I went to Seattle last week with two octogenarians (surprisingly nimble travelers if a tad slow), my sister and her daughter, and my daughter Audrey. It was a whirlwind of a trip to visit my brother, sister-in-law, and their three kids. We did all the things people who don’t live near an airport do–we drove to St. Louis the day before our flight because we had a 7AM departure time, woke before the crack of dawn, arrived in Seattle around 9:30AM gaining two hours for the day and hit the ground running.

I’d never been to Seattle. Man, it’s hilly–cars parked all willy nilly on both sides of the road hilly. We looked up into the eyes of massive wooden trolls, went up into the Space Needle, gasped at the fragility and beauty of the Chihulys, sipped some dark coffee, rode the trolley to Bainbridge, and with about 500 million other people carrying cameras and herding children and animals took in the beauty of University of Washington’s Cherry Blossom Trees.

Five fast-paced days and we were back home Wednesday evening, just in time to do a bunch of laundry, get a few extra hours of sleep, and prepare for Easter.

All of this to say–I was pretty tired and had low expectations for the Easter church service.

Sunday’s 8AM mass came pretty early for me (I’m not an early riser by nature). But I made it to the church on time and found myself in the front row next to my travel buddies (my slow but good-natured and nimble parents). Not a huge fan of the front row, but the lilies were pretty and as everyone else in the church was behind me, I wasn’t distracted by all the beautiful new babies snuggled in their parents’ arms and the small bouncing children waiting for church bells to ring, so they could go home and pull the plastic, jelly-bean filled eggs from the tall grass in their overgrown spring yards.

That’s why I heard the sermon. I’m a semi-regular church-goer (that’s likely a wee-bit generous), but most of the time I’m lucky if I hear enough of the sermon to be moved. More often, I love seeing folks I don’t necessarily agree with and enjoy the spectacle of young families trying to keep their brood in line while being put off and preoccupied by the patriarchal language and culture of the Catholic church.

So I was listening instead of looking around when our priest started his sermon. He’s not a loud talker but he is quite expressive. He smiles and moves his hands around a lot and gives the general impression of genuine excitement.

He told a couple of stories and then towards the end of the sermon, he said something like this:

(It’s impolite to get your phone out in church to record the sermon, although I wouldn’t have been recording anyway because I never expected him to say something I’d want to remember days later. That is why his words below are an approximation of what I heard him say and not a direct quote.)

If you’re here this morning because it’s Easter and you haven’t been joining us often, I want to welcome you, to tell you how glad we are you’re here. And I want to invite you to come back. Yes, the church and the people of the church are a mess. It’s true. That’s why we need you. But the truth is, you’re a mess too.

I love that so much. There I am in the front row and the priest is telling me I’m a mess. I am a mess. The church is a mess. The people of the church are a mess. We are all a mess, and we can be a mess together. That is the best thing I’ve heard in church–maybe ever.

The one thing I hate about what passes as Christianity these days is certainty. It takes all the mystery out of faith. But uncertainty by way of messiness. Well, that properly mucks things up a bit. When the priest asks me to come back because we are all a mess.

That kind of makes me want to go back.

A

An ABECEDARIAN is a beginner. That’s me, to my good fortune and dismay. It seems that there is little certainty in the world and that calls for a beginner’s mind. An ABECEDARIAN is also an acrostic where each letter of a word (or in this case section) begins with a letter in alphabetical order.

B

I can see the BIRDS through my office window. They are eating and spreading the sunflower seeds in the feeders in my back yard. Right now, there are two Gold Finches hanging upside down on a thistle feeder, one Gold Finch on the ground having a meal with a House Sparrow. A Tufted Titmouse watches from a fallen White Pine Branch only a foot away. Five House Sparrows and two House Finches perch in the Crepe Myrtle which isn’t starting to bud yet like the Lilacs. I do not see a Junco, but I saw them yesterday. They are my favorites, and I hope they have not gone for the season already.

C

They (some utility company) are laying CABLE all over town. Blue, orange, and yellow flags dot yards along sidewalks and curbing. Orange cones and “Utility Work Ahead” signs find me around every corner I turn on my daily walk.

