Winding the Clock

“As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness...Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.”    -E.B. White

A teacher friend of mine posted these words last night with reference to the turmoil occurring presently in Baltimore. Earlier in the evening, after I’d made a call on social media requesting prayers for loved ones in the affected area, a conversation about the unrest struck up between a former high school classmate and a former high school student of mine. Inviting deliberation on the turbulence had not been my intention and when it began, I felt a responsibility to moderate the conversation, or, at least, to acknowledge the words under my wall post. This morning, I hesitated but, as I had stated I’d do, I deleted the entire post. I wanted to avoid the hurt some of my other friends or former students might have felt in reading the remarks. I didn’t believe they were words that could help the situation in Baltimore. Although I believe that the verbal expression of conflicting ideas is often healthy, I didn’t want these words on my wall today. I had allowed them to remain overnight, had acknowledged them, given time for discussion, but now I was putting away the post and commentary. 

Still, something continued to nag at me. I’ve been reading, reflecting, absorbing, weighing the news reports, videos, and editorial commentaries. Yet, although I am a teacher who daily moderates and facilitates classroom discussions on a wide variety of topics, until now I wasn’t feeling ready to speak on the latest venue of outrage over the killing of black men by the police. Do I have any responsibility to speak to this? What should I say if my students look to me for guidance? I pondered these questions awaiting the subject to come up in the classroom. Often my teenage students pull me into discussions on our world, something I feel is a natural extension of their learning, but this didn’t happen yesterday or today.

But I’m ready now. Reading the E.B. White quote above, I’m finally nodding. White’s words remind me of what I most need to continue to do. THIS is what I believe is my role. THIS is my responsibility. THIS is what I am. Although I sometimes stumble at the task, at the very heart of my core, I’m a clock winder-upper. 

I do have remarks to make which hopefully can soar far above this week’s news of the violence in Baltimore, the earthquake devastation in Nepal, or the unfathomable power of avalanche conditions at Mount Everest. And here they are: I wind the clock not only on Sunday mornings but every morning when I push aside the bed covers that keep me warm overnight, as I place my feet on the carpet of my bedroom floor. I wind the clock whenever I hold back tears that sting--over the difficulty of being part of lives, young and old, that struggle to understand our world--its pain and confusion, its intolerance, injustice, and ignorance. I wind the clock when apathy or diversion sets in to replace despondence and defeat. Each morning’s step out of bed is a pledge I make to hold onto hope. It doesn’t matter whether I am preparing for a school day with my teens in Gray, Maine or whether I am making my way downstairs to greet my 15 year old son who is on the sofa watching another series on Netflix, or whether I am preparing another post on Facebook. I wind the clock to contribute to order, to remain steadfast, to offer opportunities for lessons, to encourage perspective, to welcome conversation, to encourage understanding, to share the good, to strengthen, to fortify. 

My words, whether written or spoken, aren’t perfect. They are perfectly imperfect but tomorrow is another day. I wind the clock of hope. May this contagion spread.

Charting a Course

Original painting by artist Laurie Justus Pace | DailyPainters.com

Although I have continued to write in other venues, I haven’t posted to this personal blog for awhile. I suppose I’ve been staying safely on the dock, choosing not to venture into the water of what has always been a place where I’ve bared my soul. With the start of a new school semester beginning on Monday, I recently began prepping for the first day of my second Advanced Creative Writing class. Looking over some of my discussion points, my first day “pep talk” if you will, I realize it has been awhile since I’ve taken stock of my own relationship with writing authentically. I haven’t taken much time to write from the heart on personal matters lately. Of that I’ve been negligent. Today I’ve decided to end the hiatus. 

It’s not that I’ve been lazy. That’s for sure. As 2015 began I renewed my fitness goals and I am feeling more confident than ever that I can reach them. I go to the gym (an average of three times a week for 60-90 minutes) and have begun an event page on Facebook (10000 steps a day/100 miles a month) where several friends and I participate in posting daily fitness achievements. I do weekday and weekend challenges with friends using our Fitbits, AND I have joined a dietbetter.com challenge to lose 4% of my weight in 30 days. I am just 2.3 pounds away from winning my $30 back (if I can make my goal by next week...we'll see). I've been doing well to motivate myself and others and holding myself accountable to a daily calorie intake goal using myfitnesspal. This goal of weight loss and increased fitness helps strengthen my back, my overall body confidence level, and my emotional well being too. 

