it like my grandmother and I was often tempted to knock on the door and invite myself in. He didn’t seem like a friendly fellow; I wonder what would have happened if we were to share a cup of coffee and a piece of warm homemade bread with real butter. What stories would he have to tell? What stories would we have in common?

What’s your relationship with coffee? Is it just a way to make it through the day? Does the smell of coffee connect you with a memory of a loved one? An old friend perhaps?

My first week at #RagTag Daily Prompt. #coffee

This was fun! Is the format OK? Not sure about pingbacks.

The Practical Aspect of Romance

I like to read other bloggers stories. I truly believe the human experience is one. Often I find something in the blog that resonates with my spirit. Yesterday I was visited by Simplytrizah, and when I visited her page in return, I was quite amused. In Trizah’s Random Thoughts, she tells the stories of her adventures looking for romance from the perspective of a millennial newly cast in the adult world. As I commented on one of her posts, some things about dating during this time period are the same regardless of age.

I was reminded that on my trip back from visiting my family, I had a three and a half hour layover between flights and I started looking for something light and funny to read. I came across an e-book that looked promising. It was supposedly a humorous look at romance in the Third Age. I enjoy romantic comedies with the likes of Jane Fonda, Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep and of course the adventures of Grace and Frankie. When I looked at the reviews, however, I was discouraged. It seems that some readers were disappointed that the protagonist did not exhibit or reference any signs of aging. I suppose the idea aging gracefully is subjective, but it did get me thinking about the message we are leaving for the young woman. What have we learned as the generation who created the sexual revolution is aging?

I decided to share a portion of a short story that I’m working on. I’ve enrolled in an editing, and re-writing course and this is one of the stories that I want to do. I might even work it into a longer piece about One Ordinary Life. This part of the story centers around a modern tribe of women who periodically get together for support and encouragement – think Red Tent in modern day New England. The friends are gathered to make a large pot of fish chowder on a cold winter night; add a little wine and conversation and I have a story!

Is it possible to be practical and a romantic at the same time?

“At this stage of the game,” Nan continued her lecture, “dating is all about the practicality of the matter. It’s not about Disney princesses or Hollywood’s love stories. That doesn’t happen in real life and much less at our age. Before you step into the labyrinth called dating, ask yourself why do you want a man. Do you want entertainment, part-time companionship, just sex, financial security? Determine that first, and then go after what you want…”

Examples and testimonies followed, but Clotilde was unusually quiet and had stopped listening. She sipped her wine and chopped her vegetables as her mind wandered to places where her friends could not imagine.

That night she wrote in her journal:

“They tell me that there are no castles in the clouds, nor do valiant princes exist who ride on white stallions and risk their lives for fair maidens. They tell me it’s all a question of convenience, the practicality of the matter. They say that the years pass us quickly and if we don’t act with good judgment now, we are weighed down by life’s regrets.

I was a lonely, caged dove unable to spread my wings, imprisoned by fear. Your eyes sparkled with mischief, and I said “Who cares! Let’s fly!” With you, I believe there are indeed places where dreams come true. Your warm breath touches my cheek, and your kiss awakens the sleeping beauty of my soul. My spirit flies like an eagle! The years fall away. I transcend the clouds safely nestled in your arms to find that castle where dreams become a reality.”

Nan and her friends were too late with their intervention that night; for Clotilde had already crossed over to the land of unicorns, rainbows, and pots of gold.

If we were having coffee right now

two brown and black ceramic teacups filled on black saucers — Photo by Jana on Pexels.com

If we were having coffee right now, it would indeed be a special event. You see I consider myself a social drinker. I don’t drink coffee on a regular basis, only on occasion. Every morning I drink hot black tea in round bags with boiled water from my teapot. I let it sit for several minutes so that the caffeine is extracted and then I add a drop or two of milk. During the day I reach for green tea –hot or cold, sometimes I pop in some raspberries for a different flavor.

If we were having coffee right now, I would have been tempted by the rich aroma of the Arabica beans filling the air. I love the smell of coffee brewing, especially the espresso method that seems to squeeze out every bit of flavor from the finely ground beans. Coffee fills my senses and reminds me of home; of my mother and both grandmothers who sometimes had sweet bread or pastry with coffee or café con leche in the afternoon.

If we were having coffee right now, we would be sitting in your kitchen as we had many years before. We would catch up with stories about our children, siblings and rest of the family. You would have shown me that you’ve started working on your garden after the harsh winter. I would tell you I’m still trying to get my orchid to bloom after all these years. We would reminisce about the fun times we had as a group of women getting together to laugh and share our personal philosophies of faith, love and the quest for happiness in our lives. How I’ve missed that camaraderie with like-minded women! I consider it one of the blessings in my life to have you all when in time of need.

