No Longer Giving a Buck

(1/29/16)

I was thinking yesterday of the time Ginger Rogers had me sit with her at the commissary at Warner Brother's Studios. I must have been about twelve. I was starstruck, but not as much as i later realized i should have been. I wish I could remember more about the meeting other than that she was lovely and that I felt very honored. Very special. I know she said nice things, but I sadly couldn't tell you what they were.

What I do remember really well about the same early 80's trip to California was that I was at Universal Studios and was chosen to be part of the Buck Rogers experience. I was excited! Then the boy who was picked to be "Buck"- a clearly annoying boy, shorter and likely younger than me- walked up to me, looked me up and down and said, " Yuck. You are a poor excuse for Erin Grey."

And this. This stupid pissant's nasty words I remember, but NOT the graceful words said to me by silver screen legend Ginger Rogers.

Seemingly insignificant negative experiences can shape our self identity and self esteem even more than out of the blue, once in a lifetime moments if we let them. I let his words build on the pile of unkind things I'd heard from callous, rude kids before him. I let him be part of the bully collective.

If you take anything away from this, let it be this: Forget about the fake Buck Rogers in your mind (we all have them) and toss out everything he says like the space garbage it is. Instead, pay attention to the real Ginger Rogers moments. Hear, hold on to and try remember the kind words people tell you. They are the truth. And if you can't remember the words, at least remember how they made you feel, special. Because that's what you are. That's what we all are.

(Except fake Buck Rogers. He's a dork.)

A Schmaltzy Poem for George, on the 50th Anniversary of his Birth

(11/13/15)

For fifty years he’s walked this earth,

For half of that, I’ve walked beside him.

In the worst of days we’ve shed our tears.

And in better days we’ve dried them.

His handsome face, it drew me in,

But his kindness is what kept me.

He’s the one who sees me at my best,

And when I’m not my best, accepts me.

As a dad, he’s funny, fun and fair,

A good ”future-spouse” example.

Both chivalrous and a feminist,

His qualities are ample.

He’s a clown at heart and he loves to joke,

But he’s more than what that shows.

He’s as smart as he is silly,

And he’s the best man that I know.

So I’ll walk with him for all my days,

Whatever life has in store.

He’s my soulmate, my husband, my very best friend.

And I couldn’t ask for more.

So, happy birthday to you, dear George,

You’re a king among mere men.

Thanks for ruling my world, my love.

Your devoted wife, Queen Jenn.

People, Look East

 (12/24/14)

It is Christmas Eve day, even as I sit here in the wee, small hours that are somehow still passing for the night before. In a short time the velvet, black wall out my window will lighten and the sun will rise, illuminating the now hidden island and the pond. It has been nearly seven months since I saw my first sunrise here. This is our first Christmas in the home we were always meant to have. And yet...

I strive to be an optimist. I work to make my statements, actions, thoughts and feelings positive. I try to approach everything from a place of gratitude. While it isn't always easy, it is always helpful. But a few days ago I posted what was, perhaps, the most negative sentiment I have ever publicly put out into the universe. It wasn't up for long. as I just couldn’t bring myself to leave it there, all cold and exposed. I can’t explain what was happening to me that day. Or rather I can, but I don’t want to. Suffice to say, it was as if my soul got sick with a little 48 hour bug and my body needed to expel that sickness, both through tears and through words. Hence the post. But then I needed to clean it up. So I got out of bed, wiped my face and hit delete. Consider THIS to be the open window needed to let in the fresh air and rid my soul's home of any vestige of that infecting germ of negativity.

I sat in church on Sunday, having just picked myself up by my bootstraps and dragged myself to rehearse the choir I have directed for the last thirteen years, and watched the children of the church tell us about Jesus’ birth. Every child, from my own young innkeeper to a pair of toddling stars with shining faces, had their role. They were appropriately adorable and the congregation was warmed and touched and amused at their telling of the story that brings us all together as a family under one sacred roof. But after the children walked off down the aisle, I was left standing in the choir loft, singing the old familiar song, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. As it has happened so many times before (it’s one of the perks of the job) the words to a hymn I have known for what seems like forever, spoke to me like they were just uttered for the first time, for me to sing and for me to hear. Verse 3:

O ye beneath life's crushing load,

Whose forms are bending low,

Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow;

Look now, for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing;

O rest beside the weary road

And hear the angels sing.

I was brought to silent tears.

