A fragment of a grocery shopping list… this is probably about 25-30 years old. It’s her handwriting.

The address label is her mother’s… also about 25-30 years old. I keep these fragments tucked into a drawer… too insignificant for a page in scrapbook, or it’s own “sleeve” in a photo album, but because her handwriting beckons her presence, these scraps are not insignificant enough to toss in the trash. So, I compromise and just keep them in the drawer in the china cabinet in the dining room. Whenever I do  happen to come across them, it’s like she dropped in for a surprise visit. I never expect to find her, when I do.

People are, for one period in time, a mass of cells, atoms and matter — dense — and they take up physical space. They are real.  This is how we define people. Then, poof, they will disappear like dust in an instant. And all you have left, as proof that they once stood here in physical form, are snippets of their handwriting, or the address label that once directed posts to a home.

Not until those bundles of cells are crumbled into dust do you begin to see what has been there all along. What people truly are transcends physical space. They are, instead completely malleable, with a capacity to reside in the corners of drawers, alive in those certain songs, and silently standing by your side as that scent settles around your shoulders.

Time is such a wonderful healer.

So, you’re wondering what I got in my Altoids Tins? This particular one came from the one who loves green — which explains the green highlighter used to write my treasured “Gift Tag.”

He even borrowed a little ingenuity from this Origami Master Brother to make an “envelope” that was a shirt — without a tie, because this one is for a girl.

Inside were little scraps of paper… because, “You’re a writer, Mom.” Of course.

Also included was a bottle of Grapefruit Essential Oils… OK, he didn’t actually make this part of the gift — but we’ll let it slide for thoughtfulness. Grapefruit is my favorite scent. After each of my babies, I suffered from a medium case of the Baby Blues. I found the care I needed in an Aromatherapy Apothecary store, where the essential oils are kept behind a counter — like pills in a drug store — not in little bottles you pick yourself. You tell the girls in the store your “problem” and they mix a concoction for you — dry skin, acne, anxiety, depression, wrinkles, labor pains, back ache — you name it, there’s an essential oil remedy for you. They girls there study plants, and they have tomes of research to aid them in creating your remedy. The whole experience is quite charming.

Every year, my husband walks into that store at Christmas time, and asks for “Susie’s card,” and buys me a selection from that list. (You can do this to0, and use one of my many remedies they have already built for me — for you — they’re timeless!). My index card, dates back to 1996, with handwritten notes on all of the remedies they have made for me. Many of the remedies are listed in the above paragraph.

I love the ancient wisdom in these essential oils that have been around for centuries.

For the Postpartum Blues, the essential oils called for are Grapefruit, Rose (quite expensive — so just a drop) myrrh and Frankincense. I’ve always liked the fact that the 3 kings brought Jesus a gift of Frankincense and Myrrh — and that’s what goes into the Postpartum Blend. I wonder, if that gift was really for Mary, to ease her stress for all that she had to deal with at that time — giving birth in a barn, feeding shepherds, and eventually fleeing because Herod was out to kill all the babies.

Notice that I call the Postpartum remedy “care.” The aromatherapy gave me a means to care for myself at that critical time when I learned how to find my balance each time our family grew. (How would I manage the grocery store — the library? One in a sling, one in the cart, and one by my side holding my hand… and then the fourth.)

I dropped this postpartum essential oil blend into a mason jar, full of Epsom Salts and and equal amount of olive oil, and packed it in my bag to go to the hospital. After birth, when I was able to take my first shower, in the hospital, I took the jar, unscrewed the lid, and slathered the salt scrub all over my body. Smelled wonderful. The citrus smell from the grapefruit was always so uplifting. Then, I showered as usual, and the scent would linger.

I would use that scrub every day, as long as the scrub lasted. It was my ritual. This was my way of caring for myself at a time when so many others, much more helpless, needed me.  Occasionally, I will have a bottle made for me when I want to remember how lucky I was to have these babies.

Christmas break is over.

Thank goodness for the pot of steel cut oats waiting on the stove this morning…warm oats, warm tea, to get us through this cold, cold transition day.

And I’m sure you don’t even know it. I saw this picture on the internet…

and for some reason, I thought of you. You smiling. You young. No, you don’t look like him…in a few ways you do. But this is your essence. I can still remember that day — was it one day — or was it simply just a conglomoration of a a few hundred of them, combined — when I sat in the front seat beside you (no car seats back then) and you had your Winston Cigarettes in the light green shinny package with white lettering. You had blue eyes, just like me. That meant I belonged to you. Dad. You are still here. Showing up in the oddest places and giving me smiles… all the time.

Yes… it is days before Christmas, and there is another party is scheduled at my house in just a few days, and no, we cannot squeeze yet another event into our busy days. My husband was good enough to mail the stack of Christmas cards for his family  – mine was not.

Yet, despite all the crazyness of undone “to-do” lists that only kept growing, we found a College boy to babysit, and off my husband and I just escaped away from it all and headed off to Chicago. Who knows what shape the house will be in when we get back — and who cares?

Crazy? Yeah, a bit.  Chicago has yet to warm my heart: A spent a few days here a few years ago when my Mom came out of her coma — I missed it because I was there. And when I came back home, she had already slipped away.  As beautiful as this city is — I can’t look down at its sidwalks and not think of those words I never got to say.

But can I just tell you — Chicago is so romantic at Christmas.

He took me to a Champagne bar, called, POPS.

We headed to this Tappas Bar…twice!