If we were having coffee right now, we would talk about our busy week. You would tell me about your travels and the interesting people you’ve met. I would tell you that I’m writing a blog for fun and sharing of ideas. It’s a journal sprinkled with creative writing, poetry, and essays. You’ll tell me you’re working on another book about the program you’ve developed with your longtime colleague at the Institute. It will undoubtedly be just as successful as the first one. I still have my autographed copy.

If we were having coffee right now, I would tell you that I’ve started going to town meetings and focus groups in preparation for the coming elections in August and November. I have found people and politics so different in my new city in the southeastern part of the country. We would both agree that it is never too early to start examining the candidates, there is too much at stake. You would get me up to date on the issues in your city, which in large part have not changed much since I was here. Politics usually leads us to religion. It’s so refreshing to talk to someone with the same values and level of empathy for our fellow compatriots.

If we were having coffee right now, I would treasure the moment and file the memory like a snapshot in my mind. I would save it and document it until we can make it a reality again. Social media, phone calls, and emails can’t replace the joy of sitting to have coffee with an old friend.

Day Eleven: A Cup of Coffee #everydayinspiration

eXes and Woes

A to Z Challenge Letter X

eXes and Woes

Clotilde Delsapo looked at the caller I.D. on her cell phone. She didn’t usually pick-up when she didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was from her old hometown, so she did. “Hey, hellooo,” said the playful voice on the other end. “Hi, what’s up?” she responded tentatively. She knew who it was. The call was unexpected, but somehow she was not surprised. It had been about three years since their last conversation. At that time Laurence Olivier Madioti was getting ready to settle down again. It was always the same story, and she’d come to understand this was going to be the last phone call – for a while. “I’ve learned so much from the past. She and I have so much in common. She has wonderful qualities. I’ve good a good feeling about this.” To which Clotilde would politely reply, “Great news; All the best. Really hope it works out this time.”

Now, he was rambling about how difficult it had been to find Clotilde’s phone number again. He wanted her new address to send his recent book. He was looking to get her feedback. “It’s different from what I’ve written before. I think you’ll like it.” Clotilde hesitated but shrugged, sure why not she thought, and she answered without emotion. “1300 Mockingbird Road, Paradise, Florida.” To which he responded. “Great, I’m here for a graduation, but I’ll send it as soon as I get back.” After a bit more mindless chatter, he added that he was single again. “Let’s just say we had irreconcilable differences.” Clotilde didn’t bother to feign shock but replied. “Wow, too bad. Sorry to hear it.”

Today Laurence O. Madioti was calling after a third long-term relationship fell apart. It had been 13 years since they had gone their separate ways but each time a relationship had ended, he called with a similar story. “I think I made a mistake.” Each time it started to sound as if he had regretted that their liaison ended the way it did. She listened carefully, but the words she waited to hear didn’t come. After a while, they were just friends again, former colleagues shooting the breeze.

A couple of weeks later he had called her again to let her know he was heading home at the end of the week. “Why don’t you pack a bag and come with me for a bit. We always have a great time together.” She shook her head and laughed at him. “Some things never change” she gently chided. “I didn’t mean it like that. You sound like you need a vacation. You can stay at the guest house. There is a pool, and it’s walking distance to the beach.” She didn’t know why she didn’t just say no, that’s a bad idea. Why was she always careful not to hurt his feelings? Instead, she explained that she couldn’t leave now. “Sounds like a great place though.” She would let him know when she could visit; after all, they were still “friends.”

She didn’t know why they remained “friends” for all these years. Maybe it was something about forgiving those that wronged you, not because they deserve it, but because you deserve peace. It seemed to have worked. She was at peace, and hindsight gave her a better understanding of their past history.

They had met over thirty years ago when they worked at Allen, Bradford, and Jones. Together they led an up-and-coming team breaking barriers and maximizing productivity, making it one of the most successful teams in the company’s history. In the midst of success, as they say at Disney, there occurred a Tale as old as time, True as it can be, Barely even friends, Then somebody bends, Unexpectedly… Neither one remembered precisely when or why things changed between them, but they did. It became their secret for many years after.

