Teach Your Children Well

I was listening to a story about a woman who is unhappy in her marriage, disengaged from her husband and busily getting through the days taking care of her children and home. She explained it very matter of factly: She is not going to leave her husband; she is not going to take the step on a new, unchartered path; she is not going to "tear her family apart." She has two little kids, and she decided that her role as mother is her starring role in life. Thus, she decided to sacrifice her own happiness for the happiness of her children.

We've all heard this story. We all know this story. For some, it is the story of a best friend. For others, it is the story of a sister ... And, for some, it is our story.

The story is loaded with so many chapters, and no two people read the same book with the exact same reaction. For there is a subsidiary story within the story, and another within that one. The rich, colorful history. The background. The setting. The characters. The children. And, then there are the intricate details of employment, finances, homes and all of the accumulated "stuff." There is so much embedded within each chapter ... no one but the author really knows what the appropriate ending for the story should be. Yet, so many people act as if there is just one story that follows a standard outline with a standard (happy?) ending. The story goes like this: Man and woman meet. Man and woman marry. Man and woman have children. Man and woman stay together, forever. The children are happy. The parents may or may not be. The end.

Wait a minute. The story is so clearly outlined. But there is one foggy area -- the parents' happiness. Oh, that's right. That doesn't matter. We sacrificed our rights to feel happy and free the day we became parents. Of course, this argument sounds absurd. That's because it is. But, let's say you believe it to be true. Let's keep turning the page. Man and woman sacrifice their own joy. Direct result - children are happy. Problem detected. Let's explore ...

Are we to believe that children are happy only if they have their parents living together? Because I am certain that is not the case. I know that children want to see their parents happy. If they can see them together and happy, that is a bonus. But, if that is not the case, it is better to see one's parents happy and alone than together and miserable. And, I'll try not to speak too factually about this knowledge I have because I did preface my argument by saying that each story is distinctly unique. I have some credibility though. I am a single mom. I am a child of divorce. I am a child whose parents stayed together until I was 18, in an effort to do "what is best for the children." Now, unfortunately, I always knew that my parents were disconnected. And, as much as I liked having them side by side (as husband and wife) at all of my volleyball games, I did not like the tension in the house; the lack of unconditional love between them; the imbalance of power; the lack of respect and adoration.

There was family time. There was together time. There were warm holidays and family dinners. And, there were tense times. There were unhappy times. I feel the discomfort in my chest now as I remember the feeling in my home. The lack of a loving, safe, evolving connection between my parents. But, sacrifices were made. And, I am sad to picture my mom reading this and feeling like her sacrifice was for nothing. Who knows? Maybe I am better off because they stayed together. Unfortunately, I don't buy that theory. I believe that any issues I may have today and any struggles I may have with being in a balanced, loving relationship are in large part due to my history. Again, it is a culmination of factors that led me to my particular reaction to my parents' relationship. My sisters had very different reactions and have traveled along their own uniquely healthy, beautiful paths. And, while mine may be complicated and full of more vertical layers, it is still a joyous and wonderful path.

So, back to the children specifically. Do we really believe that we stay together for our children? And, if so, are we that certain our children will be better because of it? Have you ever been around a couple who dislikes each other? Who have no passion? No respect? No joy? No affection? Have you been around a couple who fakes it? Do you believe it? Guess who doesn't fall for it? Kids. They know everything. They sense it. Many kids are not surprised when their parents sit them down to tell them they are getting divorced. They are shocked to hear the words. But, they saw it coming, oftentimes before the parents did themselves.

I feel horrible for that woman who has to go to bed each night next to a man to whom she is not attracted -- next to a man she hardly likes. I feel worse if she stays and also one day discovers what I know: Kids are not better off. They know when their parents are disconnected. They are sad when their parents are sad. Their future relationships are being shaped as they witness the day-to-day interactions between their parents.

Maybe many people who stay use the children as their excuse. Maybe they are really scared of being on their own. Maybe they are terrified at the thought of not being there when a child loses a tooth or goes on a date. Maybe they are incapable financially of being independent. There are so many reasons why getting out of a bad marriage is a very difficult endeavor. And, maybe the reason for some truly is the belief that the kids are better off with mom and dad together ... even if mom and dad are unhappy.

In theory, it sounds admirable and selfless: Give up your own joy for the sake of your little ones. But, in reality, the kids are getting hurt, too. Their impressions of love and connection and relationships are being formed during their most malleable years. And, you can't fool them.

We all go around one time, so quickly. Even mom and dad have the right to go after the chance of being deliriously happy ... just like they want to teach their children to go after that right with passion and energy and hope and confidence.

The power of example should never be underestimated.

A Mother's Instinct

I was outside at a festival yesterday, surrounded by many people, including a mother and her three young children. Her littlest one dropped her pacifier on the grass, and in a quick swoop, the mom picked it up, stuck it in her own mouth and then placed it in her baby's mouth. My reactions were instant ... and contradictory. At first, I was disgusted, as the human mouth is much dirtier than the little patch of grass onto which the pacifier landed. Next, I was struck by the reaction that so many of us mothers have to simply do whatever we need to do for our babies, even if our rationale isn't backed by science.

It's quite beautiful if you think about it, germs aside. This woman didn't let herself think about what was on the grass or what had previously been on the pacifier or any other thoughts that could have made her stomach weak. Rather, she thought that her baby wanted her pacifier; she wasn't near a sink; and so she would "clean" it as she best could. The intention was a good one. Although I still wished she had simply put the pacifier back in the child's mouth without first sucking on it herself and thereby making it even dirtier!

But look at the primal reaction therein, the animalistic facet of the event. From mice to snakes to dogs, the mothers lick their young clean. It is instinctual and necessary. Of course, we humans don't have those same necessities as we have wipes and washcloths and soap to intervene. But, the instinct is the same. The desire to keep our young clean, to provide them with comfort, to envelop them in safety.

How many times have we all done something like that? Licked our finger and then rubbed it across our child's face in an effort to remove marker or food ... cleaned the pacifier in our own mouths. And, how much deeper does that instinct travel? We all say we would take a bullet for our child, and I'm certain those are not just words. If we watch our children experience pain, we wish we could endure it for them.

It all comes back to love, I suppose, for those desires exist for anyone whom we love deeply. There are so many feelings and traits that are learned in life, such as jealousy and insecurity and greed. So it made me smile to see something so instinctual, something with such good intentions, something that is not learned.

And, on this rare occasion, I am not even going to travel to the next stop on this thought train ... no reflections about life and death. I simply am being reactive, as was the mother at the festival -- as many of us often are. My reactive thoughts led me to this nice, simple conclusion: We are all so alike in so many ways, and I'm not just talking about us people. All of us. The bears, the mice, the cats, the dogs.

I am grateful for having witnessed the fall and recovery of the pacifier, for it was that simple act that triggered a more complex (yet inherently simple) reminder: We are all one.

"Love, Love, Love ..."

If you know me, then you know that I'm a romantic. I don't know how I became this way ... was it innate? Part of my internal make-up? Learned from my environment? From a reaction to poetry? Neruda? To film? Music?

I know that love has been flowing through my veins for as long as I can remember. As a matter of fact, it is my belief that I am on this earth to love and be loved. I can't think of any other reason that any of us would be here. Without a belief in god or religion or an afterlife, there is that in which I believe -- love. Connections. Energy between beings.

So, of course, I should not have been surprised a few minutes ago when tears were racing down my face as I caught the final 20 minutes of "Sleepless in Seattle." And, I'm certainly not alone as they allude to the classic movie "An Affair to Remember" and refer to the fact that women have been crying over that movie for decades! There's something about watching people wish for love, search for love, find love ... it moves us all, on different levels. Some of us shed tears. Others smile. Some empathize. Others have memories triggered. Hopes ignited. And, then there's me. I cry. I think. I overthink. I cry a bit more. I dissect the lyrics of the song playing as the credits begin to roll: "Make someone happy; make just one someone happy; and you'll be happy, too." And why do we need to make just one person happy? Because "love is the answer!" Jimmy Durante sang the truth.

