It's Time

As a Mom with three children, all at different ages and stages in their lives, there is a constant reminder of my need to “let go”. The degree and circumstances of releasing my hold on each of them, however is varied. My eldest turned 21 in January, a milestone age in and of itself, and as she finishes her third year of college, she is busy looking for summer employment. Internships across the country, possible apartment searches, and budgeting realities face her now. It’s all very exciting for her. I am happy for her too, yet I catch myself saying, “Of course if you live here this summer, you’d be saving more money”. Then my husband chimes in, “Anne. Where were you when you were 21? Weren’t you married?” Sydney adds her two cents: “Mom wants me home this summer but keeps saying that after graduation I’d better be prepared to work at a job, move out on my own, and learn to become independent. Hmm...” Okay. Points taken. Go where you want, Syd. Do what you want to do. I’ll continue to work at letting go. It’s time.

The 17 year old is a senior. She has heard back from five of seven colleges and is waiting for news from another two. Her father and I have accompanied her to auditions, have listened to application essays, and have felt butterflies in our own stomachs as she tears open envelopes from various schools. For weeks she has weighed the pros and cons of going to a school that will require a plane ticket or the sacrifice of an entire day driving north to south. I am proud of the contemplating she has done. She’s mature, responsible, insightful. I’m torn in my thinking of where I think she should go. I have a say since I’m helping to foot the bill, but I’m reminding myself to allow her to make the decision for her own future. I envision the possibilities of where she’ll be in just six months’ time. Go where you want, Emma. Do what you want to do. I’ll continue to work at letting go. It’s time.

My youngest, at 13, is growing up too. Sure, I have him for another five years, but letting go so as to have him learn, to work from his own conscience, wants and needs, is also a challenge. Do I say yes or no to some of his questions or do I let him make a decision on his own after I put forth different options and perspectives? When do I exercise my own rightful responsibility to decide for him, and when is deciding for him the kinder thing to do for him? After all, if Mom is the bad guy, it relieves his own teenage stress and pressure with his peers. So, Paul. Sometimes I’ll let you go where you want and do what you want to do. But don’t think this will happen every day. Because we’re not there yet. It’s not quite time.

It’s time. It’s not quite time. What IS this thing called time? For the past few nights I have been reading Mitch Albom’s book, The Time Keeper. The tale of the first time keeper and the dangers of wanting to control time make for an interesting story, but the invitation for readers to reconsider our own notions of time and to appreciate how precious time is apparent. Reading the book has reminded me of an important universality. Like everyone else, I cannot, should not grow obsessed with hours, days, weeks, months, and years. I cannot allow sorrow over lost time to become a permanent hole in my heart. I cannot wish for more time, cannot fret over inefficient days or worry constantly over how much longer I have to be with my loved ones. Because counting life’s moments leads to counting them down. Instead, I need to mark stages of my life differently, by looking back and looking forward with joy and with faith that everything is as it should be.

My hesitancy to let go of my children will not dissolve completely. It never will. It never should. But I will enjoy watching each of my children grow in the new experiences that come to them. And I will always be here when they look over their shoulders to catch my eye. Yes, I’ll be watching, even as they practice their own lessons in letting go.

Secret Benefactors

In this fast paced society it is easy to lose track of the important things, to set aside long held personal beliefs or goals for our purposes, thinking we don’t have time. We even, at times, neglect people around us. There is so much clutter in our lives that it is often hard to concentrate on anything else. Daily life routines begin to control our lives before we realize it. Constantly stressing over school work, dating relationships, mistakes made with friendships or with family members, commitments to a job, chores, or extra-curricular activities creates anxiety and turns our perspective inward. If we’re not careful, we can forget who we truly are and/or who we want to be: caring, selfless, giving, generous men and women who not only feel for other people, but who work to make this world a better place. If we’re not diligent and vigilant, our personalities might even transform into those which are not our own and we then can become frustrated with school, with people, with life.


