Laurie Sunderland – Page 12 – I-70 WEST AND BEYOND

Knitting love.

There was usually a cat tucked in there somewhere…

Although it’s been over 50 years since my grandma taught me how to knit, I can still feel her presence every time I pick up my needles. I’m right back on her scratchy, bumpy couch, tucked in tightly under her arm while she’d guide me through the process of moving the yarn from one red plastic needle to the other. It was magic to me; long pieces of yarn growing into something I could hold in my hands and maybe even wear on my head. Grandma was left-handed and I was right-handed so the whole learning process was backwards and terribly confusing until I gave up on trying to learn right-handed from a left-handed teacher and simply learned the way my Grandma taught me. Left-handed.

Last year I wrote a blog post about hands and how they are the keepers of so much of our history. Knitting is the ultimate in hand thinking. In their callouses, scars and imperfections lie the very rich history of creating, which only becomes richer with experience. Grandma’s arthritic fingers moved my young hands through a process that has become refined over many years with a lot of trial and error with things I’ve created and am very proud of and a host of projects that went the other direction and are still shoved into the back of the closet waiting for me to fix them.

It wasn’t always cool to be a knitter and the patterns available were proof as most of the end products were nothing you’d ever want to wear. Thankfully, it has become hip and yarn stores and pattern choices are much more readily available. Much to my surprise, there is a knit in public day in April, or KIP for those in the know, a knitting awareness week in October and a national knitting night in November as well as societies for right handed knitters, left handed knitters and a day set aside for those who love yarn. Yea, I know… and no, I’m not a member, of any, but you’ve got to love a serious knitter.

My knitting skills started off with long strips that were made into headbands and graduated over the years to a constant stream of sweaters for my babies and toddlers. After sitting out for several years, when I did pick up my needles again in my late twenties, I re-taught myself to knit right handed, which was much easier and far less complicated when trying to follow right handed instructions.

It has always been nurturing for me and maybe that’s because of who taught me more than what she taught me. Seriously, I would have learned algebra at age 8 if it meant getting to be squished together on a scratchy couch with my grandma leading the lesson. Although the hopeful outcome of a wearable woolen is what gets me to the yarn store in the first place, it truly is more of a process than product situation for me. I’ve ended up with a lot of almost finished projects that were either way off on size or simply didn’t end up to be the project I had in my mind. The only exception were the many baby and kid sweaters I knitted, which always ended up being the right size, at one point or another because my kids did grow and if it started out too small, there was a younger one waiting in the wings. When my oldest was 4 or 5 he asked me when he could stop wearing the sweaters I knitted and start wearing sweatshirts like all the other kids. And that was the end of that. All energies then went to the daughter, who hung in there a long time with my hand knitted sweaters for her.

Everyone who knits has a story and usually those stories are about projects, both the success and the failures. Sadly, my story is one about how my own knitting caused me tremendous public embarrassment and taught me the lesson on the importance of keeping your knitting supplies, ie yarn, a bit more organized. I know when you drag toilet paper on your shoe when you come out of a bathroom it’s called a tile comet, but what’s it called when you unknowingly drag yarn from a knitting project from your car, all the way down the sidewalk, about 3 feet high, unknowingly setting up a makeshift boundary line that’s not crossable? And to add to the fun, there was a sidewalk sale going on so cautious shoppers were mindful of the boundary that I unknowingly put into place while I went into a bakery to get a sandwich. Of course I, also, was being respectful of the “roped off area” as I returned to my car, until I realized it was coming from my car…and this was no short piece of yarn. Unfortunately, the yarn boundary ran the better part of the south side of Corinth shopping center. I’m a messy knitter who learned her lesson through embarrassment.

This meditative movement of slipping stitches made of yarn from one needle to another, hopefully yielding something wearable, is far more about the history that connected me to it in the first place than anything else and that was my Grandma, and the many hours spent next to her learning. I didn’t care if what we were knitting was wearable or not as in my 8 year-old eyes, we were knitting love. Plain and simple.

Getting the “ready” part of leaving the nest right… for everyone.

Yesterday, on the heels of Mother’s Day, a young bird in my garden gave me the gentle reminder that we all need our mother and as mothers, we all need to be needed. It’s that simple.

I was in my garden when I noticed a small bird perched on a rock, looking up at me without the least bit of fear or trepidation. Even when I moved in closer, he still didn’t flinch. I stood there for several minutes, speaking softly to him and then it happened. He got tall, or as tall as a bird only a few inches tall can be, ruffled his feathers and hovered for a few seconds before landing right back down on the rock where he started. At a time of in life when so many of my friends, as well as myself, are faced with an emptying nest, or getting used to the already empty nest, my only thought while watching this struggling bird was that it’s not only the mom that the exit is hard on. It appeared that this little fella’s independent streak got the best of him before he was ready and off he went without all of the proper tools he needed to fly. I followed him around my garden for a bit, as he hovered and landed from plant to plant. There was a lot of bird chatter going on in my yard and I was hoping that some of it was from the frantic mother, calling him back with a little bit of that scared, wait till you get home, in her call. I lost him in the bushes so don’t know what happened to him, but have come up with my own version of the story where the mama bird rescues the baby and he returns home for a few more flying lessons before exiting again. And everyone is happy.

I was reminded of a Mother’s Day several years ago when I was newly divorced and still in the process of finding my footing, while trying to get used to a new house and a new neighborhood. I had a tree right outside the kitchen window and my first spring there I realized that I was sharing my piece of real estate with a lovely family of cardinals. I have since learned that cardinals mate for life and once they find the right spot, aren’t inclined to fly off in search of a bigger or better tree, so I always feel lucky when they decide to nest in my yard.

Emery and I and anyone who happened to be at our house at that time of the year, spent a lot of time crouched below the kitchen window, quietly watching the soon to be growing family in our backyard tree. We watched patiently, and ever so quietly, as the mama bird sat in her nest. As one who adored Horton Hatches the Egg as a child, this was very cool for me to watch and thank goodness it didn’t end with an elephant having to come in and take over while said bird jetted off to Miami.