Emotional well being. Yes. How am I doing there? Well, I still miss my Dad (of course) and my Mom's life with Alzheimer's continues, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fill the hole of my parents being gone. Our relationship was incredibly beautiful, honest, loving, real. They were not only the best parents I could ever have hoped for, but they were also wonderful grandparents, so attentive and selflessly generous. I miss our talks. I miss their stories. I miss their wisdom. I miss how they rooted for me. I miss the fun and the laughter of our time together. But I honor both of them by accepting that life goes on. My siblings and I are tending to my Mom, and I know I've grown stronger and wiser and thus happier since the aftermath of June of 2013 when we lost Dad. I use all that my parents taught me by their example to be a good spouse, a good parent, a good person. I continue to use writing, reading, exercise, cooking/baking, music, my faith, and teaching to enrich my life and to provide me with purpose. My husband and our three kiddos continue to be very close and I'm secure in our love for one another. My time with them and my solo time working around the house, enjoying nature, and playing and cuddling with my sweet pets contributes to my overall well being. I have good friends and family members who are not only loving and supportive, but who are fun and make me laugh daily. I’m relaxed. I’m excited for the future. And I’m most grateful for my life.

Continuing with my fitness goals is very important to me. When I get to my goal weight and desired fitness level, if you’ll excuse the pun, I’m going to STEP in new directions. I’m going to learn how I can do better to support the efforts of others who want and need to lose weight for their physical and emotional well being. I'm going to try new sports and new fitness adventures. But I’ve also been thinking of other aspirations I have and how and when I want to work to achieve them. So, all in all, I think I now know how I can return to writing as this second semester begins with my new students. I’ll take time to write with my teens and to explore those non-fitness goals of mine. There are many.

I’m in such a good place right now. And yes, I have proof of that. I feel the proof each night as my head hits the pillow. Life is good. No days are perfect, of course, but I can now take in stride whatever unexpected wind blows in my direction. I adjust my sails accordingly. I no longer grapple the sides of the boat in fear. I no longer mourn the previously charted course. For me, it’s all about having the confidence in knowing who I am, what I am made of, and where I am going from here. 

Page 1

I love New Year’s Day. I love the idea of a fresh start. A new beginning. A blank page. Over the past several days I have enjoyed hearing everyone’s goals for the future and reflections on the past. I’ve had some nice conversations with my kids and my husband. I have read folks’ writings online and heard them talk on television. I even smile at the cynicism when some share that. I understand the tendency for all the reflection and resolution making to sound cliche. But for the most part, there’s such hopefulness as people look forward, and wisdom as people look back. I love being a part of all that.

I’ve been thinking of the past twelve months and looking ahead too. On January 1, 2014 I began a “One Line A Day” memory book. Set up like a five year diary that I once had when I was a child, the book invites me to pen a condensed recording of events each day. The small space to write reduces the pressure to write and after 365 days, I now have completed year one. Today I’ll begin at the start of the book again, for year two and I’ll be able to see what I was doing, thinking, or feeling the previous year on that date. For example, looking at the journal now I see that at the start of 2014 I had a bad cold, began reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, and due to snow we had three additional days of vacation, delaying school until January 7th. 

At the start of 2014, after hearing Father Sam talk at Mass, I adopted three words of inspiration: Courage. Faith. Perseverance. I thought of those words often throughout the year and as December came to a close, I’ve pawed through the pages of this journal book and I must acknowledge that those words served me well. I was definitely courageous this year. First and foremost, my biggest challenge was in pushing forward in a new year that for the first time in my life began without my Dad. I got my feet steady underneath me and held onto faith that all the changes in my life were making me stronger. I’ve persevered and have come to trust God’s timing like I never have done before. After struggling to settle my brain in the second half of 2013, I was able to relax and read more books than ever before in 2014, finishing 36 in twelve months’ time. I accepted a writing gig and was paid for sharing my thoughts! I listened to my instincts and quit the job a few months later, but not until I had earned enough to treat myself to a pretty yellow chair that now sits in my bedroom, serving as a reminder to myself that I will always find wondrous new opportunities when I seek them. 

