New Eyes

On Friday I had Roy pick up a book for me called The Magic of Tidying Up and I've been reading it all weekend. My realization? I have too much stuff. Way too much stuff.

This book was written by a girl who is from and lives in Japan. In fact, the book is a translation; however, she is an international consultant for organization. The book explains her system for getting rid of stuff in your home and by the time you're done, she claims you will get rid of 2/3-3/4 of all of your belongings. There is a sweet spot, she claims, that feels perfect in regards to how much stuff one has. And her success rate? 100%. Once she consults with an individual and helps them get rid of stuff, they never go back.

Wow.

And here is the ticket for getting rid: You pick up the item in your hand and you ask yourself, "Does this give me joy?" And if the answer is no, you give it away. And when you are done? You have an entire home surrounded by only the things that you love. She claims this is freeing, exhilarating. Relationships improve. People are left with time on their hands to pursue their passions. It is life-changing.

I am inspired.

As I look around my living room, I can see many things that don't necessarily bring me joy anymore, though they did at one point in time. I have mounds of books. She recommends no more than 30. Thirty!! I have 30 books on one shelf alone! I have a basket stuffed with Reader's Digests that are still in the packaging. And the drawers of my end tables are filled with what-nots. Candles from days gone by rest on shelves that I rarely, if ever, light. The pillow on my couch is aged and stained and chewed on from Piper's puppy stage. He is six years old.

So I am looking at my living room with new eyes. For that matter, I'm looking at my house with new eyes--and I am seeing far too many things that don't bring me joy. I am going to start going through and paring down and giving away. I am going to use the strategies she defines in her book and simplify, surrounding myself with only things that bring me joy. Lots and lots of joy.

Yesterday I tried to figure out my style. Am I contemporary? country? country chic? shabby chic? The list continues. It is overwhelming! I had no idea so many styes exist! I took a walk through Pinterest and gathered some photos of styles that I like so that I have a goal to aim for in terms of how to style my home. I am not interested in spending all kinds of money but just trying to get ideas for how to change things up so that my home is no longer so utilitarian but is, rather, a sanctuary of sorts.

I watched the interview with Bruce Jenner and Diane Sawyer yesterday. It was, to be honest, fascinating. Bruce Jenner was this physical beast that reflected power and beauty and skill. He was so manly and well sculpted in the 1970's when he won          the Olympic Decathlon. Who would have dreamed that this man struggled as he does, that he suffers from mental torment as he claims he is a woman with a man's body.

Who knew.

And so, at the age of 65 he is transitioning to a woman. He has had three wives and ten children call him Dad. Seven grandchildren call him Grandpa. But the urge, he claims, is so great that he can't fight it anymore.

My heart goes out to Bruce Jenner. I can't imagine what it must be like to suffer from such torment, to be willing to go against the tide of societal approval on a national level, as he bears a household name, for the sake of gaining some peace from the mental agony that haunts. Diane Sawyer explained how over 700,000 transgender Americans exist today and the suicide rate is over 50%.

That's a crazy statistic. Clearly we're missing the boat as a nation. Something needs to change.

Who am I to judge another? Who am I to determine if someone is born right or wrong at the heart of who they are.

Life is short. It's filled with difficulties and pain and questions. Yet, we all have dreams and passions and abilities to conquer. Sometimes, it's just a matter of sifting through the clutter and recognizing what inspires, what brings joy. And sometimes, it's the very act of sifting that  brings us in touch with who we are at the deepest level.

Sometimes when we look at our homes we can manage to see  things with new eyes. But it seems to me that, where the rubber meets the road, is how I view people.

I want new eyes:

New eyes to see the good.

New eyes to see beyond the clutter.

New eyes to see what shines, bringing untold joy in its wake.

Let It Be

I am angry this morning. I went to bed angry last night, thinking it's possible the feelings would abate by morning and I would resign myself to acceptance. But, I woke up with thoughts swirling in my head, dark and gloomy and repetitive. Argumentative words. Questions. Frustrations.

My anger has nothing to do with my family and everything to do with something that is entirely outside of my control. But it affects me deeply, and though I may rage against it...well, it is what it is.

We've all had those times in our lives when we have to breathe the phrase Help me to accept the things I cannot change. When we hold on by a thread. When our fingernails are dirt-filled from clawing our way out. And somehow, we always manage to get to the other side. We may be broken, battered...but we survive.