The day eventually came and the eggs were hatched and Emery and I both got to watch the dad leave the nest, bring back the worms, give them to the mother who then, and just like the pictures, would feed the babies. It became our pastime, our television our daily wonder.

We watched as both the mom and dad would teach the baby birds to fly, starting by moving from one branch to another close branch in the tree then eventually, as their skills and courage were honed, making their flights to the neighboring tree, always with quick returns. This went on for several days, while the parents seemed to be calling out directions to their newly aloft babies. Ironically, on the graduation day of one of Emery’s friends who was a year older than her, the 3 baby birds flew the nest, and this time left for other trees not so close to home base. The timing was impeccable. As I was thinking about my own soon to be emptied out nest and on the heels of Mother’s Day, we both watched from crouched positions at the kitchen window, with a real life, front row view of the “leaving the nest” cliche that is spoke of so often. After becoming so involved with watching this small family grow, I think we were both surprised at how emotional it was to finally see the little birds go. Still riding on the warmth of what we had witnessed, we returned home after the graduation to see that all of the birds had returned to the nest. Maybe they weren’t quite ready after all. If you believe it’s possible to see a bird smile, I think we both saw a slight grin on that mama bird’s face that night (is it called a face?) when her babies returned to the nest. Maybe she wasn’t ready either.

I swear, there’s a coalition of birds out there who are trying to tell me something. The birds, the nest, the leaving and the returning seems to be something that comes into view for me on a regular basis and for sure at this time of year when so many of us are thinking about mothering and mothers and the feel of our grip on our little ones as they begin to fly. The book I made for my friend, Marta, reminded me of this, yet again, with one of her paintings of a bird (representing her youngest child) returning to the nest after his initial “exit.” Next to the painting is the quote, “otra vez,” which means “again” in Spanish. Simple, yet understood. One of the edits Marta made during our book-making process was to have me put that word in all capital letters. I understood.

There are the birds that leave when they’re not quite ready and will flutter and hover and fall until they decide to return to their opened-winged mothers, then there are the birds that simply don’t want to leave, just yet, and need a bit of maternal nudging.

In raising our children, we give them roots and we give them wings and it’s the wings part that most of us who are mothers struggle with. It is also the part that connects us all, whether we have feathers or not.

Perfect imperfection and other maternal goals…. Happy Mother’s Day, 2015.

My everything. And then some…

Mother’s Day, 1992

I was asked the other day by my cousin’s daughter, who is in her 3rd trimester of pregnancy, if I knew how long the umbilical cord was. I didn’t know. But really, I did, but didn’t want to tell her. The umbilical cord is as long as it needs to be, and although the physical cord is birthed with the baby, the emotional cord connects you and your child forever and ever. Mine once stretched all the way to the highlands of Peru, when I learned that my non-Spanish speaking, traveling alone daughter, had found herself on a bus in the middle of nowhere, with a flat tire, a steep drop off and more than one person asking if she was alone. Alone as in, can I help you??? Or alone as in, I can take advantage of you. And of course night was approaching. Thankfully, I got word of this AFTER the fact and not during and although she ended up being safe, I felt the ache from the stretched umbilical cord for a long time afterwards. That same invisible cord has found its way to Chicago multiple times when my son Grant lived there and has great muscle memory for Portland, where my oldest son Thomas and my daughter-in-law Brooke live.

There were a whole lot of other things that I could have shared with this soon to be mom, but she will learn these things on her own, and with her child as her teacher. She’ll learn that all those things she vowed she’d never do as a mom, she will do. Multiple times. I was determined to give my kids the healthiest food I could and convinced my oldest for quite some time that rice cakes were cookies and green beans were snacks – the good kind of snacks that you asked for before they were even offered. But the day came when I strayed and popcorn became a vegetable, ice cream covered us in the dairy requirements and more than once I tried to make a meal out of condiments. Some days simply didn’t have the hours I needed to get out the serving dishes and have something to put in them. Or maybe I was just tired. Yeah. I think that was the reason.

With hands on hips, I told my kids I would not be the mom who ran stuff up to the school that they had forgotten. Period. End of story. Don’t even ask. The first time my oldest called me during his freshman year of high school to tell me he had forgotten his soccer uniform and it was game day, I couldn’t get in my car fast enough to bail him out. He had, after all, given me almost 9 years of no asking so just this once, right? On about the 4th trip to the school office, with my usual accessory of a soccer uniform under my arm, the attendance clerk told me that as long as I continued to bring his forgotten items to him, he would never learn. I responded with a “Oh I know… I’m not a mom that does that…normally…. but these are emergency exceptions.” I’m totally that Mom and it would appear I’m a lying mom as well. If said son had forgotten something he needed in his class in law school IN PORTLAND, OREGON, I would have had the car headed west before he had finished with his plea, but he never asked.

Preconceived notions of perfection in child rearing take a back seat to reality and as a mom with experience, I can say that the crucial decision of whether to go by the books or by the seat of the pants is usually made on the fly when there is no other option but by the seat of the pants. Tired also plays into the decision making process and with 3 under age 4, that’s my defense, and I’m sticking to it.

I had to remind at least one of my kids to stop telling me that such and suches mom makes a fresh from the oven home made treat for after school snacks each and every day and lays it out buffet style for the kids to enjoy after school. Seriously? Well I’m never going to do that. The next week, I stocked up on muffin mixes and tried my damnedest to be that mom. I failed. My straight from the box and into the oven muffins were not what I was about and my kids saw right through my poorly pieced together mom of the year facade. What was my normal was putting my school-aged kids in the car at eleven o’clock at night and heading to the store for licorice or skittles or day old donuts because we were watching a movie and the popcorn wasn’t cutting it. Oh yes, and I was usually in my slippers because when you make a fast get away, shoes are the last thing you think of. THAT is who I am. The same mom, who showed up in her slippers at the grocery store used to fold herself into a small closet with her then preschool-aged sons and have sleepovers because it was an adventure. She was also the mom that asked for a roto tiller for Mother’s Day one year, much to the dismay and disappointment of her 5 year-old daughter, who desperately wanted her to want make up for Mother’s Day.

