I’ve been thinking a lot about noise recently. Not just the sound of gunshots in the distance as my rural neighbors gear up for deer-hunting season. Not just the voices of politicians who think they can score points by shouting each other down.
It’s the noise inside my own head that’s kept me from feeling at peace lately. It’s the thoughts and worries that keep me awake at night, that keep me from feeling truly “there,” wherever I am. I don’t know how to turn down the volume.
Yesterday, feeling less “there” than I had in awhile, I pulled out my tattered copy of Kathleen Norris’ “Dakota: A Spiritual Geography,” a book that’s about so much more than one woman’s move from the noise of city life to the “desolation” of the high plains, a place she calls “the beginning of the desert West.”
I put quote marks around “desolation” because as sparse as the Dakota landscape might be, you don’t get the feeling that Norris’ life there is “desolate.” Living in western South Dakota, she writes, has nudged her into a quieter – and richer – existence where she can think (or not) and write. She even stopped watching TV.
Scarcity, Norris writes, has helped her form a spirituality deeply rooted in the power of “less” – fewer distractions that can deprive you of the quiet in your own mind, a kind of peace you can take with you wherever you go.
Norris calls it “desert wisdom,” a wisdom that allows you “to be at home, wherever you are.” To be fully “there.”
Maybe I should move to South Dakota.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Monday, September 7, 2015
Front yard, 2 a.m.
The first night of last month's Perseids meteor shower found us standing outside, late in the evening, leaning against the car so our necks wouldn't hurt from staring at the sky. Between us we spotted seven or eight "shooting stars," two of them with brilliant tails. Not bad, but the next day we learned that had we gone outside between 2 and 3 a.m., the show would have been more spectacular.
So the next night I set the alarm for 2 a.m. Armed with an old blanket, I headed for the front yard. (It brought to mind another August night, years ago, when we lay in the grass, watching for shooting stars, and nearly jumped out of our skins when the cat tiptoed by and her bushy tail brushed against our faces.)
Back to last month.
I lay there, staring at the sky, waiting for the show to begin.
Nothing.
OK, I did see two garden-variety shooting stars, but none of this one-a-minute spectacle people on social media had predicted.
Disappointed? A little. But the stillness of that night, the cool air, the chance to lie back and stare at the sky reminded me that I need to do this a bit more often. Maybe not at 2 a.m. in the front yard, but somewhere, sometime.
It isn't just about finding time to be still, something else I need to do more often. It's about stopping long enough to feel how good it is to still be here.
You don't need more than an old blanket and a patch of grass to reignite your sense of wonder at something as "ordinary" as a shooting star. You just have to make the time.
So the next night I set the alarm for 2 a.m. Armed with an old blanket, I headed for the front yard. (It brought to mind another August night, years ago, when we lay in the grass, watching for shooting stars, and nearly jumped out of our skins when the cat tiptoed by and her bushy tail brushed against our faces.)
Back to last month.
I lay there, staring at the sky, waiting for the show to begin.
Nothing.
OK, I did see two garden-variety shooting stars, but none of this one-a-minute spectacle people on social media had predicted.
Disappointed? A little. But the stillness of that night, the cool air, the chance to lie back and stare at the sky reminded me that I need to do this a bit more often. Maybe not at 2 a.m. in the front yard, but somewhere, sometime.
It isn't just about finding time to be still, something else I need to do more often. It's about stopping long enough to feel how good it is to still be here.
You don't need more than an old blanket and a patch of grass to reignite your sense of wonder at something as "ordinary" as a shooting star. You just have to make the time.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
103 and counting
My mother will turn 103 later this month, a fact I can't quite believe. But then, neither can she.
During my recent visit to the nursing home where she lives now, she told me she thought it was "kind of neat" the way people make such a fuss about her age. As they should.
She's lived through two world wars plus countless other wars, seen the emergence of television, watched men walk on the moon and witnessed the invention of everything from Twinkies to texting, among a million other things. She might not remember what she had for breakfast, but she can tell you in detail about the time she walked along a beach on Long Island in her new white shoes and got oil from a sunken German U-boat on them.
The year was 1917. She was five.
I try to imagine what the world might be like if I were to make it to 103. What inventions -- things beyond our imagining -- will have changed the way we live? Would I, as Mom does, recall the old days as better days, despite past hardships and disappointments?
Time will tell.
Just don't ask me what I had for breakfast.
During my recent visit to the nursing home where she lives now, she told me she thought it was "kind of neat" the way people make such a fuss about her age. As they should.
She's lived through two world wars plus countless other wars, seen the emergence of television, watched men walk on the moon and witnessed the invention of everything from Twinkies to texting, among a million other things. She might not remember what she had for breakfast, but she can tell you in detail about the time she walked along a beach on Long Island in her new white shoes and got oil from a sunken German U-boat on them.
The year was 1917. She was five.
I try to imagine what the world might be like if I were to make it to 103. What inventions -- things beyond our imagining -- will have changed the way we live? Would I, as Mom does, recall the old days as better days, despite past hardships and disappointments?
Time will tell.
