Lane change

I was never certain about what I wanted to be when I grew up (in some ways I’m still working on that) but I was very clear that whatever it was, it wasn’t going to involve a lot of science or math.

Now my fellow feminists, don’t get your fur up, I’m not cultivating that ancient stereotype that girls aren’t good at math and science. I’m just saying that those subjects never made my heart sing. For me, it was always more about words – writing them and speaking them.

I have two dear friends, both terribly accomplished in math and science, who are making dramatic mid-life career changes. They are both walking away from fat salaries to follow their hearts and I am in complete awe of them.

My friend Michelle is a PhD neuroscientist. Seriously? I really don’t even know what that means and I surely never understood what she did at Wake Forest University but I know she ran a lab with mice and did Alzheimer’s research.

The scientist has left the building.

Michelle, 48, watches obscure documentaries on brain function just for fun and her guilty pleasure is playing Candy Crush on Facebook. She would be the first to call herself a nerd. A cute nerd, mind you, but a certifiable nerd.

As I write this, Michelle is in Santa Fe, NM at the Upaya Zen Center finishing up one of her final courses to become a chaplain – a Buddhist chaplain. Yep, the former neuroscientist is walking a different path these days and instead of Dr. Nicolle, she is known at Upaya by her dharma name, Compassionate Cloud.

The chaplain is in.

And I have never seen her look more serene.

I’ve known my friend Rhonda for about eight years. She and her husband, Rowe, rescued me several years ago at a really dark time in my life. They saved me from a deep loneliness with football games, beer, and lots of hugs.

Rhonda, 53, has worked for IBM in their Global Services IT division for several years. I have no idea what she does except that she works mostly from her home office and is on the phone a lot talking to other IT people in New Jersey or India. And those conversations always sounded really boring to me.

$Chalkboard math$

Rhonda’s new computer.

She’s leaving that lucrative job in a few weeks to teach math at Weaver Academy – a magnet school in Greensboro that focuses on performing and visual arts as well as advanced technology.

Rhonda doesn’t have any biological children but she is a pied piper, especially with that most difficult of species – the teenager. I’m not sure how she does it but she’s like the Teen Whisperer. She’d be the first to say that she is not cool and she honestly doesn’t even know how to try to be cool and maybe that’s why kids relate to her – she’s genuine.

Rhonda will soon be walking a new path.

Don’t get me wrong, kids might roll their eyes at her when she does something profoundly lame but it’s usually with a lot of affection. I think her greatest gift with children is that she makes them feel celebrated – as is. I was a teenager a hundred years ago and I don’t recall feeling that way very often.

She led the youth group at our church for years and still refers to that bunch as “my kids” and they never seem to begrudge her hugs or overt mothering.

I know that she will be an awesome teacher.

So Michelle is experimenting more with her heart these days and Rhonda is leaving the corporate world for the classroom.

And one new chaplain plus one new teacher is an equation that is greater than just about anything I can think of on this cold winter’s day.

“Your work is to discover your work and then with all your heart give yourself to it.” Buddha

Words with friends

I’m spending the last afternoon of 2014 doing something I hope to do a lot more of next year – writing.

I’m not making a resolution to write more, mind you, I’m just wishing it so.

Resolutions seem a bit old school these days. Even the sound of the word – resolution – is antiseptic and cold. Besides, couldn’t we all fill our attics – and basements – with empty well intentioned resolutions we’ve abandoned over the years? They’re right over there in the corner with the ThighMaster.

My friend, Amy, had a great status update on Facebook the other day, declaring that she was not making any resolutions but taking a one-word approach to intentions for the new year. Her word for 2015 is health and she hopes to focus on this word every day in some fashion.

Amy is the mother of a two year old so I don’t know how she has time to focus on anything extra but I can already tell by some recent updates that she’s off to a good start.

I’m a big believer in “less is more” so Amy’s post was intriguing to me and I started thinking about what I would want my word to be.

I tried out a few and then very quickly landed on one – kindness.

Just saying it out loud makes me feel better.

By definition

And I love how one word can cover so much ground – kindness to others – all others, yes, I suppose even Republicans and Time Warner Cable representatives. Hey, I didn’t say this would be easy.

I’m talking about real kindness – deeper than just helping the old ladies at my church out to their cars on Sunday after service or letting someone into a long line of traffic.

Kindness to my spouse. That one is pretty easy. I mean you really have to almost try to not be kind to someone named Joy who has a smile that could disarm Darth Varder.

Kindness to myself. Gulp. Somehow I think this one is going to be the toughest. Like most folks, I’m quite accomplished at beating myself up. Ironically, over the years, those beat downs have often been about failed resolutions.

Amy and Jules seem to be on the right path.

I think Amy is on to something here.

And I think kindness has actually been stalking me for awhile. Over a year ago, my wife and I were having a very intense conversation about marriage and what was the most important thing we each wanted in a relationship. We both said, almost simultaneously, kindness.

So it was quite fitting that at our wedding in DC this past May, my best friend, Carla, read one of my favorite poems by Naomi Shihab Nye – “Kindness,” of course. It is an achingly beautiful poem and I hope you will read it at the bottom of this post.

