The Blue Light & Mrs. Holier Than Thou

I do not know where I am going with this post.  There are a lot of things swimming in my murky brain.

One, my face is on fire after being Blue Lighted by Dr. Skin’s medical cohort. This, in theory, is to bring all of my pre-cancers to the surface in one fell swoop.  Sadly, champagne is not served while one’s face is cooking in the equivalent of a facial MRI machine while wearing too small swim goggles.  Get on that, Dr. Skin.  She had her face done yesterday so she should know!  While in her office, I wondered if she was aware that the abstract artwork on the wall was that of a female nude? With a pair of too small swim goggles dangling daintly off the woman’s left hand?  Now I’ve probably ruined/improved the experience for everyone.

Secondly, I am solidly in the desert with Jesus right now.  It’s arid.

Thirdly, when thinking of the blue light, I also absurdly think of Adam Curlykale (not his real name).  Adam is a young man who, after surviving cancer, decided to tattoo his entire body.  According to this article, he only has two spots left to ink in.

I have written several times about tattoos on this blog, mostly pertaining to my friend Viking Queen.  I have lost touch with Viking Queen but think of her often.  She was my entree into the world of tats.

Thing 1 also pointed out some interesting facts about tats when she briefly worked for an organ donor NGO.  In that organization (but not all) donors with tats are excluded from donating organs.  So, for that matter, are most people over the age of 50.  At that NGO, the only viable parts would be corneas and unblemished (aged) skin.  Not worth checking the box on my driver’s license for me!

Also, the Red Cross limits blood donations for those who have been recently tattooed, some forever.  Read this article here.  These are the places in America that DO NOT REGULATE tattoos: District of Columbia, Georgia, Idaho, Maryland, Massachusetts, Nevada, New Hampshire, New York, Pennsylvania, Utah and Wyoming.   Well, no wonder.   I was precluded from donating blood in the US for five years because I had lived in a many a virulent, disease laden country.  Oh, for the expat life once again!  What if I had lived overseas AND had a tattoo?

It has also come to light that residual tattoo ink lodges in your lymph nodes, the infection clearing houses of the body.  Click here to read more about this fascinating subject.

I have spent a lot of time around a lot of yogis with lots and lots of ink displayed across their bodies.   Some of it is nonsensical, ridiculous, and ugly.  Some is artistic, sobering, and empowering.   But I guarantee, guarantee, that none of them (yogis!) thought about the health implications!  Which, frankly, stuns me.  I have an allergic reaction to henna tattoos so you know I can only imagine what cadmium would do to my skin ….

Finally, no judgment if you have a tattoo.  If you are my age, your skin is sagging already and a tattoo might perk it up!  Why not?  Live large!  No one wants your skin anyway!  I am clinging to the patches of mine that are healthy.  All my messages to the Universe are writ large on my blog and t-shirts and that’s enough for me and my truth for today.

Apologies for not editing.  It’s (TRUTHFULLY)  been one of the longest weeks of my life.  Shalom!

 

 

 

 

The Irish Good Bye

Recently, my family was at a party and some of the guests left without saying good bye.  My Things snorted and said, “Well, that was an Irish good bye.”  I had never heard the phrase.  While watching the TV series Schitt’s Creek yesterday, one of the characters mentioned  the  “French exit”.  It turns out they are the same thing.  Americans implicate the Irish and the Canadians and Brits finger the French.

Per Urban Dictionary, “the irish [sic] exit refers to the departure from any event without telling any friends, associates or acquaintances that one is leaving. It is almost always the result of being very inebriated/intoxicated.”  Here is a good article on this topic as well as the very millenial form of separation called “ghosting”.

In the case of the above noted party, intoxication was not the reason.

In other news, my DNA per Ancestry.com revealed that I am about 29% Irish,  27% British, 33% Scandinavian, and the rest is Western European, including 6% Iberian Peninsula.  There was no German, which was odd because I was always told I was also German.  This later Iberian dollop did not show up in my father’s DNA, so we have to surmise it came from The Radish (sadly, she did not spit in her tube before passing away).  My Aunt SuSu had no Iberian Peninsula in her DNA.  Raftbuddy sent me this interesting article explaining why siblings get such varied DNA.  So, sisters, order your kits and let’s see who is the most Irish and who’s the most Iberian!    The truth will out!

I trust that none of my readers pulled an Irish exit yesterday!  My father, Big Mike, made my mother’s corned beef recipe, key lime pie, and soda bread.  You cannot believe what a fantastic, nourishing feast that was.  The potatoes, sadly, never made it to the party.  The Truth be told, I forgot to bring them.  The cabbage, however, was not missed.

Question for you:  Have you ever pulled an Irish goodbye and if so, what were the circumstances?  TELL THE TRUTH.