2014 brought me to my firstborn’s graduation from college and her move to a new state.  It brought me back to the beach, at both the ocean and at a lake just 10 minutes from home. It brought me back to the dock at camp where again I learned that life goes on and that my parents’ absence is only physical. They are forever a part of me. 2014 brought my son to his first year of high school. It brought me a new puppy and another couple of “firsts” as I’ve never owned two dogs at the same time before and have never owned a small dog. The year brought me opportunities to do random acts of kindness which were so much fun. 2014 was the year I undertook documenting 100 days of happiness, 30 days of gratitude, and 10000 steps a day/100 miles a month. It brought me back to the gym, to counting steps with a Fitbit, and it led me to organize a supportive online fitness group too! The year brought me a new pixie cut, a new professional teaching blog, and the pride of seeing my first group of International Baccalaureate students successfully pass their English program. 

The year brought me continued unconditional love as my husband and I celebrated 26 years of marriage. It brought me many beautiful moments with my elderly Mom. It brought me more adventures with my three children and lots and lots of warm embraces. And more puppy snuggles too.

Over the past few days I have gone on several walks in my neighborhood. Some of those walks have taken place in the morning when the sky is bright. Others have been taken in the glow of the moon and the stars. With the children home for the holidays, in the midst of a full house, the walks have allowed me reflection time. And they have reminded me of the one thing that 2014 most brought to me. Peace.

I don’t know what 2015 will bring. I haven’t set any resolutions per se, and I haven’t selected any new guiding words of inspiration, but I do plan to continue in the direction I’m going. I’m feeling good. I’m happy. I’m excited for the future. I’ve got some things to work on but I’ve got confidence and patience to continue to trust in God’s timing. Whether you've taken time to reflect, set goals, or snicker at those of us who do, I wish you all the happiest of new years.  Happy page 1. 

Breakdown and Restart

This morning I walked into my classroom to find it colder than the hallway. After some chilly October days we’d all been delighted to have the heat come on, however, a few weeks later, something went wrong with my room's heating unit. A request was put in to get it fixed. I wore extra layers, drank hot cocoa, all in an attempt to adjust to the dropping temps. My students noticed the cooler air too but said, “It's chilly but it’s not TOO bad”. We were all being patient as we waited for some help to arrive. 

This morning, finding my room cold again, I walked down to the main office to calmly report the issue and the custodian wasted no time in coming up to fix it. He got the heat fan working and said he’d come back immediately to oil the mechanics of the darn thing if the gears seized up again. He's working on getting my heater a new motor. I thanked him. He said keeping the room warm would be his new priority today. He truly couldn’t have been nicer. 

But what I haven’t shared with you yet in this story is how, at 7:00am, feeling the cold air hit me as I walked into my room, I dissolved into tears. 

“I can’t do this", were the words that came out of my mouth, albeit in a hushed whisper. My tears may have been brought to the surface by some returning chilly temperatures, but this early morning heater breakdown had broken me. It revealed to me how sometimes, despite my attempts to patiently wait things out, or to adjust my sails in some rocky waters, I'm not as steadfast as I wish I could be. Are any of us consistently steadfast? Of course not, and that's okay. Like that old heater, I’ve been trying so hard to keep going, to keep my gears oiled with the completion of the tasks necessary for warmth--the running of my household and my five classes, but in my fatigue, I’ve stripped away my own gears. The busyness of my life has served me, but at what cost? Have I prolonged repair? What is the fix for my own motor?

May Sarton once said, "My own belief is that one regards oneself, if one is a serious writer, as an instrument for experiencing. Life--all of it--flows through this instrument and is distilled through it into works of art. How one lives as a private person is intimately bound into the work. And at some point, I believe, one has to stop holding back for fear of alienating...and come out with personal truth. If we are to understand the human condition, and if we are to accept ourselves in all complexity, self-doubt, extravagance of feeling, guilt, joy, the slow freeing of the self to its full capacity for action and creation, both as human being and as artist, we have to know..we have to be willing...(to write)". 

These words resonate with me. I've needed the distilling process that writing offers me and lately I've denied myself that. Perhaps I haven't wanted to admit how temporary and fragile all aspects of life can be. Perhaps I'm afraid others will read my writing and think me pessimistic or gloomy. Either way, I haven’t been accepting of myself...not fully. I need to stop waiting things out. I need to stop being so damn patient all the time. I need to be more forgiving of myself and I need to stop the constancy of distractions. 

So here’s a new pledge. When I feel the air chill, I’m going to do more than don an extra layer of clothing. It may have taken the breakdown of a heater to restart my own motor, but in any case it's time to free myself for the sake of full capacity. This girl is moving on. This girl is still going to do what's necessary to keep the gears running, but in the midst of this, come what may, she’s going to start writing again. 