It begins like this: “Before you know what kindness really is you have to lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth.”

I have lost many things over the past several years – things that I loved with my whole heart – and I think I do understand more clearly what kindness is.

Before you know what kindness is as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

I think this goes way beyond “you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone” – this is an intentional way of being in the world and it takes a fair amount of courage to embrace it.

I think I’ve often tried to follow kindness in my life but this year, I’m hoping it will follow me so if I happen to stumble, I can just look over my shoulder and know that I’m still on the right path.

Kindness

Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

An Irish exit

Suzanne Claypool Goddard

Sometimes there are people in our lives, people not necessarily in our closest circles that we are just inexplicably drawn to. You know, the person you’re always happy to run into at the grocery store – the person that always leaves you smiling and feeling oddly hopeful.

My friend, Suzanne, was one of those people in my life. She died suddenly last week at the age of 77 from a massive stroke.

I had one of those chance encounters with her at a Bel Canto concert in Greensboro three nights before she died. Bel Canto is a marvelous professional chorus that has been performing in the Triad for over 30 years. Suzanne adored this group and served on their board of directors.

She gave me tickets to the holiday concert last year and was delighted when my wife and I attended. Last week, I bumped into her as a big crowd was filing into the church for the final performance of the year.

We hugged and chatted for a bit as we meandered in and she looked, as always, bright and beautiful. She had pretty white hair, cut stylishly short and she was always smartly dressed.

Somehow I ended up sitting directly in front of her for the concert. She introduced me to someone sitting beside her and then, as I returned to talking to the friend I was sitting with, I heard her say, “She’s the executive director of Triad Health Project and she’s just precious.”

Seriously? I’m fairly certain my own mother never referred to me as precious.

But that was Suzanne – she made you feel like you hung the moon every time she saw you.

I would often see her at work when she would drop off groceries for our client food pantry. She would always pick up food for Triad Health Project when she went to Costco and she would worry that she should have gotten more fruit cocktail and less tuna fish. She was so thoughtful about what was most needed for our clients.

Suzanne making one of her regular grocery deliveries to THP.

That was Suzanne.

She served on the board of directors at a similar agency when she lived in Dallas and HIV/AIDS was an issue she was passionate about.

I seemed to run into her more and more in the past year and she was so excited to hear that I had gotten married. She was a longtime supporter of LGBT rights and was thrilled when same-sex marriage was legalized in North Carolina.

We also shared a great love of the Episcopal Church. She was a much beloved member of Holy Trinity, the largest Episcopal Church in Greensboro, and I belong to All Saints, one of the smallest parishes. I have been thinking a lot about many of my dear friends at HT and how deeply they must be grieving this loss.

After the robust applause had subsided at intermission at last week’s concert, I turned around to see Suzanne’s beaming face as she pronounced, “Aren’t they just wonderful!?”

Oh, how she loved her singers.

When the concert was over, we hugged again and wished each other Merry Christmas.

Then I came into work a few days later to hear from a colleague that she was gone. It’s so hard to imagine that much vivaciousness suddenly vanished.

That night I had a dream about Suzanne. She was terribly excited about packing for an upcoming trip to New Zealand. I told her that that was one of the places on my “bucket list” to see, too.

When I woke up the next morning, I told my wife about the dream and she said the loveliest thing that I just know Suzanne would have adored. She said sweetly, “New Zealand. Well, isn’t that a lovely metaphor for heaven.”

I don’t know if heaven is anything like New Zealand but I am certain that no one will have a better time there than Suzanne.

I just wish she had booked a much later flight.

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Wishing you fair winds and following seas, sweet friend.

I wish I had a river

I just read my bestie Carla’s Christmas blog post and my eyes are moist from a duet of bittersweet tears. She loves Christmas and her joy for the season is as palpable as her sister’s molten chocolate lava cake.

One of the things that makes Carla such a good writer is her gift of memory and I adore how she can recall the tiniest details of her mother’s holiday decorating routine from the smell of the cloves in her cookies to the fake snow on her wreath. She says, “My mom did Christmas right.”

My mom did, too.

Magnolia leaves. That’s what I remember most about my mother’s Christmas decorating. She would scour neighbor’s yards for leaves at all hours of the night and any flat surface was fair game but the mantle in our living room was her real masterpiece. As a child, I’m not sure I knew what elegant meant but I did know that our decorations were fancier than most of my friends and that made me feel oddly proud.

It’s funny what you remember – like the crackling of the hard frozen leaves touching each other as she meticulously made her arrangements. It’s a soothing sound to me now and I think I use magnolia leaves more to hear that familiar noise than anything else.

I’ve been through a blue Christmas or two with Carla when we were both recovering from loss and contrary to the Muzak in the mall, it’s just not “the most wonderful time of the year” for a lot of folks and I can still feel like a grinch for how oblivious I used to be to this reality – until it became my reality.

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Simpler times with my brother and our dog, Taffy. I still have that Santa.

Humbling, I think that’s the word for it.

Christmas for me has changed over the past decade as the loss of parents and a partner also brought about the loss of traditions. It has taken me a long time to be “okay” with that and I still approach this time of year with a sense of weary resignation.

