what lies ahead

heading into the holiday season, i spent several days pouring through photos (and if you know me, there are thousands) to find the perfect shot for our holiday cards. as i sifted through the archive, i found many images that pulled me in, but that i couldn’t use because they all had one thing in common: they were shots of my kids from behind—taken from the vantage point of a mom, hanging back a couple steps and watching as they plunged into whatever lay ahead.

running at full speed up the 150-foot sand dunes with tiny shovels in hand. standing with pant legs rolled up as waves devoured their delicious little toes. sprinting to find the perfect pumpkins. staring with awe into fish tanks and candy shops, holiday windows and bakery shelves. setting aside brotherly quarrels to walk hand in hand through the crunchy fall leaves and giant rain puddles.

you can’t see their faces, but you can sense their wonder, the gusto with which they plunge into new experiences. as parents, you watch with a mix of pride and perhaps a touch sadness as these little beings go out into the world to explore, to experience, to see, touch and taste, to learn to stand on their own.

you try to prepare them as best as you can. when you fall, brush it off. if you lose, congratulate the winner. if you hurt someone, say you’re sorry. all the rules of engagement and pithy life lessons make sense…in a world full of order.

and then something happens to remind you that sometimes you simply have no control. though it’s been two weeks since the sandy hook tragedy, the horror of that day is the worst case scenario, every parent’s most horrific nightmare come true. one day, we were worried about protecting our kids from skinned knees and scary dreams, bullies and bike falls…and now this?

for our kids—and even for ourselves—we don’t know what lies ahead. but what we do have is the ability to be present and grateful for each moment that we have.

that doesn’t mean it’s all rainbows and butterflies. in fact it’s the opposite. it’s hard to juggle life’s demands, be there for your family, keep your perspective and see the good. but try to remember, in those times, to hang back for bit. step away from the chaos. take a cue from the little ones and embrace the wonder of moments that happen every single day. you never know when they will be your last...

letting go

when you reach your mid-30's, you start to experience what i call "grown up" moments. times when you're struck by the blinding realization that the light, carefree days of your youth are over, and the constructs by which you live your life have changed.

buying a home. landing a job. having a baby. losing a parent. facing an illness.

when you experience these moments—whether good or bad—you are reminded that life can be heavy. lightness, optimism, invincibility give way to responsibility, uncertainty, fear...of the future, what comes next, and where it leaves you.

my recent "grown up" moment happened on a trip home to visit my parents. after living in and taking care of our house, alone, for six years after my mom's passing, my dad informed us that he was ready to sell the house. the house that he and my mom built from the ground up. the house that embodied who they were as people—warm, casual, welcoming, and most often the centering point for both friends and family. the house that i spent 26 years calling "home."

rationally, i completely supported the move. too big to maintain, too full of clutter, and too much of the past to allow my dad to fully move on. he needed—and deserved—a clean break.

but it was strange that this would be my first time "home" since he had moved all the furniture out of the house. how would i feel? sad? betrayed? empty?

teary-eyed throughout the weekend thinking of this monumental change—of letting go of something that was so much a part of my connection to my mom—i dreaded stepping through the door.

"ok, brace yourself."

i took a deep breath. when i walked in, i felt...shockingly...nothing. the a/c was off. the air was dank. the rooms were empty. there were dust bunnies strewn across the floor.

this lack of emotion wasn't stoicism, an unconscious barrier that my psyche constructed to protect me from the trauma. instead, it was the discovery that this house was no longer "my home."

my parents had picked out every brick, every tile—and each texture was seared into my brain. i looked around and could remember vividly the times spent in each room.

the large blue family room: friends and cousins crashed out on the couch, only to be awakened by my dad, clanging pots and pans while drumming up a delicious breakfast. my brother, banging out off-kilter melodies on the piano while i tried to watch soaps. the room packed to the gills with family members belting out christmas carols before opening presents at midnight.

the kitchen: filled with songs and aromas and good old home cooking sprinkled with secret ingredients that only my dad knew. never clean enough for my mom, who would get down on hands and knees to wipe away the oil splatters surrounding the kitchen stove. untold hours spent, knives in hand, peeling, dicing, marinating, gossiping—until we all sat down to share the meal.

outside: the garden lush with vibrant fruits and vegetables, sunny flowers surrounding the entire perimeter, and my dad outside watering, perspiring, but always with a smile on his face. and our sweet, fluffy, loyal, ever-grateful-to-be-rescued dog, "penny patawaran," following behind my dad in complete contentment.

upstairs: hilarious memories of screaming matches and doors slamming as my brother and i duked it out during angst-ridden teenage years. hiding under my bed with my cousins (all 5 of us) when our alarm accidentally went off, armed with kitchen utensils, preparing to meet our doom. laying in bed and wondering where and how we'd end up someday.

and here i was saying goodbye to this house. so why did it feel so natural? my "grown up" revelation was this: try as we might to hold onto things—especially physical ones—so tangible, in our sight, in our grasp—they aren't where meaning lies. the memories reside in our heads, in our hearts. they stay with us long after we say goodbye to the physical.

we can't prevent circumstances from changing. we all must move on. move forward. but things like "home"—they're not a place in the physical sense, but rather a place within—that anchors us, gives a sense of history, makes us who we are.