Oh wait. She just did. 

My Cup Runneth Over

I am feeling a mix of emotions tonight as we prepare for our time at camp (my favorite place in the world). I'm also thinking back on this entire past year and where I was last July 15th...

My Dad had died one month earlier and I was in my hometown caring for my Mom for a two week stretch of time, my Mom's last two weeks in her home. We made only some day trips up to camp. I kept a journal, to preserve what we were sharing, and although I am grateful I recorded my days with her, I haven't had the courage to read my written entries. But I will...someday.

Tonight, Emma and I visited with my Mom in her new home---I recounted how Emma and I were caught in the rain this afternoon and Mom took my arms and exclaimed how cold they were before taking them both to warm in her hands. I stole a few extra hugs to last me a few weeks--hugging her is the same as it's always been--there is nothing in the world that can compare to a mother's embrace! I am so thankful that she is safe, content, and still so very sweet. My love for her...?! Well, my cup runneth over! I'm grateful that I've come so far in realizing and accepting that although she may not remember me as her daughter, or call me by name, the heart indeed has "muscle memory" and she lights up when she sees my face and she tells me, "I love you too" when I say it to her.

My time at camp will have me seeing and hearing both Mom and Dad at every turn. I will miss them there, just as I've missed them in other places---here in my own home, in the audience of performances--and at other locations and times. But I am so incredibly lucky to have had them both as parents and as wonderful grandparents for my three children. At camp I'll miss Dad's puttering and his pancakes and cribbage games and his taking us on the boat, pointing out all the various camps and visiting the boomhouse--and how I'd make him smile and laugh when I made fun of his skinny white legs after he finally found it warm enough to don shorts. I'll miss Mom telling me where to spot the loons she'd see on the water, and our talking about menus, the grandchildren, and the way we'd watch the weather coming at us from across the lake. I'll miss us all enjoying quiet evenings reading in our own books or occasionally playing a family board game all together at the kitchen table. I'll miss our goodnight hugs and kisses. I'll think about the special heart-to-heart talks Dad and I had on the dock and the way Mom scolded me just two summers ago when I unintentionally frightened her by coming in from kayaking past sunset. "Don't you ever do that again! I couldn't see you!"....I'll remember making them laugh by crawling in between them in their bed, decades after it was normal to do so, and I'll think of Dad telling me the stories of building the camp when Mom was expecting me. I'll miss seeing Dad return to Mom's recliner chair several times to kiss my Mom good morning after asking her, "Have I given you a kiss yet this morning?!" and hearing her giggle her answer, "No" or "Yes. And more...so much more...

So many memories. I was so SO loved...so very spoiled as some would say---I was so blessed to have had such a close relationship with my Mom and Dad for those 45+ years. And now, just as Dad said must happen, I'll go back to this beloved camp again with my husband and our children to continue the joy and the love of new memories in the making.

100 Happy Days

This morning I finished Kurt Vonnegut’s book, A Man Without A Country. I’m fascinated by Vonnegut, a man others have said was either the world’s most pessimistic optimist or most optimistic pessimist. I like Mr. Vonnegut’s story, Harrison Bergeron, a title I have my students read each year. I admire his wit, his honesty, his ferocious determination to work through the complexity of our human condition. In A Man Without a Country, I reread a passage I had heard the author speak of before in an interview I’d watched with my teens. Mr. Vonnegut spoke of his Uncle Alex whose principal complaint about other human beings was that they so seldom noticed it when they were happy. Vonnegut said that “one day when Uncle Alex and he were drinking lemonade under an apple tree in the summer, talking lazily about this and that, Uncle Alex suddenly interrupted and exclaimed, ‘If this isn’t nice. I don’t know what is’”. Vonnegut said he continued to do the same, to think that phrase from time to time, and got his kids and grandkids to do the same--to notice when they were happy and “to explain or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is’”. 

One hundred and one days ago I began a challenge I had learned about from Josh, a former student of mine. I’d scrolled through various pictures Josh had posted, pictures of delicious meals, projects accomplished, and places he’d explored. I loved his pictures for each one was capturing a positive reflection of his day. The photographs each had the same hashtag, #100happydays. Curious, I decided to Google this and I stumbled across the website, 100happydays.com, which boldly asked on its home page, “Can you be happy for 100 days in a row?” and then cleverly asked in a subtitle, “You don’t have time for this, right?”  The challenge issued was to snap a picture every day of something--a meet-up with a friend, a tasty meal, etc--that had made you happy. 