As I walk the halls at school where I teach, I observe the interactions of a variety of people. Too many young people are insecure and develop many misconceptions about their peers. Some attempt to form opinions on those around them without enough real insight of who that person truly is. Most forget that others have issues outside. And note, I am not only talking about the teens I see in the hallways, but the adults as well. We’re all human after all. It takes effort to not be consumed with our own burdens, our own “clutter”, our own issues. But it is not only noble to stop and think of our fellow man, it is essential.


Several weeks ago, I introduced a task to my Honors Freshmen English class. We were reading Charles Dickens’ novel, Great Expectations. Students had reached the part of the classic book where poor Pip, a young boy being raised by an abusive older sister had just been told he has a secret benefactor, someone who will make a huge difference in Pip’s future by lifting him from his home and having him educated to live as a gentleman. I invited students to become “secret benefactors” to one of their English class peers. I randomly selected someone for each student to “take care of” in the form of supportive “presents”. The presents were to be of minimum cost or handmade--a pack of gum, a granola bar, a note with a bright and cheerful message, a funny picture or cartoon. Their benefactor identities were to remain in the strictest of confidences.

I served as “Jaggers”, the observant lawyer in the novel who is the middle-man for Pip’s benefactor, the one who doles out Pip’s allowance until the time when the benefactor’s identity is revealed to Pip. For two weeks prior to February vacation and for two weeks after, students came in with gifts for their assigned peer. Sneaking up to my desk and quietly whispering the name of the recipient as they passed the pop tarts, hand lotions, jelly beans, colorful signs, and homemade cookies behind their backs into my waiting hands, the four weeks of “giving” made for amusing class beginnings each day. I asked everyone to abide by the rules Pip had been given in the novel. Keeping the secret of who was whose benefactor was key. Students were not to make any inquiries or to speculate on who their benefactors might be. I asked everyone to be as discreet as possible.

Was this class of thirteen 14-15 year olds to be successful in this challenge? Were students lifted by the attention of their benefactors? Did people enjoy the chance to give presents to a random peer? Did students recognize the opportunity they were given to practice selfless generosity and did they take any time to reflect on the bigger picture of what this experiment was all about?

I hope so. I’ll get back to you on this. The experiment is not yet complete. At the end of the four weeks of giving on Friday, March 8th, I will tell students it is now time to reveal their identity as the secret benefactor they each have been to one of their classmates. Just as Magwitch the convict revealed himself to Pip, students will now have the chance to talk with the one to whom they have given gifts to. The students then will be asked to craft an essay discussing and describing the experience they’ve had in being both a benefactor and recipient of another benefactor’s generosity. I hope that students will believe that this exercise and their gift giving was designed to be a well-placed reminder of our purpose as human beings—to befriend each other, and to share our kindness generously. Most of all, I hope that as we all continue our walks down the halls of our school, that we’ll work harder to set aside the clutter and personal anxieties to extend a hand to the human beings who walk the halls with us each day.

The Love Remains

Last Thursday night, my daughter Emma and I made our way to North Carolina for an audition scheduled at Elon University on Friday. Hoping for acceptance into the BFA program in musical theater, Emma prepared a monologue and two contrasting songs and participated in a dance routine taught on the spot. The parents accompanying children to this audition spent the day in the performing arts building, sitting either on the floor of the lobby or in chairs in a carpeted waiting room. It was a long day but like many of the parents, I was my child's cheerleader and food/drink gatherer, so I stayed close. I did some reading, surfed the web, and struck up conversations with other parents. The day went well and, although busy for Emma, I was content to have hours of downtime. But it was a long day and my back was growing weary of the makeshift spot I'd secured on the carpet at the back of the waiting area. 

Emma returned from the final portion of her audition day. Suddenly my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen and saw my father's name flashing. "It's my Dad", I explained to those I was speaking with at the time. I quickly left the room to find a spot in the hallway. I clicked "Accept". 

"Hi Dad". 