Never Going Back to Malaysia

As today is St. Patrick’s Day, I reread my posts from the past on this day and truthfully, they were pretty darn good.  I really need not say more except that I have totally forgotten the face of my duende and need to find another one, this time perhaps in the yoga studio.   And I never heard the crazy drunken wedding song because I left the marathon festivities in the early evening.

Since snakes have featured heavily here over the past week, I am sharing  this article/video with you.  It is not for the faint of heart.  I cannot explain this behavior.  Thank you, St. Patrick, for ridding an entire country of them.

Congrats to my Irish sisters – MCVWasHere has run her 20th half marathon and MoodRingMomma has another Dawg in the house!

Gentle Man

Tomorrow will be my father-in-law’s 80th birthday so I am taking this time to remind the world that gentlemen and gentle men do exist.  Perhaps not in public office, but out in the real world.    The Headmaster uplifts us all with his literary references, love of puns, and general quick wit.    As a former boarding school headmaster, he has parented thousands of young souls (primarily women),  guiding futures,  molding characters, and getting up in the middle of the night to attend to those wracked with teen angst.

The Headmaster embodies the fruit of the spirit:  love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, faithfulness, goodness, and self-control.  How lucky am I to be married to the literal fruit of the Headmaster???  The acorn, apple, and fig  don’t fall far from the tree.

Men today would do us all a favor by taking a page from the Headmaster’s play book.  An expert dishwasher loader and unloader, the Headmaster washes his own clothes, holds doors open for women (some of us still like that), and proffers glasses of wine or whiskey at all the right moments.  He would rather save his dog’s life than his own.   And, he can carry quite the tune.  The Headmaster has been married to the love of his life for nearly 57 years.  Truth be told, it is hard to find a gentler man.

So cheers to an admirable, honorable, and noble man.  Long may he live!  We will be toasting and roasting him tonight!

 

All About Eve

The truth is that no one really likes reading about the truth.  The truth may be that the truth is a very hard Lenten project.

This morning upon exiting yoga I received this string of texts.  I would screen shot them for you but then you would know the names of my daughters.  Although the group text included all family members, Thing 2 apparently declined to comment (where is he???).  In any event, when I was responding to the string of texts, I had not been able to download the photo.   So this was what I got:

Thing 1:  holy CRAP this was in our pool patio!!!!!!

Thing 3:  oh my gosh….DISGUSTING!

T1:  i’m worried now about going out there/letting the animals out!!!!

T3: try to find the snake.  it had to get in there somehow.

T1: hell  no, not while I’m alone

T3: don’t let the animals out

T1: i’ll wait for mom to come home

T3: Right.  But when Mom or Dad is home

T1:  should we call animal control?  how do we deal with this?  it looks like its 4 plus feet long

EPP/Mom:  I can’t download it but you know I am not going out if there’s a snake

T3: that’s gross.  lock the cat door to mom and dads room

T1:  how big would you say it is??? the bowl is like 5 inches in diameter

At this point, I returned home.  I am not just sure what Thing 1 thought I was going to do about the snake.  She explained that she’d already called animal control – in Florida you must subcontract a snake wrangler.  As we debated this, I took a closer look at the aforementioned snakeskin minus its inhabitant just as the doorbell rang.   Cue the Sheriff.  Chagrined, I explained to him that it was a …

T1:  FALSE ALARM.

T3:  ???

T1: IT WAS A DAMN PIECE OF DIRTY CROCHET

T3:  dunce award

T1: HEY YOU SAW IT TOO AND DIDNT’ SAY A WORD

Mr.U/Dad:  Good Lord.

Thing 1 had failed to tell me that she called 911 to report the snake/snakeskin.    Apparently the local sheriff’s office is supposed to deal with minor animal services.  Local contractors presumably are the ones hired to deal with situations like this near our house two days ago:

 

What is the lesson here?  Sometimes the truth is just a damned dirty piece of crochet.  Perhaps Eve forgot to put her contacts in that morning?  Maybe we need to investigate a little more carefully before getting our knickers in a twist?   It was cold last night …. hardly the time for a long, skinny snake to be shedding its skin.  At least now we know who to call….

I have been dining out on this all day ….  many thanks to Gypsy Jords for making the crochet pet leash/snake/not snake and my favorite self-Caviezel (pleases refer to much earlier posts) of all time.  My mother is laughing SO HARD in Heaven.  SO HARD.  There are snakes in the desert during Lent but sometimes they are just a good yarn.

A Mother’s Truth (Sally’s)

One might say that I am a hoarder.  There is a slight truth to this.  I listened very carefully to my grandmother’s stories of deprivation during the Great Depression.  Laura Ingalls Wilder’s stories of scarcity also impacted my worldview, not to mention Apocalyptic fiction.

