Samantha is my nine-year old granddaughter and the first of my grandchildren. She has a talent for drawing and is already able to draw with proportion and perspective.  She has a good eye and can copy what she sees.  I admire this ability and try to imagine what it would be like to have that kind of eye-to-hand connection. 

I took her to the National Gallery of Art one afternoon recently.  It was just the two of us.  Since her mother has been careful to teach her about modesty, we had a little conversation about the human body being the subject of art as a thing of beauty.  I told her that in art the human body, with or without clothing, is often the subject of paintings and sculpture.  We walked into the gallery and immediately she stood a little taller, became a young student, and had many comments about the art she saw.   

“Grandma, I can imagine the story of this painting.  Here is the. . . .and here is the. . .”  She was so enthralled with the colors and shapes of a piece of modern art.

Later, a different artist did not impress her much.  It was an abstract seascape, but looked a bit like a young child’s work.  Samantha said, “Grandma, how did this get in the art gallery?”  We laughed together.

I loved showing her the paintings that I had fallen in love with when I was nine.  Fragonard, Renoir, Degas, and Monet were among my most favorite painters. I liked to imagine that I was in the big garden swing of Fragonard, or the girl in the garden with the watering can.  It all seemed so wonderful and magical. Samantha paused and took them in, but she didn’t react with the things I imagined.  She seemed especially interested in the Dutch painters and their techniques that made fabric look like you could touch it or flowers so real, you might catch their scent.

The final room we went in was the sculpture of Rodin.  I had forgotten his beautiful study of horses.  Samantha also spent a long time studying each piece and asked a lot of questions about how the work was done.  I shared what little I knew and wished I knew more.  It was a wonderful two hours, followed by hot chocolate at a nearby restaurant.  It made me happy to be the grandmother I want to be for a few hours.    

I had my first experience with animal rights when I was 10 years old, but I didn’t name it as that until just now.  It surprised me then, and still baffles me at times.

One chilly November day, near the end of the 10 sessions of horseback riding lessons that I had begged for, we took a trail ride on the property that is now the Tysons Corner shopping mall.  Back then, the area was all farm and forest.  It was beautiful.   Most of the leaves had fallen making a swish-swish crunch sound as the sure-footed horses trod patiently along.  The sky was gray, so characteristic of a November sky in Virginia. We started out from Storm Farm and headed south toward Route 7.  Birds flitted through the trees.  Squirrels busied themselves with the gathering of nuts.  There I was, in the place I loved best, riding a beautiful horse.

The teacher led the way. We guided our horses into a line and I enjoyed the rhythmic walking of Filly, the young, strong bay that was my horse for the morning.  Filly was a little more spirited than other horses I had ridden, certainly more robust than the gentle little pony, Bandara, that I rode on my first lesson.  Filly shook her head and was acting a little feisty; I fought to control the reins.  She kept trying to stop for a snack along the way.  The teacher called back to me, “Don’t let her eat.  Pull up on the reins!”

We spread out a bit on the trail. I was surprised when we jumped over a fallen log. I had never jumped before. I felt so happy.  I was really riding! My heart beat faster and I giggled.  Another log. Jump!  Soon the trees opened up into a big meadow with rolling hills. What could be better?  It was like all my dreams were coming true.

Then, thunder clapped. Suddenly, Filly took off at full gallop.  I had never galloped before.  I was sure I was going to fall off, break my neck, and die.  I screamed for help.  Filly was going full-speed up a hill to territory unfamiliar to me.  Near panic, I called for help again. My teacher finally caught up to me, grabbed the reins, and brought Filly back to a walk.

“Don’t ever do that again!  Your yelling scared Filly to death!  What were you thinking? The more you screamed, the more she ran.”  I was speechless, embarrassed, and ashamed. I had expected consolation from my terrifying experience.  Instead, I got a lasting lesson on animal rights.  

I want to tell you about the sensible shoes my mother bought for me in 3rd grade.

I didn’t want to wear those shoes.

I want to tell you how she took me shopping before the first day of school.

I didn’t want to wear those shoes.

She said that RED Oxfords would be fun and would last all year.

I didn’t want to wear those shoes.

We bought those shoes.

They lasted even when I walked in the rain-filled gutter all the way home.

Sensible, red shoes.

It’s March Madness and there are games on upstairs and downstairs.  My husband and children (now grown) are avid fans of college basketball.  They discuss brackets, picks, match-ups, and how much they hate Duke (sorry, Duke fans).  Actually, this year, they like Jabari Parker, but still hate Duke.