When I got out of bed today and crept downstairs and into the living room with my cup of chai, I opened Facebook. It's my typical routine even though I usually wish it wasn't. Anyway, there on my newsfeed was a video of two young kids playing the cello and violin. I clicked on it and the tune of Let It Be filled the air. Instantly I heaved a sigh as I listened, watched these two kids joyfully play a song that reminds me that there are times in life when I simply have to let go and let it be.

I have a choice: bitterness or quiet acceptance.

In about 7 weeks Roy and I and my extended family are gathering together in a condo on Cinnamon Beach on the eastern side of Florida. We already have too many things planned in my opinion--Disney World and Kennedy Space Center, and the list continues. But the truth is, I am most looking forward to playing games with my entire family circled around a table, laughing until our sides hurt. I can't wait to walk the beach, the sand squished between my toes as the sun rises in the distance and the water splashes lazily onto the beach. I am most looking forward to quiet conversations filled with the mysteries of life and hopes and dreams and questions that have no answers. When I daydream about Florida? Those are the things I can't wait for.

Life is all about choice. I can beat against things I cannot control, my fists bloodied and raw. But ultimately I can't fight it and I won't win. I will be robbed of the very things that make life worth living.

I am still angry. It will take some time before the anger abates and I am once again filled with peace and quietude. Sometimes it is a process for me...but eventually it will all be a distant memory because that is how life works. We conquer one mountain and then another rises before us. And sometimes we encounter a range of mountains. But thankfully there are mountaintops where one can see the wonder spread out like a banquet below and throw up one's hands in victory. And thankfully there are downhill slopes and valleys filled with luscious grass and trilling birds and the hope of a brand new day.

Sometimes, when the thoughts swirl and the rage envelopes my heart, I just have to close my eyes and let that song roll in my mind as I listen to the words that ultimately bring peace and victory:

Let it be....let it be....let it be....let it be....there will be an answer....let it be....

My Eulogy

Back in the day when I was a teacher, one of the assignments I gave my students was to write their eulogies.

I was thinking about that yesterday--my eulogy. What would I want it to say?

Recently, I read a quote by Arianna Huffington that said, "...our eulogies celebrate our lives very differently from our resumes. They don't commemorate our long hours in the office, our promotions, or our sterling PowerPoint presentations as we relentlessly race to climb the career ladder. Instead, they celebrate cherished memories, shared adventures, small kindnesses and acts of generosity, lifelong passions, and the things that made us laugh."

Yesterday, as Savana and I were walking, we passed two very different houses. The first home was simple, modest, but well-kept with a manicured, fenced-in yard that was moderate in size. The second home? It sprawled on a large piece of well-groomed land, two story, elaborate. It boasted of large salaries and hours of upkeep.

I said, "That's the kind of home I want someday," pointing to the smaller, more modest home.

Savana shook her head. "Not me. I want that one," and she gazed in awe at the mansion.

Thirty years ago? I would have chosen the same. I would have dreamed of a mansion-like home with lots of room for children to run and a kitchen that filled the hearts of my guests with envy. But of course...time has a way of changing those dreams. I recognize, now, that a large home means a large amount of cleaning. A large yard means hours of mowing and trimming. A large home means large bills.

No thank you.

Small is just fine with me. Small leaves room for time for other things than cleaning and manicuring. Small leaves time for the simple pleasures of life.

The pleasures that I seek for my eulogy.

Sometimes I forget that each day matters--that each day is a celebration of sort. Sometimes life becomes a monotony of days that run together, each one alike. But those days of monotony run together to create a life...so at the end of the day, that monotony is all that really matters. The loading the dishwasher and running the vacuum cleaner and cleaning the fish tank and the going to and coming home from work...It all runs together.

Roy and I go to Sam's Club every Sunday. And the thing with Sam's is that we buy in bulk. Everything is in large quantity. This past week we purchased dishwasher soap which means we now have 120 pods underneath the kitchen sink. And as I put it away, I thought, How much living is going to go on between today and when we have to buy dishwasher soap again? Because really, before we turn around twice I'll put it on my list and head to Sam's to once again replenish my stock. And if I think back to the last time I bought it...what will I remember about the time in between? Probably nothing. Probably it will all be just a blur of the day in and the day out.

Somehow that needs to change. Because that time in between? It needs to be filled with cherished memories and shared adventures and small kindnesses and acts of generosity and lifelong passions and the things that make me laugh.

That time in between needs to be all about creating my eulogy.

What Matters Most

It is raining.

