Over Spring Break I was honored to travel with my daughter's high school choir to compete in a festival in San Francisco. I had a wonderful time and they took home top honors and an invitation to sing at Carnegie Hall. Have you been to San Francisco? Have you ever gone with 50 teenagers?



On the day we arrived, our tour bus dropped us off on one side of the Golden Gate Bridge and picked us up on the other. We walked across, me staying nearby enough for photography purposes, but not so near as to cramp my daughter's style. I was disappointed that I forgot my camera, but took many pictures with my phone.

Of course I was struck by the beauty of the sparkling bay surrounded by mountains, the soaring orange towers of the bridge against the blue sky.

In the middle of the bay sit the eerily intriguing ruins of Alcatraz. On the audiotour, a former prisoner described how the wind would often carry to them the sounds of music and celebration from the city, taunting the prisoners with the joys of liberty.















Then I saw this sign and remembered that this bridge is a suicide mecca; over 1200 people have thrown themselves to a beautiful, tragic end. The bridge was lined with these and emergency telephones, imploring the desolate to call them. They were ready to help.

It seems the greater the surrounding beauty, the more insurmountable the pain of our suffering.

I was with 50 teenagers walking across that bridge. I know of at least one who was in emotional agony. I wanted to hug them all. Life is beautiful and hard.

This morning I saw a shooting star.

Tipped off by Anne, I put on my winter coat and grabbed my coffee and went out before the sunrise and stared at the sky. Only a few stars were visible, more obscured by the lights below than the rising sun.

I thought of my friends in hospitals and my friends who are waiting by their bedsides and in waiting rooms. I thought of loves lost and love found. I thought of each of my children and their endeavors and relationships.

My coffee cooled. The sky brightened. The early birds began their worm patrol.

Then I saw it. A meteor skidded across the sky, a dot of white trailing orange and red.

It reminded me my mom's red peignoir that, after four babies, she relegated to the dress up box. That ruffled scarlet chiffon was the favorite dress up. When a storm was approaching and the winds kicked up before the rain appeared, my sister and my neighbor would put on our flowiest dress ups and go spin in the wind. The luckiest of us got the red peignoir. We were fairies caught in a whirlwind.

How often did that happen? How long ago? How is it that I am the adult now, responsible for so much? When was the last time I ran out in the wind just to thrill at the flutter of my sheer red cape, a frivolous superman?

It all goes by as fast as a piece of stardust burning through the atmosphere, trailing a shower of sacral sparks.

I am sipping my glass of champagne that I toasted with my daughter to President Barack Obama, the skin on my cheeks tight from the salt of my tears.

I have always been moved to tears by the song "My Country Tis of Thee" since I saw and heard the song sung in the movie "Glory" by a chorus of black children. That context changes the meaning of "Land where our fathers died." So when Aretha Franklin sang those words, my tears began to flow. My daughter said she expected her to sing "Respect." That might have been good too.

And when the final benediction began with the last verse of "Lift Every Voice and Sing," the words fresh in my mind from church two days ago, the import of the moment drew my tears again.

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears, Thou who has brought us thus far on our way; Thou who hast by thy might led us into the light; keep us forever in the path, we pray.


Obama said
On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.
I feel sad for those who didn't celebrate this moment, who harbor fear, discord, resentment and apathy.

I am filled with hope, bordered by worry.

I thought poet laureate Elizabeth Alexander spoke my feelings with grace:

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

I've been sidelined by house work. I've been cruising along through some great events - like my son's lacrosse games, dinner with friends, working on fun writing assignments for a growing client base, starting an aerobics class with my daughter - and I realize that I have let things go around the house.

The laundry is all backed up. All my favorite socks and underwear need to get back into circulation. My kids are pulling stuff out out their baskets - helping on request, but preferring that hamper smell to stepping up to their own laundry yet.

Light bulbs are burnt out. The dishes are all in the dishwasher or the sink. Mail is stacked unsorted. Messages left unplayed. Someone spilled sugar on the coffee table and I just decided to leave it there. Too much stuff on there to clear away before I can wipe it up.

But it's all OK. Those are all just the detritus of the fun I'm having with my kids, my family and friends, my really cool and growing job, and my wonderful boyfriend who eases that frayed feeling at the end of a busy day.

My wheel of fortune had been on a downturn a few years ago, but it is certainly on the upswing now. Where are you on that cycle of the spinning wheel of fortune? Zen encourages you to move to the center so you don't get dizzy with all that spinning.

I've been trying to apply some of my Tao and yoga meditation to my life in general, observing my feelings, my body, my children, my family and friends, strangers even. Sometimes I do well, observing myself and others without judgment. But often I don't observe my own reaction until it has stomped off in a direction I hadn't intended.

