What’s not to love about a teacher who takes the time to make a “before the end of the year list,” and then does what’s on the list?

For the past two weeks, I have been bombarded with an avalanche of questions.

“What is your favorite candy?”

“Really? You don’t remember? And besides, do you have some for me? Is that why you’re asking?”

No, there were no Smarties.

“What’s your favorite color?”

This is always a tough one… because I never know how to respond. Color needs context. When my oldest was a first grader, I told him how much I loved to wear black. The next “flower” he made for me at school was black. I try to never answer that one… and say something about “all the colors of the rainbow.”

Over the next few days the questions jumped to tea, and then towards, “what time do you wake up?”

Then it dawned on me. It’s Mother’s Day this weekend. Like boys trying to be the first one to score a touchdown goal, they are literally falling all over themselves to be the “one” who will surprise me with the thing I loved the most.

My husband tells me the biggest fight is over the “tea.” Who’s going to make it and who’s serving it to me… in bed. Then, another one, who accepts the loss, thinks he’ll “one-up” the other brother by saying, “But I know which one is their favorite.”

Then, they asked him if they could order Jumbo-Sized Smarties… from Amazon. “You’re going to flip out, dad,” they said. “They’re $24, because you have to buy them in bulk.”

I think I could really throw them if I told them about the old-fashioned soda fountain,  inside of the big-time JCPenny story on Main Street. I was small, so the second thing to greet my senses when I walked in was the chekered brown and tan floor. The first thing to hit me was the smell: a combination of ice cream, caramel, cheeseburgers, new clothes and roasted peanuts. This was heaven. My aunt used to take me there, and it was then and there that I learned it was not “OK” to eat gum found on the bar stools while we sat at the counter.

We sat at the counter and waited for the store-made “Zagnuts.” Remeber those? Roasted peanuts. The man behind the counter would scoop them out of the bin into a paper bag and sent us on our way. The bag was warm from the candy, and soon the bag held grease stains. My aunt had her own bag of Zagnuts, so I didn’t have to share with her. Then, we zipped away in her car. Later, I learned that my aunt  was diabetic. Did she need that candy, or was she cheating?

Those warm Zagnuts (not the kind you find in the wrapper at the grocery store) are my favorite. But, I don’t want to overly stress the boys. They’d hunt down a shop that would custom make Zagnuts for me, and serve them to me warm. They quest to be the first one to supply me with a warm Zagnut would create too much competition and strife. I don’t think one exists.

I’m always amazed by their innocence in the weeks and days leading up to Christmas, birthdays and Mother’s Day. The boys never seem to be “missing” for extended periods of times (while they’re busy wrapping, inventing verses and rhymes, and shopping) nor do I notice the “mess” of pulled out wrapping paper and ribbons that appear on the “morning.” Their “wrapping station location” must be guarded 24 x 7 — because I have yet to find the spot. I am humbled… I always thought I never everything they were up to.

I think it was Warren Buffet who said, “We enjoy the process far more than the proceeds.”

My first introduction into gardening was by my mother, of course. I was less than five years old the morning she dedicated a 4×4 square plot of our yard to me. “This was my very own flower garden,” she said. The first plants we planted were Morning Roses. Not really roses, as they had fern-like leaves that looked, at first, as if they might be sharp, but were actually quite soft, yet sturdy.

Morning Roses open only in the morning. Four o’clocks open in the afternoon. Moon flowers bloom at night. Enchantment is the only word to describe the feeling I had about peculiar flowers that followed the tick of a clock.

In 1751, Carolus Linnaeus had a similar vision. He hypothesized a Flower Clock garden plan that would take advantage of several plants that open or close their flowers at particular times of the day to accurately predict the time. He called it the Horologium Florae. Several botanical gardens attempted the idea in the early 19th century, with mixed success.

“Many plants exhibit a strong circadian rhythm, and a few have been observed to open at quite a regular time, but the accuracy of such a clock is diminished because flowering time is affected by weather and seasonal effects.

No one can precisely capture the bloom of a Morning Rose.