The sky is gray and thunderstorms are in the forecast--a 100% chance. Supposedly these storms are going to gear up right around 2:00 this afternoon and continue through the night.

A perfect kind of day...with one exception.

Today is Conquer a Cove.

Conquer a Cove is a 5K hosted on our campus by Hope Chest for Women, a nonprofit organization that aids women with cancer. A year ago, I planned this race as I worked for Hope Chest for a short time. But then I got the job working for the County and passed the baton to Savana who helps Sara who is the new director. They have been frantically working all week to prepare for the big day--ordering t-shirts, mapping out the route and painting white lines to guide the runners, picking up hundreds of bottles of water---and the list continues. Roy and I registered for the event and fully intended to walk it....but now? Well, now we're keeping one eye on the weather and the other eye on an agenda that doesn't include a 5K.

We're not die-hards.

Meanwhile, Savana is stressed. She made breakfast for herself (a smoothie) and showered and is now running around the house trying to accomplish a million things so that she can meet Sara and get ready for the Big Event. I can't imagine there will be a lot of participants...but she seems to think otherwise. Clearly, many 5K participants don't worry about the weather. They are devoted to their cause and ready to conquer a race simply because they have committed themselves to do so.

That's so inspiring.

I, on the other hand, will feel good about the fact that I made a donation to the Hope Chest cause and call it a day.

Different strokes for different folks.

Lately, I've been thinking about causes. Everybody has one, really. What is mine? Where does my passion lie? What good am I doing to make this world a better place other than simply taking up space?

It's an interesting question--one that propels me forward to discover a cause that makes a difference.

Last night Roy and I were riding around in our little golf cart as rain poured down. But the sun hadn't gone down yet  and it was peaceful outside. As we have a golf cart cover that keeps us dry, we were toodaloo-ing around, doing our usual route like a couple of 90 year olds, when suddenly a car drove up beside us and out jumped this girl who ran over to the golf cart and peeked inside.

"Kate?" I said, my voice filled with wonder.

"Mrs. Seals!" she squealed and quickly reached in to give me a tight hug.

I taught Kate two years ago. She was one of those girls who quickly won my heart. She wore her heart on her sleeve and lived life on the edge. The words of others cut deep to Kate. She had a "heavy metal" edge about her and I loved her for it. She'd had a tough life, coming to our school with a huge chip on her shoulder from years of switching schools and experiencing more rejection than any child should have to endure. But she was tough, and bold, and tender--just my style.

Kate stayed here at the academy for two years, but this year, her mom whisked her away to live with her at home and I haven't seen her for about a year now. She looked so cute, standing there on the side of the golf cart. A year had been good to her and she was as cute as ever, all smiles, her hair down to her shoulders.

"Are you happy, Kate?" I asked.

And she shook her head. "Nobody likes me at my school," she said. "My only friend is an atheist with blue hair."

I laughed. That is just so Kate.

I encouraged her to please come back for her senior year. I even flirted with the idea in my head of having her live with us so that the possibility of her returning was greater...but I'll put that idea aside for now. We have to get on the other side of summer first.

Here is the thing. Regardless of the cause we choose to pursue--whether it be Hope Chest for Women, or running 5Ks, or pursuing a vegan lifestyle for the health of the planet, or recycling, or  feeding the homeless--or whatever that cause may be...our ultimate cause should be people. Plain and simple. People.

The world is filled with Kates--people who are struggling to find a friend, people who wear their feelings on their sleeves, people who are hurt and angry by the pain life has tossed their way.

I'm not exactly sure what my cause is. I haven't quite figured it out yet but I'm playing with some ideas. I'm a slow mover, really. It takes me awhile to get going on branching out, moving forward in a new way. But regardless of which direction I go, what matters most...

...people.

Home

My furniture needs a facelift.

When we moved to Texas from Wisconsin, we sold all of our living room furniture at a garage sale as, it had served us well but... it was out of date and well-worn. And so, when we arrived at our new home, we went on a furniture shopping spree and purchased a leather couch and a leather chair. That's it. Two pieces of furniture for our living room. But they were the real deal--real leather, not pleather--and so, they were a tad pricier than anticipated and that was all that we could afford. We'd kept our end tables and we had a wooden rocking chair with a footstool that Roy gave me on our third year anniversary, and as our living room was small, we arranged it in a homey way and voila...we had a new living room to call home.

Fast forward ten years...

...that's still our living room.