...before we left, we took one last walk around the yard. as we stood there, taking it all in, a striking blue butterfly fluttered by our heads. she landed on a branch of evergreen, and even when we moved close to snap some pictures, she didn't move. she just sat there, perched in the tree, as still as can be.

when i think about home, i realize it's not about letting go at all. it's about clinging to and cherishing that place.

giddy up

i'm always amazed at how resilient human beings can be. just over a year ago, we were dealing with massive water damage to our condo, i was 9 months pregnant and literally staying in random hotel rooms while contractors scrambled to put up the new drywall in our place before i got home from the delivering the baby. on the work front, budgets were nonexistent due to the economic implosion and i was uninspired, frustrated at my inability to actually accomplish much of anything.

whenever i'd tell friends about my plight, i'd get the same response.

"oh i'm so sorry. that sounds terrible. i can't imagine how you're even dealing with all that. if you ever need any help..."

their sympathy was heartfelt and sincere, but for the most part, they were personal struggles that couldn't really be solved by external intervention. there were tears, times when i just wanted to curl up into a ball in fetal position and start rocking...

but more often than not, i didn't. i just kept going, thinking about the new life i was about to bring into the world, beaming with pride at every accomplishment my amazing 6 year old achieved (and if you know him, there were many, daily), swallowing my pride and accepting the help of family (my generous-beyond-words brother, dad, step mom and friends), and just believing that "this too shall pass."

and now, only a year later, i find myself marveling at how lucky i am. a family that humbles and inspires me daily.  amazing kids, a husband who is a rock of support, and friends who make me belly laugh and who i know have my back. business is booming at work and i have a renewed sense of energy and inspiration about the opportunities in life and work.

and the transition from lowest low to highest height happened in the course of a single year. maybe i started this blog because i reached the tipping point—where gratitude outweighed the feeling of being overwhelmed by life and the periodic "sh*t sandwiches" i'd been served.

in fact, i see it happening all the time. inspiring people that i know who, when faced with pain, a loss, a challenge, get back up on the horse with their head held high and ride it out. when they've lost someone special, they run, they walk, they form deeper relationships with those who remain, to honor their loved one. when they fall down, they discover an unexpected hand to help them up. when they hit an obstacle, they realize later that that blockade actually opened up a door to another path entirely. when they are silent and still, they find their voice.

all of you inspire me with your courage, strength, support and resilience.

"giddy up!"

best laid plans

when my husband and i first started dating, part of my induction into his "world" was an obligatory trip to sleeping bear dunes. if you haven't been there, it's on the northwest coast of michigan, a 450 ft sand dune, pristine, beautiful, surrounded by the turquoise waters of big and little glen lake. never having been to anywhere in michigan but detroit and flint before this trip, i was stunned by the natural beauty, the fresh, crisp air, and the fact that this little gem was in the midwest of all places.

after we raced up the hill that first time (i won!), it became our habit to, whenever we were in the area, make the trek up the sand dune, to stop. breathe in the air.  soak up the view. and come down a little more renewed than when we came.

so when we had our first child, this was one of those "must do's" on our list of things we loved, that we had to share with him—an induction into our family rituals and the places that we hold dear.

we had brought him to the dunes once before, only then he was still an infant, strapped in a baby bjorn and not quite cognizant of the magnitude of what he was experiencing. a hint: he giggled just as much at the top of the hill as on the car ride watching baby einstein...

but this time it was going to be different. he was 2 1/2, walking (so therefore fully equipped to feel the sensation of sand between his toes), joyful, energetic and ready to go. i had my camera fired up. batteries charged. shot list in my head. this was going to be a perfect day sharing one of our favorite places, "the world's biggest sandbox," with our little boy.

when we got to the dunes, the sun was beaming. beautiful...but hot. we hiked up the hill, breathing heavy, cheeks flushed, amazed that he made it all the way up. we spent a couple minutes taking it all in, and then it was time for the photo shoot.

only by then, mr. photogenic had lost his energy. he was hot. he was distracted. in the famous words of jerry lundegaard from fargo, "he was NOT cooperating, see"...and the sun continued to beat down. i'd ask him to smile, he'd pout. i'd call his name, his lower lip would jut out further. out of 50 shots, probably 5 were usable...and, with sweat rolling down my brow, i was a majorly unhappy camper.

and then it hit me. literally hit me...some sand kicked up by a gaggle of kids running full-speed down the massive hill. they were laughing, panting, squealing with delight, with each giant step of their descent.

i looked at my little boy and i knew what i had to do. i shut the camera off. strapped it over my neck. grabbed his hand tightly. 

"are you ready?"

"yeah!" [squeal]

and we took off down the hill—leaving my expectations, our projected feelings about the import of the moment, and my incomplete shot list, in the dust. at the bottom of the hill, his reaction said it all. he squeezed me as hard as he could.

"again mommy, again!"

sometimes we get so caught up in our plans. how we're going to control every aspect of a situation: a party, an event, a presentation, a relationship, a photo shoot(!)—that we forget what's most important. sure planning is good, even necessary, but sometimes circumstances won't "cooperate." at a certain point, you just have to let go. be in the moment. stop. breathe in the air.  soak up the view. and come down a little more renewed than when you came.