And, it is innate! Look at the sweet, sensitive little boy in the movie who had lost his mommy. Instead of focusing on his own loss and pain, he proactively searched for someone for his father. He wanted to find love for his dad. And, in the final scene, as the elevator doors close with Annie and Sam holding hands as they look at one another (full of surprise and awe and excitement), the little boy is standing in front of them with a big, satisfied, peaceful smile stretched across his face. Scene!

How brilliant. What could make the boy happier than knowing that he played a hand in this connection? That he lit the fire. That he just brought so much joy to his father --that he just provided him with the answer.

We know it as kids. In our innocence, it's clear that love is all you need. (Some more good lyrics.) Yet, it gets more complex as we get older. It's not just about love. It's about sharing goals and dreams and desires. It's about circumstances. It's about timing. Can that really be? How is this diehard romantic to accept the possible reality that love has so much (or everything!) to do with timing? Maybe that's why the tears traveled rapidly down my face, as well. Sam got in the elevator to go down from the Empire State Building. Annie was simultaneously going up. They weren't going to connect! The fates were not working. It is all just timing ... no!!! But, the backpack. The little boy left it and so the dad had to go back up, and there it happened. Fate. (Phew.) Timing. The energy of the world. Oh, what was it?!! Maybe just a good screenplay.

The concept has always overwhelmed me. I think that is part of the reason that I am so moved by music. The lyrics ... the pain ... the yearning ... the desire. Even the hardcore rockers slip in their love ballads. They may thrash around on stage, but, even with a shattered guitar in hand, they still are moved by love.

And, so it is. And so it was. And so it always will be. For centuries, poets have been consumed with love, as have writers, film directors, children, parents ... all of us. The key is to let it flow, for it exists within all of us. If we could only have the wisdom that we are born with -- that innate wisdom that love is all you need. If only we didn't learn about cynicism and pain and worry and fear and disappointment. Some of us are paralyzed by that, while others bury it and tread forward with overflowing hope and courage. Clearly, I am in the latter category.

So, with vulnerability and hope and desire and abounding love, I will now go to sleep. And, if I have made just one someone happy for a moment today, then, as I lay my head on the pillow, I will be happy, too.

Fly Fast! Fly Free! But Maybe Head East ...

About half of the summer has already come and gone. And, while that fact reminds me of all that I still want to enjoy during these warm, carefree months, it also means that the first session of camp is over, and I get to go see my boy today! I am so eager to wrap my arms around him, to see that little face, to cut his nails and clean him up, to determine if he is really happy at camp and to reassure myself that we made the right decision in sending him to this new camp this summer. That need for our own reassurance is interesting to me and a bit troubling at the same time ...

As parents, what is our responsibility in setting our children on a specific path? How much of their interests and passions are really pre-determined by us? We say we want to raise independent beings who we will then let fly, but don't we try to control so many of the steps they take until take-off? And, don't we even try to nudge them into a certain flying pattern? Even as adults, don't so many of us still see that happening as our own parents are still occasionally (or oftentimes!) trying to take our feet and point them in another direction?

I remember when my sister wanted to move to San Francisco after college. My mom was so upset that her baby was going to be thousands of miles from "the coup," but my dad reminded her of an important philosophy: He told her that they raised their daughters to be independent and free, and she should let her go with pride, knowing that they accomplished an important parenting goal. Two points for dad. But, it's not that easy. Dad might lose a couple of points, too. (Keep reading ...) How often do we have such strong, wise philosophies as parents that somehow are not always applicable? And, how do we know when our kids are "independent" and "ready to fly."

That brings me back to that decision about camp. My firstborn Ben had spent the last few years at a camp where he felt comfortable, safe and happy. He always had fun, and he even earned the moniker Captain Kite. But, I saw something in him that led me to believe he was ready for more. He was an adventurer. He was innately a mountain boy, as he always wanted to go climbing and was so interested in going tripping. Thus, it was time for a new, more challenging camp experience. So, I made the decision. I convinced his father. And, I convinced Ben. Or did he convince me? I like to believe that he had the power -- that I was so in tune with his interests that I knew what was best for him and subtly nudged him in the right direction ... the direction he was outlining for me.

Do we really know? And, if we don't know, how does my 11-year-old boy know what he really desires? What about our nine-year-old and six-year-old daughters? Sometimes the little ones really make it easy for us: Maybe your two-year-old boy is always holding a football and can't take his eyes off of the games. Then, maybe years later, that same boy begs you to play on a local football team. The passion spirals and grows, and for years, it is obvious that this child has found "his sport."

But what happens when our children don't make it that easy for us? Or what happens when our own dreams become our kids' dreams?

Let's take me, for example. I loved everything! If I was dancing I was happy. If I was standing on my head, I was happy (too happy ... but that's a story for another day!). I loved wearing ballet shoes and surrounding myself with everything pink. And, I always joked that one day, the ballet shoes came off and the hightops went on ... and off I flew in a new direction. Just like that. Basketball became "my passion." I shot hoops in the driveway every day. I practiced before school at 6:00 a.m. I started going to Doug Bruno's Girls' Basketball camp, where I spent my weeks running from drill to drill, yelling "I love it! I love it! I love it!" whenever the word "basketball" was heard. It was being ingrained in me. Basketball flowed through my veins. But, how did I get there? What was this skinny, little Jewish girl from the Northshore doing at these camps?

I was the baby of three girls, born to a father who apparently had high levels of testosterone, always had the games on TV and who always wanted a little boy. So, it's hard to determine what happened: Did I ditch the tutu for the Celtics' jersey to please him, to be that little boy, to separate myself from his other daughters? Or was basketball really "my thing?" Or, is it possible, that he, the man who told my mom to let their babies fly free, was indirectly paving out my path for me?

And, now I return to my current journey ... to my son's journey. He is at a tripping camp. He has written that he loves the trips the most. He loves paddling and backpacking and eating food while camping that is "prepared fresh!"

It appears that we made the right choice. It appears that this is where Ben should be. It appears that he is happy.

But I know that he can be happy at many camps. I know that children are especially malleable. Their interests are being molded daily, but it's hard to determine who should be the sculptor. Of course, it seems obvious: We are here to direct them, to provide them with choices and options and opportunities -- To present them with options with which they can then fly. There are so many options though! I have not exposed my daughters to karate or hockey or jazz. What if that is "their thing?" What if Gabrielle Reece was never given a volleyball and a patch of sand? Would she have stumbled upon that career on her own?

Are our parents wrong to push us in directions that they believe are best for us? To send us to camps where they went for many years?

And, when a little girl's all pink room is suddenly covered with posters of Larry Bird and The Iceman, do the parents then have the knowledge that their baby girl has discovered her passion? Or, as she focuses on Bobby Knight's video for the hundredth time, do they know that she has actually absorbed their dreams and desires?

A smile is a smile. Joy is joy. Passion is passion. If our children our happy, then we are happy. Maybe it doesn't matter which came first ... who directed the passions ... who directed the desires. Or maybe it matters more than we'll allow ourselves to believe.

All I know for now is that I can't wait to see my little guy who will hopefully have a big smile stretched across his face -- Whether I helped put it there or not, I just want to know he is happy. And, I have the second half of the summer to research the overwhelming array of activities and hobbies that are available to our children this Fall. And, if I don't get to it, then I will be confident that they will somehow fly to that place where they should be ... landing on grass or the beach or the mountaintops or on Doug Bruno's "Love It Lane."

A River Does Run Through It

As I sat on the airplane, departing from Aspen's airport, tears streamed down my face. My friend Jill, who had just spent three days hiking, exploring and relaxing with me, asked if I was okay. I didn't even know why I was crying, and I was unable to articulate what I was feeling. I think that the power of the mountains and the beauty of Colorado had just proven to be so much more powerful than I.