Dad had called to check in with me. He asked about Emma's audition but more pointedly, he'd called to make sure his "girls" were okay. What a sweet father I have! We were traveling alone and admittedly, neither of us are overly experienced travelers. In fact, this had been my daughter's first airplane ride. And so, with a blizzard raging in the Northeast, I explained to my father how our flight home was canceled. Our stay in North Carolina would be extended another day and Emma and I planned to go shopping and to enjoy the sunny warmer weather. "Make the most of it. Soak in that sun", my Dad said. Over the few days we were there, my 85 year old Dad called three times to check in on my daughter and I. Each call to my cell phone made me smile.

And yet, with each call, I thought of my Mom. I wondered what she was doing and what Dad was sharing with her as he got off the phone each time. Was she confused by our trip or did she need review of why my daughter and I were traveling alone in the middle of winter? I thought of how in past years I'd have called home full of stories of each leg of our journey, describing the people met, the sights seen, the conversations held. My daughter and I were having an amazing time with one another, an adventure full of easy laughter and silliness but with heart-to-heart talks too. The intimacy of travel is beautiful and our time together reminded me of all the good times I'd had with my own mother when we'd travel with my Dad. We had traveled to Florida and to Bermuda, to Texas and to Washington DC. We'd also spent a week in Finland and a week in Stockholm, Sweden. Those are travels that I will never forget, and yet sadly, my Mom can't recall those trips anymore. 

I want to write about our trip to North Carolina: the way Emma and I grabbed one each other's hand as our plane lifted off the runway, the way we oohed and ah-ed as we pressed our noses to the plane windows to see the lights of New York City, the shared navigation from one spot to another in our sharp red car which we nick-named Taylor Swift, our talks on campus, our adventures dining at the hotel with the handsome but clumsy waiter, the note slipped under our door that made us laugh, our shopping trips, and our room service dessert menu indulgence. I want to secure every detail, capture every moment, and perhaps I will return soon to this blog to document more of what was a beautifully significant trip with Emma, but today I'm feeling tender. Life feels tender. I am hit more with an urgency to declare my love for my daughter and our relationship than to sketch out each little detail of our few days in North Carolina.  

And BAM! There it is. As much as I want to remember the details of our trip together, the memories may surely fade. But what will not disappear is the love. The love will remain. Always. That's what I need to hold onto. I need to let go of fear that I, too, may someday be unable to recall my past. I need to remind myself that "the love remains", always, as I go to embrace my Mom and my Dad on our trip north next week.

"We write to taste life twice", Anais Nin wrote, "in the moment and in retrospection". It is through writing that I work to let go of any fears of what the future may hold. 

I first came upon these words of Anais Nin when I was finishing Sue Monk Kidd's book, Traveling with Pomegranates, a travelogue/memoir book Kidd wrote with her daughter Ann. It is a book I turn to often, despite having finished the book in 2011. Another new favorite quote of mine is a quote by George Sand, "The old woman I shall become will be quite different from the woman I am now. Another I is beginning". The quote is shared as Sue recalls seeing Picasso's Girl Before a Mirror at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. She writes, 

         "It portrays a young woman, haloed in light, gazing into an oval mirror. Her pink, 
          unblemished profile merges with a frontal view of her face that's painted in bright 
          yellow and shaped like a crescent moon. But the mirror is a wrinkle in time, and the 
          image staring back at her reveals the young woman not as she is, but how she will one 
         day be. The woman in the glass appears old and dark, her face shaded in violet and red, 
         her eyes grown hollow, her body beginning to shrink".

Sue and her daughter Ann discuss the artwork, sharing their ideas on what it all means and how the painting reminds Sue of a photograph taken of her own mother on her wedding day. The bride's mother was standing at her shoulder when the picture was taken and the mirror captures the old woman looking into the mirror and seeing the young woman's face. 

Like Sue Monk Kidd, I've returned from a travel adventure with my daughter, and I, too, am moved by the thought of my daughter someday becoming an adult and a mother herself. Emma too will someday travel with her own child, seeing her own reflection and that of her child's caught in the mirror or perhaps, following in my footsteps, in writing. So what would this older woman like to preserve more than the details of each trip taken with her children? Just in case, someday soon, "Another I is beginning"?

