My Sister's Hands

Yesterday my sister got a new knee. But I just can’t stop thinking about her hands.

I’d know her hands anywhere, and could probably pick her out of a lineup from them.

With those hands she unloads my dishwasher whenever she visits, makes caramel icing for every family birthday cake, sets the table for a party the day before, and lights all the candles before company arrives. Those hands make sure that the decks are cleared and all ducks in a row, so that when people walk in they feel welcomed, loved, safe, seen, and heard. It’s those hands of hers that deftly arrange guests at wedding tables in a way that no one’s feelings get hurt, everyone feels included, and all the people that drive all the other people crazy sit together. With her hands she holds grandkids close, carries on with important traditions, and lets go of the ones that have seen better days. She prefers to keep her hands out of messy food, but loves digging in the dirt. She always wears rubber gloves to keep her hands out of hot water, but fearlessly sticks them into places of the heart where angels fear to tread. Hers are hands that pray without ceasing, love with abandon, and welcome without judgment.

Yesterday, my brother-in-law sent me a photo of her just before they wheeled her into surgery. Looking at that picture I found myself filled with gratitude. Not just for that brand new knee, but for her beautiful 75 year-old hands that are simply an extension of her heart.

Shotgun!

On August 8,1953 my best friend Kristine Lorraine Patterson was born.

So, do you want to have dinner?

It’s a simple enough question, but forty-five years ago it was a lot more complicated than that. The invitation came from the drop-dead-beautiful 6’tall woman with the wild, curly, crazy hair I’d always wanted. Her name was Kristine, and at the time we were both working for the city parks and recreation bureau. For the past several months we’d been like opposing magnets, each of us trying to stay out of the magnetic pull of the other. Tired of wondering if I’d measure up as a friend, and weary from resisting the desire to get to know her, I decided to take the risk.

Sitting out on the lawn in front of my house, our first dinner together lasted for three hours. At the end of the evening, we looked one another in the eye and said, So, we’re best friends for life, right?

And we have been.

Since that night out on the lawn there have been more than enough reasons to leave one another on the side of the road. Too hard. Too painful. Too much work. Too many competing outside needs and expectations. For us, in the end, leaving one another behind has never been an option. No matter what has come our way, and with more still to come, somehow we’ve managed to build a friendship that has stood the test of time, not to mention: marriages and divorces, the births of our children and the aging and passing of parents, the joy of grand babies and grief over the loss of grand dreams, depression and health, money and not so much money, faith and doubt, and at times giving too much of ourselves and asking too little of one another. No matter the odds or how dark the night, somehow we are always able to find our way back and head down the road, ready to face whatever lies around the next bend—together.

This once-in-a-lifetime friend of mine is, in the words of her mother, unique, one-of-a-kind, and special. There is not a heart that is bigger or a mind more curious. An accomplished artist, she brings beauty to everything and everyone she touches. When her heart is broken, she allows herself to be broken open, making even more room for the love, care, and compassion she offers so freely. She champions my work every chance she gets, and calls me on the carpet whenever necessary. She turns grief and loss into grace and laughter, and is fiercely committed to living an authentic and wholehearted life no matter what it takes. She knows the matters that matter, and loves me no matter what.

I can’t imagine life without her.

We can’t know what waits for us down the road, but when it comes to the road trip of friendship there is no one else I’d rather have riding shotgun.

Happy Birthday Kristine Lorraine Patterson.

March 2020

Come To The #wakeupappreciaterepeat Party.

This is a repeat of an earlier post. Given the ongoing COVID-19 crisis, I’m sharing it again in the hope of transforming this post into a shared practice.

If you want to join the #wakeupappreciaterepeat party, you are invited to post your three appreciations for the day on Instagram along with the hashtag, and invite any and everyone to join in.

Gratitude and appreciation matter more than ever.

Let’s get this party started!

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How we start any given day sets in motion our eventual arrival at the end.

I’ve done this particular practice on a hit or miss basis in the past. Not any longer. All hit, no miss.