Ok--the rocking chair is no longer with us. Its joints got old and broken and Roy glued it back together one too many times and so we traded it in for a glider about three years ago. But other than that? Everything is the same.

The leather on the coach is worn now with faded creases that wind their way around the cushions like a spider web or meandering roads on a map. And when one sits on it? Well, one fears one may hit the South Pole as it's a fast downward free fall.  And the leather chair? It's broken. It no longer rocks and when one sits in it, one is heaved backwards as though in a dentist's chair so that if one is not careful, one is staring up at the ceiling.

That "one" word is getting annoying.

And my end tables? Oh my...where to begin. They definitely show signs of wear as they are about 15 years old and bear spots where fingernail polish remover accidentally worked its magic and there appear to be more scratches than finish from a host of living.

I've done a myriad of things to try to hide the age and worn look of this furniture. I've dressed it up with comfy throws; I've rearranged it, adding floor lamps that bring a homey glow to the room. But there is only so much one can do when furniture has had its day.

I remember one time that Lori, my sister, told me that no matter what you do, no matter how expensive it is, the life of furniture is about seven years. And? I think she's right. My living room is three years past due. For that matter, all of the furniture in my house is past due.

It's funny how everything in the house is cyclical. It's kind of like everything gets old at exactly the same time so that it can be a bit overwhelming. You know...bath towels, washcloths, hand towels in the kitchen, bedsheets, blankets, comforters, mattresses...The truth of it is, my entire house needs a facelift.

And yet...it's home.

I've wondered about that so many times in my life--that home word. It's funny to me how home brings security and comfort and a sigh for one's soul. Even when we've moved, and we have moved more than our share, we do our best to get all of the boxes unpacked and furniture arranged and pictures hung on the walls in the span of two weeks or less so that we can proclaim, This is our new home; we have arrived. The familiar books, the photos on the wall of growing children, the closets filled with mementos from days long gone, and even the worn furniture--all of it comes together to create home.

Just the other day, I sat down on one of our dining room chairs and it shifted underneath me. Uh-oh, I thought. Looks like this chair has had its day too.

I'll tell Roy about it and he'll glue it, throw some clamps on it so that the glue dries and holds it together for another shift in time.

But that's okay. It's home. It's comfortable. It's family...

It's where I belong.

Putting My Face On

Yesterday, Savana and I went for a 3 mile walk down Holcombe Cove Road. We have a route that we take that goes up the road and back again, loops around the maintenance building and then the retirement center, and then, finally, back onto campus, winding up the hill and down again, and ending at 2.87 miles in front of our house. We take it at a fast clip so that we average a 15 minute mile, making my legs burn and causing me to huff and puff a bit, while Savana talks with ease...the entire way. So needless to say, by the time I am back in the house and have gulped down a tall glass of cool water, I am red hot and desperate for a shower.

Anyway, last night Roy and I planned a night out on the town so we could go see The Longest Ride, the latest Nicholas Sparks movie. Savana was kind enough to stay home with Jace and so after I showered, I did a quick comb through my hair, shook it a bit with my head upside down, and headed out.

So that may mean absolutely nothing to most people. But for me? Well, for me, that's a first. I have never gone out on a date with no makeup and my hair wet. Never.

And if I posted a picture, you'd know why.

The movie was great. I sat cuddled up to Roy, holding his hand, my leg over his, the entire time because, of course, this was a chick flick, a romantic sort of movie with a good ending that makes one happy to be part of this life we live. And, I knew it would make me feel that way before I went in to watch it or I wouldn't have gone. Nicholas Sparks isn't always dependable to create a happy ending, but I had read this particular book, so I knew.

Anyway, once the movie was over, we headed straight home and, as it was about 10:00 when we arrived, the house was completely dark. I peeked in on Jace who was still awake and smiled at me through sleepy eyes. Hi Mom. I'm so tired...And then I headed upstairs to do the whole nightly routine thing and go to bed. You know, the whole put toothpaste on my toothbrush, run it under the faucet, start to brush my teeth, look in the mirror as it is one of those two-minute brushes that seems endless in the moment, and ...well, that's when it happened. As I looked in the mirror, I stopped. Like whoa. Who is that???

Because the girl looking back at me? That wasn't me. That wasn't the normal me that I was used to seeing. Who is she?

Who am I??

Because, you see, in front of me was my face, completely make-up free, and my hair--long and utterly curl-free with no bounce, no body: just straight fine hair with no style.

Yeah. I went out in public like that.