Readers may, however, recall that one of my memory verses for my pilgrimage in 2014 was to “travel lightly”.  I STILL have not achieved this but continue to work at it.  The garage cleaning in Arkansas, my home/not home, is underway and the pile for the Salvation Army is growing.  I am channeling my mother and taking no prisoners.  Out it goes!

Having said that, I have toted around the globe lots of old correspondence.   Whilst rifling through a box of letters, I came across these concluding paragraphs in a letter from my mother Sally, written July 29, 1992 to me and my sisters.   I am sharing it with you so you can share with your daughters too.  I am almost the age my mother was when she wrote this letter.  I don’t think I’ll be able to catch up to her on the wisdom front.

“I would like to say that I have found the secret of getting my act together.  But I have always found that just when I smell the sweet smell of success, splat the rules have changed.  LIfe is a quilt of patches and they all go into the whole.  I am not looking forward to the patches of elderly poor health or widowhood.  I guess you will have to help me with that.

My little piece of advice:

Cook dinner, pick up the living room, have a spiritual life (you girls are probably praying more than you think you are, have a sense of humor, don’t nag, forget trying to change your spouse, don’t let your spouse brow beat you.  Slovenliness is bad.  Talk [during] your dinner.  Do something creative.  Exercise.  If your spouse balances the check book, leave the house.  Shit will happen.  Big shit will happen.  If you feel too bad call a friend and ask  for help.  Call a sister and ask for help.  Know that the shit will more than likely make you stronger.  Remember you are special, but you are no better than anyone else. Also remember that getting through hard times together does strengthen your marital relationship.  Don’t forget the good things husbands do for you.  Find your own friends.  I think that Is it.  Oh yes, eat five vegetables and fruits daily.

I love you girls so much.

Good bye dear hearts,

Love,

Mother”

Now it that isn’t the truth, I don’t know what is.

 

 

 

 

Birthday Song

 

The Radish and Her Baby Princess

 

Many thanks to all of my family, friends, and internet companions for your well wishes on my birthday.  As many of you know, it was also my dearly beloved mother’s birthday as well.  I had nine months to prepare for the day and I used every one of them.  There has not been one day in which I have forgotten that she is no longer on this earthly plane.  Not one day.  But in the end, it had nothing to do with me, really.  It had everything to do with YOU, dear reader, and my mother.  Instead of a day of intense sorrow, there was peace and joy.

Let me explain for those of you interested enough to keep reading.  Warning:  Jesus will be involved.

As I wrote earlier in the year, my mother Sally’s word for 2017 was REJOICE.  She only had two weeks on earth to work on that word but apparently it was enough.  My words for 2017 were HOPE and RESTORE.  Honestly, though, I adopted and focused on my mother’s word and by so doing, hope and restoration followed.

Let me explain, for those of you interested enough to keep reading.

As I also wrote earlier in the year, my Reading Brain and my Prayer Brain were adversely affected by my mother’s untimely passing.  For the first time ever in my life, reading brought little solace.  The Bible (gasp!), bible studies, People magazine, House Beautiful, fiction, non-fiction, memoirs, the news held no appeal.  A voracious reader, my appetite was gone.  GONE.  My Prayer Brain was even worse.  Meandering.  Directionless (at a time when Direction is most urgently needed!  We need a job!  Health!  Peace!  Stability! Focus!).  Distressing.  What to do???

Let me explain, for those interested.

On Friday night I attended a pipe organ concert at our church in St. Augustine with my father,  Big Mike.  The organist, Ken Cowan, play from memory eight complicated compositions.  You have no idea how amazing this musical contortionist was [an grammatical edit is needed here but see above paragraph].  One of the pieces had what Mr. Cowan described as a “fugue”.  After the concert, I asked my father what the musical term “fugue” meant.  Musically illiterate,  I could think only of the word “trance” .  Naturally, my father gave me the definition almost verbatim from Merriam-Webster:

1

• a :a musical composition in which one or two themes are repeated or imitated by successively entering voices and contrapuntally developed in a continuous interweaving of the voice parts The organist played a four-voiced fugue.

b :something that resembles a fugue especially in interweaving repetitive elements

My interpretation was close to the secondary definition:

• 2
• :a disturbed state of consciousness in which the one affected seems to perform acts in full awareness but upon recovery cannot recollect the acts performed

This is as approximate a description of the last nine months of my year, a “fugue”.  Between the moments of total functionality and quasi-normalcy, there have been many other moments of which I have zero recollection.  I have done some pretty random things, like become a certified yoga instructor.  (Say what?  Yep. I still can’t explain it to myself.)  Point, counterpoint, enter a voice or two, sing high, sing low sweet chariot.