When all five kids were at home, it was a constant battle to have homework time be a quiet time. It was a battle I rarely won. I finally gave up. They all insisted that they could concentrate better with background noise.  Especially when that noise involved sports. Their success in school proved them right and left me without a quiet leg to stand on.  

I’m an introvert, by nature.  I crave quiet.  I suffer when there is constant or too much noise.  It’s a loud world we live in with media coming at us from all sides.  However, tonight I’m adapting and am able to write this little slice of life with NC State and Xavier battling on the court.  I wonder what each of my kids is doing tonight as they watch.  I’d bet money that they are all watching.  I wonder if they would be surprised to see Mom doing her “homework” in front of the game. Maybe I’m becoming my children.

After watching the movie, “Nebraska,” I was thinking about the shift that we all must make at some point in our lives.  That point where we realize we must become adults and accept our parents’ aging.  It’s a shift that can happen in an instant or over years. The movie reminded me of the gains and losses that come with the switching of roles of parents and children.

With my father, it happened in an instant. It was in the fall of 1995 on a crisp, late October day. I had gone to visit him and my mother in their apartment.  We had our usual Wednesday lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches, home-canned peaches, and fresh homemade cookies.  I had my youngest daughter with me who had just turned three.  My dad walked us out to the car, and I buckled Jill into her carseat.  In the next few minutes as we stood by the car, I took the opportunity to really look into my dad’s blue-gray eyes and thank him for all the love and kindness he had given me.  I thanked him for supporting me in my dreams and in my realities, for loving my sons and daughters, for teaching us of goodness.  My eyes filled with tears.  The moment felt important, significant.  Little did I know then that in two weeks he would have a heart attack and pass from this earth.

I have always been grateful that we had those few minutes in the parking lot.  So much more was exchanged than words.  

Even concert pianists will tell you that there are no perfect performances; however, I have persisted in the faulty expectation that I should be able to play an accompaniment without a mistake.  After all, people are listening to the choir, not to me.  

This morning I played for the choir as they sang, “The King of Love, My Shepherd Is.” My friend, Martha, and her daughter, Eden, played the flute duet to embellish the accompaniment.  We had practiced and were prepared for the meeting’s performance.  I wasn’t feeling nervous and the piece was not particularly difficult musically. The choir was well-trained and sounded amazing.  

I should know from previous experience that when things seem easy I have to concentrate even harder to stay in the moment.  It’s important to me to be listening as I play, to try to make each note as beautiful as I can.  Sometimes, when things are going well, I make the mistake of allowing the thought (“Hey this is sounding pretty good!”) to take me away from the moment as I reflect on moments past.

I got so close to the very best I can do today.  The flutes and I were playing as one.  The phrases rose and fell together. The choir was giving everything they had, and it was beautiful. But then, that thought came again and suddenly I turned two pages instead of one.  That’s the worst feeling – not knowing how much fumbling will be required to get back on track.  I think is was only a few notes, but my heart sank and humbly, I played the last page.

There are no perfect performances.

I’m thinking now that it’s the same in writing.  There are no writing pieces that can’t be revised.

Great Blue Heron

I am in the whitewater of my life’s river.

There is no bridge crossing this place.

No canal to detour danger.

Pulled by currents I cannot see,

I am

dodging the debris of decisions

made upstream,

maneuvering the hidden boulders–

Indifference.

Misunderstanding.

Grief.

I marvel that any living thing

could call this place home.

Trees have sent roots down

on these shores

only to be stripped

and exposed.

Their roots must reach deeper still.

Doused and drenched,

I look up for a moment.

Birds beckon

to secret still waters

only they know.

I imagine the great blue heron

waits for me there.

I wrote this note to my friend, Sally, who invited me to join this writing challenge with her:

“I love this writing challenge.  This morning, I found myself composing stories in my mind as I drove down the beltway.  And then I realized that I was going through the process that Ralph Fletcher talks about—where does the story really begin?  And what is it really about?  If the story is like a river, where do I jump in?  It was cool to realize that I’m thinking like a writer (a newbie for sure, but hey, we’re doing it!!)”

I find myself in composing-mode many times during the day.  When I’m in the shower, I’m trying out stories in my mind.  When I’m driving, or when I’m doing dishes, I’m rehearsing, revising, or searching for the meaning of a memory.  Why does a particular memory feel so important?  Such little stories, but they have lasted more than 50 years in my mind.  