I thought that gathered around the hearth, all squishy and smiley and in coordinating colors while we created the memories of a lifetime, was what it was all about, in part because the articles in the magazines said so. More than once, post holiday, I would silently scold myself, insisting that I’d get it right the next time, when in reality, I couldn’t have been more right and the memories and traditions were made whether I was armed with a cookie cutter and a glue stick or not. Who gathers around a hearth anyway? In keeping with the importance of tradition, whether mine or the magazine’s, I decided when the kids were little to let them choose what their birthday celebration would look like, including the restaurant choice. My middle child, Grant, at age 3, decided that eating at home was better than any restaurant, and chose his favorite foods for his birthday celebration menu…cantaloupe and hot dogs. He also insisted on all of us “dressing for dinner, ” which for the all the boys meant blazers (no ties required) and for Emery and I, dresses. He wore a pair of too short, too tight, red plaid pants, water shoes, a green muscle shirt and of course the required navy blue blazer. It was perfectly imperfect, right down to the mismatched paper plates. Of course at the time, I wondered if I should have over-ridden the menu choice, but now I realize that giving the one celebrating the birthday total control, was and still is, the right thing to do. We did stay with the traditional over-iced, white sheet cake from the grocery store though.

That seat of the pants mothering that sometimes comes out of a box and sometimes doesn’t wear shoes or adhere to a schedule, is something I see very clearly today in each one of my children even though none are mothers, or fathers for that matter. I could not be prouder as a mom for that. When you can look at your kids and say to yourself, ‘hey, I recognize that person because it’s me!’… well, it doesn’t get any better than that, unless of course it’s the negative stuff and in that case, look away. They may have a leg up on me when it comes to food preparation (no boxed muffins in their cupboards), but the thread of salt of the earth with a little bit of crazy and a whole lot of love has connected us all.

Emery wrote a Mother’s Day essay for me when she was in middle school and it has hung on my closet wall ever since. I can’t step foot into my closet without re-reading at least one line of it and the line that keeps coming into my field of vision is this:

“My mom is kind of like an old pair of socks, warm and cozy yet worn and tough.”

Well there you go. To all the seasoned moms, the new moms and the moms to be, cozy, worn and tough beats homemade muffins spread out buffet style any day, or at least it does for me. Happy, happy day of YOU! We’re all mothers to someone, whether we know it or not, and that someone is very grateful, and not just on Mother’s Day.

Then…

And now…

Trees and birds with a healthy side of patience and understanding…

I finished the making the book for my friend from Ecuador yesterday. Well almost and not quite. Upon what I thought was the completion, I ordered just one copy to check for mistakes then took it over for Marta to check it as well before ordering the 12 books that she wanted. I was very pleased with the end result but given the history thus far on the project, knew not to relax just yet, a hunch that was totally correct.

Marta was standing at her front window waiting for me when I arrived, a gesture that I’ve become quite fond of, and has me on my punctual toes each time I visit. Her living room looked like she was expecting company as she had moved all of her kitchen chairs into the room, and each chair held one of her original paintings as well as stacked, and paper clipped papers of text. There was a system here and I knew not to question although I was somewhat surprised as I had already reassured her multiple times that I had the paintings and the text pages in the proper order. I thought we had already jumped that hurdle.

Inhale. Exhale. Patience. Or paciencia, in Español.

She loved my “sample” hard copy book, much to my delight, yet still walked around the living room checking my page order with the stacks of paper on each chair. She did find a couple of small mistakes, errors in her spelling on some of the Spanish text and I agreed that I would keep the book with the mistakes as my own, would make the necessary corrections then would order the 12 books she wanted. She wanted to pay me right then and there, but I insisted we wait until she had all 12 books in her hands and was pleased with them. We agreed to meet for lunch once she received the books and she could pay me then. So last week, as agreed, we met at a neighborhood restaurant that she liked that ironically happened to be French and enjoyed the lovely French cuisine while conversing in Spanish the entire time. The language section of my brain, opened up then got confused, as I was “merci-ing” in the middle of a totally Spanish conversation. I felt very European.

That was last week. Since then, my friend has found things in the book she wants to change, which means another order and unfortunately, a big expense for her. I tried to talk her out of it as the books are not cheap, but she insists that they be perfect and said she will only publish one book in her lifetime and this was it so it just had to be perfect. She apologized for having pushed me to get them done so quickly but said she was nervous she wouldn’t make it to her 80th birthday, a comment that I have argued more than once with her. When the book was finished she told me she was relieved and will not worry about dying before December. I don’t know how to say “stop over thinking the dying stuff” in Spanish but gave her a smile that communicated my thoughts and she smiled back. I’m starting to understand her humor and she mine.

That was a few weeks ago and the same process of ordering, proofreading, correcting and re-ordering has now happened, twice. Last week, I think we finally reached a point where we’re both satisfied, but my fingers remain crossed and my breath held.

This has been far more of an ordeal than I ever thought it would be when I signed on, but it has been about so much more than a book of paintings and text. Last week I spent 2 hours conversing in Spanish with my new friend and felt so comfortable with it that at one point I actually forgot that I was slogging through a language that wasn’t my mother tongue.

As I was driving home from that last visit, I realized that the many trips to her house to do and re-do were far less about the book that we were jointly creating and far more about the friendship that was developing. I think about Marta and I smile. It’s been a synchronistic connection that I think we both needed and the timing was impeccable.

The book, by the way, is a lovely story which showcases Marta’s love for her children as well as her love for trees. She represents each of her 6 children as golondrinas, a bird that is common to Ecuador, who one by one leave the nest and find their tree to begin their lives as adults. Many different trees are represented, including a saguaro cactus, which represents her son who lives in Arizona. One of the paintings shows one of the birds returning to the mother with the text “trata otra vez” (he tried again). I was that kid. I get it. No doubt her children will be very touched by the paintings and the story that accompanies them, especially given that they haven’t yet learned that she know how to paint!