I've spent a lot of time in Aspen over the years, and every time I still walk around awe-struck by its beauty. I wonder if I annoyed Jill with my constant jaw-dropped reactions. The rushing rivers, the majestic mountains, the white-barked Aspen trees -- there was so much beauty all around me, and I consistently felt overwhelmed by it. I spent much of this brief visit to Aspen absorbing every ounce of beauty that enveloped me. It is something that I can never take for granted. I remember how I felt 20 years ago when David first introduced me to this magnificent city, and I still have that same feeling today when I stand on the balcony of my hotel room, when I walk by a rushing river, when I drive up to the Maroon Bells, when I hike up Aspen Mountain. Beauty. Peacefulness. Power. Strength. And more intoxicating beauty.

There is something about this place that intimidates me, as well. And, I think that has something to do with those tears. It forces me to be so present. I can't stand there amidst such spectacular beauty and not notice it. I can't think about something else. I can't worry about tomorrow. I can only be in the now. There's no other choice. However, at the same time, that entrancing backdrop does force me to consider my place in the world, my purpose, my path, my journey. The fact that I currently am uncertain about the direction of my journey is certainly a contributing factor to those unexpected tears. What do I want? Where do I want to be? Am I eager to go back home? Do I belong in the mountains? Am I displaced? Have I made the right choices in my life? What is my next step?

The tarmac at O'hare doesn't do this to me! It never encourages me to think, to reflect, to consider, to challenge, to change.

I love that about Colorado. And, I hate that, too. It's a paradox for me. It keeps me awake at night. It lulls me to sleep during the day as I sit by the pool. It makes me feel so peaceful, and it shakes me up at the same time.

Maybe that's precisely it ... I am forced to feel the dichotomy that is this city, that is life, that is me. It can all be so simple, so beautiful and so very peaceful. Then, there is the rushing river, slicing through all of that quiet. There is the water crashing on the rocks. There is that shout in my belly that wants to erupt.

But, what does it want to scream?

Where do I want to be?

And, what about my cherished philosophy of simply being in the now?

Of course, I can't come up with those answers right now, nor do I want to. I want my path to meander before me like the trails I explored in Aspen. I didn't know what snapshot of nature was awaiting me. I didn't know how much longer we had to climb before we reached our goal. I didn't even know what our goal was as we didn't care if we made it to the top of the mountain or not. Aha ... That's it! Without set goals, it's more challenging to keep climbing. If we knew that our hike was complete in just five more minutes, then maybe we would have felt a sense of relief or comfort or peace. We would have better known how to calculate our pace. But, we didn't know. And, we don't know. And that makes the journey both unnerving and inspiring.

I don't know where I want to be. I don't know if I belong in Chicago or in Aspen. I don't know where I'll be in a year, in a month, in a day. I didn't know if Jill and I would make it to the top of Aspen Mountain or decide that we prefer to climb half-way up and then head back down. I don't know!

And isn't that the true beauty of the mountains? Their range is so vast. Their beauty is so captivating. Their possibility is so endless. The mountains that is. Life that is. They are synonymous to me right now. They were on the runway. And, that is why I was struck by emotion. The journey was swallowing me and carrying me at the same time. I felt encouraged and anxious. Awakened and sleepy. Aware and terrified. Carefree and worried.

By the time we ascended to the clouds, I let the plane ride remind me of my favorite thought ... to just be. The seatbelt sign was illuminated, and there was nowhere for me to go. So, I looked out the window at the clouds and the mountains and the beauty. I wiped away my tears and accepted where I was at that moment: Right there. Right now. Right here.

Time's Not-So-Heavy Hands

Time.

We are enamored with you, yet we detest you.

We watch you, yet we let you slip away.

We celebrate you, yet we fear you.

Personally, I am perplexed by you when I think of your enormity ... your strength ... your ability to quantify what I do, how long I breathe. At times you are my friend. I am grateful when you grant me the opportunity to sit with my book, to get lost, to dive into another world. At other times, you are my foe. I detest you when your hands stop moving and you stop ticking in someone's life whom I love.

For years, you have been on my mind. But, tonight, I am especially reflective about your presence for I have caught myself quantifying so much this weekend. I spent the weekend in Disney World, where I had not been for eight years. The last time I was there, I was there with Ben who was just about three at the time. We had met my friends Sari and Jason there with their boys, as well. Tonight, I saw Jason and we talked about our trip there and how it seemed like it was not that long ago.

That's where you baffle me. Time.

So much has happened. So much pain. So much joy. So many months, days, hours, minutes. Missed opportunities. Songs sung. Tears wept. Smiles stretched. Risks taken. Rewards enjoyed.

As I sat on the Buzz Lightyear ride this weekend, I had a vivid flashback to sitting there with Sari (who has now been gone for six and a half years). Ironically, time is playing with me right now as I type. I had typed the word "dead" but than had to delete it and write "gone" as if she had just "died" yesterday. There's that part of me that hasn't absorbed the time that has passed. That wound is still so fresh that I still can't write about it freely. (Maybe I never will. Maybe that has nothing to do with you, time.)

But there is a positive aspect to that wound's freshness.

The freshness means that the past is still palpable. That the memories from so many years ago can still feel so current. So tangible. That trip we took together was years ago, but I remember it vividly. I remember our talks, our smiles, our laughter, our boys' astonishment with the world of Disney. Jason and I talked about how wild it is to think about it today: Our boys were in strollers then, and now his son is off playing in hockey games and preparing for his Bar Mitzvah and mine is off backpacking and canoeing. And, that trip to Disney, (which time tells us was a long time ago) is still so visible in our minds.

So much time has passed.

So much has changed.

Yet, so much from the past has remained.

I was additionally reflective this weekend because it would have been my dad's 70th birthday. When I talked with my friend Aimee about that, she said, "Isn't it weird to think that you have now had about the same amount of time with your dad being in your life as you have had without him." I was 20 when he died, and now, as I approach 40, that fact that Aimee shared is thought-provoking to me. What does that mean that so much time has passed? Are the lessons he taught me any less meaningful? Is his image harder for me to grasp now?

And, what does it mean that Sari has been gone for six and a half years? What is the relevance in the amount of time she has been gone? And, then, why do we hold on so tightly to the number of years that she was here? It was far too few. But, that number of years spent here ... What does that really say about us? If she had 32 years or 65 or 99, would her sweetness, her innocence, her beauty be any different? Why do we all grab on to amounts of time so tightly? This is a hard concept for me to articulate, and I don't mean to act as if our days on this Earth aren't important. It is, of course, beyond tragic that a life like Sari's was cut so grossly short. But, the importance we place on the number of years here, the number of years gone ... that is what I'm challenging. That is what I'm considering.

I realize as I think about time tonight that I am relating it to loss. Of course, we love to celebrate time, too, as I initially stated. We celebrate Golden Anniversaries, 40th birthdays, first birthdays ... with so much pride. We have made it. We can mark it down. Look! It's right here on the calendar. It's my dad's 70th birthday. What would that have meant? To make it to 70? Why did we want Hy to make it to 100? What does that quantity of time on this Earth really signify? That amount of time spent in a marriage? That we won our battle with time? That is an impossibility, right?

You, time, you always win in the end. You keep on ticking. We ... don't.

Yet, we still step up to the plate to swing at your pitch.

Well, here's what I've decided as you have swarmed around my space for so long:

I'm not trying to knock one out of the park. I don't even want to play against you. Instead, I'm going to take away this exorbitant amount of power that we bestow upon you. Maybe you're not this force to be reckoned with ... maybe we have nothing to fear. Maybe, just maybe, it's simply about the moments. Maybe it's not about you at all!

It's about now.

Now, we have you. You are right here in the palm of my hand. I see you. I taste you. I feel you. I absorb you. I celebrate you. RIGHT NOW. This is all I have. This moment. I thank you for it, and I celebrate it.