I grew up in an era where we didn't leave the house "without our face on." We styled our hair. Always. Today's girls? I admire their ability to simply not worry about it--throw their hair up in ponytails and wear their pajamas to the grocery store, if they so choose. They're utterly free. I have never managed to embrace that attitude on a personal level. Last night was a first for me.

Darian came home this weekend. She rode home on Thursday evening with a friend so that she could catch us unawares and spend three glorious days within our walls. We planned to go to Southern this weekend and surprise her, but she beat us to it. And that was a beautiful thing. We laughed and cooked and ate and played games and talked and talked and talked some more. In fact, we stayed up until 1:00 Friday night talking about nothing in particular and yet, everything. My nephew Jared drove in Friday evening and so it was the three of us in the living room--chatting it up as though we had all the time in the world.

But of course, as it always does, time passed much too quickly and suddenly, just like that, she was gone--just as fast as she came.

This morning when I came down the stairs at 5:00, the house black as midnight, I noted the laundry basket in front of the washer, packed full of clean clothes. And then I remembered--another clean load was still in the dryer. And so, I opened up the dryer door and pulled all of the clean clothes out, crammed them on top of the other load of clean clothes that were in the basket, and hauled them down the hall so they would be beyond the eyes of Roy. I don't normally do that--I promise--but Sunday got away from me and I didn't manage to get everything finished that was on my list. You know...movies in theaters and dates with the husband got in the way. And Roy? Well, Roy never learned the art of procrastination.

Weird, I know.

But if he saw those clean clothes hanging around, he'd feel obligated to fold them, put them away. And, as Thursdays are his laundry day, and Sundays are mine...well,  I just didn't want that happening...and so? I chose the the next best option: hiding them.

And what better place to hide them than Darian's room. I opened her door oh so carefully and peeked inside. And there it was: her pristine room, the bed perfectly made, the pillows carefully stacked on her bed just so, captured photos of carefree moments lining the walls...so Darian. I just stood there, looked around for a moment, felt the sadness sweep over me like a wave washes over the sands of the beach--gradually at first, then swooping in for its grand entrance, one wave catapulting on top of the other...and then? back out to sea, leaving only wet footprints in its wake.

That's the real me--the me with no make-up, with fine blonde hair that hangs limply...the me that is learning how to let go. The me that is learning how to figure out what life looks like when the first title isn't Mom anymore. The me that is caught in the crossfires of learning a new identity.

This evening Savana interviewed me for an assignment for one of her classes. We talked about my life, starting from birth and all the way to where I am today--a solid hour of discussion about me. She said, "So tell me about the years between ages 26 to 35."

I laughed. "Those were the Mom years--the years when I was in the thick of it all. You girls were so young then..."

"So did you like being a mom?" she asked. And the question was so sincere--not a beg for a compliment: Please tell me how very very much you enjoyed raising me--but rather one of curiosity: Tell me how you really felt about being a mom when you were in your late 20's and early 30's...

I stopped for just a moment, remembering. I pictured myself in the kitchen, my arms up to my elbows in dishwater while the girls sat at the table doing homework. I remembered Pathfinders and camping trips and little girl giggles and dress up and countless other memories that whizzed by my mind in that small space of time.

"Oh yes," I said. "Oh how I've loved being a mom."

Of course, I'm still a mom. Jace is only 12, for pity's sake. But I feel my time waning, my life shifting.

Sometimes I put on a strong face. I force a smile, plaster that facade for all the world to see that says Of course I'm fine!

But the real me? The who am I me? Well, sometimes it's better to throw on the make-up, blow dry my hair and plaster it with hairspray. Because...well, at least that way I look my best.

The Art of Being Practical

It is that time of year when the trees are ready to pop. They are still barren, stark, reaching up to the sky with jagged lines. But I know that it's coming--that any day there will a sea of green outside my window when I look up.

Home Depot is setting up its spring collection of bursting flowers and vibrant plants. Roy drives me there regularly so that I can look out the car window and dream. "Let's plant this coming Sunday," he says to me, just about every week.

But I shake my head. "No. We have to wait 'til Mother's Day."

Freezes are unpredictable; that is the magical date.

"Well then," Roy counters, "let's at least clean out the flower beds and get them ready to go so that all we have to do is put the flowers in them."

I shrug, uninterested.

What is it with us and these copycat conversations? One round never seems to be enough.