Sometimes getting to the prize at the end of the proverbial tunnel isn’t what you thought it would be. I’ve got a new book to add to my growing collection of books I’ve made, but the gain here is not in the pages of that book but rather was the added gift of an unexpected friendship. There is always a purpose behind our chance meetings with people and some of those relationships continue as they are needed in one way or another, while others fall away. I’m hopeful that the friendship I’ve found with Marta will continue far beyond the pages of a book.

Finding my gift in the process, not the product, and saying “gracias”…

Quito, Ecuador and my friend, Marta’s home town

Last night, over a pizza with extra mushrooms and pepperoni, I carefully listened to the life stories told to me in Spanish by a woman from Ecuador, who at the tender age of 20, moved to Kansas City with her Ecuadorian, soon to be doctor, husband. After having 7 children with him, she divorced and raised the children as a single mom, remaining in Kansas City. She’d only interject with English when she’d see my head tilt and brows knit in confusion over a word or a phrase, then seamlessly, would fall right back into her native tongue. When the waitress came over to our table to see if we needed anything and I quickly responded in Spanish, my immediate reality hit me and I had to marvel at the beauty of sharing these moments, with this women, in Spanish, in Leawood, KS and over a pizza.

I met this lovely women a few years ago as she was my teacher at an evening Spanish class I was taking. After the 3rd class, she called me at home and told me she thought I was too advanced for the class and would I rather come to her house and just converse once a week? Of course I would! I’d much rather speak Spanish while sitting on someone’s couch than at a desk with a notebook in front of me! And that’s how I got to know Marta. After a few months of weekly Spanish at her house, I ended up taking a trip to her native Ecuador with her and 3 other students. It was interesting getting to see the country through her native eyes and frustrating at the same time as they were 78 year-old eyes and we didn’t exactly share the same philosophies on travel and adventure and how many more museums to we have to, I mean get to go to today?? But that’s another story.

I didn’t hear from her after the trip until a month ago when she emailed me and asked for my help with a project she was working on. Her children are throwing her an 80th birthday party in December and to thank them, she was in the process of putting together a short story of her life told in paintings and brief text that she wanted to make into books and could I please offer up the tiniest bit of help with the project? I hesitated, and with good cause, but hung onto the words tiny or “muy pequito” more specifically. I really didn’t know Marta well as she was fiercely private so was both surprised and flattered with her request. Flattery won.

I agreed to meet her at her house, a short 10 minutes from mine, where she would show me what she was working on and how I could help. In my mind, I thought it would be a giving an opinion on fonts or text placement kind of thing, which I was more than happy to help with. I’ve got to add that when I returned from Ecuador, I made a book of photos from the trip with some text and gave a copy to Marta, so any hopes of saying I didn’t know how were lost on that piece of history. When I got there, she took me to her spare bedroom/office where she had 20 8 1/2 by 11 sized paintings carefully laid out on the sofa bed, all of them with the similar theme of trees, birds and a lot of blue sky. They were quite lovely and all hand painted by Marta, who told me she taught herself to paint on the heels of this project. Inhale. Exhale. It was far more than an opinion she wanted and I was in too deep to walk away. She begged, she pleaded, she insisted on paying me for the work, which at that point, seeing the size of the project, I already had a number in my mind to charge her. I looked at her standing proudly in front of the 20 paintings that depicted her life, carefully placed on the bed as a display for me and wondered how in the world I could say anything but yes. Yes, of course I will help you.

She was so excited that I said yes and began to explain how she wanted the book by showing me her handwritten copies of stapled and stacked papers, far more confusing than it needed to be, then explained how she learned to paint, again, far more explanation that I needed, but I was committed at that point, so let go of my need to grab the explanation and be on my way, and allowed myself to be present in a moment that was not just about me making a book. There was something else in the makings here, and although not quite sure what that something was, I was willing to stay the course and find out.

I knew I’d be there until next Tuesday if I didn’t tell her I had to be somewhere else, so with the paintings and the papers, all organized into two folders, we said our goodbyes and I almost made my exit when Marta came running out the front door and stopped me and handed me a lucite in-box from her desk, insisting that I put the paintings, the paintings that were safely tucked into a folder, into the box for the drive to my house. She said they’d be safer that way.

While driving home, I glanced over at the clear lucite box that contained a 79 year-old woman from Ecuador’s life story, told in paintings and brief text, that was riding shot gun in my car and knew I had made the right decision. This gift, created for her children and to be given to them on her 80th birthday celebration, no doubt was going to be a gift for me as well, and to that, both out loud and to myself, I said gracias.

My first task at hand was to photograph the paintings, which had given me the most angst about the project as I didn’t want to lose one brushstroke in the copying process, but they turned out beautifully and I began the process of digitally putting them into the book format, along with her pages of text. The ease of the project ended quickly when I got an email from Marta saying she wanted all of the paintings back because she wanted to make the birds darker, which were in every painting and represented important pieces of her life. I knew there was no arguing with her so told her I’d be over “around noon” on the following day. I pulled into her driveway at 12:10 and noticed her standing at the front window waiting. My irritation with her request that seemed unfounded, melted at the sight of her anxiously waiting for me. It made me think of my grandparents who would drive an hour to see me dance in a 10 minute half-time performance in my high school gym. They always looked little and vulnerable and more excited than anyone else in the room to see me. I found myself more than willing to hear Marta’s explanations of the small changes she wanted to make and how she was going to make the birds darker in all 20 of the paintings. I’m finding my Spanish again with each visit and she’s finding someone to use her Spanish with and I think in the process, we’re both unexpectedly finding a friendship.

After about a week of working on the book, and two more trips to her house with worries and suggestions, I brought over the final copy via my computer for her to look at before ordering. She was thrilled! Well… mostly. There was one painting that she wanted to tweak just a little bit and then I could come back the next day and get it. Or, I suggested, the tweaks could be done as I waited then I could carry the wet painting home in my car, oh so carefully. She hesitated and said she’d do it now and I could take it home with me and in the meantime, would I like to go eat pizza with her tonite at a pizza place nearby that she liked? My first thought was to say no, I have to go, but then thoughts of her sitting by herself at a trendy and likely busy pizza parlor came to mind and I graciously said yes, of course yes. It was over pizza that I heard about Marta and her seven children and both her happiness with being here and the longing for her Ecuador. I am both blessed and honored to be a very small part of the celebration of this dear woman’s 80th birthday.