D

The DAFFODILS have been blooming for a few days now. But they don’t thrill me like the return of the DANDELIONS. Their bright yellow fluff spread out like small plates in the grass. In my opinion, they are beautiful.

E

I made Momofuku Soy Sauce EGGS two days ago. They are salty and creamy and go with everything–soup, rice, slices of avocado. This morning I ate one on a slice of sour dough bread along with some microgreens I purchased this weekend from New Leaf Microgreens. Stellar breakfast. (If you live in Charleston or Olney, I highly recommend you checking New Leaf Microgreens out)

F

The FORSYTHIA is blooming. A friend whose mother recently died posted on FB recently that when she was little she thought her mother called the yellow beauty For Cynthia. When I read that I cried.

G

Suddenly the world is GREEN again.

H

I emptied the HAMPER again this morning. Does that thing reproduce clothes on its own?

I

For the last couple of years, I have been plagued by INDECISION. What to write about? Should I begin a new blog or use the one you are reading now? Do I have anything interesting to say? Should I write by hand or type my thoughts up? Opinion or story? I don’t mind admitting that I’ve been consumed with (at times completely paralyzed by) the state of politics in our country. Living in a very small town where many of my neighbors live on the other side of the political divide is silencing in a variety of ways. After all, I love some of these people. To confront our differences is daunting.

J

I prefer JAM to JELLY. But mostly I like my toast savory with butter or mashed avocado and sea salt.

K

When I am confused (and that’s not unusual) I like to copy Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem Kindness into my journal. I have copied this poem hundreds of times. I highly recommend the exercise.

L

If you google LONELINESS, you will find that it is an epidemic in the United States. Especially in middle-aged people. When I read that “loneliness is the new social frontier” I remember my favorite poem, Song, by Adrienne Rich. A friend of mine gave me Adrienne Rich’s book, The Fact of a Doorframe: Poems Selected and New when I graduated high school, and that is where I first encountered this poem. I don’t know where he found this remarkable book or how he knew I would love it, but my copy is worn. The pages are falling out and the cover is falling off. The whole world opened up when I opened that book. Here is the first stanza from that poem about LONELINESS:

You’re wondering if I’m lonely:
OK then, yes, I’m lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.

M

My MOM, Mary Jo, makes a family lunch on Tuesdays. This week, she baked potatoes and had steamed broccoli, shredded cheddar cheese, sour cream, butter, and a little bit of leftover pulled pork for toppings. Along with the baked potatoes, we had hot bread, salad with her homemade dressing, and green grapes. There was a Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Nugget next to each plate, and strawberry pie with Cool Whip for dessert. Rumi, my three-year-old granddaughter was the only one who ate her nugget (and she took the uneaten nuggets home).

N

I am rereading Oliver Burkeman’s 4000 Weeks: Time Management for Mortals. Burkeman suggests that instead of learning to say “NO” to the things we don’t want to do, the more important task at hand is learning to say “NO” to some of the things we want to do. If our time on this earth is limited (and it is) we can’t do everything we want to do.

O

My pug, ORANGES, is fairly needy in her old age. When I sit at my desk, she stands at my feet and sniffs my legs.

P

I keep forgetting to get PRINTER PAPER. When my son, Carter, printed out brackets for the NCAA tournament, he had to use parchment paper. These brackets will withstand the test of time.

Q

We are not QUIET people. Well, I am not a quiet person. I have always talked rather loudly, and people are not afraid to point it out. I can’t tell you how many times someone has asked me to hush. I often wonder if it’s offensive merely because I am a woman.

R

I can’t really remember what it was like when the phone RANG and I didn’t know who was calling. To find out, I had to answer the phone.

S

My yard is lit up with SPRING beauties. They bloomed before the first day of SPRING–they usually do. This week, it feels like SPRING is “on the fence,” as if she’s not quite sure she is ready to unfold.

T

I mentioned earlier that I am rereading Oliver Burkeman’s 4000 Weeks: Time Management for Mortals. Burkeman suggests that knowing I have a finite amount of time (approximately 4000 weeks if I live to be 80) could change my relationship with time. He writes that “the real problem isn’t our limited time. The real problem . . . is that we’ve unwittingly inherited, and feel pressured to live by, a troublesome set of ideas about how to use our limited time, all of which are pretty much guaranteed to make things worse.” Chew on that for a minute. We spend so much of our “time” trying to fit more in, we may be neglecting what is really important.