A spinach salad loaded with EEVOO, (I mean, the olive oil must have been freshly pressed it was so rich) freshly shaved Parmesan cheese and pears, at 10:30, after being ravenous after walking all over the city — was heaven. Then we had to order more — beef spareribs, veal meatballs…

Shopping on Michigan Avenue

Went to Marbles — and we were so overwhelmed for choices for the boys.

Those sad memories of mine began to fade a bit. Ironically, melting on the icy sidewalk.

Now, just hoping the air cools enough so that we an bring back some snow for the boys.

Would I still be able to dig out a treasure in our Superman Gratitude Journal? Now that the boys are getting older, would their little lists still have “melt-your-heart” treasures like “getting my brother out of the crib?” or “running through the dust when Dad blows the leaves with the leaf blower?”  Yet, I found one. Several, actually. But here’s one treasure. From my newspaper column.

As my boys struggle each night to fill their list of “Three Good Things,” I realize that this exercise of gratitude takes just as much physical exertion as running across the soccer field to maneuver the ball into the net for a goal. Based upon the mounting stack of scientific research, the act of giving thanks alters our brain chemistry, and this filters through our body to improve our blood pressure, respiration and heart rates while sending endorphins throughout our brain – just like a work-out at the gym. The art of giving thanks is an exercise that permeates our physical and emotional systems.

We are so careful to ensure that our thank you notes and words reach our benefactors. But if we really understood the power of gratitude, we would see that the act of giving thanks is one of the most selfish indulgences we can give to ourselves. Researchers at UC Davis are now calling gratitude the “forgotten factor” in happiness research.

Habitually expressing gratitude makes us less likely to notice what material things others have that we don’t. We begin to realize the futility of ensuring we have the newest, and latest gadget to fill an empty void. Gratitude, just might be – no — it is, the magical elixir to cure of so many of the ills attributed to our mad-paced modern society. Through this daily practice of “Three Good Things,” we could end excess spending, stress, depression and anxiety. And with the positive effects gratitude has on our circulatory and respiratory systems, we might be able to make a dent into the national health care crisis.

Just try to hold the emotion of anger, guilt, defensiveness, resentment, irritability or fear while holding the emotion of gratitude – can’t be done. The brain is a muscle, with a stubborn temperament toward the negative. You can make gratitude your default by working your brain out as the muscle it truly is, away from the negative and toward the positive. Work your brain out with the same diligence as you should be working out your heart muscle at the gym.

When I sit my boys down each night to turn their brains around, to name their gifts,they must physically stop their bodies from twitching, so they can concentrate. This work takes focused time, as what rises to the top the quickest are the disappointments, the frustrations and the anger. Yet, there is something else lurking underneath it all, and it comes as they wait. Once the first good thing finally pops out, the second and third come faster, and soon, there are eight,instead of three good things.

The thank you lists that result from this concentrated, stillness can be deeply insightful. One night my son had written the words “Pye, Zanfel, Fone” on his gratitude list. Pye was the lemon meringue pie I made for dessert. Zanfel is the name of the Poison Ivy treatment we found at Walgreen’s. Fone was for the telephone he used at school to call me to ask if I could take him home early because the Poison Ivy hurt him so much.  The poison ivy by the way, was quickly spreading… he was beginning to look like this

again – with swelled eyes.

I thanked him for his list. Yet, I was unable to capture with words the level of gratitude that was stirring in my own heart.

I’m busy working on creating my Christmas gifts calendars and cards from the year, and I ran across this picture.

Their faces are perfectly in-sync with whatever is secret is tumbling out of his mouth… and he, with that grin, seems to know exactly what’s going to be said before it even comes out. I adore this.  I hope you share this closeness all your days.

At the high school auditorium, we sit together, by ourselves, without our children. Well… one is at the front of the stage, violin in hand, tuning his instrument to get ready for the concert. The three of us are together, seperated by a sea of people, a stage and protocol. It’s just the 3 of us.

“Remember that night when he wasn’t with us yet, but he was very present, and we thought we would loose him?”

He doesn’t… so I drop clues…

The labor pains started, finally, we rushed to the hospital… the three of us — he’s there, but he’s not there. The monitors quickly tell us he’s in distress… calm down… he’s not getting enough oxygen… he’ll need to be taken immediately…. we’re not making any promises.

At that moment we would have given EVERYTHING WE HAD to guarantee we’d be here tonight, some 15 years later, doing exactly this.

He arrives. He SCREAMS. Everyone in the room is joyful They take him from us… for so long… checking him, prodding him… is he fine… but we are separated… he seems so far, just 10 feet away in the nurses arms, and it seemed to take an eternity to hold him….kind of like tonight.

Thank You for answered prayers.

During our tour of Napa last summer, we thought it might nice to join a wine club so that we could receive brand new California wines on our doorstep.

So that we could remember those Osyters we had, in the morning, as we were driving back to San Francisco, on

dreary, blah days, just like this one today. Because it’s up to you to find the sunshine in the dreary days.

We needed a place to store the dried snail shells, driftwood that comes in cool shapes, the drawings of snakes and the drawings of the occasional pet dead fish that shows up in my freezer. (I found him, by the way.) And, a lot of rocks. Some of these rocks are purported to be Geodes, and all kinds of rare treasures that are worth upwards of a million dollars.

So, we ate our pickles, washed the jar out, and painted a canning jar lid with chalkboard paint, and labeled the jar. Our treasure chest is really just an old pickle jar.