We are all horrified

---From a shared Facebook post by Jim Hightower

Once, in my early high school career, I joined a group of kids who decided to skip school and hang around someone's house listening to John Lennon's White Album, which had swears in it. Two of the members of this group had terrible reputations.

But I wanted to see what it was like to be a badass. 

I squirmed with guilt the minute I knew my first class was underway and nothing felt better until 2:15 when I could go home and stop feeling stupid and disappointing. 

My mother found out of course, and asked me why I'd done it. I told her I didn't know why. Then, in veiled teen speak, I asked if she thought I was stupid and disappointing. 

I might as well have asked her if I was not actually a human, but a mountain lion. 

"No," she said, mystified by this. "Of course not. Why would you think that?" 

She didn't patch a few facts together and pretend to know what was going on with me. She just loved me and wanted to understand. And, so, she asked me to tell her what she didn't know.

Some time later, I told her how much I liked talking to her because she always "understood." Actually, she told me, she didn't always, because her life and experiences were nothing like mine. But she always listened. 

The honesty of that distinction has been on my mind lately, with respect to the "Black Lives Matter"movement and the "All Lives Matter" response that appears to frustrate everyone. If I get this even a little, both sides have a different take on the meaning. The "All Lives" people see the slogan as divisive, while it is meant by "Black Lives" to suggest greater inclusion, a desire to have one's fair share too. Not more. Just as much.

But what I hear above the din, over and over again is a response I understand better than any: don't explain what you haven't experienced.

Jim Hightower's post on misunderstanding which appeared several times in my newsfeed recently appeals to me for its elegant truth:  We can differ in history or culture and other characteristics of identity - race, gender, sexual orientation, country of origin - and still  honor each other on common ground: we are human beings who love other human beings. 

Our children, and parents, and spouses, our family and friends.  

And we don't want to lose them. 

It isn't the inability to relate to the lives and loves of others that widens the divide. It is the inability to admit that you don't know more about a thing than you do, and failing to ask for enlightenment. It is failing to locate and honor that common ground where we share more than we don't.

Especially now. 
Because, now we share Dallas.

We are all horrified.

We were all horrified by Sandy Hook, and Oklahoma City and Orlando. 

And 9/11, the first time in my memory when the country, united by massive trauma, turned to itself for comfort, then fell to either side of our common ground in the month or so after, when, just as we were hoisting flags and listening to Lee Greenwood, some politician blamed another for "letting this happen," and there we were, united and polarized in crisis.

Here we are again, united and polarized by crisis, this time with a black, blue and white conflict at its core.  

However we dissect cause and effect, we are all horrified by the taking of lives not lived, people not at fault. We have all been left under a cloud of apprehension, a feeling of dread – where will the next one be? How bad? Who will die when an officer interprets a civilian's show of fear for his life as a threat to his own? What video will go viral?

I'm losing heart. Like others, I fear growing less horrified, and I dread the next crisis that will crowd this common ground with broken-hearted people. All different in ways that matter less than those in which we are exactly the same.  

I'm going to start with that.

I'm going to ask, I'm going to listen, I'm going to read, and I'm going to keep showing up at the humanity party as a life that does not matter more than any other.

Even if I wish I could do more.

Don't let them take your heart

Don't let them take your heart

It happens quietly, and slowly 

the way the spirit fights for life

But the spirit is only so resilient

The heart must act.

Don't let them take your heart

The fear that fills us

The sadness that slows us

The anger that devours us

The dread that comes with the first glance at morning headlines

Don't learn to expect the worst

Don't become less surprised

Don't let them take your heart

Shore up your faith in the humanity which connects us

Keep the capacity to grieve, to cry for a stranger

Don't let your spirit lose its fight

Don't let them take your heart.

When it seems unsafe to be where you belong

When it seems everyone might be a killer in the making or a victim in waiting

Remember that fear only feels like information

And that far more evil has been stopped than perpetrated 

Don't let them take your heart.

Now to then and back again.

Grief is heavy

If it slows your steps at times
It is  to remember who you lost

Without getting lost yourself.

Three years ago today, my brother Bill died.   
In the still fog of the days that followed, I wrote this  about grief

June 14, 2013

"I made you laugh. I LOVE when that happened." --Bill Cook (1960-2013)

Grief is a boulder in the middle of the room.

It can't be budged.