Let me explain.

Yesterday after receiving my annual birthday blessing, I had an epiphany or three:

1) My mother came to church with me and even went so far as to engineer the liturgy for the day:  Phillippians 4:4, “Rejoice in the Lord; and again, I say rejoice!” and Psalm 23, “He restores my soul …”.   While The Word in its totality has not fed me this year, the words REJOICE, HOPE, AND RESTORE have.

2) Jesus is the last person to care that I am not on my prayer game – there is no condemnation in Christ. [Romans 8:1].  Thanks, Jesus, for once again getting me off the hook.

3) Music, the language of angels, has soothed me.  To quote Eric Church, I have had “a record year.”  Mr. Church, Motown, and hippy dippy trippy yoga music have nourished my soul instead of books.

Finally, I took such great comfort in knowing that so many of you were hoping and praying I had a great day that I ACTUALLY DID!  YOU LIFTED ME UP FROM WHEREVER YOU WERE AND I THANK YOU.  I FELT THE LOVE!  THERE’S A PAIR OF WINGS WAITING FOR YOU IN HEAVEN.  Sunrise at the beach, a nap after, back to the beach for some vitamin Sea and D, a pitcher of beer with Stevie Ray Vaughn’s Pride and Joy at Finn’s rooftop bar, and dinner with my extended Florida family = birthday bliss.  Kudos to Mr. Understanding for bringing me coffee every morning of Birthday Week.  And if, in my fugue,  I have forgotten to thank you for a kind note or act, please forgive me!  It was not my intention. For those who perhaps have been in a fugue of their own, don’t worry!  I get it now.

Summer Reading 2017

My cat Jefferson who was staring at the wall for a good long time.

Ta da!  Your guide to fruitful beach reading!

Dear Friends of the Expat Princess,

Books have always been my soul food, the words contained therein natural healers.   Books are my go to space to recover, regroup, recharge.  Although I am an extrovert, reading,  being alone my head, and getting quiet,  are central to my well-being.   Seventeen years of being an expat only fomented this – what TV there was was usually bad so we turned it off.  Like Thomas Jefferson said, “I cannot live without books.”

In the past decade and a half, though, my reading tastes have changed dramatically.  I moved away from novels, primarily,  and into non-fiction, religion, and history.  When Thing 1‘s migraine struck, I read a lot about migraines, hormones, meditation, and alternative medicine.  This was out of necessity but it helped move me forward.  Peggy Noonan spoke about the phenomenon of reading tastes changing and the importance of books in a most excellent commencement address you can watch or read here.  It comforted me to know that others experience shifting reading sands.

When my mother died, all this changed.  For the first time in my life, I did not want to read and when I did, it was all about grief.  Grief constricted my reading appetite, much like your throat closes up when you are trying not to cry.   I tried innumerable books and nothing held my interest.  There was no moving forward, just observing my own life in a sometimes schizophrenic way:  Detached one moment and in the throes the next.  And then several friends sent me books, all in the same week.

Herewith is how I managed to move forward with reading material selected, for the most part, by others.

In the first instance, snarkiness was key.  Keep your judgments to yourselves, please!  This seems counter-intuitive but I desperately needed acerbic wit.   Kevin Kwan brought it in spades with Crazy Rich Asians and China Rich Girlfriend.  I ripped through these in no time at all.  If you have ever lived in Asia, these are must reads.  If you have never lived in Asia, these are must reads. Kevin obviously travels in higher circles than I did,  but it was fun to read about some of my all haunts without experiencing the left lung hocking up coughs and consequent flying gobs of spit first hand.  In fact, I don’t remember if Kevin (as I have come to think of him) ever mentions the grotty side of China but whatever.  TOTAL FUN.  I can’t wait to read his new book, Rich People Problems just published in May of this year and to watch the film version of Crazy Rich Asians.

Once I discovered that snarkiness was the key to my happiness, I remembered a book about the dysfunctional Vanderbilt family I’d been meaning to read.  Since my sister is married to a different branch of the Vanderbilt family, I thought this might be a mood elevator and give great insight.  Written by Wendy Burden (Cornelius Vanderbilt’s great-great-great-great-granddaughter) Dead End Gene Pool is a memoir of her incredibly wealthy, incredibly crazy childhood.   It might well have been titled Crazy Rich Americans.  Hilarious and disturbing at the same time.  Lucky for my brother-in-law – sometimes it pays to get the short end of the stick!  Wendy (as I have come to think of her) now lives in Portland, Oregon.   I hope to meet her one day.

Side note:  Both Kevin and Wendy are Parsons School of Design/Snark alumni.  Maybe it’s just Manhattan?

Now, on to the self-help side of things.