Dear Emma (and Sydney and Paul): It's not about the details of the journey, as fun as they are to recall. It's about the love. I'll be there to check in on you as you travel away from home, but if I don't, if I should someday forget to call or even know that you are away, please remember that the love remains. It never fades. Make the most of life. Soak in the sun. Hold on to the love, for it is love that will sustain us on every journey we have before us.  --Mom

The Dam Will Break...but not today.

Today began with cuddles and laughter, a beautiful scene to start the morning. Two teenage children crawling into bed with their parents, laughing as we crank called their grandfather and sent silly messages to their sister at college. Fun with an I-Phone 101. These are moments of true joy. I treasure them.

We finally pushed ourselves out of bed to get ready to go to church. Being at Mass gave me moments of peace and reflection. I drifted off a few times, got thinking about friends and family when Father Joseph said one thing or another that resonated with me but I pulled back to sing and recite prayers. After Mass we went grocery shopping and upon our arrival home, remembering it was the 13th, I called my parents to wish them a happy anniversary. I made Mom laugh at one point. It’s always good to hear her laugh.

Hanging up the phone, I then went downstairs to make lunch. An afternoon of football for the family was in store as Emma’s boyfriend came over to hang out along with my brother-in-law too. I prepared snacks, watched a little television, and neglected school and house work I ought to have gotten done.

But despite it being a “good day”, as night fell I knew I’d spent yet another day dismissing my feelings. All week I have felt this heaviness on my heart, but I haven’t been able to shake it. I’ve cast aside moments of sadness by focusing upon others and by acknowledging the positives. I’ve adopted fresher perspectives when I begin to sink. I have worked out at the gym, turned the television on, set the volume higher on my ipod, laughed harder, talked faster... I’ve kept either my body or my mind or both constantly moving. But the heart has had enough. It’s demanding attention. And I’m still not able to give it the attention it needs.

I’ve let just a few tears fall tonight and I’ve turned here to write but I’m still holding back. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow and the next day and the next. If I lose control now I fear it’ll take me some time to recover, and I don’t have that time right now. So, I’m just going to wipe these tears tonight, tell myself to take a deep breath, and make myself go to sleep so I can get up early and start my day tomorrow. It’s going to have to be this way for awhile. I’ll get up, dress prettily, head to work, keep myself smiling, focus on responsibilities there, and tend to my children at the end of the day. Rinse. Repeat.

But one of these days I’m pretty sure the wall is going to come down. The dam will break. This I know. Because letting go is hard, but sometimes holding on is harder.

A Knocking

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion whose horrid image doth unfix my hair and make my seated heart knock at my ribs, against the use of nature? Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.   (Shakespeare’s Macbeth I-iii)

There’s been a knocking at my ribs. I could easily point to the amount of cleaning, shopping, wrapping, baking, entertaining I’ve done, but that would not be an honest explanation of why I haven’t been writing. The truth is, I’ve been afraid to. I have struggled with the honesty of writing.

Eleven days before Christmas a troubled youth killed 26 people at an elementary school in Connecticut, mostly children. I saw the news blurb pop up on my Yahoo page at the end of the school day and later as I sat sharing some pre-shopping appetizers with Eric at a restaurant, I heard more on television. The pictures of the little angels and their protective teachers which hit the airwaves over the next couple of days were mixed with debates on gun control, mental illness, and school security. I returned to work at my own high school just two and a half days later barraged with school notices, meetings, and discussions so sadly troubling to be faced with at this holy time of the year.

Through it all, I’ve felt myself putting on armor, shielding myself with insistence that the evil found in this world does not compare to the goodness of humanity. The stories of conflict, pain, and suffering are those the world focuses more upon. People are drawn to the horrors in life and are much too complacent and unappreciative of the beauties and joys to be found in our world. This I tell myself, all the while grieving for the loss of innocence...all the while, demanding that I hang onto hope and faith that I am not as naive as I sound.

Writing gives me a choice, to wallow or to find whatever sliver of goodness I can find. And maybe that’s why I haven’t taken time to write. I’ve been afraid I’ll only wallow. Because, truth be told, I could do that quite easily. I feel deeply and I’m a strange mix of confidence and insecurity. Perhaps you’ve noticed.