The warmth of such an interesting and delightful evening quickly faded when Marta emailed me later that night and said she wanted all of the text size changed as larger text is just nicer to read. She didn’t seem to understand that the actual book would be larger than my computer screen but that didn’t matter. She wanted it changed and needed me to come by her house, at my convenience, of course, ASAP, so she could explain. She ended the email telling me that because she had shared her history and her family’s history with me, “we are now friends.”

Marta (on the right) with her childhood friend and me in Cuenca, Ecuador

And so, with my new friend directing me, I continue to work on this project, that in reality was completed a while ago, while realizing that this is less about the book and far more about what is going on between Marta and I during the process of making this book. These really are the moments, wrapped up in a package so cleverly disguised that it hardly seemed like a gift, let alone one I’d want to unwrap. It has been the unexpected treasure of friendship inside wrappings of frustration and annoyance, that I never saw coming. For that, I am grateful and say gracias, muchas gracias mi amiga, Marta.

To be continued…

20/20 vision on remembering…

Now wouldn’t she have been a whole lot cuter with blue framed glasses on? To maybe detract a little from the hair??

When I was in the 3rd grade, I wanted glasses, desperately, and to fulfill this plan, I did what any scheming 8 year-old would do and told my Mom that I was having a hard time seeing.

Seeing what? The chalkboard? Your books?

Yes. All of it. It’s all blurry.

And it was that easy. My Mom took me to the nearest Ophthalmologist, which happened to be a few towns away, making the experience even more notable in my pretend to be weakening eyes. I did my best to flunk the test, telling the Dr. that the blurriest lenses he tested on me were the clearest and vice versa. I had no doubt that by the end of the day, I’d have glasses to add to my look, blue rims please. I know this all teeters between down right strange and a bit pathetic with desperately seeking attention written all over it and I’ll confirm all three. It’s unfortunate that I couldn’t have found the attention I craved from the corrective shoes I was sentenced to wear for a few rough years of my grade school career, but clunky black shoes trimmed in velvet in an attempt to make them attractive, simply were not cool. At all. And when the school dress code for girls was dresses and skirts only, they were also very hard to hide. I dragged the toes of said shoes several blocks on the rough sidewalks on my way home from school one day, wearing holes in the toes of both of them so big you could see my socks. It was my not so well thought out plan to get new shoes that were not of the corrective variety. Instead of the new shoes I had hoped for, I was left with a pair of shoes with holes in the toes to wear until it was shoe buying time again, which was not any time soon. Light blue cat-eyed framed glasses would have probably helped me get over my dumb shoes, holes and all.

The Dr. and his machines were far wiser than my scheming 8 year-old self and miraculously I passed the test and even with extra credit as I was far sighted enough that had I needed to, my eyes could have made their way around the classroom come test time for a little help, which of course I never, ever did. There were no glasses for me, but instead I received the consolation prize of a pair of temporary dark glasses to protect my dilated eyes in the light. They looked more like a big negative strip wrapped around my head than the glasses I had hoped for, but they were better than nothing. I returned to school that afternoon, still wearing my pretend glasses, and although the effects of the dilating had long since worn off, I continued to wrap that dark piece of film around my face for the next two days, looking more like Helen Keller than the 20/20 plus visioned 8 year-old that I was. I insisted to my classmate that the eye Dr. told me I needed to wear goofy looking glasses for a few days because of the tests they had done on me. I don’t know, I might have even told them I had a rare eye disease for that matter. It seemed to be the path I was on at the time. I can’t help but think about my teacher looking at the girl in the classroom who with all seriousness was wearing a temporary pair of film glasses that are normally thrown away after a few hours. She had to be rolling her eyes and shaking her head every time she looked at me, continually adjusting that ill-fitting piece of film around my ears, without even a shred of embarrassment amongst my peers. No doubt the few kids in the class that legitimately wore glasses knew exactly what it was that I continued to wrap around my face and tuck behind my ears, but they were kind enough to not say anything.

Last week, some 52 years later and still with good eyes and with my hopes of having to wear glasses long since faded, I went to the eye Dr. and was told I need surgery. My eyes are starting to catch up with my age…sigh… and although not necessary immediately, I was told that lens replacement will improve my vision immensely, my vision that I didn’t realize was compromised. Although I don’t have cataracts… yet… I will soon enough so the lens replacement surgery would be a proactive move. I stopped giving the Dr. full attention upon hearing the word “cataract”. I remember when I turned 50 and the AARP information started filling my mailbox. AARP? Seriously? I felt like I had started getting some other persons mail… some old person, not me. Cataracts make AARP sound like a subscription to Glamour magazine.

While at my recent eye exam, my overachieving self stepped in and painstakingly tried to distinguish the letters in just one more row, feeling discouraged that I couldn’t read the bottom row at all. I couldn’t help but think of the time I tried so hard to flunk the test to get the glasses, blue frames please, that I so desperately wanted. Although I know this is a very common procedure, I’m still a bit uncomfortable with the idea of someone working on my eyes, making the idea of glasses sound not so bad.

I was offered the disposable glasses when I was getting ready to leave, in case I didn’t have “real” sunglasses with me, and was surprised that they didn’t seem to have changed over the decades. Thankfully, I had real sunglasses with me so turned them down. Seriously? I wore those in public for TWO days? 20/20 vision doesn’t necessarily mean an accurate or clear perspective when you go beyond the eye charts. Thank goodness for maturity, even if aging eyes is part of the package.