My sister sent me Anne Lamott’s new book Hallelujah Anyway: Rediscovering Mercy.  I will write about this at length in a separate post at length but suffice it to say, sometimes my only prayer in the past two years has been: Lord, have mercy.  Christ, have mercy.  And let’s face it, who doesn’t like to read a good snarky Christian author?  Oh, relax, people.  RELAX.

Then there is the book entitled Kombucha!  by Eric and Jessica Childs.  This is actually my second copy.  The other one is in a kitchen in Arkansas, where I left a batch of the probiotic fermented tea brewing on the counter back in January.  My neighbors found the “science project” fascinating and threw it out in late February.  I love kombucha.  I love making kombucha as much as I like drinking it.  For awhile I was concerned that I liked making kombucha for my family more than I liked cooking them a meal.  Now, I am over it.  They can always drench their cereal with ‘buch!  Tazo‘s orange ginger and passion teas make particularly yummy brews good for the tummy – my version of cod liver oil, only it’s delicious.  This book is so chatty and well designed that I can imagine Eric and Jessica (as I have come to think of them) encouraging me to take my operation commercial and invest in the stainless steel tanks favored by serious brewers.  For good measure, I include a cocktail recipe at the end of this post.

Not only are we grieving the loss of my mother, we are grieving the loss of Mr. Understanding‘s job.  I would say career but I am not sure it is over.  To that end, a friend sent me the book Designing Your Life by Bill Burnett and Dave Evans which helps one figure out what they want to be when they grow up.  If you are over 50 years of age, this is called an “encore career”.    Mr. Understanding and I are working our way through the book with our Beloved Design Your Life (BDYL) Team via a Facebook video group chat on Saturdays.  I am designing my life around the beach, travel, writing, art, yoga, reading, ‘buch brewing, needlepointing, and figuring out how to throw in boutique ownership.

Finally, for Mother’s Day, Thing 1 sent me the book Not Quite Nirvana: A Skeptic’s Journey to Mindfulness by Rachel Neumann to expand my meditation practice.  I am not all the way through this yet as I read it only at the beach.  Having said that, if all I got out of it was the nugget of a question Rachel’s young daughter asked her, “Are you available?” I would be happy with my summer read.  Let me ask:  Are you available?  Most people are not.  Most people do not ask if you are either.  If I had taught myself and my children this question two decades ago, I would have been a better mother.   Here’s another gem:  “When I am not being mindful, almost all of life can seem like a series of interruptions of what I thought was important [emphasis mine].”   I can’t wait to hit the beach again to finish the book.

As I look at the stack of joy in front of me at the table that now serves as my “office”, I am grateful for those sweet souls who knew how to feed mine.  That most of these books arrived in the same week is not a happy accident, it was divine intervention.  I can almost hear my brain opening a crack and telling me it’s okay to read Candice Millard’s latest book Hero of the Empire:  The Boer War, A Daring Escape and the Making of Winston Churchill or Kristin Schell’s The Turquoise Table (Kristin makes herself available).  Almost.  I might need some more snark.

So, to all my new found friends – Kevin, Wendy, Eric, Jessica, Dave, Bill, and Rachel – and to my old friend Annie,  I salute your health with a glass of my favorite Spanish summer beverage, tinto de verano (summer red/summer ink) after a hard day reading at the beach.  Here is my Bastardized American ‘Buch tinto version:

1/2 cup cheap red wine

1/3 cup lemonade

splash of your favorite kombucha

Or, just eyeball it like I do!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Little Ears

 

Photo Credit:  Sally Calligan

Stumped by what to cook last night, I opened the gift book curated and compiled by by sister’s friend,  Michelle Walcott, of Sally’s blog.   My mother probably had a good idea for dinner that was cheap, quick, and easy, right?

Mind blown.  Winner winner, pasta dinner!  Do not ask why I had not consulted Sally before.  DO NOT ASK.

If you do not eat gluten or dairy, it sucks to be you.  Modify!

Click here for a delicious mid week bowl of scrump-dilli-ishous.  I just had to share a kitchen victory!

 

 

Glorify

On Friday I had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Herman Mehling, with members of his family and mine, at the St. Augustine restaurant The Ice Plant.   Unbeknownst to me, it was his 94th birthday.  I have never shared a birthday with a 94 year old before so this was quite special.  I had been wanting to meet him for a long time.

Herman, a.k.a. “The Jesus Man” is the father-in-law of my former Nordstrom Menswear salesman Bruce from Columbus, Ohio.  How, you ask, are you having lunch with your former Nordstrom salesman, his wife, and her father?  That is a story for another day.    Before our “tribulations” he and his wife Judi stayed at our Florida cottage when they visited Herman on several occasions.   During the last few years of my crazy life, Bruce called to check in every few months, even after he left Nordstrom.   Sometimes I could not return his calls as I was in the throes of a crisis; no matter, he did not stop trying.  Now that I am living in the Florida cottage with four animals and a teenager, hosting Bruce and Judi was not an option, so lunch it was.