During a recent visit to a museum with my son, I stumbled upon this intriguing piece of art, by Brandon Antczak,

who attempted to capture what Linnaeus was also unable to capture in real life, onto paper. The piece exhibited is titled Mr. Linnaeus’ Larks & Owls. Interestingly, Antczak ran into similar challenges.

Brandon compiled images for each specific plant species from herbariums around the world. Using water as a solvent he transferred the ink from each plants’ image onto paper using a printing press. The swelling of the paper, combined with the pressure from the press caused creases to form in the paper, a physical attribute reminiscent of plant roots.

Here, those imperfections of physical life created art. The swelling of the paper creates something texturally beautiful.

What is even more interesting, is the list of plants, along with their bloom times. 

The list has scribbles of modifications and changes — looking surprisingly similar to my own garden list and plans, after real-life invades.

I remember that when it came to my own flower garden, I missed everything. In the mornings, I forgot to check on the roses, as I was occupied with Captain Kangaroo. By afternoon, I was busy climbing a tree, so I missed the Four O’Clocks. When the Moon Flowers came out, I was playing Ghost in the Graveyard. There was a rhythmic mystery going on in my very own flower garden, but I scarcely took the time to participate and watch what was going on.

Visually, I missed the blooms at their appointed times. Yet, the beatings of their appointed bloom times cycled through my memory. I may not have seen the Morning Rose close, but I knew it did. I never forgot the spectacle that my eyes have yet to see.

Apparently, all of us who speak the language of plants, have yet to capture their elusive rhythms.

The church I take the boys to Sunday School is not my favorite place of worship. In fact, sometimes, I feel as if I’m missing out sometimes… there are a couple of other places with awesome choirs, fabulous speakers that leave a mark so deeply that they leave you pondering all week long, and maybe, with a new vision that could change your life… forever. I love the pomp and circumstance of church. I always have.

But I don’t go to those churches, because I take the boys where their friends go. I’ve taken them to those other fabulous churches with the high cathedral ceilings. Yet,  they insist on being with their friends. Giving them a good experience at church is more important to me right now. So, I have given up my favorite churches.

I sit in a second rate Sunday school class on a folded metal chair, while the boys are in their Sunday school classes.  Sunday school is offered “boutique” style there… you pick and choose from a wide variety of topics. I picked the most general class… “Your Abundant Life.” Based upon the verse in John 10:10 “I came to give you life and that you might have it more abundantly.”

Each week, I am shocked that this ordinary man is able to pour so much into a Sunday school class… time flies by, and I leave, actually believing that maybe I did sit in a fabulous sanctuary to listen to a great orator. Funny how God always meets you where you are with a blessing, without even asking for one.

When the teacher is absent, he sends in reinforcements. These are men that come from another church, that no one in the class, except for the teacher, actually really knows. The men tell us they have been “working with our teacher on the lessons all year.” Hmmmmm… so he has a team of researchers working behind the scenes.” What a production this class is. And there are fewer of us sitting there that we can count on two hands.

Once, a man walked in, our substitute teacher. He too had been working with our regular teacher on the lesson plans.  This man was very tall, impeccably groomed, and his clothes were almost “perfect.” He shoes were polished, even though he was casually dressed in blue jeans.

He opened his Bible… it was one of those big ones, with a zipper. He needed that zipper… because inside of that zipper, the pages were literally falling out of his Bible. One page, in particular, had a well-worn hole in the center — a small one –but a worn hole, like you would find on the bottom of your sock. Other pages did not have one single straight edge left on any of the three edges.

I couldn’t take my eyes of that Bible. From that point on, everything that came out of his mouth was filtered through the lens of his Bible. He could have had a new Bible by now.

This Bible did not match his shoes.

“What scripture was on that page that was so worn,” I wondered? Was it a Psalm? Was it a promise in Isaiah?” I couldn’t imagine. I wanted to pick that Bible up, and peruse it as if it were an archaeological find of how one can live one’s life. What passages were so important that they deserved red markers?  I finally stopped staring at his Bible, and looked up at him as he began to talk… slowly and quite measured. This was something, I believe, he worked at. He talked about “taking every thought captive.” And this, I believed, he had to will himself to do, with every word. To say he was kind was an under-statement. He was “other wordly” kind.

At that point, I could have been in a Cathedral, as I listened to the man speak. Who cares about metal folding chairs.