Unscheduled silver linings…

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I had been in Colorado for a few weeks with no new snow and snow melting temperatures, so when the day came with a forecast of a few inches of snow, which overnight turned into a quick 7, I was very anxious to strap on my boots and skis and go play. I’ve never been a skier who feels the need to make the first tracks down the mountain, so with the Copper Mountain bus schedule in mind, I set a leisurely 9:30 as my departure (9:35, specifically), which would have me comfortably in the usually short lift line by 10:00ish.

I made it to the bus stop (a short block from my house, 96 paces to be exact) with time to spare, but minutes before the bus was to arrive, I realized that I didn’t have my ski pass with me, so knowing full well that I’d miss the bus and would have to catch the next one 25 minutes later, I leisurely walked back to my place and grabbed my pass. Once back to the bus stop, I realized I had neither a credit card or cash with me, so, once again, I walked BACK to my place and grabbed my credit card, this time with time to spare before my now 2nd bus choice. At this point, things were not looking good, but I stayed the course in anticipation of the fun ahead. While waiting, I saw my neighbor and started talking to her and was so distracted that when the first Summit Stage bus came along, I said goodbye and jumped on without a thought. When the bus driver started going a different direction that I was used to, I realized I had gotten on the wrong bus (the bus to Breckenridge comes one minute before the Copper Mountain bus). I could have gotten off at the next stop, but my pride got in my way (who gets off at the hospital stop with skis?? Or the high school stop??) So, pride winning, I decided I was in it for the long haul and rode to the Breckenridge station, while trying to make the best of the unscheduled tour that I had just added on to my normally 15 minute ride.

This was a pivotal moment for me. I could either regret, bemoan, continually look at my watch and sigh with the stupid mistake that would cost me a few hours of skiing once everything was said and done, OR I could just go with it, and try to find the positive in the situation, which I did. While getting off the bus to transfer, I asked the driver when the next bus to Frisco was (I was going to have to start all over on the process as there was no bus to Copper Mountain from Breckenridge), and he gave me an odd look, or so it appeared, as I could hardly make eye contact given my embarrassment. He directed me to the stop, which had a timetable posted and with skis in tow, I got off and waited for the bus to take me to where I had just come from. Again, make the best of the situation.

There was a woman waiting at the stop with me who was headed to the hospital as she had fallen a few days earlier and thought she may have broken a rib. I’m guessing she was about my age, but it was hard to tell as she was bundled up in a long wool coat and a scarf that could have doubled as a blanket. We started talking and she told me about her stupid fall (her words) and how her friend from Iowa had come to visit her and had done the same thing and was now at her house unable to get up off the couch. She was from Alma, a small mountain town on the other side of the Hoosier Pass, and had driven down to Breckenridge (a drive that scares me on a dry pavement summer day) to catch the bus to the hospital. She told me that she and her friend had planned on coming to Breckenridge for lunch and a nice afternoon before for the falls happened, but with her friend prone on her couch and her on the bus to the hospital, all bets were off for fun in Breckenridge. The shift of plans, and with an out of town visitor no less, made me feel just the tiniest bit guilty for the focus I was putting on what now seemed to be nothing. Big deal. I got on the wrong bus.

A few minutes into the ride, she pulled a paper plate out of her large tote bag, peeled back the plastic wrap, and before digging in, asked me if I wanted some. I wasn’t sure what it was and was so struck by the fact that she was toting a plate of food in her bag that I’m sure I had an inappropriate gaping mouth stare for far to long than I should have. I thanked her, but nicely declined. The norm would have been a Cliff Bar or maybe a piece of fruit. I liked that she carried a plastic covered plate of food instead. It seemed charming in an eccentric sort of way.

After she got off, my focus shifted to a mother and her two sons (7 and 9, I guessed) who’s accent told me she was likely from New Zealand. The boys were high energy and quite frankly rather annoying and after scolding them several times and asking them to play quieter (they both were playing video games on a shared phone), she finally got up and moved to the seat behind them, in a bit of an exasperated move. The boys got up and tried to sit with her several times, but she wasn’t having it and in an firm voice that she was trying to keep to an unnoticeable whisper, she gave them multiple warnings. With two boys 18 months a part, this was a very familiar scene to me and I admired her moxie for simply getting up and changing seats. There was a time I wouldn’t have considered that to be “mom legal” but maybe rules are different in New Zealand. Although I could hardly blame her, there was a part of me that wanted to tell her that yes, they are loud, they are annoying, they are exhausting and frustrating, but there will be a day when they are in their late 20’s and maybe or maybe not living close by, that you will miss this…obnoxious, over-energized behavior and all. Holy cow. I’ve turned into that mom who looks longingly at other moms with kids who aren’t yet shaving or in make-up and heels. Even though it’s been a couple of decades since I was scolding young boys and telling them to keep their hands to themselves, there are times that it really does seem like it was last week. More than once, I can remember hearing from moms a few decades ahead of me, that the time really does fly by and to savor the moment. I’d kindly thank them while quickly returning to the task at hand, which usually wasn’t real pretty. Only when you have reached that point in time can you understand. Note to all moms with kids still young enough that you’ve got a bit of hands on hips, stern faced control over them, time really does speed by and what becomes important is rarely what you anticipated.

I got off at the bus stop near my house, waited for the Copper bus and was back in route, this time the right route, and was in the lift line just short of 2 hours later than what I had planned. Honestly, I didn’t miss all that much, but rather collected a couple of fun and interesting memories that nudged me to be present, find the good, the interesting, and the inspiration in the moment and simply be grateful because it really is the journey that is far more memorable than the destination.

I remember the sky was blue, the sun was shining and the mountain had a nice fresh coating of powder, but it’s the woman in the big coat with a plate of food in her bag and two energetic boys and their tired mom that have become the bigger memory for me that day.

And Christmas wasn’t ruined…

I have a strange perfectionist tendency that says if I do something once and have success with it, then it has to be done the next time and every single time after that until the end of time. In this case, I’m talking about traditions, more specifically, Christmas traditions. For starters, I’m a Virgo and this is simply what Virgos do, but I’m also from a family that holds onto traditions, close and tightly and next to their hearts, especially when it comes to Christmas. At age 59, I know I’m in a very small minority of people who can say that they have spent every Christmas of their life with their entire family. Every. Single. One. My parents, my siblings, my sibling’s spouses, my own kids and now their significant others, all come together for a few days that holds the same kind of magic that it did when I was a small child. We do Christmas well, and because of that I’ve always been a tiny bit afraid to make any changes to the many traditions that have made their way through the generations.