The webpage continues its hook by reminding that we live in times when “super-busy schedules have become something to boast about”. It suggests that we don’t stop to appreciate where we’re at in any particular moment and thus, we don’t recognize when we are happy. I was shocked at the site’s statistic that 71% of the people who tried to complete the challenge they were promoting would fail, quoting “lack of time as the main reason”. Do so many people truly believe they do not have time to be happy? I read of the benefits of successfully completing the challenge. People claimed to start noticing what makes them happy every day, were in better moods every day, were feeling lucky to have the life they have, and were becoming more optimistic. Some even claimed to have fallen in love during the challenge. So, yes. I was hooked. I chose two platforms to display my pictures--Instagram and Facebook--as was suggested by the web page to inspire others, and I began. 

On the first day of the challenge I snapped a picture of our dining room table, a maple shaker-style table which had been one of the first major purchases Eric and I had made back in 1992 when we moved into our new home. The table is full of scratches from twenty-two years of family dinners, school projects, the making of Valentine’s, pumpkin carvings, and Christmas present wrappings. The second day I posted a picture of my Dad’s Maine Maritime jacket that Paul had begun wearing. As the fourteen weeks passed, my pictures continued to document items, meals, people, experiences, books, unexpected gifts, notes, quotes, pets, memories, pictures, nature....you name it. 

Some days I found it hard to decide upon a particular picture to post. Either I’d had a rough day at school, a mundane day at home, or else I was feeling less than my best. But luckily, these days were far and few between. As the challenge continued, I often felt torn between various possibilities for the day’s post. There was an abundance of happy moments and reflections in my days! Was I just lucky or was this the result of my newly refreshed perspective? Either way, whether the day was blah or full of joy, the challenge accomplished its mission for me. I selected a particular moment and declared it as my days’ happy moments. 

As the 100 days came to an end, I received an unexpected surprise. Several people who had been following my posts over the last three and a half months wrote to me to express their appreciation of my “positive posts”. It seems that my daily pictures have been an inspiration for my friends and family. I’d begun the challenge thinking it was a good way to keep me focused on the joys of life, and it certainly was, but little did I think it would help others in their own perspectives of their days. I am humbled and yes, I am happy that this has been the result. 

Of course, even though the #100happydaysforanne challenge has come to an end, I am not so foolish as to believe that yesterday’s post was truly my last happy picture, or my last happy day. That’s ridiculous. But I do thank Josh for inspiring me to complete this challenge by sharing with me his own 100 happy days, and I thank those who have continued the rippling effect by beginning their own 100 happy days challenge, and I thank all the optimistic, hopeful, kind people in my life who continue to lift me up when my own wings get a little heavy and who will no doubt continue to inspire me to stand in the sun with great joy, peace, and love.

I told myself on the last day of the challenge, on the day I would post a picture of “Day 100”, that I would let the day come without any expectation of what I might have as my day’s post. As with any Sunday, we began the day getting up early, piling the three kids in the car, heading to St. Joseph’s Church, and singing with the choir. Sidenote: I had entered my pew unable to control my laughter after Emma and Paul and I had had a funny experience in the stairwell. So out of control, with tears rolling down my face, I actually had to whisper to my choir director that I was not crying but rather laughing! The Mass was beautiful with our choir singing an African song to honor our two priests from Nigeria, but as the final hymn began, I found myself getting choked up remembering my father singing “How Great Thou Art” in his signature voice. Emma touched my arm, fully aware of why I’d been unable to continue singing for a minute or two.  After church Eric and I drove over to visit with my beautiful Mom and I sat in the chair next to her, talking and giggling with her. After an hour or so, Eric and I drove to the ocean and spent a couple of hours at the beach. I started a book, Kurt Vonnegut’s A Man Without a Country, and I stopped to share several passages of the book with my husband. We then took in a movie, enjoying popcorn and MilkDuds, before driving home. I watched some tv with my daughter, waved to my other daughter as she left to meet a friend, and kissed my son goodnight before heading upstairs to read. My dog joined me in bed and after pausing to pull off my glasses, I fell asleep to the hum of the window fan.  The 100 happy days for Anne? These weren’t the first 100 days of their kind. They certainly won’t be the last. And so...

“If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is”.