Just don't ask me what I had for breakfast.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Run like the wind
She had a pronounced limp and a scar on her snout when she became our dog. At just 12 weeks of age she'd already had a pretty tough life. She never complained.
A rescue pup from down South, she was everything I was looking for in the months after her predecessor succumbed to a quickly spreading cancer. She was friendly, long-haired (for some reason I'd always wanted a long-haired dog -- one too many episodes of "Lassie," I suppose) and cuddly. She was small enough to fall asleep in my lap as I drove her home for the first time.
Someone told us she was an English shepherd, and you can find out a lot about them if you Google that phrase. But a couple of people I met in England said there was no such breed. No matter. She was, to my mind, the best kind of dog: a mutt.
Despite a bum shoulder that the vet said was likely the result of an injury early in her life (I shudder to think how she got hurt) she could run like the wind and jump high to grab a stick out of my hand. I loved to watch her romp in the back yard.
Time passes too quickly in the life of a pet, but we know this when we welcome them into our homes. At 13 years of age, my mutt could, on a good day, manage a brief trot. No more jumping for sticks, though. Belly rubs were now her great joy in life.
I chose to put her through some heavy-duty surgery that I hoped would buy us time together, but things went south after just a few days. I was driving her back to the pet hospital when she decided she'd had enough. A hand to her heart let me know she was gone.
I cried my eyes out and wondered if I'd ever again feel ready to bring another pet into my life, knowing that one day I'd have to say goodbye. But that's the bargain we make, isn't it: That in exchange for their undying loyalty and love, we will be there for them until their time runs out.
I miss my dog. Miss her terribly. So maybe, in time, I'll find myself driving another pooch home for the first time, even though I know full well that one day we'll have to make another, sadder journey together.
Wherever good dogs go when they die, I hope there are big back yards to run in and sticks to jump for and someone, some very patient someone, to give lots and lots of belly rubs.
Run like the wind, old girl. Run like the wind.
A rescue pup from down South, she was everything I was looking for in the months after her predecessor succumbed to a quickly spreading cancer. She was friendly, long-haired (for some reason I'd always wanted a long-haired dog -- one too many episodes of "Lassie," I suppose) and cuddly. She was small enough to fall asleep in my lap as I drove her home for the first time.
Someone told us she was an English shepherd, and you can find out a lot about them if you Google that phrase. But a couple of people I met in England said there was no such breed. No matter. She was, to my mind, the best kind of dog: a mutt.
Despite a bum shoulder that the vet said was likely the result of an injury early in her life (I shudder to think how she got hurt) she could run like the wind and jump high to grab a stick out of my hand. I loved to watch her romp in the back yard.
Time passes too quickly in the life of a pet, but we know this when we welcome them into our homes. At 13 years of age, my mutt could, on a good day, manage a brief trot. No more jumping for sticks, though. Belly rubs were now her great joy in life.
I chose to put her through some heavy-duty surgery that I hoped would buy us time together, but things went south after just a few days. I was driving her back to the pet hospital when she decided she'd had enough. A hand to her heart let me know she was gone.
I cried my eyes out and wondered if I'd ever again feel ready to bring another pet into my life, knowing that one day I'd have to say goodbye. But that's the bargain we make, isn't it: That in exchange for their undying loyalty and love, we will be there for them until their time runs out.
I miss my dog. Miss her terribly. So maybe, in time, I'll find myself driving another pooch home for the first time, even though I know full well that one day we'll have to make another, sadder journey together.
Wherever good dogs go when they die, I hope there are big back yards to run in and sticks to jump for and someone, some very patient someone, to give lots and lots of belly rubs.
Run like the wind, old girl. Run like the wind.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
The opposite of love
During my senior year at my all-white parochial high school, my social studies teacher arranged for a handful of us to meet with a handful of African American students from the local public school. We met in the cafeteria of my old elementary school and talked about our lives. It wasn't long before we realized we had a lot in common.
But we also came to realize that though we lived in the same city, we lived in different worlds.
The story that sticks in my memory, all these years later, was of an African American family moving into a predominantly white neighborhood and, within days, losing their dog to some fool who wanted to scare them away. The poor dog was doused with gasoline and, well, you can imagine what happened next.
I still remember the stoic look on the African American student's face as he told this story. Things got pretty quiet after that.
A few hours later we went our separate ways, changed -- if only a little -- because we'd made a connection with people who weren't like us and had, perhaps, begun to let go of fear.
The other thing I remember about that meeting in the spring of 1968 is that it took place just days before the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down. It might have been the very same day, though I suspect that's just my memory playing tricks on me. The date doesn't matter. The lasting impression -- that we are all human beings meant to share this world -- does.
God rest the souls of those taken from this world out of fear, the opposite of love.
But we also came to realize that though we lived in the same city, we lived in different worlds.
The story that sticks in my memory, all these years later, was of an African American family moving into a predominantly white neighborhood and, within days, losing their dog to some fool who wanted to scare them away. The poor dog was doused with gasoline and, well, you can imagine what happened next.
I still remember the stoic look on the African American student's face as he told this story. Things got pretty quiet after that.
A few hours later we went our separate ways, changed -- if only a little -- because we'd made a connection with people who weren't like us and had, perhaps, begun to let go of fear.