It's a funny thing to me how Roy suddenly cares about these things. He never cared back in the day when the kids were little. But now? Well now we both love going outside for yard work. There is just something abot having my hands in the cool dirt, pulling weeds, laying down mulch that is of a dark red hue, planting brightly-colored flowers that are in the early stages of growth, envisioning what a few weeks of time will birth. And I like the sudden transformation from a sparce flowerbed that looks barren, uncared-for...to a thing of beauty.

And then? Well, then I take the leftover flowers that won't fit in the beds (as I always find far too many that I just can't live without) and plant them in little pots that I set all over the yard. Mmm..

All in a day's work.

And so, I am biding my time 'til Mother's Day. I am watching the lineup of options so that I make my best choices when it comes time to buy. I am dreaming.

I wasn't raised with flower beds. But I was raised with a garden. No matter where we lived as a kid growing up, my mom had a garden--and she still does. Every summer she'd head outdoors, hoe in hand, to till the earth and plant the seeds. She rarely made me help her, and that baffles me now. Maybe she tired of my whining interrupting something that was so sacred: I'm tired, Mom. Can I stop now? My back hurts. 

One year Mom was here during planting time and I asked her why she never planted flowers, only vegetables. Oh--I'm far too practical, was her reply.

That's my mom--practical.

But I don't see anything not practical about flowers. No matter how my day has fared, walking up my sidewalk to the front door and passing an array of color, delicate shapes, bursting leaves--well, that always makes me stop, if just for a moment. Those flowers remind me to ...

...slow down,

...breathe,

...enjoy,

embrace the moment...

remember that every day has its troubles...

  but those troubles will pass,

that life is worth living,

that it's okay to just be.

Temperatures

Savana and I have an ongoing war.

She loves to wear these flimsy tshirts and shorts in the wintertime; I bundle in a thick, fuzzy robe. She is cold-natured. I am hot-natured (it's called late 40's). I love to sleep with the air cool, crisp; she prefers a sauna.

Every night before I go to bed, I turn the thermostat down to 67 degrees. Mmm...I love stealing under the covers, cozying up to Roy who is synonomous with the word "heater". And then at 5:00, I sneak downstairs with my snuggly robe and my hot cup of something to sit here in the living room--toasty and comfy,  doing my thing.

And then? Here comes Savana, a scowl on her face. She looks at the thermostat, rolls her eyes, and, with attitude, punches the "up" arrow so that the thermostat is set at 70. I can feel the eye roll--no need to see it. It's all over her body, this annoyance that I like the cool air while she prefers the warmth.

I say Dress warmer!

She says Stop thinking we all wear fuzzy robes!

But the good news is, we've settled on 70 degrees. She would prefer much higher. But here's the thing: she lives in her bedroom. And in her bedroom? She has a heater that runs nonstop. It's hot in there. So, I don't feel badly, much to her chagrin.

This whole aging process is such a baffling thing. It's funny how it sneaks up on you. One day you're dreaming of what you're going to be when you grow up and then you're walking down the aisle and creating the beginnings of a life and planning and dreaming. And then the babies come and you're knee-deep in diapers and days that blend together as though they'll never end...and then they do.

The other day when Savana and I went shopping at the mall, we parked in the parking garage and then headed down the escalater to the entrance when suddenly Savana remembered she left something in her car. And so, we headed back up and I waited in this little entrance room at the top of the escalators while she went to retrieve the wayward item. So I was just standing there, waiting, when I hear giggles and I wanna do it again, Mommy! and I look to see a mom juggling two little kids that were probably 2 and 4 years old. She is holding one of their hands in each of hers as they straddled steps and walked up and down and up and down, the escalator lazily continuing its climb, the end coming up quickly, as she tried to maneuver them safely over the last step and onto the landing.

"That's the last time," she said tiredly, a haggard look on her face.

They didn't argue--their eyes immediately, spying a bench. And so, they ran over, climbed on top, and began to walk across it, all smiles and chubby hands and quick little legs.

Ah--so cute.

I said, "Mine used to do that. It goes quickly," and gave her a sympathetic smile.

She was a good mom--I could tell.

It's such a cliche--that times goes quickly, that we turn around twice and they're all grown up. But it's baffling how truly fast it happens. It never fails to make my head spin a bit.

Where did my little girls go? And Jace is on the verge of teenagehood? Really??

I can remember going to visit my grandma in the nursing home when I was quite a bit younger and she would ask, "How is the weather at your home?" And I would patiently explain that it was hot, or cold, or whatever it was. I would chuckle to myself: What is it with old people and the weather? With temperatures?

