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 ...

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.

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.

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.

On hold

That's me. That's my life. And that's this blog.

Maybe later, when life isn't as demanding.

Thanks for taking time to read what I've written.

They paved paradise ...

My mother has a habit of pointing out new developments in my hometown and saying, with a wistful voice, "There used to be the loveliest woods there."

Then she'll sigh and add, "Not anymore."

A much younger version of myself would grow exasperated at such moments. After all, that new shopping mall or condo complex was a sign of progress, right? And it's not as if the world was about to run out of trees.

Sheesh, Mom.

Last week, an older version of myself passed what used to be a lovely strip of land at the base of a wooded hill, land that looked as if it had been untouched for a lot longer than I've been around. Given that it's located at the far west end of a roadway that sports a local miracle mile, the land was like an oasis.

But as I drove past there last week, I saw bulldozers mowing down scores of trees and peeling back the brush and turf. There will, one day, be a family recreation center there, one that includes batting cages and a go-kart track. And I know some people will consider this progress.

But when I think of that land now, I hear my mother saying, "There used to be the loveliest woods there."

Not anymore.

Grace under pressure

I was on my way out of a grocery store late this afternoon, clutching a few bags of items I'd need to make dinner, when I passed a young woman with two small children. She was moving her many bags of groceries from one of those huge shopping carts with an oversized toy car in front -- for the wee ones sit in -- to a regular cart (you're not supposed to remove the toy-car cart from the store).

All those groceries plus two little kids, who were probably tired and hungry and, perhaps, in need of a potty break.

I marveled at the young woman's energy and at her calm, controlled manner.

Parents don't get much credit for the kind of juggling act I witnessed at the market today. Too bad. They should give out medals for bravery to any parent who manages to shop for groceries while keeping two little people in line -- and lives to tell about it.