The other thing I remember about that meeting in the spring of 1968 is that it took place just days before the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down. It might have been the very same day, though I suspect that's just my memory playing tricks on me. The date doesn't matter. The lasting impression -- that we are all human beings meant to share this world -- does.
God rest the souls of those taken from this world out of fear, the opposite of love.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Triple Crown
The sky over Lake Erie was slate gray when I heard the first rumble of thunder. I knew then that I wouldn't be going to the 5 p.m. Mass that Saturday. I wasn't worried about the storm. I was worried about my dad.
A stroke had left Dad a semi-invalid, but it was more his lifelong fear of thunderstorms that made me decide I should stay home and ride out the storm with him. Besides, the Kentucky Derby would be on TV soon. We could watch it together.
And we did -- with the volume turned up a bit to drown out the distant thunder. Dad was more animated than he'd been all day as we cheered on whichever horse he'd had his eye on.
I don't recall who won the Derby that year. I do recall that the storm stayed out over the lake, so Dad didn't insist, as he usually did, that we turn off the TV until the storm had passed. He had good reason to fear storms.
When Dad was a boy, his father used to love to watch the storms that passed over their Long Island home and would coax Dad to join him on their front stoop. One day lightning struck their roof and started a small fire, which was quickly extinguished. But the fear of fire would haunt my father the rest of his days.
Dad's been gone more than 30 years now, but that day comes back to me every time one of the Triple Crown races is run, as the Belmont Stakes will be later today. I'll be watching, cheering on the horse many hope will make history and become the first Triple Crown winner since 1978.
Somehow, I suspect Dad will be, too.
A stroke had left Dad a semi-invalid, but it was more his lifelong fear of thunderstorms that made me decide I should stay home and ride out the storm with him. Besides, the Kentucky Derby would be on TV soon. We could watch it together.
And we did -- with the volume turned up a bit to drown out the distant thunder. Dad was more animated than he'd been all day as we cheered on whichever horse he'd had his eye on.
I don't recall who won the Derby that year. I do recall that the storm stayed out over the lake, so Dad didn't insist, as he usually did, that we turn off the TV until the storm had passed. He had good reason to fear storms.
When Dad was a boy, his father used to love to watch the storms that passed over their Long Island home and would coax Dad to join him on their front stoop. One day lightning struck their roof and started a small fire, which was quickly extinguished. But the fear of fire would haunt my father the rest of his days.
Dad's been gone more than 30 years now, but that day comes back to me every time one of the Triple Crown races is run, as the Belmont Stakes will be later today. I'll be watching, cheering on the horse many hope will make history and become the first Triple Crown winner since 1978.
Somehow, I suspect Dad will be, too.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Mr. Zinsser
William Zinsser died last week. He was 92 and nearly blind, though from what I've read, age and infirmity did little to dull his quick mind.
Mr. Zinsser's classic guide to nonfiction writing, "On Writing Well," made me a better writer. It made me a better editor and teacher, too. I owe him a great debt.
Mr. Zinsser visited my university many years ago and said he considered it his mission in life to go around the country giving college students permission to be themselves in their writing. What a remarkably liberating message for young writers struggling to find their voices.
Mr. Zinsser believed in the power of brevity -- that when it comes to the written word, less truly is more. He could not abide the fluff and nonsense that clutter up American English. (The chapter in "On Writing Well" titled "Clutter" should be required reading for every high school and college student in the land. I can think of a few politicians and CEO's who might benefit from it, too.)
Simply put, William Zinsser respected the written word. He just wanted the rest of us to do the same.
Mr. Zinsser's classic guide to nonfiction writing, "On Writing Well," made me a better writer. It made me a better editor and teacher, too. I owe him a great debt.
Mr. Zinsser visited my university many years ago and said he considered it his mission in life to go around the country giving college students permission to be themselves in their writing. What a remarkably liberating message for young writers struggling to find their voices.
Mr. Zinsser believed in the power of brevity -- that when it comes to the written word, less truly is more. He could not abide the fluff and nonsense that clutter up American English. (The chapter in "On Writing Well" titled "Clutter" should be required reading for every high school and college student in the land. I can think of a few politicians and CEO's who might benefit from it, too.)
Simply put, William Zinsser respected the written word. He just wanted the rest of us to do the same.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Big brother
When you grow up with four older brothers, you get used to the jokes about having your own "army" of body guards to chase away anyone who hassles you -- and to screen the guys who show up at your house, asking to take you out.
My brothers might have chased away an occasional playground bully, but I spared them the need to discourage potential boyfriends by not having any until I went away to college. High school was, um, not much fun for me, but I got through it -- in large part because of one big brother and his fiancee (later his wife), who made sure this gawky, self-conscious, over-protected introvert wasn't stuck at home (even though that was often where I wanted to be because I felt safe there).
They spent time with me, took me fun places, made me laugh. And over time I began to break out of a shell that once threatened to suffocate me. They pretty much saved my life.
I hope I told my brother that. I owed him that much. All the things I wish I'd told him have been on my mind these past few weeks since he succumbed to an illness he'd been diagnosed with only a week before his passing. There's never enough time to say all those things we meant to say, is there.