A few years ago, as a gift for sharing our home, Bruce and Judi gave me one of Herman’s Jesus signs.  This is what the sign looks like up close:

 

 

This is what the sign looks like from a distance:

 

 

Bruce and Judi, who also visited with my parents and in-laws, also gave each family one of these signs.  It was this sign that greeted me at the dermatologist’s office on Valentine’s Day, the one month anniversary of my mother’s passing.   When my mother died, my youngest sister, MCV asked how she could get her hands on one of those signs.  My parents’ sign sits on a roll top desk by the front door, monitoring the comings and goings of all.  I called Bruce and he personally delivered two (one for each sister) to my snowy back porch in Ohio.  (Polly Positive whisked them inside and I eventually mailed them on).

Back to Herman.  You can watch an interview of him here.

As mentioned in the interview, Herman had several careers:  Police officer in the Bronx, firefighter, sheet metal machinist.  As a police officer, Herman delivered two babies.  It is evident that Herman is good with his hands.  At age 92, Herman developed “the tremors” in his right hand.  This has not stopped him from producing four signs a day, the production of which is a story in itself.

Today, since it is Memorial Day, we honor the part of Herman’s life path that was a sheet metal repairman in the U.S. Navy during World War Two in the Pacific Theater.  Assigned to a repair ship, he and his fellow sailors stayed behind the lines and repaired ships damaged in battle, preparing them to go back in.   One day, as Herman was on the deck of his ship, the small ship next to him exploded, killing all fifty US sailors aboard.  The Navy does not know what caused the explosion:  A mini Japanese submarine, an internal situation, who knows?  A mystery in the line of combat.  Herman did not die in combat but he watched others who did and it those young men on that ship that we honor today.

Bruce, Judi, and Herman brought me two more Jesus signs on Friday.  One is sitting in our  Florida cottage – our original one is either in Arkansas or in storage in Ohio.  The other is being sent to a former policeman in Washington who is suffering from cancer.   I had the temerity to ask for more and they gave me three more from the stash in the trunk of their car.   Even Urban Meyer has one in his home.  I had not yet seen the interview wherein Herman states he would like his children to pass them out to those who attend his funeral.  If that is the case, Herman cannot stop making Jesus signs for a long time.  It will be a big party.  His 95th is already inked in on my calendar.  If you NEED one of Herman’s signs, I will inquire however, as to their availability.  They are not for sale – they are freely given.

In closing, I leave you with the words from verse 2 of hymn 719 in the Book of Common Prayer.  Written by Katherine Lee Bates, O Beautiful for Spacious Skies, the music is set to Materna by Samuel Augustus Ward:

“O beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife

who more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life!

America! America! God mend thine every flaw,

confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law!”

 

So today, fly your flag in honor of the fallen, cherish your liberty, enjoy a meal with your family, friend, or stranger, and give thanks that although flawed, America is still beautiful thanks to those who gave their lives for us.

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MOODRINGMOMMA, FAVORITE CHILD OF THE RADISH, AND HER SON-IN-LAW, UNCA DUNC.  REJOICE!  On her first birthday, I saw MoodRingMomma take her first steps.  XOXOXO

 

 

 

 

Mother’s Day – Good Gifts #3

The above painting is one I had commissioned by Charleston, SC artist Joyce Harvey as a gift to myself.  I was not expecting it to be finished in time for Mother’s Day!  (More on Joyce in a future post).  It represents me and my sisters.  It was inspired by a painting called “The Happy Tomato” done by my sister in law, Dr. Skin.

I know you are all thinking that today will be hard for me.  It will be.  Today is my first motherless Mother’s Day.  It is also the 4 month anniversary of my mother’s passing.

In spite of that, today I choose to REJOICE! that I had such a fine mother, who gave me, along with my father, two wonderful sisters.  They have sustained me mightily during this period.  It is a shared grief and that makes it more tolerable.  I also have a wonderful mother-in-law, Winnie, who gave me by ever-patient husband Mr. Understanding (he lives up to his name) and whose gentle presence has helped me heal.   When I go to church today with my father Big Mike, I will REJOICE in his excellent taste in women; without him, there would be no mother.   He too has been instrumental in my healing.

Finally, I give thanks today for the lumpy, bumpy, large and mugwumpy body that gave me three beautiful Things.  They are glorious.  Without a whole lot of loving Understanding, I would not be a mother.