My Mom-in-law died a month ago. I’ve thought of her every day, each time I pass the pool float in the garage or open a drawer and see my bathing suit. I won’t sit next to her at her backyard pool next summer. I thought of her when I was out shopping for Christmas. I saw things I thought she might like and then realized I couldn’t buy them for her any longer. I made crabmeat rollups for our Christmas Eve buffet and thought of how she’d enjoyed those, and prepared our favorite needham candies knowing there’d be no playful fighting over how many she would go home with at the end of the evening.  In watching my own parents age, half way through their 80s, I never really thought I’d be saying goodbye to Barbara at the age of 67.

My Dad’s sister, my Aunt Vera also died a few weeks ago. She was 80. She always reminded me of my Gram who died when I was 17. I gave a lot of thought to how she’d been the only girl with several brothers in her family and I smiled with tears remembering how much I had enjoyed my aunt over the years. I may only have had four visits with her--at ages 8, 17, 18, and 29 but she’d touched my life in an honest way. Seeing this matriarch die so soon after another prompted me to realize my own role with my daughters and nieces, son and nephews, teen students at school, and former students I am blessed to have in my life now, months or years after they’ve left my classroom. It’s a daunting thought to think I’m being placed in that role now, that I’m quickly becoming one of the oldest women in the family, but I suppose it’s true.

I know that I’ll forever have help as I make my way through this uncertain world. I am lovingly supported by my family and friends. But I’m talking about another. God was with me when my Mom answered the phone the other day, when I closed my eyes and embraced her voice and her happy laugh. God was with me when Dad called to share with me their happiness and appreciation for the little box of cookies I sent to them after they could not make it down for Christmas. God was with me that evening when Sharon, my dear friend from college, a friend I’d regrettably lost touch with a few years ago, called me to reconnect. God is with me now as I clumsily return to the blank page, filling it with sputtered words of emotion seeking rationale, insight, and wisdom. He is one who set up these three very important, unexpected phone calls for me this month. Three calls, each of which strengthened me and returned to me the energy and the needed reminders of who I am and how I will make my way through this life.

The words are on the page. The writing may need reorganization and revision, but the honesty has fought its way to the surface. The knocking at my ribs has quieted.

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.  Rev 3:20

Lights of Beauty and Peace

In the past 14 days I’ve grabbed tightly to minutes, if not hours, when everything seems to be perfect, or as perfect as I would want it all to be. It did not take loss to open my eyes to life’s precious moments, as I have always taken a step back to see the world in its most extraordinary being, instances when beauty and peace intertwine and make me catch my breath, however since the death of my mother-in-law two weeks ago, my sensitivity has been greatly heightened.

This happened Saturday when we did nothing that took us from the house. Having gone out to dinner as a family the night before, we took time to sleep in and watched television together in the morning. In the afternoon I cooked some soup and my husband built Emma and I a fire in the living room so we could reach cuddled up together on the couch. It was a simple and peaceful day. Perfection. And yesterday afternoon, as my husband and I got home from work together, it happened again. All in the midst of hanging our outdoor Christmas lights.

I’d bought a new strand of pretty white lights a day or two before. I thought of how they might look pretty tracing the two little trees near my adirondack chairs in the back yard. I started stringing the lights while Eric worked to clear the back deck of its summer furniture. The dog happily ran in and out of the woods chasing a soccer ball. The sun set and, in the near darkness, it began to snow. I can’t possibly recreate every little piece of the scene that unfolded next, but it included laughing with Eric as I convinced him to stand in a certain spot under a tree branch so I could throw a spindle of lights to him after catching some on a tree. It included that puppy being most excited to have her masters outside throwing the deflated soccer ball for her, over and over again. It included untangling several strings of lights and not minding at all when I anticipated my husband’s words, “I’m glad we’re doing this together”.