I used to bemoan the fact that I didn't grow up with a sister, even though it meant I got to have a room of my own and didn't have to wear hand-me-downs. No, I had brothers. An abundance of brothers. It took me a long time to realize what a blessing that is.
My brothers might have chased away an occasional playground bully, but I spared them the need to discourage potential boyfriends by not having any until I went away to college. High school was, um, not much fun for me, but I got through it -- in large part because of one big brother and his fiancee (later his wife), who made sure this gawky, self-conscious, over-protected introvert wasn't stuck at home (even though that was often where I wanted to be because I felt safe there).
They spent time with me, took me fun places, made me laugh. And over time I began to break out of a shell that once threatened to suffocate me. They pretty much saved my life.
I hope I told my brother that. I owed him that much. All the things I wish I'd told him have been on my mind these past few weeks since he succumbed to an illness he'd been diagnosed with only a week before his passing. There's never enough time to say all those things we meant to say, is there.
I used to bemoan the fact that I didn't grow up with a sister, even though it meant I got to have a room of my own and didn't have to wear hand-me-downs. No, I had brothers. An abundance of brothers. It took me a long time to realize what a blessing that is.
Monday, April 13, 2015
A matter of style
One of my students writes a fashion blog -- sort of an anti-fashion blog, actually. One of her posts, in which she thought back to her personal style in high school, jarred loose a memory of a photo of me with some friends that was taken in a corridor of our high school. We look like what we were -- the "out" group.
No jocks or cheerleaders in our group, just a former seminarian, a student newspaper editor and assorted awkward young things in skirts that stopped below our knees, cardigans and blouses with Peter Pan collars.
Ours was, if you haven't already guessed, a parochial high school with a strict dress code. We girls were not allowed to wear pullover sweaters lest our flat chests excite the boys. Looking at that photograph, I doubt we could excite anyone with a pulse.
Within a year we would be off to college, set free to explore other ways to express ourselves. Still, I was a sophomore in college before I took the leap and bought my first pair of bell-bottoms. I shudder to think how geek-ily I dressed as a freshman. Old habits die hard.
These days I might be caught in a skirt once or twice a year. The rest of the time I dress to please myself, which is to say I dress to feel comfortable, to feel like me.
Getting older has its perks.
No jocks or cheerleaders in our group, just a former seminarian, a student newspaper editor and assorted awkward young things in skirts that stopped below our knees, cardigans and blouses with Peter Pan collars.
Ours was, if you haven't already guessed, a parochial high school with a strict dress code. We girls were not allowed to wear pullover sweaters lest our flat chests excite the boys. Looking at that photograph, I doubt we could excite anyone with a pulse.
Within a year we would be off to college, set free to explore other ways to express ourselves. Still, I was a sophomore in college before I took the leap and bought my first pair of bell-bottoms. I shudder to think how geek-ily I dressed as a freshman. Old habits die hard.
These days I might be caught in a skirt once or twice a year. The rest of the time I dress to please myself, which is to say I dress to feel comfortable, to feel like me.
Getting older has its perks.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Good Friday, 1958
I can't say with absolute certainty that 1958 was the year I first "got" the significance of Good Friday, but by then I'd made my first confession and my First Communion. So I had, no doubt, been well-versed in the events of Holy Week.
Mom had been a Catholic all her life. Dad was a protestant, but he drove us to church every Sunday morning and made sure we all went to Catholic schools (he converted when I was 9). So Mom decided how we would spend Good Friday, and inevitably that led to St. Mary's Church.
We'd arrive well ahead of the start of the Good Friday service so we could sit, in silence, while Mom said the rosary. I suppose we squirmed a good bit, too, but all it took was a look from Mom to tell us our souls would be in danger of eternal damnation if we didn't settle down.
On those rare occasions when we didn't accompany Mom to church on Good Friday, we were told to keep silent between noon and 3 p.m., the time during which Christ hung on the cross. We couldn't eat anything then, either. In fact, we weren't supposed to eat much at all that day. We couldn't wait until 3:01.
I'll be going to church this afternoon. I'll even be singing with the choir as we mark another Good Friday. I might even try to keep silent for awhile before I go, and if I eat anything for lunch it'll probably be no more than a carton of yogurt.
I'm no saint. I'm just the daughter of a woman of faith.
Mom had been a Catholic all her life. Dad was a protestant, but he drove us to church every Sunday morning and made sure we all went to Catholic schools (he converted when I was 9). So Mom decided how we would spend Good Friday, and inevitably that led to St. Mary's Church.
We'd arrive well ahead of the start of the Good Friday service so we could sit, in silence, while Mom said the rosary. I suppose we squirmed a good bit, too, but all it took was a look from Mom to tell us our souls would be in danger of eternal damnation if we didn't settle down.
On those rare occasions when we didn't accompany Mom to church on Good Friday, we were told to keep silent between noon and 3 p.m., the time during which Christ hung on the cross. We couldn't eat anything then, either. In fact, we weren't supposed to eat much at all that day. We couldn't wait until 3:01.