This was a man that gripped the pages of his Bible as if it were a life preserver. Something, life, probably, threw him in the gutter, and I couldn’t stop myself from imaging all the other things he could have gripped. A person. Alcohol. The promise of the roll of the dice. A career. An education. But this man grabbed a Bible — maybe after all of those other things finally gave way — or maybe it was the first thing he grabbed when the storm tossed him.

But I know he’s not letting go. He doesn’t have a new Bible, so he can remember what life was like before.

Kirsetin asked me to jump in on a discussion on this quote: “You can either practice being right or practice being kind.” – Anne Lamott.

It is kind of me to take the kids to the church they like. Did I suffer? Have I suffered? No. I got the greater blessing — one that would have never discovered on my own.

Practice being kind.

After high school, I was busy going to college, working a couple of part-time jobs. Honestly, I wasn’t THAT busy. In that period, I lived in two different cities. Each one had a hospital that was much better, bigger and advanced than the one in my home town. Hence with my mother being the youngest of 7 siblings, there were, inevitably, a relative or two who ended up in those hospitals, while I lived in each of those cities.

I loved living in the city. I loved that I could be at the grocery store in less than five minutes at any time day or night. I wouldn’t have traded it for the small town any day. But, I was lonely, sometimes, for the people I knew. After walking through city streets all day, seeing unfamiliar after unfamiliar face, it was a nice thought to put my head down on the pillow and think that somewhere, not to far away, was someone I actually knew — who knew me.

Without hesitation, I would show up at the hospital and visit the relative, every day after work, as long as the hospital stay lasted. (Such a big girl, in the city I was — like THAT GIRL or Mary Tyler Moore) showing up for a visit at the hospital. One was my Grandma — and one was my aunt. I can remember feeling privileged to visit them there. I just assumed, this was what I should do — to help support not only the one who was sick — but also everyone else back at home — to save them the trip of driving to the city everyday for a visit. “I’ve got this covered here on my end.”

There was nothing really to talk about at my visits — I remember just sitting there — truly just being content to sit in their presence. As if I was absorbing “familiarity” to take out of that room to carry with me as I sat at the bus station the next morning. As if I was “absorbing armor” and the longer I sat there, the longer the armor would last. Just marking time. The bonus was, for my relative, they wouldn’t have to tell their friends, how “lonely they were in the big city, in that dreadful hospital.”

I remember now, the surprised look on my aunt’s face when I showed up in the hospital room — just jotting in, between classes. She never expected a young girl to have time for such things. (Maybe she wanted to get some sleep, I was cramping her style?)

I made the time.

Maybe, I was there more for me, than her?

I am writing this by memory — precisely because I want to remember what that kind of unyielding loytaly felt like. Because, I would not make those visits today. This truthful realization makes me sad. Somewhere, between the responsibilities of having babies, my kid’s school projects, practice schedules, the demands of getting meals on the table everyday, and walking across sticky floors that should be mopped sometime this week, I became strapped. Pinned down — with absolutely no wiggle room whatsoever.

Leaving this life, to go visit another life, would be practically unheard of. There is no room for such things — I can’t even imagine having that kind of time.

I am grateful for that mindless idle time lavished on my Grandma and Aunt. Just marking time — precisely because they are not available today. They are gone.

There’s a selfish reason I feel so pinned here, though. This time, I am surrounded by people I love here. There is no empty apartment — there are faces here I know to keep me company, who speak words that make me laugh and yell, and they pull pranks on me too. Selfishly, I don’t want to miss a thing — and thank goodness that sticky floor gives me a chance to linger in the kitchen a bit longer just to chat with that one sitting at the table concentrating on his homework.

But there was a time, before all of this, when I was THAT GIRL, who had time to make visits to the hospital — and worried about walking in empty handed, because I had no money for flowers.

I hope I get the chance to have a THAT GIRL come and visit me someday when I’m in the hospital — because I’ll tell her — I’ll tell her the truth about her life. That someday these free minutes will no longer exists — and how excited I am for her to have those busy, hectic days ahead of her, and to be so tired at the end of it all that she won’t even be able to lift her head by the end of it.

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.