The air grew chilly and I pulled my hat down over my ears. I heard the rustling of the leaves as they began to dance in whirlwinds. I saw the glow of those big old-fashioned bulbs adorning the garage and front shrubs, and after we headed back inside, I smelled the roast chicken I had popped in the oven before our decorating work had begun.

Fifteen minutes after we had gone inside ourselves, our children returned home together after a basketball game.  Each had seen our afternoon’s work of course and had noticed the new set of lights I had placed in the backyard. In his teasing way, Paul came into the kitchen and pointing at the backyard said, “Hey! What’s this?! That’s new!” My daughter added, “We stopped on the driveway and looked at everything before we drove all the way up”.

I imagined the two of them pausing, sitting in the car together in the driveway, taking in the glow of the lights side by side, and I smiled. For they too take time to step back to see instances of beauty and peace, especially when it is in their own own backyard.

The Weight of Grief

I have had a full morning with my teenage students. In our five hours together, one block of teens and I discussed the concept of “economy” when writing a story, and they practiced crafting a two-voice poem with a partner. The exercise was enjoyed by most in the Creative Writing class, evidenced by the laughing as pairs brainstormed topics and gently ribbed one another’s use of language. “A dog wouldn’t say THAT!”, one young man said, teasing his friend. In the second block of my morning, my International Baccalaureate English students happily arranged their seats in a circle, anticipating our return to Shakespeare’s Macbeth. The close-knit group of ten have taken parts in the drama, and my enthusiasm for the characters and the storyline, not to mention my insistence that they “talk like witches” when the Weird Sisters appear, has eliminated any worries they might have had with when first reciting iambic pentameter. The hot topic of the day was Lady Macbeth’s manipulation of her husband and her coercion to have him kill King Duncan in his sleep. Several boys in the class began calling Macbeth “whipped”, while others, girls and guys, simply dropped their jaws at his wife’s evil nature. “She said she would do WHAT to a baby she was breast-feeding?!”

And finally, in my final morning class, my twelve Horrific Tales students reading The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, jumped online to take Jung’s Typology Test, a 72 forced-answer personality quiz which when submitted, instantly placed students in one of sixteen different personality types. Students eagerly read articles listing qualities of their dispositions and providing the names of celebrities or historians or fictional characters who share their typology. Remarkably, the entire class tested as introverts, and we all discussed what it is like to be introverted. Everyone nodded and smiled at the discussion of how we introverts tire easily when placed in social situations, and then we took time to discuss how our “duality” of positive and negative characteristics can be compared to the psychology within the characters of Dr. Jekyll and the abominable Mr. Hyde. The students will draw self-portraits this week in an attempt to capture their own understood duality as we continue exploring the novel’s themes.

I went to lunch after these three blocks. I sat down at the teacher’s room lunch table. I had survived my day and would have only my prep period after lunch, a time when I would attempt to update grades online and plan for the lessons of the next day. But as one of my colleagues sat down to join me, I found myself apologizing for being poor company. “I could take a nap right now”, I said. And that’s when I realized how exhausted I really am. I am surviving, perhaps even thriving in my day-to-day teaching...I love it so, but I am weary. I had a decent weekend, spent time with my husband and the children, had a little fun and managed to get in some exercise, reading, baking, and holiday decorating. I even took a short nap! But hanging over me is this oppressive cloud, this feeling that I could easily hit the pillow and sleep for several days’ straight. It is the exhaustion of grief. My body is telling me what my head and my heart are trying to keep in check.

I think I am doing fine, moving on, accepting the losses, looking ahead, but my body knows differently. It knows that this is nothing so easily or quickly overcome. And so I give in. I rest my head on my hand at my teacher desk and I close my eyes for a few minutes. Breathe in...Breathe out. I plan to exercise some of the stress away after school when I take to the gym. I vow to get to bed earlier tonight. And I tell myself it is okay not to be super-teacher for the rest of the day...or even tomorrow. The heaviness will lift in time. But that day isn’t today, and that’s alright. I’m in the game. I’m putting one foot in front of the other. I am with people, beautiful, honest teenagers, and I am laughing and smiling with them every hour. I still love life, even if it tires me. That’s enough for now.