And, I thank you, in this moment, for allowing me to be reflective when I choose to be reflective. For allowing me to dream of the future when I feel imaginative. I thank you for the crisp memories of people I have lost. For with these memories, I feel their presence, in my present.

Now, nothing is lost.

Now, I have nothing to fear.

Now, I am breathing. I am remembering. I am celebrating. I am smiling.

And, I am getting closer to cracking your code.

Even though you are all about quantity on the surface, I have begun to see that underneath that surface lurks the vast world of quality.

And, that is more powerful than you.

Sing Loud, Sing Proud

Last night was one of those perfect, hot summer nights -- the kind that beckons you to sit back, have a cold drink and absorb the heat and calm that summer often brings. And, there I was, enjoying it in my most favorite way. I was listening to music.

I was at the Crossroads Guitar Festival at the Toyota Center, and I was surrounded by people who love music, people who love to play instruments, people who sing and people who simply love to dance and feel free. From Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood to Jimmy Vaughan and B.B. King, the night was full of legends, mastery and abounding talent. And, while that is enough to make for a perfect night, there was something other than the captivating sounds that grabbed a hold of me and told me to pay attention: It was the passion with which each revered musician played. I couldn't help but to see it and to feel it. It was palpable, and I wanted to absorb every ounce of it.

I've always been envious of those who can sing soulfully, play guitar masterfully, learn a dance routine effortlessly, etc. But, I realized last night that it is not the talent that I envy ... it is the passion with which these talented individuals display their craft.

When Sheryl Crow took the stage, she said how this festival is her favorite gig to do. And, how could it not be? She gets to collaborate and jam with some of the greatest, and they're all pouring their souls into their music -- together. I can't imagine how powerfully amazing that must be to experience as an artist. The energy must be all-encompassing. I can imagine a sliver of that feeling, for I, fortunately, have known passion. Even though I don't get to experience that feeling on stage in front of thousands of adoring fans, I imagine that the rewards of doing something about which you are passionate are quite similar.

That is what got my attention last night: the passion. Ironically, it did not hit me when all of the greats joined together on stage for the awe-inspiring finale. Rather, the spotlight shone on this reality as I watched a man play hacky sack. Marc pointed this man out to me soon after we arrived, around 2:00 p.m. He commented on the man's talent, which was hard to miss. In the midst of the crowd, a young man had that footbag flowing off of his ankles, chest, heels and neck. He was lost in his talent. He was lost in his vivacity. Now, he may have looked foolish to some, but he reminded me of this important fact that I feel fortunate to know: Do what you love. Do it big. Do it often. Hey, do it in the middle of a crowded music festival if that is what your soul is telling you to do.

Nine hours later, at 11:00 p.m., as I was still captivated by the sounds surrounding me, I scanned the crowd and saw this hacky sack player still going at it. That is when it hit me. I don't have to envy those with talent. I simply need to emulate those with passion.

I thought about people whom I've known and loved and admired. And it's always the passionate ones towards whom I gravitate. My cherished Grandma Flo lived each day with purpose, and the poet in this wise woman came up with this saying:

Life without a cause;

Is nothing but a dispassionate pause.

So, now, we might feel like it's time to find a cause. But, of course, it is not that black and white ... there doesn't have to be one specific cause. There just has to be passion.

Go ahead and play hacky sack for ten hours if that is what makes you feel alive and free. Or strum the guitar. Or write poems. Or sing loudly, even if it's off-key (just consider doing so with your car windows up, as my daughter Emily requests that I do!).

I believe it is that simple.

Be passionate. Be alive. Be free.

We are here afterall. And, we have passion to exude, to experience, to envelop, to embrace. (See, I'm even passionate about alliteration right now.)

For that is what last night's guitar legends, along with one hacky sack expert, taught me: Live your life with passion ... Even if you're a little off-key.

Let the Sunshine In

It was not the rain that woke me tonight, nor was it the usual stirrings of my over-active mind. It was the fact that my 11-year-old son is in a cabin right now at a camp I've never seen, and I'm consumed with thoughts of him. Is he sleeping peacefully? Is he surrounded by nice, new potential friends? Did he get the top bunk that he so desired? Is he excited about this new camp? Is he feeling anxious?

Before we drove him to the bus, my sister Denise called to say good-bye. I heard her asking him if he was excited. He said, "I am very excited and also a little nervous, or anxious, my mom says." Then he asked her what anxious means. With her calmness and patience, she explained the emotion to him -- how it's a combination of being really excited and also a bit nervous. He listened to his aunt with great interest, told her he would write and then this anxious mom made him hang up so we could get to the bus.

But, I've been thinking about that word ... that feeling so many of the campers have ... that feeling that so many of us parents have. I also am reminded of a statement that my brother-in-law Steve said to me 12 years ago, when I was pregnant with Ben. I was nervous about something relating to the pregnancy, and he said, "Welcome to nine months of worry and terror followed by a lifetime of worry and terror!" How true is that statement?

We always think we'll be relaxed when the next milestone is met -- when he knows how to walk -- when he can talk -- when he is in school for a full day -- when he does well on his test that he studied for all night -- when we get all his stuff organized for camp -- when we see his cabin picture and see the smile on his face.

But there's always something else to keep us awake at night. "Did they put the egg crate under his sheet?" Something so trivial. Something so unimportant. Yet we look for that something that would enable us to feel that sense of "all is okay."

And, here we go. For that is why my mind is battling with my body's desire to sleep this evening. When do we ever really get that sense that "all is okay." Can we ever really obtain that? Do we actually believe that it is within our control?

Maybe it's another argument for perspective. For the powers of our minds. For the amazing ability we have to tell ourselves what feels comforting. We all control our reactions to many of our own thoughts incessantly. I did so continuously while at the bus stop.

There was my boy, my firstborn, sitting on the bus, quietly anticipating his seven-hour journey ... the large, tinted window separated us. (Dramatic effect intended.) I could see the outline of him as he waved at me. With his new, short haircut and his skinny frame, I couldn't help but to flash back to an image from the movie Hair: The long-haired, hippy friend known as Berger was heading off to see his friend Claude who was about to enter the Vietnam war. He had his gorgeous locks unexpectedly cut off. And I remember that image of him walking, with that strong fear in his body, with "anxiety" about the unknown. I loved that movie. I loved Berger. I loved they way the characters knew how to "let the sunshine in." And that brings me back to perspective.

We are not sending our sons and daughters off to war. We are sending them off for a summer full of privilege and adventure, canoeing and backpacking, friendship and discovery.

Yet, Ben could have been feeling like Berger yesterday. He was heading into unchartered territory. He wasn't going with any friends. He has never been away for eight weeks. He had never seen the camp to which this large bus was taking him. Everything was foreign. The feelings were foreign. And, even though he is so fortunate as he heads off for what we hope will be a wonderful summer, he must have been filled with that anxiety.

And, that is exactly the feeling that is keeping me awake on this night. I'm not sad, because "perspective" won't allow me to be. My boy is lucky and fortunate and adventurous. He is not going off to Afghanistan. He is at camp! But, I am anxious. Because, I am his mom. Because he is my little guy. Because I want to know if he's on the top bunk, where he so wanted to sleep. Because I miss him already.

I looked up the word anxiety, as I was curious about it's exact definition after hearing Denise's explanation. There were many defining phrases with words such as "uneasy" and "apprehensive." Then, there was that one description of the word, which I choose to recall on this sleepless night:

"eagerly desirous."

That sounds beautiful.

That is my definition.

That is what I hope my boy is feeling ... eagerly desirous.

Once again, it's all perspective. That is what allows us to fall back into a deep, peaceful sleep. It's our rational perspectives. It's our knowledge that we are so fortunate. It's the fact that we can't empathize with mothers of soldiers who have to know less comforting definitions of the word "anxiety." It's the fact that our children are so lucky to have these opportunities. It's our belief that these little beings out there who we call "ours" are going to have joy and excitement and wonder and adventure.