There was a point a few years ago when I realized that I was doing a whole lot of things simply because I had always done them, and while the end was accomplished, the process suffered while I trudged through tasks that I didn’t really enjoy. Baking, cutting out and icing cookies was my first tradition to hit the dust, and lo and behold, Christmas was not ruined. It almost pains me to admit it, but I do not enjoy baking and whether Christmas cookies or birthday cakes, I fail miserably at the task, probably because I simply don’t enjoy it. I will knit Christmas stockings with names and designs knitted right in and load up mantles with nature’s bounty until the cows come home, but I will leave the baking to someone else. I’m throwing in the towel and the cookie sheets and am calling myself done. And finally, I’m able to say that it’s OK.

Our family tradition of putting a hand-written poem on every one of our gifts that gives a hint as to the contents inside, has made its way through 4 generations unscathed as well as our tradition of “pie presents,” which are small presents that are placed on everyone’s plate for Christmas dinner. Both traditions remain strong, while evolving to suit the expanding and maturing crowd. The poems have become every comic in the family’s moment of fame when it’s read (which is everyone, by the way) and the pie gifts have transformed into a pre-Christmas Yankee swap, with a whole lot of trying to out do the next guy taking place. Both have survived the holiday cuts because it is something we all enjoy. Baking for me, not so much. Writing Christmas cards, which I sadly gave up a few years ago because of time constraints, has also been dropped and not picked up again… at least not yet. And still, Christmas was not ruined.

The traditions give us a growing history and are carried until they become cumbersome, then hopefully, we have the presence of mind to let them go. Poems that started out with a couple of lines that my young children would scribble onto a sheet of paper have grown into witty works of art, many that I’ve saved over the years. Give up the cookies, the cards and even the outdoor lights, if you will, but please oh please save the poems, my children. You will be the carriers to the next generation.

While some traditions are held tight, and others are let go of, what really matters and what has become the biggest tradition of all isn’t wrapped up or baked or sent in the mail, but rather is the gift of a family coming together, once again, for a few days of magic. It’s the gift that is wrapped up in memories and continually given and received with open arms and hearts and topped with a hand written poem that speaks of love and family and Christmas magic. THIS is the tradition that I have no doubt will be carried safely in the hearts to the generations to come.

Wish all my family and friends a very Merry Christmas!

Feeling just a little more grateful this Thanksgiving…

I’m finding my field of gratefulness stretched out just a little bit further than usual this Thanksgiving season, to the northern African country of Morocco, specifically. As much as I like to think that I’m helping to better someones life when volunteering, if only a few moments at a time, the reality is that the people who I am supposedly helping, whether that means teaching English to or simply being attentive and loving to a child at the orphanage, give me far more than I could ever give them and the gift of gratitude is the gift I take away. The greatest gift of all.

There were so many reminders of gratitude during my stay in Rabat, but two in particular that I can’t seem to let go of. The first one was during my trip to Fes. I met a very interesting young man while on the train and had the opportunity to chat with him during the entire 3 hour journey. He was 23 and from the country of Georgia, but was going to school in Rabat, working on his masters degree in Middle Eastern politics. He spoke several languages fluently, but apologized for his poor French, hardly worthy of an apology to this barely bi-lingual person. His stories were more like a history lesson to me and I was amazed by his knowledge of American history, which put my own knowledge to shame. One of his stories that particularly touched me, was when he told me about his memories of 9/11. He said he was in the 3rd grade and he remembers watching the videos of the planes going into the towers and how afraid his parents were, even for their own safety. I certainly could understand the fear, yet at half a world away, assumed they would feel more isolated and somewhat protected. His response are words I will not soon forget.

“America was the last safe place in the world and now it wasn’t. The whole world was afraid.”

I’m thankful that David happened to claim the seat right across from me on the train that morning, even though my first thoughts were hoping he wouldn’t be someone who would want to talk, as I wanted to sleep. His words and his reminder that the world is far bigger than our U.S. borders, made a huge impact on me that I won’t soon forget.

The second reminder I got was something that Mohamed told us during one of our first lessons on Moroccan culture. He told us to never lose sight of the gift we have simply by the name of the country that is imprinted on our passport as it puts us ahead of most of the world. Our passports are worth far more than we realize. It is so easy to forget this, especially during a time of such political turmoil in our country. It’s a difficult, timely and expensive process for a Moroccan to get a tourist visa for the United States and the chances of being chosen through the lottery system in place are slim. I had a couple of women in my class that were perfecting their English in hopes of going to the United States to visit children and grandchildren who lived there. I was so sad when Mohamed told me that their chances of visiting the United States were very slim, yet they continued to plug away at their English lessons, their energy fueled by such a tiny thread of hope.

So underneath my table of abundance this year at Thanksgiving will be the faces from Morocco – a girl at the orphanage reaching her hand out to me through the bars of her crib, a young man on a train who opened my eyes to a reality a world away from mine and to the dark blue booklet that I guard with my life when I travel outside of my country’s borders that says, “United States of America.”

Yesterday, while finishing up on my unpacking, I picked up one of my shirts and was drawn to its smell and couldn’t seem to figure out why it seemed so familiar. Then it hit me. The orphanage. I had gotten clean clothes from the laundry before I left Rabat and they must use the same soap that they use to launder the children’s clothes at the orphanage. Now that I know, I find myself burying my face into a memory to insure that it won’t be lost. I’m not quite ready to let go. I know that as life goes on and memories start to fade a bit, a thread of connection to Morocco will remain and no doubt, will present itself to me when I become too complacent with what I have. But for now, with my Moroccan memory still vibrant and with its scent still in my clothes, I will go deeper on my list of what I have to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. The stories, the people and a hand reaching out to me to communicate as she had no words, for starters…

To all my friends and family, I am thankful, over and over again, to have you in my life.