U

One of my favorite prayers is simply, “Help me to be USEFUL.”

V

Wild VIOLETS have many names. Common Blue Violet. Dooryard Violet. Hooded Blue Violet. Woolly Blue Violet. Wood Violet. They are pansies, aren’t they. Impervious to the cold nights, to spring “on the fence.”

W

I WONDER when I look out the window, who ate the sunflower seeds? the birds or the squirrels?

X

A mammogram is an X-RAY. For the past two years, I have had a mammogram every six months along with an ultrasound to check an “abnormal” place in my left breast.

Y

The separation between YOU and me is negligible.

Z

My granddaughter, Grace, is six-years-old. She told me the other day that for her birthday (in July), she wants a trip to the ZOO. I am on it.

I haven’t written here in months. The last time I wrote, the pandemic was beginning, and soon those of us living in Illinois were supposed to be sheltering in place. It seems both so long ago, and like yesterday at the same time.

I’ve been thinking about my long silence, about the pandemic, the end of the trump presidency, new beginnings, new babies, and the reality of near-constant change. Sometimes all this thought is a thunderstorm, rain and hail and skies full of thunder followed by flashes of light and it’s impossible to put any of it into words. I am both gobsmacked and terrified silent.

There’s so much beauty in a storm. The clouds hanging low, heavy, and gray; the heartbeat of rain lashing against the windows.

Last year, we got a new roof. No shingles for us. Sheets of metal. And the crew that installed the roof also fixed our leaky skylight. For the past 20 years, we have lived in a house with water stained and peeling ceilings. No room was excluded from water’s assault on our roof and old sky light.

Over the years, we did patch work. The plumber (we live in a small town where the plumber will do odd jobs) would come and throw tar around the chimney and sky light when we noticed new streaks of water damage. Each time, I’d believe we had it fixed, and I’d paint the ceilings. Sometimes I painted the ceilings without really fixing them, just scraping the peeling paint away and painting over it so the ceiling itself was interesting in a 3D way.

But the roof continued to leak. The ceiling continued to peel. I learned to ignore it mostly. Oh sure, it was difficult when during the middle of a hard rain I’d slip in a puddle of water investigating the tap, tap, tap of rainwater hitting the vinyl floor. Or when I saw a guest’s eyes linger on the giant spot on the living room ceiling where I’d slapped a bunch of plaster on a fault and let it dry like reverse icing all swirly up there.

Then trump won the presidency. And I wanted to fix things–this is something because I have a high tolerance for domestic imperfections. While I’m clean, I’m no maven of home decor or maintenance.

First we remodeled the kitchen. Then we pulled the trigger on the roof, and about a year later, I called a painter and had all the ceilings painted and the walls too. And just last week, we installed a new gas log in our fireplace.

Is it weird that we’ve lived in this house for 22 years, and we’ve never used the fireplace which is by anyone’s account the architectural triumph of our small home.

The fireplace sits in the center of the home. It is open to both the kitchen and the living room. It is a massive Bedford stone edifice. The flue is huge. In fact, when the gas log came to investigate and give us an estimate, he said he’d never seen such a giant fireplace. He didn’t even know if he’d be able to fit it with a log.

He managed.

Now, it’s as if we’re living in a new home. And it’s hot. That fireplace churns out a lot of heat. But still, when it rains or snows (it snowed for the first time this week), I still pad out into the kitchen, stepping gingerly on the dry floor, expecting to slip by the light of the fire.

January 1, 2019. How in the hell did this happen? Aside from the ordinary passage of time which is speeding up.

Prompted by a cousin of mine (Lauren, that’s you), I am going to finish up this list–stream of consciousness-like. So here goes.

Listening and lists and lids. Why lids? Is there anything more satisfying than finding a missing lid?

Mittens. I’ve always been a glove girl, but mittens are so nice, aren’t they. I am beginning to love my fingers all cozy with one another in a nice warm wrap.