I am a summer person, to be sure, but, like many, so much of me is tied up in Christmas. Like no other time of the year, memories of the past and hopes for the future are all rolled into this shiny, silver ball of Now. That thing, that ball, all delicate and fragile, can be so light you almost can’t feel it in your hand, or so heavy it can weigh the sturdiest of branches down. It tells a story, our story, of childhood and parenthood, of darkest valleys, sunlit mountains, broken hearts and dreams come true. It sparkles in its bittersweet beauty and must be cared for like the treasure it is. This is the Christmas spirit.

But this year, for a small span of time, I wished it away. The overwhelming Now of it hurt too much to look at, certainly too much to feel. When you want nothing more than to reflect and share the joy of the sunlit mountains, it is hard to accept that even the valleys are part of Christmas. In advent, we are waiting, and I was waiting, and my faith was thin, but as sure as I am that the sun will soon rise in the eastern sky and light up my little pond, my little world, even then I knew that Christmas would light up my soul once again, as it should, as it promised. That perfect ideal, that made-for-tv Hallmark special is not all there is to Christmas. Christmas is not just the good. It is the promise. It is the hope. It is the blessed, imperfect life.

Since I wished away Christmas, my heart has been filled with these little, twinkling moments. With the sight of my grandmother’s face as she gifted us with another day to gather all together in her presence. With the welcoming hugs of friends, not lost, but misplaced for far too long. With my father, my ever strong and giving father, showing me that help is there, even if I don’t ask. With the strains of a guitar played by someone I care about, someone who has been as lost as I have, and my own voice singing out over that guitar, to an empty sanctuary, to just me and my God and without any fear. With the love of my husband and the incalculable, unspeakable joy of all my children being home. My Christmas wish was not granted, thank you God. Christmas is still here. It is not going anywhere. Today, even in the darkness, today is Christmas Eve. People, look east. The sun will rise.

Set every peak and valley humming

With the word, “The Lord is coming.”

People look east and sing today.

Love, the Lord, is on the way.

If I Could Do It Over

A poem for Maddie, as she heads off to college
(8/30/14)

If I Could Do it Over 

Regrets, I've had a few.

You've heard them all before.

I'd change a million little things,

But keep a billion more.

If I could do it over,

I'd take you somewhere new.

Somewhere safer, somewhere sooner,

Where no harm could come to you.

I'd be a stronger mother,

Wouldn't hurt you with my fears,

I would let you forgo niceness,

If it meant preventing tears.

But we've had to learn some lessons,

In sometimes the hardest ways,

About cruelty and kindness,

About love and about pain.

Though if I could do it over,

But still couldn't fix the bad,

Yes, I would, and without question,

Repeat all the times we've had.

Because my life with you has been

Worth every battle fought,

And the lessons were worth learning,

Despite how they were taught.

Of the billion things I'll keep with me,

When you walk out the door, 

Are every smile, laugh, and late-night talk-

I'd have always wanted more.

And though I would make changes,

Though regrets I've had a few,

No matter how I write it,

The thing I wouldn't change is you.

In all your joys and your successes,

In how you're strong and how you're kind,

My love for you is in all you do.

In your life I am entwined.

Now this chapter's come upon us,

It's a very real goodbye.

My pride in you, it overflows,

You can see that when I cry.

They are tears of joy and sadness,

Tears of hope and letting go,

Of excitement, fear and gladness,

And of how I love you so.

Please know I've tried my best for you,

As a mother and a friend.

Now go. Go write your story.

As this is not The End.

On My First Daughter's Graduation

(6/3/11)

Gone are the days of little white cribs, and little white shoes, 

and one little white dress worn by four baby girls.

Gone are the ‘fiers, and aye-ayes and bluh-bluhs and blah-bees.

The bottles, the booties, the bonnets. The babies.

Here comes the first in her red cap and gown. 

She is brilliance and beauty and pride. She is grace.

And so ready to go out in the world and live up to her name.

Ready to forge the way for her sisters to follow, too soon, and too soon.

The second, with the fire in her hair and her eyes,

will blaze through her life with passion and strength.

And the third, like a sprite, will cajole her way through, 

so few will know the depths of her caring, the brightness of her soul.

And then there will be one, and how that time will fly.

Like it did with the first. And the second. And third.

Because time, like a playful child, doesn’t want to be caught or held or stopped.

And it won’t stop for her, with the curls and the song, it won’t stop at all.

But tonight-- tonight comes the first in her red cap and gown, 

So I will take this night and set it securely in my mind, securely in my heart,

With the little white shoes, and the little white dress.

And the four baby girls.