I'll be going to church this afternoon. I'll even be singing with the choir as we mark another Good Friday. I might even try to keep silent for awhile before I go, and if I eat anything for lunch it'll probably be no more than a carton of yogurt.
I'm no saint. I'm just the daughter of a woman of faith.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Mended
I'll say one thing for being sick: It gives you permission to nap. A lot.
Which is what I did on Tuesday when, ordinarily, I would have spent the day teaching. I napped, stared out the window, thought some deep thoughts and read some Jane Austen. It was that kind of day.
Today is the first official day of spring, allegedly. It's snowing here; we're supposed to get 2 to 4 inches before this latest storm moves on. But the red-winged blackbirds know that winter's days are up. I saw a flock of them descend on a field down the road yesterday, the sun shining on their black feathers and those brilliant patches of red.
No naps today. I'm back on my feet and I have to clean the fridge -- something I'd planned to do earlier this week (putting off housework is another perk of being sick).
So, happy first day of spring. May red-wings grace your neck of the woods, may you wake up to the song of house wrens and may you soon see the bright green tips of those crocuses you planted last fall poking through the soil (or at least see that 2-foot pile of snow in your yard withering away to a mere 4 or 5 inches).
Winter is dead. Long live the spring.
Which is what I did on Tuesday when, ordinarily, I would have spent the day teaching. I napped, stared out the window, thought some deep thoughts and read some Jane Austen. It was that kind of day.
Today is the first official day of spring, allegedly. It's snowing here; we're supposed to get 2 to 4 inches before this latest storm moves on. But the red-winged blackbirds know that winter's days are up. I saw a flock of them descend on a field down the road yesterday, the sun shining on their black feathers and those brilliant patches of red.
No naps today. I'm back on my feet and I have to clean the fridge -- something I'd planned to do earlier this week (putting off housework is another perk of being sick).
So, happy first day of spring. May red-wings grace your neck of the woods, may you wake up to the song of house wrens and may you soon see the bright green tips of those crocuses you planted last fall poking through the soil (or at least see that 2-foot pile of snow in your yard withering away to a mere 4 or 5 inches).
Winter is dead. Long live the spring.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Mending
Nothing puts a crimp in your writing career like the stomach flu.
I'll spare you the details.
I'll spare you the details.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Finding your voice
Students in a class at the university where I've taught journalism the past 27 years will be blogging for the second half of the spring semester. A few of them have blogged before, but most of them are new to it. A few of them seem a little intimidated by the thought of their words being out there for the world to see. It does take a leap of faith -- faith in yourself -- to hit the "Publish" button.
I know some professional writers fear that this democratization of writing/publishing will dilute the impact of their work -- and cut into their profits. (Garrison Keillor once painted this bleak picture of the future of publishing: “18 million authors in America, each with an average of 14 readers, eight of whom are blood relatives. Average annual earnings: $1.75.”)
So why require students to create and maintain a blog? Because I want them to discover their voice, that amorphous collection of choices that define who they are as writers. Too often, their other class assignments take on a certain sameness. I blame education -- the kind that has taught them to turn a simple phrase into a 40-word sentence so they can stretch their 12 pages of knowledge into that 20-page paper that's due tomorrow (and which they probably won't start writing until late this evening).
I can tell them to try a more conversational approach to their writing, but blogging has proven much more effective at getting them to loosen up, to take risks in their writing. When I read their blogs, I'm amazed at how much more they sound like the young, energetic, interesting people they are.
A few weeks into the blog project, I challenge them to use their blogger's voice in their stories. Some of them get it. Some don't. But a seed has been planted.
A long time ago, when I was new to reporting, I worked hard at sounding like a journalist. Which is to say, I was a boring writer. Luckily for me, I had a colleague who had long since learned to trust his own writer's voice. Reading his work led me to realize that perhaps I could "get away with" being myself in my writing, too.
Once I tried it, there was no going back.
I know some professional writers fear that this democratization of writing/publishing will dilute the impact of their work -- and cut into their profits. (Garrison Keillor once painted this bleak picture of the future of publishing: “18 million authors in America, each with an average of 14 readers, eight of whom are blood relatives. Average annual earnings: $1.75.”)
So why require students to create and maintain a blog? Because I want them to discover their voice, that amorphous collection of choices that define who they are as writers. Too often, their other class assignments take on a certain sameness. I blame education -- the kind that has taught them to turn a simple phrase into a 40-word sentence so they can stretch their 12 pages of knowledge into that 20-page paper that's due tomorrow (and which they probably won't start writing until late this evening).
I can tell them to try a more conversational approach to their writing, but blogging has proven much more effective at getting them to loosen up, to take risks in their writing. When I read their blogs, I'm amazed at how much more they sound like the young, energetic, interesting people they are.
A few weeks into the blog project, I challenge them to use their blogger's voice in their stories. Some of them get it. Some don't. But a seed has been planted.
A long time ago, when I was new to reporting, I worked hard at sounding like a journalist. Which is to say, I was a boring writer. Luckily for me, I had a colleague who had long since learned to trust his own writer's voice. Reading his work led me to realize that perhaps I could "get away with" being myself in my writing, too.