Noses and nose rings. Smelling and beauty in the middle of a face. I had my nose pierced years ago when Carter was just a little guy. I came home with the new nose stud, and he cried and said, “Take it out.” I did. A few months ago and years after the first failed attempt, while visiting my friend Katy, I decided to have it redone. So happy!

Black olives, green olives, olives stuffed with garlic or feta cheese. Olives with pits and olives with pimentos and olives warmed on the stove in vinegar and oil.

Pants. I love dresses and I love skirts, but after a few days, I’m always so grateful for my pants.

Quiet. Quick wit. Quarreling with someone smart. Quacking. Yes, I said quacking. I love when kids learn to quack and they quack and quack and quack. When I was a kid, my sister was quite the quacker.

Running. No, I’m not a runner. But there is so much joy in it, isn’t there? Sometimes I am walking alone in the park, and I find myself running. Just for a minute and always with much furtive glancing all around for my running gait is a source of much laughter for my entire family. In fact, when my kids want a good belly laugh, they say, “Mom, would you run?”

I’m partial to soup. Potato soup (I made a big pot for New Year’s Eve). Roasted butternut squash soup. Bean soup. (I should have listed beans under :b:)

And I love toast. I am beginning to feel hungry. Toast is the perfect, simple snack. Tacks and tape for hanging or sticking things.

Time. Isn’t time ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

Trees.

Underwear–the cotton sort.

Vines. I am aware that vines are a hassle for the backyard gardener, but gosh, a vine in the woods is a beautiful thing. Up trees, connecting trees, covering the ground, pulling everything together.

Winks and winking. I love walking back from communion and seeing someone I truly like wink at me. I feel seen and happy when that happens. As if I’m special and someone noticed it. Singled out for that wink. By the same token, I love to wink and offer that same blink of recognition and happiness to someone else.

I am going to admit, that X stumps me and Z will too. So extras.

Yellow. Just yellow.

A good zinger. I like to receive one, and I love to give one. Mostly to my husband who appreciates a good zinger now and then too.

So there it is. The end of the list or ordinary things. Anyone have time to offer up a few of your own?

PS. hummingbirds.

I still have 11 days to finish my list.

Hands. I would miss hands. Hands are ordinary and because of that incredible ordinariness, they are quite extraordinary. Without hands I couldn’t hold a pencil or a pen or another hand. I couldn’t type or wash a wine glass or hold a wine glass up to my nose as if I, like other wine enthusiasts, can make out the unique bouquet.

Hugs and holding. In particular, holding. When Carter, who turned 17 last week, was but a tiny fella with hair so blond you could barely see it, he used to hold his arms up, his hands open. He’d say, “Hold you, Mommy.” And I’d scoop him up, delighted by that little voice, tickled by the transposition. It only just occurred to me today, while contemplating this post, that he was right all along. He was holding me.

Humor. Light. Dark. Obscure. Literary. Inappropriate. Corny.

Ice in a mason jar. Ice in a cooler. Ice-covered grass and leaves and bare branches. Ice cracking beneath my feet as I walk.

I’m going to include jeans. I have one pair I love, several pair that are just okay, but I’d wear jeans every day. Except when I’m wearing sweat pants.

A kitchen is a rather ordinary thing, I think. But where better to talk over a cup of tea or a glass of wine. Where better to light a candle and dance with your husband after the kids have gone to bed. Where better to watch the morning sun seep through the wall-length window, rise up the walls, and illuminate a just-beginning day.

On Facebook and Instagram and even on Twitter, people are giving thanks and sharing their gratitude for supremely wonderful lives. Autumn sort of does that to people with its show-offy color–Gingko leaves like flecks of gold leaf under the bare trees while the perfect red and orange and yellow stars of the Sweet Gum create reverse shadows on the wet sidewalks. And then there’s Thanksgiving with all that gratitude built right into the word.

I sound a little snippy don’t I. Sometimes I’m a wee-bit jaded. I roll my eyes at pictures of Gratitude Jars (even though I have one) and gratitude worksheets and lists and pictures. Not because they’re bad, but because sometimes I’m all shriveled up inside like the Grinch, I guess.