I will go back to sleep now. And, while I still hope that Ben is dreaming of upcoming adventures with a smile on his face, I know that my anxiety is really just my being "eagerly desirous" as I wish for nothing but the simple, innocent, pure feelings of happiness and wonder for my Benny boy. Isn't that what summer is about afterall? Adventure. Exploration. Wonder. Awe. Beauty. Friendship.

So, sing it:

"Let the sunshine it, let the sunshine in ... the sunshine in."

Holding on to Happiness

It happened once again. The amazing energy of the world. The irony, the coincidence, the affirmation that all is connected.

I opened up my laptop just now to write about happiness and my thought that we have so much control of this very concept which directs most of our goals and decisions throughout our lives. Isn't that precisely what we all want from our days here? To be happy?

Before I started writing, I read my brother and sister-in-law's blog in which they keep their family and friends updated regarding her battle with cancer. There was a picture of Sara standing there proudly showing off the baby in her tummy. She looked beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off of the picture. She looked happy. And maybe, amidst all of this pain and fear that she is enduring daily, she has some powerful moments of true happiness. Maybe she is happy that the chemo didn't leave her feeling as nauseous as she thought it would. Maybe she is happy to have a husband so loving and supportive. Maybe she is happy because her beautiful two-year-old girl made a silly face that made her smile.

I, of course, don't know what moments are joyful for her, but I do know this: There are those moments to be had. And, for many of us, that ability to feel happiness is not only relative, it is also within our control.

Holidays have always been very difficult for me because, as I've previously mentioned, I often think of those who are suffering at a time when we are told to celebrate. My perspective was improved when, on one day before Christmas, I went to my therapist feeling so much sadness. I told her that I felt guilty being happy as I thought about all of the children who were going to wake up so sad on Christmas morning because they were beaten the night before. (Yes, warning to those of you who feel happy because you successfully avoid some of life's most painful realities: this writing is sometimes a bit heavy! But, keep reading -- I'm an optimist, and it will get lighter!) Back to the therapist:

I told her I felt guilty knowing that homeless people were waking up freezing throughout our city. I felt guilty, as I was surrounded by cabinets and refrigerators overflowing with food, that people all over the world have hunger pains so severe that they cannot move. I felt guilty knowing that Americans were off fighting a war for us, away from their loved ones, while I sit comfortably in my home.

How and why, I asked, should I feel joy? So many are suffering, yet, I should smile? I should be happy? And, what kind of person am I? I have this fortunate life, yet I go to my therapist's office to analyze my trivial struggles while others walk around this world hoping to stumble upon a loaf of bread or a hand that won't strike them?

Her response to me has remained with me for years now. She said, "Amy, what makes you happy is not necessarily what makes someone else happy. Do not project your desires and needs onto others. Maybe a man who is homeless is happy today because he found a warm shelter that took him in. Maybe a little girl who is parentless is happy today because she received a little doll from a charity." Our discussion continued as my eyes opened to this reality: Happiness is relative. And, despite horrible suffering in the world, it is also oftentimes within our control, thanks to the power of perspective.

Another monumental night for me philosophically was when I went to see The Diary of Anne Frank at Steppenwolf. There the family sat, hiding in the cold attic. They were scared. Their lives were threatened. They were hungry. Yet, they couldn't feel more blessed to be sitting beside one another. For that is all that mattered. They were together. They were holding on so tightly. And, for that moment, they were happy. I'll never forget how I felt sitting in that theater, reminding myself that I will be more grateful for what I do have, not sad for that which I do not.

It's a challenging concept. Perspective. Happiness. I suppose it's two concepts! And, both fascinate and amaze me.

When my 52-year-old dad died suddenly, my amazing Grandma Flo was crushed to lose her only child. When my Poppy Frank died 12 days later, Mama Flo also lost her husband of 60 years. It was "too much." How could Mama Flo go on and ever experience joy again, many wondered. She just lost her only child and her life mate.

And, now, here is all I probably ever needed to say about happiness and perspective:

Mama Flo felt blessed every remaining day of her life.

This lovely woman, who had lost her only child and husband within days of one another, still radiated such palpable joy and beautiful energy and abundant peacefulness for the following seven years of her life. We spoke every single day. And every single day she hung up the phone telling me this: "Oh, Amy, I am so very blessed to have you three girls." She also would tell me on many occasions how blessed she was to have my mother and my Uncle David in her life, as well. Yes, she was "blessed."

And, she had friends. And she had cousins. And she had wisdom. And she had purpose. And she had her own brilliantly beautiful perspective.

Her words have never left me.

Her attitude, I hope, flows throughout me.

Her perspective, if I may have inherited a sliver of it, is a true gift in life.

It is enough to make me feel truly happy.

The Simple Complexity of a Connection

I just sat down (or I should say "sat up" since I was just sleeping!) to write about one of my favorite concepts in life: the power of connections with people. I had been thinking about the people in my life who motivate me, inspire me and challenge me, and, surprisingly, those individuals are not necessarily the ones who I would call my dear friends. They are just people to whom I am connected. Oftentimes, a connection is synonymous with friendship, but it also can be something so uniquely different ...

People can feel a strong connection to someone they never met, to a composer of a classical piece, to a brilliant writer. Isn't that part of our fascination with celebrities? We feel that we know them, that they would be our friends if they only knew us. I feel "connected" to Charlie Kaufman because his writing has kept me up at night. His movies have turned my thoughts upside down and inside out. He has motivated me to analyze and ponder -- to think and to wonder. Yet, I'll likely never be within a mile of this man, but, still, I am connected.

Then there is that sense of being connected to someone with whom you shared a cup of coffee or a train ride or a long wait in line somewhere. You may never see that individual again, but maybe something was said that resonated within you, that got you thinking, that motivated you, that inspired you, that made you laugh. And, how beautiful is that? If you travel around the world, then you know this feeling on a larger scale. You know how without even speaking the same language, you connected with another being through your eye contact or laughter or just by experiencing the same majestic view from a mountaintop.

Connection. What a concept. What an awe-inspiring concept that is endless in its possibilities.

Irony is another concept I enjoy, and as I sat down to write this post, irony beautifully seeped into my space. When I signed on line, I noticed there was a new comment on a previous post. Upon reading it, I felt grateful, having learned that this person had been moved by me! He (she?) wrote that my words were full of emotion, while also adding his/her thoughts and reactions to mine. It was a great feeling, knowing that I sparked someone's thoughts about a topic -- knowing that this person took the time to encourage me and support me. The irony is that the post was by "Don," and I'm not sure who Don is ... it's likely a friend of my mom's, I assume (since she's been doing what moms do best -- sharing my posts proudly with her friends), and it may be someone I am already knowingly connected to -- I may just not recognize the screen name. But, the point is this: That person's comments had an immediate affect on me. And, how cool is that, especially if it's someone with whom I'm not that familiar?

Well, that is precisely what I had "sat up" to write about on this sleepless night. The way in which we can move one another. It's especially fascinating to me when the two connected people are not connected by years of friendship or geography or social groups or any of the more traditional styles of close relationships.

There is a man who I hardly know with whom I can say I have a unique connection. Many years ago, we were at a party where we found ourselves dancing freely side by side, both completely lost in the music. Surrounded by all of our friends and even our spouses, we were oblivious to their conversations, their glances, their thoughts. They had filtered off of the dance floor, to eat and talk and enjoy the night. No one else remained but the two of us, and we were jumping and grooving and laughing alone ... together. The dance tunes were pumping through the house and through our veins. And we both allowed ourselves to get completely lost in the music. I only said "goodnight" to him -- no other words were spoken -- as my sweaty, exhausted and invigorated body headed home.

Years later, he has stumbled upon my blog. And, he has commented on it in such a supportive, encouraging way -- a way in which a good friend would. I still have never had a conversation with him, yet I feel connected to this person for he has given me that feeling ... that feeling of knowing that someone else maybe gets you, identifies with you, appreciates you, or maybe even just simply knows how to wildly dance and let go as you do. Of course, we experience that feeling with many close people in our lives, but there's something intrinsically cool about experiencing that with a "stranger."