Some time ago, Clotilde realized that she had finally reached a place where it didn’t hurt anymore. She accepted what she had known all along but had refused to let it surface to her conscious thoughts. She had misinterpreted that friendly relationship. It was as simple as that. She was able to close that chapter and look back at the story as if it were a bad rom-com. She felt relief, her spirit was light, and she was at peace with herself and the world.

Laurence O. was a great guy as far as “friends” go. He was giving, supportive and loyal. A person knew he could be counted on to always have your back in a troubling situation. He was smart, funny, articulate and cultured. He spoke four languages fluently, had traveled extensively and could recite poems and sonnets by heart. He wasn’t handsome in the usual way, but there was an attractive, confident air about him. Women and men both admired him. They considered themselves lucky to be counted among his friends.

One could also say that Laurence Olivier Madioti was an incurable romantic in a temperamental way. He was the personification of the ads found in the personals. He loved walking on a moonlit beach, and dinners by candlelight accompanied with good music at a fine restaurant. He was also an excellent cook and enjoyed entertaining at his place. He loved picnics, red roses, and fruity red wine. He was an expert at helping to release the tensions of the day whether with a shoulder massage or cuddling on the couch watching a silly romantic comedy.

Unfortunately, although he said he longed for a stable relationship, Laurence Madioti had been unable to transition to happily-ever-after. After the second post-break-up call, Clotilde had told him that it appeared that he was in love with the idea of LOVE, the conquest, and romance. He had studied the novels, memorized the poems and watched romantic movies. Others would say that once the thrill of the chase was gone and things started to feel mundane, Laurence would find the nearest exit. For all his intelligence and insight, a part of him expected that once he found “the one,” the stars would align and life would be perfect for all eternity.

In the weeks that followed the book’s arrival, Laurence O. continued to call or email regularly. They would talk about the book, politics, and weather. They didn’t take that walk down memory lane. Clotilde could hear the uncertainty in his conversations, sometimes overstepping the boundaries of friendship. She found it sad that sometimes it was as if they were strangers with very little in common after all these years. She wondered if he felt the same. She had thought to bring it up because she didn’t want to continue this shallow friendship.

Clotilde wished they were face to face. At some point, she began to feel awkward about the phone conversations or video calls. It was not the same something was lacking. She didn’t know what but could not speak her mind. She had decided to go to visit him to end this semblance of friendship but then thought better of it. What if she felt different when she saw him in person, after having him in her arms from the obligatory hug between friends? What if she got lost in his the dark pools in his eyes or felt faint from the smell of his skin next to hers? What if she was flooded with a rush of all the emotions she had managed to put away for so long. She didn’t want to muddy the waters. She would wait. If history repeats itself, he would soon be on the mend from the broken heart and would get too busy to call.

And so it was. The calls stopped abruptly, and after several weeks, Clotilde sent an email to confirm her hunch. “Yes, he said sheepishly. We are in the beginning stages, but I have a good feeling about this.” Clotilde politely responded “Great news; All the best. Really hope it works out this time.”

Upside Down – A to Z challenge letter U

What happens when your world is upside down, and you feel like you are holding on to the edge with your fingertips? How do you manage to get back on top or at least get a better grip?

The other day I received a message from a young man who I hadn’t spoken to in about 30 years. The last time I saw him, he was 16 or 17, and I was his Youth Leader in church. Some of you may be doing the math and maybe don’t consider this a young man, but time and memory are funny that way. Your memory keeps those snapshots of the way it was, and in this situation, we both found ourselves the way we were.

He was never your typical Choir Boy or Boy Scout. In truth, he was the proverbial black sheep of his family, but he had a good heart, and one could tell he just couldn’t get out of his own way. Although his mother was a leader in our church, her son was out of reach to her and his immediate family. The rest of us tried to bridge that gap during those turbulent years and so when he reached out, I was there for him- his youth leader again.

He got straight to the point. Since I had last seen him, he had continued with his self-reported “craziness” for several years but when he met someone with “good sense”; he fell in love, and his life began to turn around. They’ve been married for twenty plus years; have three lovely children-already finishing college. He went back to church for a while, bought the house with the picket fence, the furnishings, the cars and the dog. A few months ago, without warning, his wife announced that she needed space and wanted to separate for an indefinite period. He felt he couldn’t go on without her; everything he’d accomplished had been for her. I reminded him that this was what he had always wanted and he achieved it. Not just for her, but for himself.

I listened carefully with my third ear, trying to hear what was actually going on. I don’t make assumptions, I don’t know his wife, and although I believe our core stays the same, the chances are that so much time has passed, that I don’t truly know who this young man has become. In my experience, things never come out of the blue.