But now? Well, now I get it. When I talk to my dad on Sundays I always ask, "How's the weather, Dad?" And I mean it. It's not just a make conversation topic: I honestly wonder what the weather is like in Oklahoma.

I'm not really sure what the fascination is, but it seems to be a common ingredient with the aging process: one wakes up one morning and suddenly cares about the weather.

When Roy and I first got married, we had to figure out the whole thermostat gig. Just the other day, Savana was saying that the thermostat setting is one of the leading causes of fights in a marriage. I found that interesting--pretty sure Roy and I haven't had a single argument over the thermostat. Of course, Savana would say it's because I'm the thermostat Nazi and nobody dares to argue with me. But that hasn't always been the case.

I was young once and cared little for the actual degree of the temperature. I had dreams to chase and a future to create. It was all about comfort level.

But now? Well, now I've learned that life speeds by, that each day is a gift and we need to soak it in, treasure it, care about the little things because those little things create a life. They are the makings of the human experience.

So go ahead and turn up the heat, Savana. Create a temperature that works for the moment while you prepare for your day and rush around to earn those A's and plan your life. Someday you'll slow down. Someday you'll call home and say, "Hey, Mom! How's it going? What's the weather like back home?"

A Balancing Act

Yesterday Savana and I went on a shopping spree. It was glorious. Savana is the perfect shopping partner because she has a sense of style--far more than I do. And she was perfectly willing to make the day all about me. Ah--doesn't get better than that! And so we flitted from store to store, picking out and trying on and debating and sorting and buying and leaving and starting again.

APCS, the school Jace attends, let out at noon yesterday and so Thursday night, Jace decided he didn't want to go to school the next day. At first, I considered the possibility. It would be nice to sleep in, not rush around making breakfast and brushing teeth and combing hair and checking off one by one all of the details that are required in order to get out the door for a school morning. But then I considered the alternative: homework.

Can I just say, I hate homework? I mean, seriously. I hate it. I don't have the patience of a saint when it comes to sitting at the table and grilling Jace over math facts, or explaining for the 178th time how to do a math problem or ... well, a host of other or's...

And so, around 8:30 Thursday night, I informed Jace that he needed to go to school because he would be glad, in the end, for a totally free weekend rather than a Sunday filled with schoolwork. He begrudgingly agreed as I promised him that Roy would meet him at home and we would all go out to eat to celebrate Easter weekend at El Que Pasa.

El Que Pasa is Roy's and my favorite Mexican restaurant. We go there far more often than I'm willingly to admit publicly as we both adore Mexican food--always have. In fact, I can list our favorite Mexican restaurants that we've traversed regularly since we started dating--but I'll spare you. (You can thank me later.) But one of the really good things about El Que Pasa is that we can take a herd there to eat and leave with a reasonably cheap bill. And so, Roy and I cooked it up that, after he was done with inservice with the freshmen, and Jace was done with school, and Savana and I were done with our shopping spree, we would meet there for a celebratory lunch.

Perfection.

I called Roy on our way there and, as I was broadcast over the stereo in our car that Roy was driving, Jace piped in, "Hey Mom! I survived school!"  Laughter rang in his voice.

After lunch where we all consumed far too much but it was simply far too delicious not  to, Roy and I joined forces to run some errands while Jace went home with Savana. And then, once I got home, I decided it was time to organize my closet.

Oh my word.

Three piles: clothes to give away, clothes to throw away, clothes that aren't mine. (Somehow Savana's size small shirts got hung in my closet and have managed to go unnoticed--probably because they would barely fit over my right arm, much less my waist and so they stayed hidden between my regulars.) It took me quite a length of time to sort through and organize and move my winter to the less accessible side and my spring/summer to the more accessible side, but finally, it was all accomplished and got to the part I looked forward to all day: dumping out the bags of clothes I had purchased on my bed and going through one by one, hanging it all up and dreaming and enjoying each separate piece.

Mmmm....I love new clothes.

Admittedly, I'm not so great at putting outfits together. That is far more Savana's specialty. Sometimes I bug her to come upstairs to my closet and pick out an outfit for me as her eyes see things I would never envision. Maybe I should have her put some outfits together for me and take pictures, hang them on my closet wall--as she was explaining that designers do that for the stars.

I could handle that lifestyle. 

Later that evening, long after everything was put away neatly in my closet, Savana came bounding up the stairs. Hey! Where's the outfit I bought?