Don’t get me wrong–in all honesty, I think it’s a good idea to take a time-out from the constant hustling of 21st century life, to breathe in nice and slowly, get quiet and take stock, to ask the question, “What am I thankful for?”

If we don’t, then how do we know?

Oh sure, some people are just good at gratitude. Born with a grateful-o-meter built in. Often, these folks are highly annoying when you first get to know them. After all, you want to bitch about the tasteless cookies, the long line at the store, the neighbor who hoards unicycles, lawn chairs, and tires in her falling down carport; after all, that’s a lot more fun.

That is until Ms. (or Mr.) Gratitude gets her grateful tentacles under your skin. You realize that she isn’t all Pollyanna Sunshine. That he’s not blowing magic smoke up your ass. And they’re thankful anyway.

You know who I’m talking about–the assholes who make you want to be a better person. I think Brené Brown refers to these folks as wholehearted people. I’m not talking about the sunny-side-up optimists, or the prosperity gospel converts who believe their financial well-being is a manifestation of God’s will and their adherence to positivity and right donations. Nor am I talking about the Secret people who’ll tell you if you believe in abundance, the universe will reward you with abundance. That really is annoying.

(No offense to the Secret people or to the prosperity gospel folks who are, I’m certain, as nice as everyone else. I just worry that your philosophies of abundance are really great for the person doing well. But for the man just diagnosed with cancer or the single mom working two jobs, the belief that your attitude or faith will keep you safe and attract abundance can be a real downer.)  

I’m talking about the hope-filled. Those folks who do the right thing not to gain extra points with the entity that doles out reward, but because it’s good. I’m talking about the weirdos who see life as it truly is, all messy and muddy, bright and beautiful at the same time. Not because they haven’t seen hard times, but because hard times are part of the deal. And they accept life on life’s terms.

You know who you are! 

And in honor of you, the magnificently and unabashedly thankful, I am going to tell my own gratitude/thankfulness story.

Every night, I stand before the mirror in my bathroom and wash my face. I have never figured out how not to get my sleeves wet when I do this, and this is aggravating, but for the most part, washing my face is just another activity I’ve been engaging in nightly for about 38 years (before then I was heavily invested in not washing my face).

However, the other night I noticed an especially soft and supple patch of skin just below my left eye–my favorite eye because it doesn’t droop a bit like old righty. I ran my soapy finger over the smoothness while wondering–why is this skin so honey-caramel-colored and soft? Where did this beautiful skin come from because it sure as shit does not match the rest of my face?

Then I remembered the gruesome injury I incurred when I drunkenly face-planted in my sister’s back yard the night before my daughter was scheduled to take her SAT. I resurfaced my cheek when I tripped, twirled, and arms swinging, slid face-long across the non-skid surface that surrounds my sister’s back yard pool. Micro-dermabrasion via too much red wine and concrete.

Oh, woe was me. My niece, Evie, reminded me, just last night, that the first thing I said was, “I’m hideous.” She’s kind of right. I’m sure it’s the first thing I said when I looked in the mirror my sister-in-law kindly offered. The first thing I really said to my brother-in-law who saw the entire beautiful ballet was, “I’m not getting up.”

My face, for a couple of weeks, was a weepy, scabby, bruised mess. You couldn’t look at me without gasping. I was embarrassed. I felt guilty because Audrey had a big test the next day and no kid likes it when her mother comes home all banged up reeking of wine (even if I was just at my sister’s house). And you know, it’s a small town.

But . . .

no one looked all judgey when I told the story. And more than a few people, shook their heads knowingly and told me a similar story of embarrassment and guilt. Everywhere I went, people were nice. Falling down and scraping the hell out of my face taught me something–falling down doesn’t have to be embarrassing. It’s just human. I’m human.

It was a big lesson, and one I keep learning although thankfully I haven’t fallen on my face in the past couple of years–at least not physically. And the new skin, the soft, smooth, beautiful scar that’s appeared over time; well, that’s a real benefit.

Every time I look in the mirror, that little patch of face reminds me to be thankful for life and its micro-dermabrative properties–a little scuffing up can be a good thing.  

So thank you to my grateful friends who courageously remind us eye rollers that gratitude isn’t for sissies, it’s for the brave.