It’s a simple practice and one that didn’t originate with me.

The very first thing, or no later than my first cup of coffee, I identify three things that I appreciate. To be honest, some days it is harder than others to come up with one, much less three. Thankfully, Sleepy Monk Coffee is an automatic go-to, because no matter how bleak or bright the day, I am always grateful for that first sip, which means I’m already a third of the way to my goal. One down, two to go.

To stay on track, I text my three things to the daughter who shared this practice with me in the first place, and she texts her three back, along with the practice hashtag.

Sleepy Monk Coffee

My husband Tom

Connection - Virtual or otherwise

#wakeupappreciaterepeat

Not a bad way to start the day.

(With gratitude to Lo for sharing this life-giving practice.)

Blast From The Past

In 2006 one of my daughters was a 20-year-old college student, living in a 300 sq. ft. apartment in Missoula, Montana. One day shortly after one of those Family Weekends where we parents make endless runs to Target, fold piles of laundry, and scream our hearts out at football games, she wrote me a lovely card to thank me for the time, the meals out, and whatever we brought home from Target to make her space feel cozy.

She addressed it, sealed it, and stuck it in a drawer somewhere.

This last weekend she unearthed that un-mailed card when she and her husband cleaned out their garage. Today over coffee, my now 34-year-old daughter and I opened that card. It was filled with wonderful words of love and appreciation, and two checks written to pay me back for something or other. It had found its way me at long last, and, in perfect timing.

Sometimes a blast from the past is exactly what we need for the here and now.

( And no, I’m not going to cash those checks.)

Giving Up On Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving there are so many moving parts that it is impossible to nail down an exact plan.

Who’s coming when? We tried to come up with an exact schedule, and then gave up.

Will there be enough beds for everyone? We tried to come up with an exact schematic, and then gave up.

Enough cribs for the littles? We tried to figure it out exactly, and then gave up.

How many people to plan on for dinner? We tried to come up with an exact count, and then gave up.

All we know is that people we love will show up when they can, everyone will have some sort of place to lay their head, babies will be tucked in at night, and there will be plenty of food for everyone. Because we’ve given up on having it be exactly as we want it, we are free to give thanks that it is turning out exactly as it is.

Which might just be exactly the best way to do it.

Seize The Day

Some days I’m struck with the fragile nature of life. Today is one of those.

Lives hang in the balance. Medical treatments fail to turn the tide. Wounds that could have been healed are not. Relationships that could have been knit back together become unraveled. Forgiveness that could have been extended is withheld. Words that could have been spoken remain silent.

We never know for sure if tomorrow will come, much less what it will bring.

Life is here.

Life is now.

Carpe diem.

The Art Of Gratitude

“It’s not happiness that makes us grateful. It’s gratefulness that makes us happy.” Brother David Steindl-Rast

(The Book of Joy by the Dali Lama, Desmond Tutu, with Douglas Abrams)

When it comes to cultivating gratitude, what we focus on...

…determines what we miss.

While I haven’t mastered the art of it yet, it seems to me that gratitude is a choice, and happiness is the result. 

The Shape of Gratitude

“Gratitude is the way home.”

Brené Brown

Most years, Thanksgiving means a houseful of people, an abundance of cooks in the kitchen, and little ones in the midst of it all. We subscribe to the-more-the-merrier philosophy, and most years we are more than merry.

This year however, it will be just the two of us, and we couldn’t be more thankful. Not because we don’t want everyone gathered here, but because everyone will be gathered exactly where they are supposed to be.

All four of our daughters and their families are celebrating this Thanksgiving in the way that is the very best for them. Rather than disappointment, my heart is filled with gratitude for their hard-earned wisdom to discern what will serve them well. Instead of trying to please us or anyone else, I am thankful that they are courageous enough to please themselves. Rather than sadness at their absence, I am grateful for the abundant love of my marriage.

Gratitude comes in all shapes and sizes, and if we can get let go of our expectations about how things should be, we can grab hold of the goodness in how things actually are.