Once I tried it, there was no going back.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
90 looks good on her
An important person in my life turns 90 tomorrow, March 4. In her outlook on life, in her open-minded acceptance of others, in her faith and the way she lives it, she is, without doubt, my favorite role model.
Her name is Jaye, and for the past 35 years she's been there when I needed someone to listen -- really listen -- to whatever was on my mind. She saw me through the ups and downs of parenthood, put her own concerns on hold when one of my kids was hospitalized and always left me feeling that somehow, all would be well.
I've known a lot of people who weren't close to their parents. I can't imagine what that might be like. I lucked out. I've still got my mother, age 102, and though we live 400 miles apart we're still close. And I've got my other mom -- my mother-in-law, Jaye. I hope someday I can be as supportive of my grown children and their families as she has been of me and mine.
Thanks, Mom. And happy, happy 90th birthday.
Her name is Jaye, and for the past 35 years she's been there when I needed someone to listen -- really listen -- to whatever was on my mind. She saw me through the ups and downs of parenthood, put her own concerns on hold when one of my kids was hospitalized and always left me feeling that somehow, all would be well.
I've known a lot of people who weren't close to their parents. I can't imagine what that might be like. I lucked out. I've still got my mother, age 102, and though we live 400 miles apart we're still close. And I've got my other mom -- my mother-in-law, Jaye. I hope someday I can be as supportive of my grown children and their families as she has been of me and mine.
Thanks, Mom. And happy, happy 90th birthday.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Everyone used to be older than me
When did they start giving medical licenses to teenagers?
The doctor I met for the first time today looked all of 17 -- if that. Aren't doctors supposed to be older than their patients, or at least older than me?
They always used to be -- and, in my case, they were until the docs who founded the practice I've gone to the past 35 years began to retire or semi-retire. My own doctor still comes in to work from time to time, but if you'd rather not wait several weeks to see him you go with one of his younger (in this case, MUCH younger) colleagues.
Not that this young doctor didn't seem perfectly capable of handling my relatively minor problem. In fact, once I got over the feeling that I had suddenly turned into a wizened old lady, I found him quite easy to talk to. It's just that lately I keep finding myself the only senior in the room, and sometimes it's tough to take.
That sort of thing happens a lot when you teach at a university. For example, if I make some reference to the Watergate scandal, I get blank stares from my students. Well, Mary, do the math: Richard Nixon resigned more than 40 years ago. If one of my profs back at Ohio State had brought up some scandal from the Hoover administration, my eyes would have glazed over, too.
Time flies. Some days it seems to break the sound barrier. This was one of those days.
I'll get over it.
The doctor I met for the first time today looked all of 17 -- if that. Aren't doctors supposed to be older than their patients, or at least older than me?
They always used to be -- and, in my case, they were until the docs who founded the practice I've gone to the past 35 years began to retire or semi-retire. My own doctor still comes in to work from time to time, but if you'd rather not wait several weeks to see him you go with one of his younger (in this case, MUCH younger) colleagues.
Not that this young doctor didn't seem perfectly capable of handling my relatively minor problem. In fact, once I got over the feeling that I had suddenly turned into a wizened old lady, I found him quite easy to talk to. It's just that lately I keep finding myself the only senior in the room, and sometimes it's tough to take.
That sort of thing happens a lot when you teach at a university. For example, if I make some reference to the Watergate scandal, I get blank stares from my students. Well, Mary, do the math: Richard Nixon resigned more than 40 years ago. If one of my profs back at Ohio State had brought up some scandal from the Hoover administration, my eyes would have glazed over, too.
Time flies. Some days it seems to break the sound barrier. This was one of those days.
I'll get over it.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Old friends
I spent the morning catching up with a friend who has known me since I was 17. She's seen my at my best and at my worst. She talked me through the ups and downs of college life. She stood beside me at my wedding. And though we hadn't seen each other in a few years, it didn't take more than five minutes to feel as if we were just picking up where we'd left off the last time we met.
And that's the blessing of old friends -- friends who knew us when and, amazingly, still want to keep in touch.
My friend has lived a life committed to making a difference in the lives of others. I could tell you that, as we chatted in a diner for more than three hours, I kept thinking she looked the same despite the 45 years that have passed since we last sat on her bed in her college dorm room and talked late into the night. But what mattered more, matters more, is realizing that she still lives a committed life.
We were such idealists in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The corners of my own idealism have been rounded off by time and the realities of grown-up life, but hers still shines. I'm lucky that she still counts me among her friends.
And that's the blessing of old friends -- friends who knew us when and, amazingly, still want to keep in touch.
My friend has lived a life committed to making a difference in the lives of others. I could tell you that, as we chatted in a diner for more than three hours, I kept thinking she looked the same despite the 45 years that have passed since we last sat on her bed in her college dorm room and talked late into the night. But what mattered more, matters more, is realizing that she still lives a committed life.
We were such idealists in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The corners of my own idealism have been rounded off by time and the realities of grown-up life, but hers still shines. I'm lucky that she still counts me among her friends.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Small wonder
The temperature outside, according to my car, had dipped to -17 as we drove home late Friday evening. Knowing how cold it was outside made me shiver, even though it was plenty warm inside the car.