I sat at my first deathbed vigil recently. I suppose I am blessed to have gotten this far in my life without having done that. It was unexpectedly inspiring. I feel like, for the first time, I am considering the whole possible span of my life. I wonder what thoughts will meander through my mind my last minutes of this life. I am aware of the impact of my choices on my own peace and that of others. I am enjoying the relationships I have more recently, despite the various stresses each relationship presents. I am trying to collect wonderful memories. I have many already. Am I greedy to want more? I think love just expands.

When you are young, you can barely see past the next grade in school. Maybe some people made a career path in high school, but who knew everything that would happen, plans or not. Now, from mid-point in the journey, I am considering how I want Part Two of my life to roll out. I am more aware now that I need to hold any plans loosely. I think what I want to be when I grow up is peaceful.

I volunteered to run an art project for my daughter's fourth grade class and was given the theme of Japan. I planned a simple, pretty painting project of cherry blossoms and started with a great children's book called Zen Shorts.
Without really thinking about it, I found myself leading these children to consider some principles of Zen. I'm no expert, I just liked this book. Here is a paraphrase of the favorite Zen Short.

The Farmer's Luck

A farmer worked his crops for many years. One day, his only horse ran away. His neighbors came over, shaking their heads and said, "Such bad luck!"
"Maybe," said the farmer.

The next day, the horse returned with two wild horses. The farmer's neighbors came over and exclaimed, "Such good luck!"
"Maybe," said the farmer.

The next day, the farmer's son tried riding one of the wild horses and was thrown, breaking his leg. Again the neighbors came over and said, "Such bad luck!"
"Maybe," said the farmer.

The next day, military officers came through the village to draft young men into to army and head off to war. They saw the young man's broken leg and passed him over. "Such good luck!" his neighbors exclaimed.
"Maybe," said the farmer.

I keep encountering reminders of the sadness everywhere in the world while I’m trying to float into the Christmas Spirit - some darker thoughts for the Winter Solstice.

Last week I saw a frightening billow of dark black smoke. Something huge and unplanned was burning. I hoped no one was hurt, but radical changes were certainly happening in people’s lives that day.

A young man was killed in a freak car accident with his widowed mother as witness to the tragedy. I drive by the cross and flowers on the side of the road almost every day.

I bought a friend a coffee table book of Pulitzer Prize winning photos. When I got home and looked closer at the book before wrapping it, I flipped through the photos: stark evidence of the suffering and cruelty in the world at the hands of fellow human beings and capricious Mother Nature. I couldn’t bear to put Christmas wrapping paper on such a sobering collection of photos.

On my morning walk I got bit in the arm by a leashed neighborhood dog that I have greeted many times before. Maybe with my hood up he didn’t recognize me. I haven’t been walking in a while. I had to go in for a tetanus shot today. It hurts and the wound is ugly.

There is such beauty and joy possible, but sometimes it is hard to see.
It’s like the bunny I saw hopping across the road tonight: a bit of freedom we haven’t paved over yet. It better be agile to survive. But nature is still wild. Even on a leash, it can’t be expected not to be wild.

I went to yoga to try to catch up with that bunny tonight. It helped. I need to find that balance.

Maybe I needed to remember all the sorrow and tragedy to appreciate the Christmas Spirit. Love came to a crushed world. Love came in a package that we were to wrap in softness and nuzzle up close to, full of potential and tragedy.

Peggy & I went for a walk in the woods this evening with our daughters, Dawn & Suzy. The whole night was a great metaphor I can't resist sharing.

We two moms were on the same path as our daughters. Sometimes they blasted ahead of us and we hurried to catch up and sometime we waited for them to catch up when they were distracted by a swarm of ants, a frog, or lightening bugs.

Once, Suzy waited for us to catch up to her to point out a fatally injured squirrel, in its last gruesome throes. It's not often in our air conditioned lives we witness this moment in the circle of life. She was fascinated. I didn't want to look.

The path forked, with one path crossing a stream that was perfect except for the unnaturally orange water. Peggy & I watched as our daughters scrambled down for a closer look.

They were beautiful and daring, cooperative and challenging with each other. We moms watched from the bridge, murmuring our concerns to each other, but not really wanting to stop them.
That water looks rusty and the rocks look slippery.
New shoes.
Poison Ivy.
I don't want to go down there and fetch an injured one.

But we didn't stop them. We sometimes called out advice and encouragement,
Are you OK?
Try another route back.
Watch for leaves of three.
- but mostly we watched.

When the sun began to set, we waited for our daughters at the fork in the road to make sure they were headed down the path toward home.

Suzy tried Dawn's bike. She's still learning even though she's 9. I tried to help her balance. Dawn advised, "Relax and good things will happen."

I took that walk to relax. Dawn was exactly right. It was a good thing.