When he was done, I asked a few questions. Some he wasn’t ready to answer, but he listened. He was briefly able to step back and recognize some of the things I was talking about. Naturally, when it was too painful, he deflected, and we moved on. Put in on the back burner, I told him, and I shared some of what has helped me in times of trouble or distress. The trick to survival is using your tools.

• Take care of yourself. Stay healthy. Get out and move – exercise. Keep your mind clear and grounded with mediation or prayer or both. If you know substances like alcohol or drugs are a trigger, don’t reach for that as your life saver. The chances are that you’ll go under to the dark side quicker.
• Be open to self-reflection but don’t beat yourself up. We all make mistakes, just be honest with yourself. Are you doing the best you can? Is this your best self?
• Try to walk in the shoes of the other person but don’t judge. Don’t take it personally. Each one of us is dealing with our own issues, battle scars, and fears. Yes, even your life partner may have difficulties communicating some things. Don’t push. Be ready to accept and respect the other person’s decision.
• Remember each day is a clean slate. We can make it what we want. Eleanor Roosevelt, one of my favorites said “With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.” from Brainyquote.com

It happens to all of us. How do you get back on top when your world is upside down?

AtoZ Challenge- K is for …

So many choices today! Lots of fun K words that I can play with. K is for Kardashians is one story that I won’t address because it would prompt me to create a sarcastic, judgmental blog. Sorry, there is something about DIY royals that makes me want to shut off the TV. Their only claim to fame is money, outrageous behavior and in some cases, good looks. How people eat that up, I’ll never understand.

I was not a fan of the Free Willy movies either, but I could talk about those elegant black and white giants gracefully dancing in the open sea with a Tchaikovsky ballet playing in the background. However, I don’t like to think about when they get hungry and stop frolicking to grab a snack of penguin or baby seal. There is a reason they nicknamed Orcas “KILLER Whales.”

I prefer to tell you stories of when a group of us got together every Thursday for KARAOKE. Only about 3 of our friends really stepped up to the mike to pour their hearts out each week to remember the songs that helped them transition to adulthood. I’m more of a wind-beneath-your -wings kind of a person so that every now and then I would sing “back-up” for one of our soloists. As stories go, a younger generation started coming around wanting to join in on the good times. They complained however that the DJ only played old songs. Someone with a different sound soon replaced him, and we moved on. Another club, another DJ but the energy dwindled. We moved on to other things, but I was fun while it lasted. We still remember those days with fondness.

What about KARMA? This idea that has become part of our “everyday vernacular” as my English teacher would say. It’s a religious belief that our actions determine our future state – in this life or the next. People like to say “KARMA is a B*+*% “ but don’t really know why. Every day we see those bad things happen to good people and vice versa. I remember when things were not going well at work I would tell my colleagues, “I can feel my KARMA fraying around the edges. We need to figure this out because I’m not going anywhere with frazzled Karma! “. Totally inappropriate use and yet they understood. Go figure.

KARMA brings me to K is for KINDNESS. Another favorite truism of mine is some variation of “be kind to everyone you meet for the other person may be fighting a battle you know nothing of.” A universal truth is that no one knows what is going on in our heads or our hearts – except ourselves. To paraphrase Dr. Miguel Ruiz’s Toltec Wisdom, each one of us is the star of our own movie, and we struggle to act our parts the best we can. I have worked and personally know many people who put on a mask to hide the pain of their struggle or fears. I’m one of those that believes that no one enjoys being miserable there is usually an underlying stressor. I recognize that I can’t save the world but one act of kindness one person at a time goes a long way. I have witnessed that.

I know I am a shameless dreamer and do-gooder, like KERMIT the Frog – which also happens to start with K.

What are your thoughts about KARMA and KINDNESS?

AtoZ Challenge – JOURNEY

“Life is about the JOURNEY, not the destination.” I consider this quote one of my favorite expressions which continually renews the way I look at life. Whenever I’m with someone who is planning a wedding or a great vacation, I always remind them to enjoy everything leading up to the big event because it’s all over so quickly. People today spend countless hours and dollars planning for that special day, but then they are too busy or tired to enjoy it. I love to look at old photos of fun times, but I also warn people about trying to capture too many moments with the phone, you may be missing the opportunity for adventure or special moments that you can’t rewind. Laugh about the stressors and mishaps for someday they’ll be great stories to tell the grandchildren or reminders for yourself before you put your head down to sleep.