What were we doing out on this ridiculously cold night? We'd gone in search of music -- call it folk, or traditional or Celtic -- music that stirs our souls and gets our feet tapping.
It's also music that, in our part of the world, makes its home in small venues such as the one where we listened to two gifted sisters from Nova Scotia perform for the better part of two hours on Friday. It's a venue reminiscent of a '60s coffee house where you sit elbow to elbow with 50 or 60 like-minded people who know that what awaits you is worth the drive (an hour for us), even in the dead of winter.
I was as entertained by watching the sisters perform as I was by the joyful noise they were making. The fiddler's fingers flew at speeds I didn't think were humanly possible. The piano player's hands were like a kid at play -- fast, unpredictable and just plain fun to watch.
Watching is easy when you're no more than 10 feet away from the musicians. And that's the other thing about small venues: By the end of the evening, the performers are as familiar to you as the people with whom you've shared a tiny table.
A very long time ago I sat in a similar venue hundreds of miles away to listen to a folk singer who had recently quit a trio act to set out on his own. Back then, his name would never have filled any of that city's big auditoriums. It barely filled the coffee house where I sat a few feet from the small stage, hoping I hadn't wasted my money on a virtual unknown. By the end of his first song I knew I'd be getting my money's worth.
The next time I saw John Denver perform he was playing in a packed auditorium on a stage so far from where I sat I could barely see his face. Thank goodness for small venues.
What were we doing out on this ridiculously cold night? We'd gone in search of music -- call it folk, or traditional or Celtic -- music that stirs our souls and gets our feet tapping.
It's also music that, in our part of the world, makes its home in small venues such as the one where we listened to two gifted sisters from Nova Scotia perform for the better part of two hours on Friday. It's a venue reminiscent of a '60s coffee house where you sit elbow to elbow with 50 or 60 like-minded people who know that what awaits you is worth the drive (an hour for us), even in the dead of winter.
I was as entertained by watching the sisters perform as I was by the joyful noise they were making. The fiddler's fingers flew at speeds I didn't think were humanly possible. The piano player's hands were like a kid at play -- fast, unpredictable and just plain fun to watch.
Watching is easy when you're no more than 10 feet away from the musicians. And that's the other thing about small venues: By the end of the evening, the performers are as familiar to you as the people with whom you've shared a tiny table.
A very long time ago I sat in a similar venue hundreds of miles away to listen to a folk singer who had recently quit a trio act to set out on his own. Back then, his name would never have filled any of that city's big auditoriums. It barely filled the coffee house where I sat a few feet from the small stage, hoping I hadn't wasted my money on a virtual unknown. By the end of his first song I knew I'd be getting my money's worth.
The next time I saw John Denver perform he was playing in a packed auditorium on a stage so far from where I sat I could barely see his face. Thank goodness for small venues.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Sacred space
Women's magazines say today's harried female can find a measure of peace if she creates a place, a "sacred space," where she can tune out the world and quiet her mind.
Uh-huh.
I live in a multi-generational household, a trendy term that means we share our formerly empty-nesters' home with one of our grown kids, who moved home with a partner and three kids in tow last year. The house is, um, a bit crowded.
So I was thinking that the creation of my own "sacred space" is, at least for now, just a pipe dream.
Then Mom called.
Her rosary case had gone missing again -- this happens about once a month -- but, happily, it turned up when one of the aides at her nursing home changed her bed. It brought to mind the "sacred space" Mom carved out for herself back when my four brothers and I were kids.
She didn't call it that, of course, but that's what it was: a darkened corner of our dining room where she would sit beside the big console radio for 15 minutes every evening and say the rosary along with a broadcast that came, if memory serves, from the Roman Catholic cathedral in Cleveland.
We kids understood that you did not disturb Mom during those precious minutes she set aside for herself each day. I realize now that she had created a sacred space right in the middle of our crazy, busy household. She didn't need to clear a room or even part of a room. She simply turned a dining-room chair toward the radio, turned off the lights in that room and found a measure of peace.
If she can do it, maybe I can too.
Now if I could just find my rosary case ...
Uh-huh.
I live in a multi-generational household, a trendy term that means we share our formerly empty-nesters' home with one of our grown kids, who moved home with a partner and three kids in tow last year. The house is, um, a bit crowded.
So I was thinking that the creation of my own "sacred space" is, at least for now, just a pipe dream.
Then Mom called.
Her rosary case had gone missing again -- this happens about once a month -- but, happily, it turned up when one of the aides at her nursing home changed her bed. It brought to mind the "sacred space" Mom carved out for herself back when my four brothers and I were kids.
She didn't call it that, of course, but that's what it was: a darkened corner of our dining room where she would sit beside the big console radio for 15 minutes every evening and say the rosary along with a broadcast that came, if memory serves, from the Roman Catholic cathedral in Cleveland.
We kids understood that you did not disturb Mom during those precious minutes she set aside for herself each day. I realize now that she had created a sacred space right in the middle of our crazy, busy household. She didn't need to clear a room or even part of a room. She simply turned a dining-room chair toward the radio, turned off the lights in that room and found a measure of peace.