It reminds me of the beauty in life. The beauty of a connection. The inherent power therein. The knowledge that we are all so different, but the reality that we are, at the same time, all quite alike.

It also gets me thinking. Something so simple. Something so complex. What does it take to feel connected? And what does it really mean? Well, it's important to know that some of the richest connections are so special because of their unique nature. Maybe you're connected to someone because you share a love of music. Or of gardening. Or of tacos. It doesn't have to be anything heavy to be meaningful. But you know it when you feel it. And to feel it and to acknowledge it is one of the more inspiring facets of our days on this planet.

I'm so grateful that I feel all of these uniquely wonderful connections swarming around me, beside me.

So, to those of you who have given me that feeling in my soul -- that knowledge that we are alike -- that realization that we are connected -- that notion that life IS beautiful ... I thank you. And, while I'm aware that connections are not always flowing both ways, I humbly hope that I can give you at least a sliver of the priceless joy you have bestowed upon me.

A Midsummer Night's Dream ... Recalled

I was just watching the news when the weatherman said that tonight was a good night to sleep with the windows open. I immediately thought back to the many hot, summer nights of my childhood in which we would sleep out on our screened porch. We would bring cot beds out there (what happened to cot beds? Aero beds came along, I suppose), and we would fall asleep to the sounds of summer. I loved those sounds. I loved the smells of the plants and trees and flowers and humid air. I loved the peacefulness. I loved the thrill, for sleeping outside was simply different, and different is often synonymous with adventure.

Then there was the true inherent joy of sleeping outside. It was together time in the truest sense. Unlike time where the family watches TV or plays a game, this was that peaceful kind of time -- the kind where you talk about your dreams and fears amidst the moon's watchful beams, where you feel like you are far away from your daily responsibilities, and where you hear one another's deep breathing as one drifts into sleep.

Usually just two or three of us would sleep out there on a given night, my dad most oftentimes being one of the regulars. We all had so much respect for my dad, and with that respect came a certain distance ... there was an element of him being untouchable. Times were just different. It was before it was common for parents to be friends with their children. He was our dad. He was powerful. He was strong. He was a combination of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne and Sean Connery (did he say that or did we?!!). Yet, beside him on a cot, I felt those walls of power didn't exist. He was just someone with whom I was enjoying a beautiful summer night. We all were slightly vulnerable beside Nature's most powerful arms.

They were some of my favorite nights -- some of my favorite experiences. Even if it was hot and sleep wasn't part of my night's plan, I always woke up so rested and happy and peaceful.

I love those memories. I wish they were more tangible. How did we fit out there? What did the porch look like exactly? I have so few pictures of my childhood experiences and of my dad who has not been with us for 18 years. Again, another drastic change compared with today's high-tech ways. Now, if I were to sleep outside with my kids, we would have digital pictures downloaded on Facebook for all of our friends to see. We would have a Flip video of us laughing and being silly. We would have in writing, maybe from mom's blog, memories of "the evening on the porch."

Sometimes I grasp for those memories from my past and come up empty handed. My children will have pictures and videos and writings to detail and re-create those events for them. But, does that make their experiences any more valuable? Does the ability to clearly remember, to recall, make the memory more meaningful? Or is there something extra special about being able to conjure up a small, foggy slice of a childhood memory ... thanks to the words of the evening's weatherman?

The Subtle Strength of a Moment

When a long, holiday weekend approaches, many of us start making plans. We arrange barbecues, plan parties, book trips. We anticipate the days and the fun and the time with family and friends. And, then, it comes and it goes, quite quickly, for that seems to be time's plan. Afterwards, when asked how we enjoyed the weekend, we then get to reminisce as we try to express what was special and memorable about the days.

As I reflect on the past Memorial Day weekend, I am surprised by the image that stands out in my head -- the image that pushes its way to the front of my mind, leaving all of the memories of time with out-of-town guests and friends in the shadows. Yes, I went to the Cub's game, I spent time with my sister and her family from San Francisco, I went to parties, and I even danced all night. But, none of those great experiences are the images on which my mind's spotlight shines.

That memorable snapshot was taken on Monday evening on the Edens expressway, en route from Glencoe to Deerfield.

My three kids were in the car, and we were driving to my mom's house to spend time with the family. I had the windows down and my music playing. We were all tired after a lot of running around all weekend, and we all were eagerly anticipating some more family time. And, then, a song by Muse came on the radio.

"Mom! It's your favorite band," Emily joyfully exclaimed, with her shining face smiling at me in my rear-view mirror.

Danielle immediately started dancing as the beat gave her no other choice. She looked free and happy and adorable, as she bounced and smiled and danced in her carseat.

And, Ben ... he started playing the air drums. Perfectly. I tried air drumming, too (nothing wrong with some extra percussion!). Ben tried to instruct me (as I'm clearly a novice air drummer), explaining that my right hand should now hit the cymbal while my left hand hits the drum. Different beats. Various timing. I was banging both hands at the same time, to the same beat. I was doing it all wrong. Yet I was so proud of his rhythm and his interest in being a part of our little Partridge family moment. He actually put his iTouch down for this, instinctively!

Emily, of course, reminded me to put both hands on the wheel, and, thus saved me from my flawed attempt at drumming. So, I stuck to smiling and singing. Fortunately, none of the three little ones have yet established an ear that can detect one who sings off-key. I am still spared ... I get to sing frequently and loudly as I let the music flow through me.

My eyes watched the road, but they magnetically flickered continuously to my rear-view mirror. They bounced from the image of Emily's glowing smile to Danielle's dancing body to Ben's drumming. And this was my moment.

This was our moment.

I don't know if they enjoyed it or absorbed it as much as I did. Maybe their moment of the weekend would have been sliding into the water at the water park. Maybe it would have been swimming in the pool with all of their cousins. Or, maybe, it would have been this moment -- this moment when they were being driven down the Edens ... singing, dancing, air drumming, smiling.

The music filled the air, it filled the car, it filled all of us. We all were lost in it. It was such a simple moment. And, those, I continue to learn, are often the most beautiful.

So, when I think about my Memorial Day Weekend, it is that most simple and most beautiful moment that I will continue to cherish. And, I will be grateful, once again, for this spectacular glance at life's subtle beauty.

We are Here

It's hard to sleep peacefully tonight. I spent the day at a funeral for a 46-year-old man who took his own life. And, as I lay here in my dark, quiet room, the images of his four-year-old boy and six-old girl keep creeping back into my mind. I see them smiling during the funeral, while they gaze around the packed chapel at all of the faces. Then, I see those young, innocent faces full of tears as the rabbi speaks about their daddy, who is now gone. Next, they are sobbing in their mom's arms as their dad's casket is being lowered into the ground. They hold bright flowers in their hands ... beautiful, vibrant flowers that speak of life and color and possibility -- as the awaiting dirt pile sits just feet away.

The young children's emotions vacillate, as they are unable to grasp what has even happened. And, I, someone who hardly knew this man who was said to be funny, charming, witty and good, could not keep my tears from flowing. I cried for the wife who no longer has a partner. I cried for the children whose tears broke my heart, whose fatherless days are stretched out before them. I cried for his mom, his brothers, his friends, my boyfriend -- all of whom lost a treasured man.

Everyone cried. Everyone felt sick. Everyone wondered why. Why would a man, who seemingly has so many reasons to live, take his own life? People speculated all day: Maybe he got into financial trouble. Maybe his wife was leaving him. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he lost his job.

Maybe.

The need to figure it out was understandably all-consuming. But, from where does that need come? Is it the innate detective in us? Is it our overflowing human curiosity? Or, is it simply our need to feel less vulnerable? Wouldn't it make us feel safer to know, "ah, I see. He was caught up in a Ponzi scheme. He would have gone to jail for life. Now I get it."