If you push it away, it won't yield

When you aren't watching where you walk, you fall over it

And it hurts

You can't pretend it isn't there

You can move the furniture to walk around it

But it still blocks your view of something

You can try and live in another room altogether

But you have to pass by it eventually to go from now to then and back again

Grief is like a boulder in the middle of the room

It doesn't belong there

You don't want it there

You throw a blanket over it

It feels too big for the room

Too big for your life

You cry

And finally, grief speaks

It says: I might be in your way, but I used to live in your heart

I am your memories

I am your loss
But I am what you cherished for a long time

I am trying to find a way back in

But you won't open it

You walk around me

You avoid me

Open your heart

And I will live there again

You sit next to the grief boulder

Because you understand

You need to fill that space in your heart

To feel whole again.

So you make a deal

You will honor grief

And grief will help you heal.

You let it in.

It feels heavy, hard to carry

But your view is clear

Your travel is unobstructed

from now to then and back again

Without that boulder in the way.

Everyone you meet could have a Frankie at home

This is not Frankie. This dog belongs to some friends
 and is here to help create the right mood.

I saw this on the internet:

Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always. 

Most of us read something like that and instantly think of people who really need to read something like that. 

Last week, while waiting to board a flight to North Carolina, I stopped for lunch in one of those places where you probably won't become ill, but would not order lobster salad either. There was no denting my mood. In two days, we would see the last of our four kids graduate college and yes,we are looking forward to the raise. 

I was feeling generous. 

A seventy-something server, trailed by a young trainee, greeted me and showed me to a table. She was chatty, with a familiar manner I always find endearing. She couldn't have been nicer to me. 

A man came in who looked like he'd just left a serious job or meeting. He was nicely dressed, fit, and carried an elegant brief with a Wall Street Journal poking out of the pocket.  In response to the server's cheery greeting, he quietly hung his coat over the chair and then said, "I'll take an iced tea." 

Next to me sat a diner who was known to everyone who worked there, in that regular customer or former employee way. My server greeted him with a hug and began to update him on goings on. 

She lowered her voice. "Hey. I had to finally put Frankie down," she told him.

"Aw, no. Really?" 

It was a long story, and at points in the telling, I didn't think she'd make it to the end. 

"And what do you think was the last thing that dog did, right after they gave him the stuff?" she asked.

The customer shook his head.

She leaned in. "He licked my face," she said. 

I prayed this how about that kind of comment would not fall sideways into a sob, because already, I was welling up.

When she brought me a dessert menu, I told her that I was sorry about her dog. "Aw, honey," she said. "Thank you." She leaned on the back of the chair across from me. 

"The worst part" she began, "worse than when Frankie went deaf and stopped walking, the worst part was when Jack,  the other one, didn't know where Frankie was when I got back. Wouldn't leave the door. Wouldn't eat. So, now I lost one and here's the other one, won't eat." 

Her chin crumpled. "I didn't know what to do," she said. "I was beside myself. So I got him a brother at the rescue. Ugliest little thing you ever saw." 

This brought a sudden, husky laugh. The serious man looked over, gave her an up and down look.

I asked how they were doing. 

"Oh. My God. Oh. My God. You should see. Can't be apart. One's big, one's little. They're both rescues." 

Later, she came back with the check and I left her a 100% tip because I couldn't help it. "You're the best example that a trainee could have. Thank you," I wrote.

I can get annoyed. I lose patience with people who drive 70 in the left lane or walk too slowly on the sidewalk in front of me, or talk without listening, or too loudly, or too close. I get frustrated when people don't seem to be acting like who they really are, or walk into elevators that are full with people trying to get off. I have to breathe when I'm behind travelers who won't move on people movers.   

But I've thought about the server since I saw that simple thing on the internet. 

I suspect that when Frankie was going downhill, there were probably times when my server didn't count her items before bringing them to the express lane. She may have walked into a building before she let the other person come out. In her work place she may not have gotten to a customer as fast as she should. She might have laughed more than necessary, to fill silence that might have been unbearable. 

And, I've thought about that well put together man too, grim and immune to a warm greeting, whose maybe-meeting might have been of a Frankie nature, over anything, might  have changed his life, and maybe not for the better. 

It won't always work, but I hope the ones who really should, like me, can remember:

Everyone you meet could have a Frankie at home. Be kind. Always.

The most important question to ask and answer in a relationship - often.

A picture of heart talk.

I'm not going to be annoying and bury it five paragraphs down. And it's not "I love you," or "Do you love me?" because that is too sprawling and massive and hard to answer in a single convincing way, even when it's completely true.

In my opinion, the most important question to ask and answer in a relationship is: 

What do I mean to you? 