If she can do it, maybe I can too.
Now if I could just find my rosary case ...
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Story time
I'm of a generation that thinks there are few better ways to pass a rainy afternoon than to curl up with a good book. I thank my mom for this.
Most nights, right after dinner, she would settle on the living-room couch with a couple of us kids and read "Winnie the Pooh" or "The Wind in the Willows." I remember thinking how important reading must be. After all, Mom would put off doing the dinner dishes so she could spend that time with us. Not much came between my mother and her household chores.
Today I stopped by a local library and felt again that pull a good book has on a day when it's just too cold to spend much time outdoors. As I browsed through the stacks, I got to thinking of the grandchild who, at age 3, is already adept in the use of an iPad. I've watched him poking the screen with his little fingers, sliding them back and forth until he finds what he's looking for. I wonder what sort of gadgets he'll learn to use by the time he's my age.
I heard this grandchild's dad reading to him a few days ago. It made me smile. I hope this little guy, this child of the digital age, will come to treasure those moments as he sits beside his dad on a couch in the den and listens to stories -- stories told with paper and ink in the voice of a father who loves him so much.
Most nights, right after dinner, she would settle on the living-room couch with a couple of us kids and read "Winnie the Pooh" or "The Wind in the Willows." I remember thinking how important reading must be. After all, Mom would put off doing the dinner dishes so she could spend that time with us. Not much came between my mother and her household chores.
Today I stopped by a local library and felt again that pull a good book has on a day when it's just too cold to spend much time outdoors. As I browsed through the stacks, I got to thinking of the grandchild who, at age 3, is already adept in the use of an iPad. I've watched him poking the screen with his little fingers, sliding them back and forth until he finds what he's looking for. I wonder what sort of gadgets he'll learn to use by the time he's my age.
I heard this grandchild's dad reading to him a few days ago. It made me smile. I hope this little guy, this child of the digital age, will come to treasure those moments as he sits beside his dad on a couch in the den and listens to stories -- stories told with paper and ink in the voice of a father who loves him so much.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Before the storm
Another snowstorm is headed our way. I'd tell you how many we've had this winter, but I've lost count. (No doubt the Weather Channel will give this storm a name, too.)
But right now, curled up in a comfortable chair in a room that really could use a good dusting, I'm thanking the weather gods for the blue sky and bright sunlight reflecting off the icicles hanging outside the window. Summer skies may be blue, but this blue, the blue of a winter sky, is deeper -- like some cosmic reward for those who've endured months of cold and snow.
Life is just one storm after another, with occasional breaks of sun and blue sky to remind us how good it feels to be alive. So instead of naming the storms, maybe we should name days like this one -- and let the storms pass, nameless, into the dust of all that came before this beautiful, blue-sky moment.
But right now, curled up in a comfortable chair in a room that really could use a good dusting, I'm thanking the weather gods for the blue sky and bright sunlight reflecting off the icicles hanging outside the window. Summer skies may be blue, but this blue, the blue of a winter sky, is deeper -- like some cosmic reward for those who've endured months of cold and snow.
Life is just one storm after another, with occasional breaks of sun and blue sky to remind us how good it feels to be alive. So instead of naming the storms, maybe we should name days like this one -- and let the storms pass, nameless, into the dust of all that came before this beautiful, blue-sky moment.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Back in touch
It's nearly five years since I posted to this blog. I'm more than a little embarrassed about that, especially since I require the students in some of my college-level journalism classes to create and maintain blogs. ("Do as I say, not as I do" ...)
The past five years saw the grandchild we were raising returned to his parent's care. These years also saw the arrival of two more grandchildren. I was present at both of their births. Remarkable.
These years saw the passing of one of my four big brothers, but my mom turned 102 last summer and is in reasonably good health.
I've spent a semester teaching in London since I last posted my thoughts here, and that experience -- in 2014 -- enriched my life in ways I'm still discovering. More about that another time.
What finally moved me to pick up where I left off with this blog is something said by an old friend I hadn't heard from in awhile -- namely, that she missed reading my newspaper column. I'd heard it a few times before, sometimes from people I didn't even know, but this time it really struck a chord. I realized I miss writing that column.
Still, at this stage of my life, I prefer to write on my own schedule. I've had enough of deadlines.
So here we go again ... getting back in touch and hoping life has been kind to you.
The past five years saw the grandchild we were raising returned to his parent's care. These years also saw the arrival of two more grandchildren. I was present at both of their births. Remarkable.
These years saw the passing of one of my four big brothers, but my mom turned 102 last summer and is in reasonably good health.
I've spent a semester teaching in London since I last posted my thoughts here, and that experience -- in 2014 -- enriched my life in ways I'm still discovering. More about that another time.
What finally moved me to pick up where I left off with this blog is something said by an old friend I hadn't heard from in awhile -- namely, that she missed reading my newspaper column. I'd heard it a few times before, sometimes from people I didn't even know, but this time it really struck a chord. I realized I miss writing that column.
Still, at this stage of my life, I prefer to write on my own schedule. I've had enough of deadlines.
So here we go again ... getting back in touch and hoping life has been kind to you.
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