Things that Feed Me

When I had breakfast with Erynn last week, she inspired me to generate a list of the things that feed my soul.  Here goes.

* Walking and finding other people's gardens in bloom
*  Writing
*  Writing poems that no one else will read
*  Feeling a grandchild lean into me
* Listening to music
*  Sitting on the front porch and watching the moon rise while enjoying night fragrances--white petunias, white nicotiana, the white blossoms on my crabapple tree
*  Sitting on the porch swing with my cat Enzo
*  Hearing a cat purr
*  Stretching out like a cat in the sun
*  Walking the dogs through the cemetery
*  Running barefoot
*  Knitting a baby blanket
*  Walking with friends before the sun comes up
*  Listening to the sounds of a baseball game
*  Sitting in the ballpark on a summer's evening and watching the mountains to the southeast turn blue
*  Enjoying the sounds of a summer night--crickets, sprinklers, a motorcycle in the distance somewhere
*  Going on drives with Ken Cannon
*  Roaming through local nurseries
*  Cracking open a cold can of Dr Pepper

I could keep going but I need some Dr Pepper now.  What feeds you?

Oh, Grief: The Gift That Keeps on Giving

My dad worked as an assistant coach with a man named Chris Apostle, who also happened to be our neighbor when we lived in Edgemont.  Chris was a sleepy-eyed Greek with a sharp wit who could have easily passed for a member of the Rat Pack because he had that kind of cool daddy-o vibe.  He and my dad shared an office and often took recruiting trips together in our little green VW and probably shared a room at the first Motel 6 they could find.  Such was the life of an assistant football coach back in the non-heady days of the 1960s.

Anyway, Chris died in 2003, and when I went to his viewing where he was surrounded by BYU memorabilia, I had the eerie sense that I was looking at my own father's future.  At my future, too.  And I walked away shaken, wondering how I would bear it.

Well, now I know.

I am finding this second spring without my father's large laughing comforting presence to be harder than that first spring when I was still numb.

I brought this up with my lovely friend Jen who lost her mother a year before Dad died.  She sent this to me in an email, and because her words about a church talk given by a Japanese man who speaks English as a second language touched me so very much, I'm sharing them here.

And then this man spoke about the experience of losing his mother.  And he is a scientist by training, and obviously very brilliant, and he was trying to work through some kind of "empirical truth" through gospel experiences to find some way to know for a fact that he would see his mom again some day.  He wanted assurance from the Lord that was irrefutable.  He wanted to know 100% in his heart.  And his talk was about that.

And he said two incredibly beautiful things--even more beautiful because English was not his first language so he structured the phrases in interesting ways.  The first thing he said was that he came to the conclusion that to the Lord, it is much more important for us to have faith, and it is much more important to have hope, than for us to KNOW.  And then the thing he said that I loved the most was:  "The pain of losing my mother never goes away.  But I have learned to carry it more safely."

Carry it more safely.  How beautiful.

Really? Still? After All These Years?

Okay, I'll admit it right upfront.  I'm not organized.  Especially when it comes to paper stuff, I AM NOT ORGANIZED.  This always made for tense moments when I was supposed to produce my children's immunization records for whatever reasons.  But they're grownups now, so I'm home free.  Right?

Well.  Take a look at this text exchange I had last week with my oldest son, who's closer to 40 than he is to 30.

SON:  Do you by chance have any of my immunization records?  I need them for my graduate school.

ME:  Ugh!  I don't know!  I'll take a look when I get home.

SON:  Thanks!

ME:  I was horrible about keeping records.  Loser Mom!  Call the SLC school district and see if they have them on file anywhere.  Tell them you need them because your house burned down and your parents are dead.

And that's how you deal with graduate schools that want your children's immunization records.

Riding Shotgun

I've been surprised by how much I've been missing the Coach the past few months.  In some ways the second year has been harder than the first.  By the time you hit the second year, you better understand all the ways there are to miss someone you love.

Anyway.

Yesterday, I listened to a Johnny Cash CD (Yes!  I know.  I still listen to "CDs."  And my third son just called to ask if I know how to download an "app" or if I need TRQ to help me with that) as I drove around town, running errands.  As soon as I returned home I wanted to call the Coach and tell him how much I'd enjoyed listening to the Man in Black, but yeah.  I couldn't.

It did occur to me, though, that my dad might have been riding shotgun with me all along.

#9 Choose hope, yo

So once when I was driving south on I-15 CRYING LIKE A BABY because I was stressing about one of our boys (gah! they don't tell you that you never stop being a parent when they first put those cute little babies in your arms!) I noticed a big old fat rainbow looming over the mountains to the east.

And suddenly I remembered the old Noah story about how the rainbow was God's promise to Noah that he (Noah) would never have to float around the world with a bunch of smelly animals in a boat again.

Okay.  Whether you believe the Noah story is literally true or not isn't the point.  The point is that the rainbow is a symbol of hope--hope in the future, hope that goodness will prevail, hope that you won't have to share your bedroom with camels.  And when I saw that big old fat rainbow looming over the mountains to the east, this thought flashed through my head:  Hey.  Why don't you try a little hope for a change?

Which reminds me of a letter written at Christmas time to a friend by a 16th-century Catholic father named Fra Giovanni:

I salute you!  There is nothing I can give you which you have not; but there is much, that, while I cannot give, you can take.  No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today.  Take Heaven.  No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant.  Take peace.  The gloom of the world is but a shadow;  behind it, yet our reach, is joy.  Take joy.

Take joy.  Take hope.

Tip #8: A Useful Reminder

When I get depressed I start searching for ways to feel better (obv!), but sometimes that becomes its own kind of pressure.  Oddly, sometimes by just acknowledging the pain you're feeling, you lessen (a little) its grip.  I'm reminded of this when I do the five minute self-compassion break on this website recommended by a good friend of mine who's also a wise and very experienced therapist.

http://self-compassion.org/category/exercises/

The takeaway?  Suffering is, in fact, a part of life.  Acknowledge it and then treat yourself in that moment of acknowledgement with the kindness you would extend to a dear one.  I find that when I offer myself kindness, I can be kinder to the people around me.

OKAY.  I think tomorrow will be the final tip thing because now I'm just ready to write random crap about life.

Grandparents are the gift that keeps on giving

I was lucky enough to know each of my grandparents, who all lived into their 90s with the exception of my Grandma Covey who died when she was 87.  Addie, my dad's mom, had a million grandchildren, but she made an effort to reach out to us individually by sending pretty little cards with crisp dollar bills for our birthdays.  Louise, my mom's mom, only had three grandchildren, which she gleefully spoiled.  Meanwhile, the grandpas, Philo and Irwin (known as "Skinny" to all of his friends) smiled their approval at us.

The point is, I always felt loved by all four of them, even if Philo sometimes got mixed up and called me "Rhonda."

But here's the thing.  Even though they've been gone for many years now, I feel like my grandparents are still an important presence in my life.  Why?  Because they faced hard things.  Disappointing things.  Sad things.  Tragic things.  And somehow they endured.

I think of them often these days as I attempt to negotiate certain challenges.  I'll tell myself stuff like, "Well, if Addie could deal with (fill in the blank) or (fill in another blank) or (YUP!  IT'S ANOTHER BLANK TO FILL IN), then I can, too."

I can, too.