Dear Nancy

Last July I received a letter from a woman who had come to see our LRCT performance of Gypsy on June 29th. Her name was Nancy. She wrote of loving the performance and of being "moved to send (me) fan mail". She spoke of living near Boston, vacationing in an old cottage in my Maine town, and how she'd grown up in New York City seeing Broadway shows in the '50s and '60s, including a 1959 Ethel Merman performance of Gypsy. She wrote "As soon as I saw you and heard you start to sing 'Some People', I new that everything was going to be fine! We have a good Rose!" She said she continued to be impressed with my command of the role, "every bit as persuasive as Ethel Merman's", and added that "in fact (she had) preferred the touch of vulnerability and tenderness" that I brought to the role. She called me "sensitive and stylish" in my depiction and said I'd put her in a "good mood for days" after seeing the show. 


It was clearly the most magnificent piece of fan mail I'd ever received. Wow.

I needed to write back to her, to tell her how very much her note had meant to me. Little did I know that it would take me nearly a year to respond. Shame on me. But the only way to attempt to make things right, is to apologize now and to make good on what should have been written last year. This letter will be mailed today, to a dear woman I've never met, but whose kind note lifted my spirits when I was missing my truest biggest fans of my lifetime, my Mom and Dad
.  

Dear Nancy, 

Please allow me to begin with an apology. I received your lovely note and donation to Lake Region Community Theater last summer. I then misplaced it all. It was tucked into a book I had been reading in July, one I did not open again for several months. Upon finding your letter, I sent the check off to our LRCT President, Janet VerPlank. It had been my intention to write back to you all along, but I failed to do so. I hope this note reaches you soon and that you’ll understand. 

I want to tell you what was going on with me and with the production of Gypsy last year. Rehearsals were in full swing and then our Gypsy Rose Lee fell ill. Although she returned to perform in the second weekend of shows, a last minute substitution was made and my daughter’s best friend, Savannah, stepped into the role with just a few days of practice. Savannah was remarkable--she is an intelligent and talented young woman and I am so very proud of her. She gave an incredible performance and it was a pleasure to be her Mama Rose on stage!

However, on the Saturday before opening night, our production was thrown another curveball that not many people in the audience were aware of. My father, an 85 years old, strong, intelligent, and industrious man, had a fatal heart attack. He had been caring for my 85 year old mother who has dementia. I was so very close to them both and I received the news of Dad’s death while at play practice that Saturday morning. My daughter Emma (who played my daughter June in the show) and I were devastated as were my husband and children Sydney and Paul.  

I went to my hometown immediately. On Monday night I returned for rehearsal. I then went back to sing at my Dad’s funeral on Thursday. I came to dress rehearsal that evening and the show opened the following night. The following Monday I was on my way to Rhode Island for Emma’s college orientation days. We returned in time to do our second weekend of Gypsy. 

My Dad and my Mom had long been my greatest fans. They came to every show of mine from childhood to adulthood. Their confidence and support of my passions always gave me the heart and determination to excel. My Dad had already expressed to me his sadness over not being able to make it to Emma’s high school graduation in early June and I knew it was unlikely he’d be able to attend our show two weeks later. I understood of course. But this was all on my mind. I thought I’d be seeing him in mid July at least. After June 15th, I was swimming in grief. 

But when it came time to perform, when I was in the lobby about to enter the auditorium for my first entrance, a little bird appeared in one of the classroom windows out in the hall. It fluttered its wings and I felt an enormous sense of peace wash over me. I was ready. Dad was indeed here to see the show. 

This role meant so very much to me and I gave it my all. To receive your beautiful letter out of the blue last July was an amazing gift. Thank you. I had worked hard to bring Rose to life in an authentic way. As a mother (who coincidentally has two performance loving daughters who majored in theater in college) and as a daughter who, unlike Rose, had a father who fully supported my every dream, I was determined to do right by the role. 

I now believe that my father’s death gave me the final bit of authenticity that I brought to the role. It may have taken me much too long to respond to your letter, but I think it has taken me this year to truly appreciate the grace God has bestowed on me, not only in the performance weekends of the show, but at all times, in all situations. 

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I humbly curtsy to your words. In my work as a high school English teacher (I’m finishing my 23rd of teaching this next week), I have asked my students to make time to write notes of kindness and gratitude. We need more of both in this world. I thank you for your kindness and gratitude and I hope my own expression of such to you is not too late. 

With Humble Gratitude, 

Anne