I feel like writing daily has opened up my mind and heart to things that have been covered for some time.  If I start to worry whether my story will mean something to anyone else, I find that my inner-censor starts to take over.  I think I am learning that if I am honest in the details of my stories and open with my true feelings, my personal story might resonate on a more universal level with someone else. That’s why I have enjoyed the commenting feature of this challenge so much.  I only know one slicer personally, but the comments I have received from strangers are so warm and supportive.  I feel connected to the other “slicers” because their stories reach the truth in my life too.   

I questioned whether I would be able to sustain writing daily since routines are hard for me, but to my great joy, this challenge has not felt like a routine.  There is no drudgery here – there is nourishment and creative energy. 

My father was the youngest in his family and grew up with his five older sisters and his mother. His name was George, but everyone called him Juddy. He was known for teasing (all in good fun) and occasionally playing a practical joke. His sisters once felt the house tremble due to a small earthquake, but they cried out, “Mother, make Juddy stop shaking the house!”

Growing up in a house full of women provided my dad a thorough education in the ways of women. The ways they could be competitive, accomplished, envious, generous, sweet, determined, strong, and passionate. What happened when two sisters were interested in the same boy. It was not easy in the 1920s and 1930s to be a family without a father in the home, and his sisters were what we might now call “Power Women.”

Later in life, my father was again surrounded by women with a wife, a son who lived far away, and three daughters. Women seemed to always enjoy my father’s company and there was always much laughter when he was around. When I was young, we happened to have choir practice in our home every Wednesday night. My sister and I helped set up the chairs and provided babysitting for a few children who came along with their parents. My mother was the choir director, but it was my dad who seemed to really look forward to Wednesday nights.

This was primarily for two reasons: Virginia and Eddie. Virginia would come each week with a joke, riddle, or outrageous story for my dad. He would have a joke for her too. They tried to one-up each other with the hilarity, delivering punchlines with just the right inflection and timing. Some weeks he could hardly eat his dinner, he was so excited to tell Virginia his joke.

Eddie was a more serious woman. She was very fashionable and loved fancy shoes. Her grooming was impeccable. My father also knew that she liked neatness in others as well. Knowing this, he hatched a plan. One night he asked my sister to get a needle and thread. He asked her to run some stitches inside his suit jacket and leave the end of the thread hanging out of his breast pocket. The spool of thread was in the inside pocket of the jacket.

After choir, my dad engaged Eddie in conversation. People often stayed to visit long after choir was over. They were talking and soon Eddie noticed the thread. “Here, George, let me get that thread for you.” She started to pull the thread. Soon she had pulled a yard of thread or more. She kept pulling! My dad started to laugh–he knew his plan had worked. He laughed so hard every time he told the story of the time he “got” Eddie.

As I lay on the floor at the close of my yoga class, the instructor said, “Place your palms up to receive the blessings of this day.”  My eyes were closed, the room was softly lit, and quiet music played in the background.  I tried to focus on my breath and find access to the blessings of the day.  However, I had had a very difficult day of meetings about our at-risk students, and I had gotten soaked in a downpour of rain.

So what were the blessings of this day?  The stories I heard today make my heart heavy.  I learned of 2 sisters who miss at least 2 days of school each week because mother is in either high or in jail; of a first grader who is afraid for his mom who went to get an abortion when she learned her baby had multiple handicaps, but then didn’t because she couldn’t pay $9000.00;   of a sixth grader who has never really known his father, a known terrorist in prison and associated with Al Qaeda.  We discussed so many students who are homeless, living in deplorable conditions, or who are disengaged, unmotivated,  and making poor choices.

As a teacher, the blessings of this day must be held in a reservoir of hope or stories such as the ones I heard today would be more than I could bear.  It is a blessing to be with these children and perhaps be the one who can provide a smile, a kind word, a bit of encouragement, or a life lesson that will help them not only survive, but be able to thrive and flourish in their lives.  It is a blessing to be a colleague with caring adults who expend time, money, emotional energy, and their teaching talents in order to provide the education and nurturing our children need.

Each child’s story contributes to the blessings of today when I consider the privilege it is to be in their presence each day. While they do struggle and we call them “at-risk,” we are also blessed to see resilience, perseverance, and grit.  So after all, I do open my hands to receive the blessings of this day, breathing in and breathing out.