My dear wife likes to gently tease me about calling any holiday thing we do for the second time a “tradition.” I can laugh at myself but the truth is that these new traditions make me feel grounded and connected in ways I haven’t felt in a very long time.

Going to the Christmas Day opening of a big new movie is one of these tradtions and this year’s entrée is “Into the Woods” with Meryl Streep. An amusing aside – I always run into some of my Jewish friends enjoying their tradition, too.

It’s a delicate balance – remembering Christmas past and celebrating Christmas present and I’m grateful to have found some ways to honor both.

My mother had a large collection of heavy glass Christmas trees that she loved. Her tastes were more modern than mine but when she died, I kept them. Last Christmas was the first year that my now wife and I shared a home and when I pulled out the glass trees, she was smitten and insisted we put them out on our mantle.

Tradition…

Yes, Mom, I did marry well.

I’m so happy Carla will be with her whole family for Christmas. I’ve seen that sad puppy face when she couldn’t be there and well, it’s just not a good look for her. I love her family – they are warm and loving and loud and funny and remind me of the family I used to have.

I always say that Carla is an old soul and my heart ached a little when she cited Joni Mitchell’s “River” in her post – “It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees.”

Me?

I wish I had a river I could skate away on.

It’s coming on Christmas

I love this time of year.

In my house, everything seems to slow down in December, creating a calm, a stillness, less urgency. There is more lounging on the couch, snug under chenille blankets that feel like rabbit fur. There are holiday movie marathons, while wearing polka dot flannel pajama bottoms and fuzzy slippers. There is sea salt caramel hot cocoa and glasses of heavy red wine. And there are meals that take longer to cook, warm our insides and bring us comfort. Tarragon tomato soup, stuffed cabbage rolls, crusty garlic bread.

December is like a long pause. A deep breath before another year begins and we start all over again. So I try to savor this month as much as I can and take advantage of this “pause.” I will read more, write more, reflect more. I will listen to Joni Mitchell’s “River” about 100 times – and cry 100 times – because it’s the saddest, most heartbreaking Christmas song on this planet, but also the most beautiful. I will not make many commitments or attend too many social engagements. This pause is sacred to me. For now, I just want quiet.

And I want Christmas decorations. Lots of them. Christmas in our new home feels warm and cozy – more so than other places we’ve lived. I wonder why that is? Our new home has inspired me to buy some holiday decor, which is not something I usually do. I’m all about buying ornaments and strands of twinkle lights, but I never was one for buying holiday decor outside of tree trimming. But this year, Christmas feels different. I’m happy and I want the space that I live in to reflect that, so I bought some mini Christmas trees and these adorable little birdies, in other words, simple things that make me happy. Every night, when I turn on all of our Christmas lights and light the candles on our mantle, our house feels . . . magical.

See what I mean? Magical, isn’t it?

These two birdies were longing for a third little tree. So I gave in.

Growing up, I loved when my mother would bring up from our basement giant cardboard boxes filled with Christmas decor. In one day, our entire house would be transformed into a winter wonderland. My mother had red and pine green candles that she only displayed at Christmas and a beautiful white and gold painted ceramic Santa. She put candles in every window and hung on the side of the house a gigantic wreath with white lights, gold ornaments and fake white snow that clung to the branches. And on one Saturday, she’d bake all of her Christmas cookies, filling the house with the scent of buttery cookie dough, toasted walnuts and cloves. Between cartoon breaks, I’d walk into the kitchen to sample her latest batch of cookies, and she’d load them on a paper plate for me to take back to the living room. My mom did Christmas right. I guess that’s where I get it from.

When I became an adult, the holidays brought up mixed feelings for me. I have a tendency to get a little melancholy, especially when I see others spending the holidays with their families. It’s the worst feeling in the world when your family texts you a group photo on Christmas Eve and you’re the only one not there or when your heart aches from just seeing your little nephews in their striped footie pajamas, opening their presents on Christmas day.

Since I moved to North Carolina nine years ago, going “home” hasn’t been an easy option. It’s too far to drive, too expensive to fly and getting enough time off from work has always been a headache. The last time I flew home for Christmas was four years ago during the middle of my divorce. My luggage was lost (and later recovered), my flights were delayed, and, oh yeah, there was that blizzard that cancelled my return flight and left me stranded in New Hampshire for five days. The upside? I got to spend my sister’s birthday with her and bake her a chocolate cake. The downside? The morning after I finally arrived home, I was shivering in bed with a 102 fever. After that trip, I instituted a five-year rotation plan.

My sister, nephew, and chocolate cake.

This year, however, the five-year plan has been trumped by a longing to be with family. I just can’t spend another Christmas on FaceTime. It will be the first time in four years that our whole family will be together. I cannot wait. No more FaceTime, no more photos texted across the miles, no more lost luggage and flight delays (we’re driving!). Just family – and my sister’s famous chocolate molten lava cakes. What more could I ask for?

Christmas-Eve Eve shenanigans, 2010. My brother-in-law loves this photo, even though a quarter of his face is cut off.

Yes, please.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

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