The truth is, we can never really "get it." There is no reason, no fact, no illness, no scandal, no disaster that can justify a man hanging himself. There is just darkness and sadness and despair. There is the thought to some that tomorrow will not be a better day, that the sun will not shine again, that their pain will only deepen.

And, that makes us terrified and vulnerable and sick.

We always want to know that there was some big reason, a reason that is not present in our lives. Then, we can feel safe. Our son is not part of a Ponzi scheme. My father has a good job. My sister does not battle depression. Ah, yes, I am safe. We are safe. So, we believe ... so we try to believe.

But, we know better. We are all vulnerable to the darkness that exists. It will touch all of our lives. We all will suffer. We all will feel pain. Some of us will bounce right back. Some will wallow in the sadness. Some will see colors more vibrant than ever before. Some will see only grayness. Some will love and laugh and savor each moment more than they ever had. Some will miss the beauty that is right before their eyes.

Our reactions and emotions travel on the pendulum, just like the young children who shockingly lost their daddy. It's what we do with those emotions. It's how we handle our vulnerabilities. It's how we choose to live and breathe and smile and laugh and love. That is what differentiates us ... what makes us strong or weak, happy or sad.

Yes, we are vulnerable. Yes, the world is dark. Yes, there is so much pain.

But, there is also a beauty to be discovered in so many hidden moments. There is a vibrance in flowers to see ... a smile on a child's face to cherish ... a kiss to experience ... a love to explore ...

There is life. And, death reminds us how fragile that is. And, death reminds us of something else I will never forget: Six and a half years ago, when my sweet Sari died suddenly at the age of 32, my poetic friend said to me, "Death is what makes life beautiful."

It was hard for me to grasp that concept at that sorrowful time. But, I remember inhaling those words and letting them seep through my veins. I knew those words were powerfully true. For as much as death makes us feel more vulnerable, it is also a reminder that we are here. We are breathing. We are loving. We are laughing. We are holding flowers. We are planting seeds. We are here. We are present.

We are here.

Summer's Knocking on the Door

Even though the word summer carries images of carefree, ideal, peaceful times, there is an inherent pressure that comes along with that word, with the concept of summer, as well.

This is the time to get stuff done. To enjoy your children. To be free. To read all of those books you have set aside over the cold, winter months. To finally organize your photo albums and closets and lives.

I am excited for summer. But, I do feel the pressure that those three little months subtly put on me, as well. What am I going to accomplish? How many books am I going to devour? What great places am I going to visit?

And, I'm thinking ... What do I want to do this summer?

I want to enjoy the warmth and the lake and the trees. I want to feel free. I want to float on a raft. I want to breathe deeply. I want to read a lot. I want to get letters from my boy who is going away for all eight weeks, and I want the letters to be full of excitement and adventure.

I want my girls to laugh and love camp and enjoy the beach.

All of that would be wonderful and idyllic, but what would I have "done?" All of these thoughts of floating and smiling and laughing, and I haven't even organized a closet in my mind yet?

How do we measure a successful summer? How do we decipher accomplishments? What does it take to have a great summer? What are the goals therein? Do we want to be altruistic while we finally have a chunk of free time? Or is this the season for a little selfishness?

I know I want to find some part-time work, and I want to write and read and know my children are happy. And, as much as I am eager to organize, I don't want to waste the few weeks of nice weather we Chicagoans enjoy by sitting on my closet floor.

A few nights ago, Emily wanted to read with me, and I jokingly said, "not now, I have something else really important to do. I want to organize my sock drawer." She nervously laughed and said, "You're kidding, right?" Of course, I tickled her and told her I was joking. But, the truth is, I do figuratively get caught up in cleaning out my sock drawer. I spend so much time organizing the house, the backpacks, the lunches, the homework, the shopping lists, the photo albums, the closets.

With summer lurking just around the corner, it's that time to evaluate what we want to accomplish. But, now I'm realizing that we often get so lost in these accomplishments that we forget to take the time to just be. We are so consumed with all that we want to get done, we forget the importance of doing nothing.

To just breathe.

To just float.

Modest Mouse sings it perfectly, "Don't worry, we'll all float on. Even if things get heavy, we'll all float on."

I think my goal this summer is simply to forget the heaviness of winter and simply float on this summer ... On a raft, in my mind, with my kids.

Even if my socks are all disorganized.

Just 26 Letters

"Mommy, how many letters are there in the world," my six-year-old daughter asked me.

"There are 26 letters in the English alphabet," I answered.

Danielle's big blue eyes grew larger. "Only 26 letters?!! But, Mommy, how many words are there? How can that be that there are only 26 letters?" She giggled with awe.

Her questions were intoxicating, not only because they were interesting, but because they were full of such excitement and wonder.

We continued to discuss the immeasurable amount of words as she also compared the number of letters to the number of actual numbers. She pointed out how numbers are infinite, so how, she wondered, can there just be 26 letters. I took a deep breath. Rather than just emitting a quick answer, I let these questions swarm and fester and grow.

As I thought about my Kindergartner's uncertainties, I realized this is one of those pure, beautiful moments in life. One of those opportunities in which we adults can still learn and challenge our thoughts and question the familiarity of our ideas. And, my subsequent reflections were all initiated by Danielle's simple, yet complex, question. Isn't that the beauty of innocent minds? The way they think so freely. So creatively. So courageously.

As an adult capable of more abstract thoughts, I let my mind venture on a creative journey. It is amazing to think of the thousands of words that exist in the English language ... all comprised of a various amount of just 26 letters. And words are just words. But, their power is one of the most overwhelming concepts to absorb. Think about this: It is a word that can let a man know that his beloved will accept his proposal. It is a word that is spoken that tells another to exit from the room, from someone's life. It is a word that starts a war. A word. Series of words.

"Yes."

"Leave."

"Good bye."

"Now."

"Never."

"I'm sorry."

Twenty six powerful letters. Jumble them, move them, rearrange them. Pick three of them. Say, "I love you." Choose a different set of words, this time four, "I am leaving you." Change your life. Change your destiny. Change the world. Take a sharp turn on your path. Each step is taken with a word. And they all come from a mere 26 letters.

What a fascinating concept.

There was a wonderful, eclectic little book I once read called "Ella Minnow Pea." It was about an imaginary island, in which the residents all cared passionately about language. One day, a monument with letters on it lost the letter "z." The city's council decided this was a sign and that the letter "z" must be immediately struck from their language. People were punished severely if they used the said letter while writing or speaking. Slowly, more and more letters were abolished.

The book wasn't about letters though, it was about authoritarianism. But, the concept of our alphabet therein made me realize how much we have come to rely on each and every letter. Of course, being one who believes that we are on this earth to love and be loved, I immediately imagined a world wherein we weren't allowed to use the letter "l" -- how would I bestow my favorite phrase on my loved ones?

I love books that get our minds rolling and spinning and playing.

I love the word "love" and am grateful that we have the four letters therein to use freely.

And, I love my sweet Danielle and the fact that she brought her wonderment and awe to me and let it seep into my my thoughts ... into my world.

The Dissolution of Mother's Day and Father's Day

I am a mom. I have a beautiful mom. I have wonderful friends who are moms. But, I am not one who believes that we should continue to celebrate Mother's Day. As a matter of fact, I feel strongly that the Hallmark holidays (Mother's Day and Father's Day), which were created with intentions of making moms and dads feel special and celebrated, should be abolished. It's one of those things we seem to just blindly do -- the calendar tells us the holiday is coming up and we immediately fall into the roll of shopping for gifts, sending flowers and planning brunches. These days have been celebrated for as long as we can remember, so why not continue the tradition?

I'll tell you why.

More people seem sad and lonely on these days than on most other holidays. These days specifically tell us to celebrate a specific person -- our mom or our dad. But, there are so many people out there without a mom or a dad. And, then there are the people who have a parent who has neglected them or abused them or abandoned them, and on this day, we simply tell that person to remember the agony, the torment, the despair. Remember, we say, you have dealt with the sadness of your negligent parent for years, but today you should feel an extra deep sense of sorrow.