I think so for two reasons.

It is important because when it is unasked or unanswered, the person whose heart needs to know this feels like they're walking around underdressed for the weather. Some days are colder than others. 

And, it is important because it is the easiest one to answer. Examples of what someone means to you are everywhere, all the time. 

Words are best. But if you're awkward with heart talk, deeds are acceptable as long as they say:

Here's what you mean to me.

My husband is a consultant whose travel takes him away every week.  Because it clears his head, and because we aren't living in a maintenance free place, he spends some part of  the weekend staying on top of yard work. 

I help with "selected" projects, mostly ones that involve turning things on or off. 

Eventually we'll be working from home again, using our "I" statements when we get annoyed with each other. But for now, to be apart all week, and then engage in separate projects for any amount of time on the weekend makes things, as my mother used to say, "skew-gee" (unbalanced).  

It was my birthday recently. 

I'd asked for a new laptop bag but I really didn't need one. Between all of us in this family who have used them and then upgraded to others, we have laptop bags lying around all over the place. We keep them for the same reason people keep other things that have been replaced by much nicer things. You don't want them anymore but you never know. (What is the rest of that, I always wonder. You never know what?)

My husband handed me a wrapped box which was big enough for a couple of pairs of shoes and told me to guess what it was.

"Shoes."

"Nope."

"I don't know."

"Guess."

I felt the box.

"A helmet."

"What kind of helmet?" 

I was still kind of wondering why it wasn't a laptop bag.  Gifts are hard to come up with after you've been with someone for many years and I'd handed him that idea. 

I opened it. It was a bike helmet. 

This made no sense. Years earlier, I'd surrendered my bike to one of the kids or gave it away because I didn't ride anymore, even though you never know. 

So, I said "Wow, this is really nice, the colors are great." 

He said, "It goes with that," and he pointed to the corner of the kitchen behind me where he'd leaned a brand new bicycle against the wall. 

I immediately got on it and rode it around the kitchen table.

Inside the house.

For about ten seconds, I had that feeling one gets when one races to the end of a dock knowing they will fling themselves into the air in only seconds. 

"Oh my God, I love it," I said.   

"I got it because I thought we could start doing this together," he said, "when I'm home."

He handed me a second gift, a book describing where in our state we'd ride. He shared thoughts he'd had of mapping rides around other things – places to stop and shop, gentle landscapes to take in. 

"I thought we'd start over by the Tech, and ride to that restaurant near Mountain Road, and then stop and have some lunch and then head over to..." 

He was as excited as I was.

When I was small, and felt bored or lonely from time to time, nothing was better than finding someone I wanted to be around and asking, "Wanna ride bikes?" You could spend hours in motion, feeling the rush of downhill speed, soaking in sun, or leisurely peddling while you talked elementary school politics. You loved so much about that freedom, but mostly, you loved doing stuff with someone you really liked, and who liked you back.

"I got it because I thought we could start doing this together," is what he said to me. But what I heard was:

"Here is what we mean to me."

It is the most important question to ask and answer for another reason and it is this:  the most important things we know, as sure as our own voice, are also the things we need to know again and again. 

It can get cold outside. Make sure your loved one has their coat before they leave.

And their helmet.

Dogs, cars, and a really good decision I made while applying mascara one day.

A chase dog getting ready to write the next book

I made a story for you.

A dog sits comfortably in a fenced yard where not much goes on, but little goes wrong. From where he sits, he has a decent view of what the other dogs in the neighborhood are doing.  

Occasionally, a car passes by and the yard dog watches as a neighbor dog rips and races after it, barking to wake the Gods, until the car is out of sight. 

The dog in the yard shakes his head, goes over to the fence and says to the chase dog who is on his way home, "Come here a minute." 

The chase dog approaches. 

"Tell me something," says the yard dog. "Why do you frustrate yourself, chasing something you can't catch?" 

The chase dog says, "Haven't caught. I don't know that I can't." 

The yard dog says, "You have a record of complete failure." 

The chase dog  trots across the street and says over his shoulder, "So do you." 

The yard dog shakes his head and goes back to his spot, where not much goes wrong.

The end.

Some of you know I've been working on, and submitting my novel for several hundred years.

I started it in 2008 and began submitting the first version of it in 2010. Then I went back to work full-time and left it on the desk next to the cat. Three years later, I came back to writing full-time but now my novel and I had grown apart.