Pulling back the veils… discovering the culture…

Rabat is situated on the coast, but it wasn’t until my last day that I saw the beach. This geographic tidbit seemed to be overlooked by the people of Rabat, and odd as it sounds, I kind of forgot about the beach while there!

God, Country, King – the motto of Morocco (in Arabic script on the mountain side)

Driving into the Sahara Desert

Things I’ve learned about Morocco:

~ The literacy rate is about 50% and even less in the countryside. The number falls even more when you’re talking about girls. That, in part, is due to the fact that the schools in the country usually do not have a bathroom. Whereas, it’s easy for the boys, the girls will simply stop going to school as there is no bathroom for them. Sometimes the answer to the problem is so easy….

~ Moroccan Arabic (Morocco’s first language) is not a written language so there is no “correct” or “incorrect” when it comes to spelling a word. You spell it as it sounds to you. Classical Arabic, on the other hand, IS a written language and is the language taught in school, but it is Moroccan Arabic (or darija) that is spoken in the home. Berber is also taught in the schools and is spoken by at least 50% of Moroccans. French is taught in the schools from grade one, and is considered the “second” language of Morocco. The Moroccans aren’t willing to give up the French from the time when they were under French rule, as they see it as a more “sophisticated” language and would rather have it as a 2nd language than English. When I asked Khadija (our house director, who speaks Moroccan Arabic, classical Arabic, Berber, French and English) which language was the most difficult to learn, she said French, by far. Then of course there is the difference in alphabets, both with the letters, the pronunciations, the way the letter is written and does it go from right to left or left to right? I’m beyond impressed.

~ When I asked our guide while in the desert if a Moroccan woman would wear a swimming suit and swim in the pool (there was a pool at the place we spent our first night in the desert), he hesitated then said…
“No…. unless she was a bad woman.”

How about men, Hamza? Would a Moroccan man swim in the pool???

Again, he hesitated, but with a look on his face that clearly said, “Huh????”

Then he answered, “But of course a man would!”

Double standards. All over the place. And they know it.

~ The call to prayer (or adhan) that we hear over the loud speaker 5 times a day is the same call in every Muslim country in the world. It sounds like chanting and at this point, I find it rather soothing, if, that is, I even notice it at all any more…

~ Every Arabic speaking country has a different dialect, and there’s not necessarily an overlap in the language. Women tend to know more dialects from other Arabic speaking countries than men because they watch soap operas on TV.

~ Tipping is considered a gesture of kindness and is in no way required or considered rude if
neglected. The students in my classroom were amazed that there are “tipping jars” in so many places where we make purchases or receive services.

~ My students told me that Moroccans don’t feel the “need” for the money to go from hand to hand in a customer/merchant situation. They would actually prefer to just leave the money on the table and leave. There is no sales tax so it is easy to know the exact amount of money to leave. The fact that there is a difference between the price on the price tag and the price we are asked to pay due to taxes, amazed them.

~ Time moves much slower here and being 20 or 30 minutes late to appointments is not that
uncommon or even considered rude, which explains why when class starts at 9:30, there are still students straggling in at 10:15 or 10:30 with nary an apology!

~ I’ve never been in a country who displays their flag more…. there are groupings of the Moroccan flag that look like flowers in a vase with all the flag poles slanting out from the middle. These displays are up and down every median from the cities to the small villages. The flag is quite pretty in its simplicity…. a red background with a 5 pointed green star outline in the center.

~ The first law of Islam is to never kill, whether another person, or yourself. The second law of Islam is to honor your parents, ESPECIALLY your mother and to never speak bad of her. Lots about Islam that I like…

~ Dogs are rare in Morocco and only owned for protection. They are considered unclean and one needs to wash their clothing if it comes in contact with a dog. That being said, they are not touched and obviously are not petted. Cats, on the other hand are considered sacred and pretty much have the run of the place! They are not owned “individually” but rather are owned and fed by everyone.

~ When you sign your name in Morocco, it does not necessarily have to be your name, but could be a design you make up. It has to be consistent, though.

~ Morocco is the biggest importer of China’s tea. These folks love their Moroccan mint tea!

~ Islam is the 2nd largest religion in the world next to Christianity, which is the largest and Hinduism the 3rd largest.

~ Security always is seen in a trio – a police officer flanked by military

~ Women start to wear the hijab (a veil that covers the head and chest) at the onset of puberty. The Quran says that women should lower their gaze and guard their modesty and should not display their beauty. When I asked Khadija why it is that I had some women in my class that never wore a jijab and others, such as herself, always wore one and she said, although the Quran instructs women to wear it, the choice is between them and God. It is not worn while at home, or as Khadija said, “I take it off when I’m hanging with my girlfriends at someones home.”

~ Dating is illegal – for example, a couple spotted alone in a park could be stopped by a police officer and asked what their relationship to one another is (which prompted me to ask if there are a lot of “brothers and sisters” spotted in parks! They can be arrested and thrown in jail for the night if caught. Men and women are introduced through friends and get to know one another in “group gatherings.” Pre-marital sex is also illegal, as is being an unwed mother, which explains why the orphanages are over-run with babies.

~ The King of Morocco is the 7th richest statesman in the world and when I asked Mohamed if there is any resentment among Moroccans given the huge disparity of wealth between the King and the people. His answer was, no, but it doesn’t matter if there is as the country’s motto is,

“God, Country, King”

Because of this, if there is resentment, it wouldn’t be voiced.

~ I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered such a gracious and warm group of people as the Moroccans. A few days into my trip, I went with one of my housemates to the bank to exchange money. That particular bank didn’t do exchanges, but we were told by one of the tellers that there was a nearby bank that would. He started giving directions, and given the communication difficulties (he speaking Arab, we speaking English..), he told us to just follow him and he’d take us there. He delivered us to the doorstep of the bank that could help us… a good FOUR city blocks later!

Chellah – Roman ruins outside of Rabat

My wonderful housemates in this adventure!