I often remember people that I’ve met on my JOURNEY and I acknowledge that whether it was for a moment or a season, a blessing or a lesson; those who’ve crossed my path have touched my life and added a bit to who I am today. One friend was especially attentive to enjoy the JOURNEY and life’s offerings. “Why stress about where it’s going tomorrow if it’s wonderful now?” Over the years, I’ve come to understand the importance and adapt that philosophy to my life and my JOURNEY.

To give proper credit, I went searching for the author of the quote that has become such a part of our everyday language (and of course memes). I found that Ralph Waldo Emerson is often credited with “Life is a journey, not a destination” but in fact, several ministers and Bible teachers of the time used similar language in journals or teachings. https://quoteinvestigator.com/2012/08/31/life-journey/

It makes sense to me that such a quote would also have religious connotations. I’m glad some preachers and teachers have tried to redirect their communities. If you’ve read my previous blog posts, you may have guessed that my JOURNEY has been via a road with twists and turns. For part of my life, I was teaching that the most important thing in life was the final destination on the other side of those Pearly Gates. For that, I’ve apologized.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped to take a break and look around me. I noticed that some people were too focused getting to the Promised Land, the mansions, walking on the Streets of Gold that they lost the purpose of their JOURNEY and forgot the words of Jesus Christ. “For I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me in. I needed clothes, and you clothed me. I was sick, and you looked after me. I was in prison, and you came to visit me.” … ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’Matthew 25:35-40.

After a while, I took up my satchel and changed direction – same JOURNEY, different route. Rather than waiting to see all the wonders “over yonder,” I’ve decided to enjoy JOURNEY, and make the most of the blessings in my simple life.

AtoZ Challenge – oh, BEHAVE

Here I sit on my second day at the challenge. I realize other members have very clear goals for their themes, but because I was living in the moment, I jumped in without thinking it through. So far I’ve started to think about the next theme B, as soon as I posted the first letter A – ABOUT. This morning I started to write about BEING: Existence. In keeping with my mantra of keeping it simple, I chose the definitions from Oxford Dictionaries. These include being alive, living and my favorite – the nature or essence of a person. This “essence” is really who we are; it’s the spark, it’s what makes us act the way we do depending on the circumstance. It’s what stirs inside when we are excited and hopeful or feels like a lead brick in our stomach when we get bad news.

I was just getting warmed up on this topic, or maybe I saw it was eventually heading towards that other B-word – Boring when a thought crossed my mind “Oh behave!”. It was Austen Powers in my head. True, I didn’t want to get all deep and philosophical about my existence. Getting all straight-laced, proper and preachy is easy. I decided instead to switch topic because as the oldest child, it seemed that “oh behave!” was all I heard from my mom.

I suppose she thought my being alive had a particular purpose. She reminded me to be a good girl, to get good grades, to stop whining or being mouthy or whatever because I needed to be an example for my younger siblings. To be fair, it certainly wasn’t the only thing I heard, my mom was pretty cool, and because I loved her, when I was home, I behaved, the way she wanted for her higher purpose.

Now and then I needed to take off my nerd hat and shake out my uncontrollable hair. Not that I was a wild thing or at least I never really thought myself in that way, but the other day in my memorabilia box I found a note. The note is probably 50 years old. It was from one of my best friends in high school, and it appears that she passed it to me when we crossed in the hallway during a change of class. In her note, she said she had to talk to me in person about something urgent. To which she added,” I know you’ll understand, I’ve seen your crazy side, I don’t think many people have, but I know ….”. I’m not one of those people who need a little “something, something” to get the party started but she was a quiet and serious girl; any number of fun things may have felt crazy to her. We loosely stay in touch through social media now, but I didn’t contact her to see if she remembered what that was all about. I wonder if she’s learned to get “crazy”.

I am fully aware that I still I have a “crazy side.” I have great fun with friends and family, but mostly I keep it contained until I’m with my granddaughters or my grand nieces and nephews. Sometimes I hear “oh behave, Mom!” from behind my daughter’s stern grin. I enjoy the payback though. It doesn’t take much; a silly walk, a funny face or changing the words to a favorite song as you are singing as loud as you can. I love when we all get to that place where our bellies ache from laughing.

Enjoying those moments is the essence of my being, of my existence. When I’m feeling out of sorts and not very jolly, I seek out chances to laugh or even scavenge for some giggles. I try not to let the well run dry because that’s how I manage to keep it together. These are the memories that I summon up when I need enough energy to climb uphill or swim against the current.

How do you do it? What is the essence of you?

Alternate title: Ugly Sweater in the eye of the beholder

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