The grieving for today was done earlier in the week and I am looking forward to homemade lemon blueberry buttermilk ricotta pancakes  and an afternoon reading on the beach.  It is a beautiful day and this is exactly what I want to do.  May yours be equally satisfying, joyful, and glorious.

 

Good Gifts #2

It would be nice if the grief journey were over, wouldn’t it?  Sadly, this is not the case.  In many ways, it is just getting going.  We all survived the Easter holiday but it was not the same without our Radish.  MCVWasHere and I managed to grill a butterflied leg of lamb, thereby making our mother proud from her heavenly perch.  I am pretty sure we screwed it up but it was tasty nonetheless.  Severe holiday let down set in on Monday  with family returning to The Other Coast.   After the shock has worn off, the active MISSING phase begins ninety days in.  Man, would Grandmere have delighted in the peas, carrots, and Easter Egg hunt …

Perhaps to prep me for this, a galaxy of friends sent me a gift every day.  EVERY DAY OF HOLY WEEK I RECEIVED A GIFT.  Surprise!  It was not Christmas but it sure felt like it.  And to think that this was not coordinated by friends, only two of whom know each other.

On Monday, a box arrived with four wrapped gifts and a note from one of my DF Chicks, MLD, a needlepointing and reading maven.  She was also my Heart Surgery Coach.  Thinking I would need these gifts later, I hoarded them for Sunday.  I confess to feeling through the paper – they felt like books.

On Tuesday, a flat package arrived from Martita, another DF Chick, and Thing 3’s godmother.  This I ripped open, thinking it was an Easter card.  Instead, it was gorgeous watercolor painting of a bunch of radishes, an article on them, and a long lovely letter of a personal nature on what grief for one’s mother looks like after twenty years.  I never met Martita’s mother but I still quote her:  “If they [gossips] are talking about you, that means they are giving some other poor soul a rest.” Although Martita and MLD are good friends, I do not think these gifts were a coordinated effort.  My sister MCVWasHere also gave me a Glassybaby, a pink “goodness” votive for my burgeoning Radish altar.  This was not actually a gift – it was for winning a round of the High Stakes License Plate Game – but since I’d forgotten about it, it still counts!

When Wednesday rolled around, I opened a package from Amazon, thinking Mr. Understanding had ordered yet another guitar instruction video.  But lo and behold, it was another book, this one a gift from Ms. Broccoli.  Called Designing Your Life – How to Build a Well-Loved, Joyful Life by Bill Burnett and Dave Evans, it is a Stanford University design class on how to create a life you actually enjoy living, the perfect gift for a family in flux.  Think “encore career”, or for me, middle aged starter career.

After three amazing gifts in three consecutive days, it dawned on me that the Universe was sending me a big fat message of LOVE.

But wait!  There’s more!  It’s almost embarrassing.  Almost.  I am just trying to make a point here.  Wait for it.

On Thursday, MCV handed me and my father each a gift from her college friend, Michelle.  This one makes me cry when writing about it – a beautiful compilation of Sally’s musings, photos, and recipes from her blog CookSallyCook.com.  Curated and organized with a table of contents, I was awestruck  by this gift.  Michelle and Sally had bonded over the ancient grain einkorn.   Who knew???  An heirloom, both the grain and the book.  Earlier in the day a Jackson & Perkins bulb garden arrived from Dr. Skin.  Bloom where you are planted.

Moving on to Good Friday:  a hand knitted, lacy, rainbow pastel prayer shawl from MoodRingMomma.  I do not know how my sister had the mental band width to create such an intricate gift.  I had been using a prayer shawl of Sally’s given to her by the women of the church.  It was toasty warm but I confess to finding the colors not to my liking, even thoughI did get in the habit of putting it on.  Another heart wrenching heirloom, imbued with tears.

On Saturday, MCV gave me a blue Glassybaby cocktail drinker (“splash”), another premio for winning a second round of The High Stakes License Plate game.  My in-laws sent a bento box tower of nuts, which I put in Mr. Understanding’s Easter Basket.  Mine, as you can see, was full.

On Easter Sunday, MCV returned to my Children’s Bible Stories,  given to me and inscribed by my Grandmarie on Easter, 1971.  She also gave me Anne Lamott’s latest and greatest book Hallelujah Anyway.

On Monday, feeling bereft (which is just pitiful), I opened all of MLD’s gifts:  semi-cerebral brain candy* and a Mexican angel ornament that doubles as a nativity scene which went directly to the makeshift altar.   In the middle of my pity party, I took a nap and while I was dozing, the postman delivered a box of gifts from KT:  a key chain with Phillippians 4:4 on it (REJOICE!), a new CD by Olivia Newton John and friends called Liv On,  some paper goods from Magnolia,  and a favorite hymn printed on pink paper.  I actually knew the words.