"I thought you pulled it out of the bag!" I replied, racking my memory regarding whether or not I saw it as I waded through my new clothes. Everything had been stuffed into a single bag at the store where Savana purchased her one little item: a flowy jumper that looked adorable on her and made me look like an over-stuffed blueberry (as we both tried one on). And so the search began, and finally, defeated, we came to the conclusion that somehow her outfit didn't get placed in the bag. And so, we will once again head to the mall to retrieve what is ours--explaining and, hopefully, restoring the wayward piece.

Shortly after Savana's discovery, Jace came home in tears. I will spare the details but suffice it to say, it is a story of childhood rejection and dealing with the unkind words and thoughtless acts of others.

And this one? Well, this one I won't  address. Rather, I will simply comfort Jace and encourage him to learn from such experiences, to remember how biting words feel so that he doesn't do the same to another. I will encourage him to simply learn the art of walking away rather than going head to head where words spill, bringing pain and hopelessness.

Life is a balancing act. Sometimes? Well, sometimes choices are easy: buy this, don't buy that; confront this, don't confront that. Other times, choices are not so easy as the consequences can bring disaster. Sometimes, silence is golden, even though one's child is caught in the crossfires of hard life lessons. And sometimes...

well, sometimes, that balancing act means looking for the beauty rather than the pain. Both are there: it's just a matter of what we choose to see.

Worth the Wait

Jace went on a Pathfinder campout this past weekend. It's been in the works for awhile and so, Roy and I, recognizing that we were going to have an entire 24 hours child-free, have schemed and planned and configured how we exactly wanted to spend that day.

Roy and I are rut-people. We do the same things day in and day out. Though Asheville has a plethora of restaurants, we traverse the same four or five options when we choose to go out and rarely try something new. In the evenings when the weather is behaving, we take the golfcart out for long rides around the "neighborhood." We take long naps when we should be taking long hikes. And we love the movie theater.

So when it comes to trying to figure out something new to do...well, we pretty much stink at it.

I was telling one of my co-workers that Roy and I had a whole day to ourselves and she immediately chimed in with You should go to Hot Springs and soak in the hot tubs. It's a beautiful drive and so relaxing!

Oh my word! That sounds amazing! And so, I googled it, read about it, shared the idea with Roy who readily agreed...

...for a minute.

But when it came right down to it, Roy isn't exactly a hot tub kind of guy. Soaking in natural springs up on the mountain where the air is crisp and the water warm just isn't his idea of a good time. And that's perfectly okay. This is why I have girlfriends.

And so, our day was spent in a typical Seals way. Nothing spectacular or different really. But it was a perfect kind of day and certainly worth the wait.

Last night, just about the time I was getting ready to go to bed, one of my best friends, Jacque, sent me a text: Does June 16-22 work for you?

Yes yes yes!!

Just as I felt sleep washing over me, my phone buzzed--one of those buzzes that lets me know I just got an email. I reached over to turn my sound off when I saw that the email was a flight itinerary from Jacque. She's coming to visit. I had a difficult time turning off the dreamworks in my head as I imagined driving to Greenville to pick her up and then talking and talking and talking and talking. Because that is exactly how it will be. Jacque has been a lifechanging force in my life. She is one of those people that everyone should have as a friend. She is that amazing.

Having Jacque here? Well, it will absolutely be worth the wait.

Today is my last day of work for the week as I have tomorrow off. Ah--a four day work week. That, my friends, is a beautiful thing. I enjoy weekends and days off as never before now that I have one of those regular jobs. I don't take time off for granted as I used to because time off is something to be cherished, to be savored. I have tossed around several different ideas for how I'm going to spend my Friday: shopping at the mall? just hanging at home and making for a really long day filled with hot teas and my book and Netflix and a long walk down Holcombe Cove Road? I'm still not sure as it all sounds good to me and the day is mine to do as I choose. And so, I want to choose carefully. I want to make it the best day off it can be.

Darian sent me a text last night that she and her friends may stop in on their way to Nosoca for the weekend. It will be a quick stop right at supper time and so, if they are able, I will throw together a quick meal so that the laughter of young people will fill my dining room before they head out for a weekend filled with campfires and boats on the lake and cabins filled wth little kids.

My day off just went up a notch.

Life is mostly regular--filled with the mundane. But in the midst of the washing dishes and folding laundry and working the job day after day after day are moments that are worthy of being soaked up, savored, remembered, cherished.

Moments that are worth the wait.