The concept of the light-hearted holiday has failed. Yet, we have failed to acknowledge that.

If you're an adult and you've experienced the loss of a parent, than you know the feeling -- the dreaded anticipation of this day. My dear friend who lost her mom a few months ago told me that "tomorrow is going to be brutal," as we spoke the night before Mother's Day. I thought that this is ridiculous. She has had so many brutal days as she's gone through the grieving process. Now she has yet another opportunity to answer the door to find grief waiting there ... looking her right in the eye.

Then, there are the little ones. The children. The innocent kids who are just learning how to grapple with various emotions. If they have lost a parent, they have likely spent much time learning how to handle and manage that loss. Death is a concept that they may have trouble understanding. But fitting in is one concept they grasp at an early age. The motherless child, for example, has to now add "not fitting in" to the pot of emotions, which may already include loss, sadness and void. The child has to face the gloom and sorrow at home on Mother's Day, but now, the child also has the opportunity to experience those emotions in the Kindergarten classroom as the class is making special Mother's Day projects. The motherless child is surrounded by peers who excitedly create, eager to bestow their art upon their moms. I can only imagine the feelings that are streaming through that child. On top of the pain, that child has to stand out as the Kindergartner without a mom?

It seems to me that more gloom is experienced than joy on these holidays.

And I didn't even mention the words "pressure" or "obligation," words that wrap themselves around these days, as well. If you have a parent, then you feel the need to make that parent feel special and loved, specifically so on this day. If you are a parent, you feel as if your children owe it to you to be extra kind and helpful, for it is your "special day," of course. And, if you are a child whose parent has passed, then you feel obliged to honor that parent's memory on that day, maybe by visiting the cemetery.

Pressure. Obligation. Sadness. Pain. Loss. Void. Alone. Lonely.

This seems like a lot to endure ... all in exchange for a beautiful bouquet of flowers, or for the acknowledgement that mom is really special. Aren't we living our lives in the moment? Aren't our loved ones supposed to know how we feel about them every day? I know that I'm not waiting until Mother's Day of 2011 for the next opportunity to let my mom know how special she is to me. And, I know that my dad, with whom I've not celebrated a Father's Day in 18 years, always knew how much I adored him. He knew on Father's Day, because I was taught to tell him then. But, he knew, on the other 364 days of the year, that I respected, loved and cherished him. All it took was a big cuddle or a competitive game of Horse in the driveway, and he knew. He knew he was celebrated.

No visit to the cemetery today will make me more certain of that.

There I was, a 39-year-old mom of three, standing alone in the lobby of the very crowded La Quinta hotel in Palm Springs, surrounded by excited twenty somethings who had traveled to the desert for the same reason as I -- to go to the Coachella music festival. Immediately, I felt out of place, alone and unsure about my decision to travel 2,000 miles to experience a weekend of music. But, it wasn't going to just be a weekend of music: My very favorite artist was going to be there - Thom Yorke. Additionally, my favorite new band, Muse, was headlining on Saturday night. It seemed like a no-brainer. I love music festivals, I revere Thom Yorke, Muse was headlining, I had no one who wanted to go with me, and so I was off! Wait, why did I skip that one detail, that one aspect of this plan, the fact that I was going to travel solo? It wasn't as if that was something I had done frequently or in the last decade. As a matter of fact, I had inadvertently trained myself over the past ten years to dote on others ... to be a mom ... to be a friend ... to be a girlfriend. To make sure that "they" were all happy and that I was doing things that "they" want to do. I don't even know how to do this anymore -- to do something that is purely and selfishly for ME. I am terrified!

But, for some reason, my fear and anxiety were repressed and I had booked my tickets without giving it much thought.

So here I am, standing in line of the lobby. Nice time for those repressed emotions to creep up to the surface! I should have put in more thought! What am I doing here?!! I'm the old mom traveling alone. I can't believe my boyfriend didn't accompany me on this trip to share in my passion. How am I going to get back to the hotel late at night? Ugh. I really need to be less spontaneous.

Then, there was that voice of my sister and of a dear friend, "Do this for YOU ... it's time you do things that YOU want to do ... YOU don't need anybody ... You should embrace this experience. Step outside of your comfort zone." And, further, my spiritual cousin reminded me of this, "Aimless, this is a gift from the universe. Embrace it, and don't worry right now about how you will return the favor. You will one day."

They all were right. So right.

And, Universe, I do owe you one.

The music. Yes, that's what I had come to experience. And, on the first night, as I stood outside listening to Jay-Z belt out "I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one," I began to revel in the dichotomy of the weekend. There was going to be a lot of solitude and serenity and beautiful music. But, there was also going to be my first experience of a Techno band (wow!) and rap (go Jay Z!) and great rock 'n roll (first song into the set, and I was instantly a fan of Them Crooked Vultures.).

And, there was going to be Thom Yorke with his new band, Atoms for Peace.

Yorke is worthy of his own paragraph. Of course, he's worthy of much more, but I do have to get back to those mothering responsibilities soon! So, I'll try not to be too verbose. He stood up there with the very colorful and energetic man known as Flee (Red Hot Chili Peppers), and they performed a 90-minute set that blew me away. They went through the whole album "The Eraser," and then they treated the massive crowd to some classic Radiohead tunes, including "Everything in its Right Place," for which people went nuts!

To illustrate how this one fan was feeling, I will simply say this: When Yorke got out there on stage and started singing, I had tears in my eyes and an enormous smile stretched across my face. It wasn't just because I was experiencing the music of my favorite artist live and in the middle of the desert, but it was also because I was THERE. I went for me. Sure, I went for Yorke, too, but, the gift was that I did it for me, and I was smiling and peaceful and free. Those moments in life, the ones wherein you truly feel present, are so rare. So, I embraced it and held on tightly to that inherent beauty. It made me a bit empathetic to the scores of women (who I previously thought were mildly insane) who would faint and cry hysterically when Elvis would come on stage.

But, maybe, like me, their tears weren't just about Elvis and his music. Maybe their tears were about their journey, as well. About independence. About their freedom. About their own truth. About the moment. A moment I am so grateful to have experienced.

I love to write, I don't need a ton of sleep, and I just created a blog ... sounds like a recipe for written expression! And, as I type in my quiet house, I am thinking about how I savor these sleep-deprived moments -- times wherein it seems as if the world is asleep, as if my thoughts can actually be my own, unfiltered and untouched by the literal daily noise we all encounter.

In about an hour, my three little ones will wake up (as will have the sun), and the transition from serenity to chaos will not be a smooth one. It will be welcomed, however. For as much as I tend to get overwhelmed by all of the noise, I do embrace the energy and action that abounds in my house as the kids get ready for school. First, Ben leaves the house, walking to his Junior High school. Then, that bus comes down the street to pick up Emily and Danielle, who have rushed through their breakfast and sat not-so-patiently for me to style their hair. When they get on the bus, I close the door and happily sigh ... happy that they're all off to experience their day ... happy that I did it -- that I fed and dressed them all ... that I made the lunches ... that I didn't forget anything. Or did I? Did I ever find Danielle's library book? Did I remember Emily's water bottle? What about Ben's reading log?

That's when I remind myself to let it go -- to be in the now. It is time for me. It is time to be. And, in just a moment, it will be time for "them." It will be time to be in the "later." For I will have to run to the grocery store to get food for tomorrow's lunches, and I do have to work on Emily's goodie bags. Oh, and Ben desperately needs some new pants as he is growing so quickly and looking as if he is preparing for very heavy rains.

And, now it is all cyclical. Speaking of the rain ... that is what woke me up at 3 a.m. today. Or, rather, that is what I woke up and spent several minutes listening to ... several minutes that led me to grab my computer and start this blog that I've been writing in my head for several months. I'm looking forward to sharing my thoughts with you. With me. With those dark, quiet hours that beg us to think, to be and to write.