I still cannot believe it.  Can you?

And then today:  a signed contract for the sale of our house in Ohio.  Cranky me, it seemed like another loss, the closing of yet another chapter.  Punto final.  Until Thing 2 said to me, “What if it’s an Easter gift?”  Indeed.  He did not know about all of the other ones …

So what do you think the cosmic message is, sent by a phalanx of Easter angels?  Here is my best guess:  READ.  FEED YOUR SOUL.  High brow, low brow, non-fiction, fiction, the Bible in adult and children’s versions.  Go to the beach and design your life.  Plant seeds.  Eat ancient grains and nuts.  Drink a cocktail out of a handcrafted colored glass and savor it.  Light a candle.  Say a prayer for your friends and for the world; wear an heirloom made with love while you do it.  SING!  OUT LOUD!    Frame all those extraordinary radishes and hang them where you can see them every day.  Have mercy on dear Anne Lamott and make your peace with her – she’d meet you at the beach and chat with you about Jesus.  Miss your mother fiercely but remember she is in The Best Place, hanging out with the Mother of all Mothers, REJOICING.  She sent a cadre of love language speaking friends and family to remind you of the power of Resurrection, the unlikely gift of an empty tomb.

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*MLD’s book choices to lighten the heart of the Expat Princess:

Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan

Lincoln in the Bardo by George Sanders

Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk by Kathleen Rooney

Enchanted August by Brenda Bowen

Chastised

Thing 3 reminded me today, when I mentioned that I did not have to blog on a daily basis any longer, that the object of Lent was to CONTINUE one’s Lenten practice.  And to think she wasn’t paying attention!

Humbled.

Zero promises.

Today I was humbled by LaLopez’s comment on Last Words.  Let’s send up some love to Leona, her mother.   Each “grief journey” is unique and yet global.  Once you have been on one, you “get” it a lot more.  As an unknown wise person once said, “You don’t know what you don’t know.”  LaLopez, by “cosmic coincidence” (her words) became Thing 2’s Other Mother.  A friendship to cherish.

God bless and good night.  MCVWasHere is Here.  REJOICE!  

Last Words

Photo Credit:  Sally Calligan

Dear Readers,

Thank you all so much for your patience with me and my “grief journey”.  Even after 40 days, it is not over.   Perhaps I just have a better appreciation of what one really entails.  Lent officially ends on Maundy Thursday but I am ending this sojourn after 40 days in the wilderness.  I prayed, at the beginning and every day, for it to be a Spirit filled 40 days.  Here I will confess that sometimes I truly had no idea who was writing the words or where the idea came from.  Sometimes I just posted a picture because that was all I could do. Grief can make one positively paralytic, as my house attests.  So again, thank you for reading and bearing with me.  I have taken most of you along on a trip you were not intending to take.

Today when I sat down in the church pew for Palm Sunday, I had the perspicacity to ask my mother (something I rarely do) to send me a little sign that she was with me, Thing 3, and my dad in church.  Thirty seconds later, the organist played the most beautiful instrumental rendition of Jesus Loves Me, one of the two hymns my mother requested at her funeral.  Ah, confirmation.  Thank you, Jesus.  I love you too.

Recently, Rick Warren had a podcast series called the The Seven Greatest Words of Love.  I usually binge listen to Rick while I clean the house or drive in the car.  During several of the above noted  podcasts, he spoke about a classic children’s night time prayer and Jesus’s dying last words.  In the last 3 months I had thought about the 18th Century bedtime prayer I myself said as a child every night.  Here it is:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

A less troubling version for kids is:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
Watch and guard me through the night,
and wake me with the morning light.

One of my favorite bedtime prayers  is found in the Book of Common Prayer (p. 134):

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep.  Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothes the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake.  Amen.

I confess, however, that I did not give any thought to my own mother’s last words until Rick Warren was talking about Jesus’.  And that has given me tremendous pause for thought.  What were my mother’s last words?  I am going with, “Good night, darling. It’s been a marvelous day.”   My father might be able to remember.  What were Sally’s last thoughts?  I am sure she said a prayer of thanksgiving; maybe she also wondered if she’d taken her medicine, if there was yogurt to eat for breakfast in the morning, where did she put her damn reading glasses???

Because my mother Sally died in her sleep, her family members are left with a few mysteries.  Some of these, friends and family have cleared up.  There is no explanation for where she put somethings in her kitchen.  Still.  One thing I am certain of:  angels were encamping around her sleeping form, twelve legions of them if need be.

It is finished.  My mother committed her own spirit to the Lord and I know she was well  received.  Amen and Happy Easter!  REJOICE.

XOXO

 

What version of Sally do you think is in Heaven?  Something different but even more beautiful!