My writer-cat Percy had died. My crazy, funny, muse of a brother had died. The last two of our children were leaving home at once. And now, my book didn't even look familiar to me. It just seemed as heavy as a memory, and not one of the good ones.   

But I'd come this far. 

So I put it on a diet and it lost three characters. Then I gave it a better central conflict. Then I decided one of the characters was particularly likable and gave him more presence. Then, because you never paint just one room in the house, I gave the other characters more presence. 

Which only made it gain the weight back.

I tried to change it's personality, but there were holes that I couldn't see and the charm leaked out. So, I listened to music that reminded me of when my book and I first met. I tried to remember the feelings I first had for it. We went to counseling and got advice, and I rewrote it. But then, it just looked like one of those strange looking homes that were probably nice before someone put on too many additions.

And then. 

One day, about two weeks ago, while I was putting on mascara, I started to see a story. I saw the characters, what they looked like, and the way they looked in a conversation. I saw them develop and the way their pasts moved them around each other like game pieces on a board. 

Writer-kitten Gus

"Holy crap," I said to my new writer-cat, Gus. 

I knew my characters would meet each other, and I began to see how they would react. I watched them talk to one another. And after a while, I sensed a problem brewing in their universe.

I began to feel for them, and I couldn't imagine how it would work out.

And then. 

I could. 

Don't be sad, but book 3 and I have decided to separate.  Some people I know would look at my submission stats and say it's too early to give up. Some would say, "I see where you're going with this." 

But I'm not quitting.

I'm not giving up.

I'm not sad.

And, I didn't fail. 

That part of my training is simply over. 

A picture of practice

And, there is opportunity cost. I won't catch book 4 without a chase, and I can't chase book 4 if I'm still begging book 3 to tell me what it needs from me. And I may not even chase book 4 at all if book 3 makes me too frustrated and discouraged to leave the yard. 

And so, that's it. I've stopped chasing book 3, and book 4 and I are in a relationship. 

I made this story in case you need to remember that failure, turned another way, can be seen as practice for success. 

Whether we're putting books we've known since they were wee little pages in the drawer, or ending a relationship, or leaving a job, or moving to a new state, the act of cutting our losses and leaving who we were is universally wrenching. 

Until it isn't.

My advice: free yourself of the old, free yourself for the new, let the writing begin, and tell your next story, because it's waiting.

Mentor Mummy

Mentor Mummy

My mother lives down the road. 

We get together every week for coffee or a glass of wine and trade stories of the week.

"Hello, Mummy," I say when I see her, and "Hello, Darling," she says in her elegant-Mummy way.

I check to be sure she seems healthy.  She checks to be sure I seem happy. 

She feels lucky to live this close to me, but I am luckier.

She has told me how important these visits are to her, but right now, they are more important to me because I'm taking notes.

It is the equivalent of a walk, a quiet drive, an hour with my own thoughts to spend that hour or so with my mother, because as true as it was back when I was sneaking into the bathroom to cut my own hair, there's nothing that travels through my mind that I can't say or ask her if I choose to. 

She feels lucky to have a daughter, she has said, but I am luckier to be the daughter of the least judgmental parent on the planet.  

As is the way with daughters and mothers, we have more in common as I age.  In her late seventies,  she's seen this movie while I'm still dealing with plot twists and new characters. And every so often, I miss something in the script. Maybe an exchange that raised my antennae, maybe an observation that made me circle back, maybe a throwaway I plucked from the pile of things that are easy to miss but should be noticed.

A comment, a facial expression.

Like a college professor or a favorite boss who loves to see what has become of a promising charge, my mother has done her hands-on and off parenting, and is happy to listen to me talk about mine. Many of our conversations start with, "Tell me what you think about this..."

Because.

Mummies don't retire.

They become mentors.

Our youngest child will graduate college in two weeks. My hands-on parenting days are behind me, and most of our children have not just left the nest but are feathering their own.

Some  parents describe a feeling at this stage of a job done, a giant project turned in. But I have learned from my weekly visits with Mummy that the longer we live, the more, not less we have in common. That if we talk less, we will probably say more. That the best conversations are about listening and not telling, asking not assuming, arriving by invitation and not force. And, most recently, that whether we live down the street from one another or on opposite coasts, it won't matter.

Because.

The best parenting years of all might be these hands-off ones, when the communication is easy and honest and the wish of one to know what is in the heart and mind of the other is the relationship's signature.

My mentor-Mummy is thankful to have me in her life, but with all my heart, I am more thankful for all these years I've had to be my mother's mentee, Darling.