Stuff I learned MC-ing

This past weekend, a friend of mine asked me to MC at a local comedy club. If you know me, you know I love good comedy. I'm fascinated by what makes us laugh and what makes us think. I think comics are the social satirists of our day and they can make us laugh at ourselves, at our world and at each other. I think when you can laugh at something, you aren't as afraid of it. At least that is true for me.

I learned more in those three shows than years of speaking and hours of classes could have taught me. I'm grateful for the experience. Though I doubt I'll ever make a living in a comedy club, it was a wonderful way to push past some fears. When you're done learning, you're really done living.

Here's what I learned:

a - MC-ing is a lot harder than it looks.
b - Comics are the best teachers and most are more than happy to help in knowing what to do.
c - MC's are not suppose to be funny, they are suppose to keep the show moving and highlight the performers. The show is not about MC's it is about the performers, the real comics who make their living making others laugh. (Luckily, I was so afraid, I didn't have this problem. I wanted to get off that stage about as quickly as possible).
d - Practice the names of the performers many times so you don't forget it mid-sentence (yeah, I did that. Sorry Brian!)
e - Make sure you say the performers name at the end of the intro, not at first (yeah, I did that, too).
f - Dress credibly.
g - be willing to laugh at yourself (did this A LOT!!!)
h - be open for critique.
i - Respect the crowd
j - Respect the comics
k - College Football, in this town, still rules. I was proud of the owner who refused to cancel a show because football fans wanted to watch big screen.
l - mostly, I learned how much I have to learn.

Thanks Sam, Gaines, Brian, Marc, Robert very much for the chance to learn.

I Remember You

Too many of my generation grew up fatherless. Too many of us have those memories of holidays and special events being just another reminder that our families were wracked, torn apart, broken.

But a few of us got lucky. We found someone that stepped into an empty hole left by somone else and while they did not seek to fill the void, they make it less hollow, less empty.

Today, that emptiness echoes loudly with memories of you.


Today, I search through the images and words that have taken root because of your example, your patience, your dogged determination to be a teacher that lives what they teach.

I remember the kindness that says, "you'll do better next time." I remember the persistence to let me fall down again and again and not "fix" it for me. I remember the willingness to let me struggle with my fledgling faith so that it can truly be my very own. As I watch my own kids embrace their own questions, I realize for the first time how much grace, how much love this act took for you. I'm learning it is far easier to tell someone what to think than to teach them how to.

Once, I told you "thank you" and you accepted this with simple gratitude and a commission. Keep going, keep asking, keep looking.

Today, I promise you, I will.

Faith and Doubt

A spectacular discussion regarding faith and doubt is a www.pbs.org. Here is an excerpt from one of the many interviewed that resonates with me:

"From the first moment I looked into that horror on Sept. 11, into that fireball, into that explosion of horror, I knew it. I knew it before anything was said about those who did it or why. I recognized an old companion. I recognized religion. Look, I am a priest for over 30 years. Religion is my life, it's my vocation, it's my existence. I'd give my life for it; I hope to have the courage. Therefore, I know it.
And I know, and recognized that day, that the same force, energy, sense, instinct, whatever, passion -- because religion can be a passion -- the same passion that motivates religious people to do great things is the same one that that day brought all that destruction. When they said that the people who did it did it in the name of God, I wasn't the slightest bit surprised. It only confirmed what I knew. I recognized it.
I recognized this thirst, this demand for the absolute. Because if you don't hang on to the unchanging, to the absolute, to that which cannot disappear, you might disappear. I recognized that this thirst for the never-ending, the permanent, the wonders of all things, this intolerance or fear of diversity, that which is different -- these are characteristics of religion. And I knew that that force could take you to do great things. But I knew that there was no greater and more destructive force on the surface of this earth than the religious passion. "

---- Monsignor Lorenzo Albacete is a professor of theology at St. Joseph's Seminary in New York, and formerly served as associate professor of theology at the John Paul II Institute for Studies in Marriage.

Making errors part of the gig

Sometime you hear a comment and you know when you hear it that it has the potential to change your mind -- if not your life.

I recently heard such a comment that has been banging around in my head. I've been turning it over, looking at it from all angles as if I'm observing the underside of an embroidered panel.

It was stated by son's High School Band Teacher whose job is to get 300 plus high school students marching in rhythm and in formation. When he asked about how Nathan was doing at college I asked him some questions about his job. I was just being nice, really, and not at all expecting this kernel of wisdom to descend upon me and mess up my thinking for several days.

My question was this, "How do you keep the kids from making mistakes?"

And his answers was this little nugget. "I don't. The idea is to make mistakes a part of the performance."

I'm sure when he said it I just smiled and shrugged and acted like nothing much happened. But inside, my mind was trying to grasp the simple brilliance of this thought. So I did what I usually do when I have nothing intelligent to say. I asked another question.

"What do you mean?" I said.

To which he responded, "as long as you focus on the mistake, the mistake will hold the performance captive. "

Statements like this should be preoceeded by a warning such as, "WARNING. THE NEXT THOUGHT WILL KEEP YOU UP AT NIGHT AND CAUSE YOU TO RETHINK YOU'RE ENTIRE LEADERSHIP PARADIGM." Or at least come with a sominex so one could get some sleep.

Maybe I've been thinking about this so much because I've been studying the holiday of Yom Kippur and once again, I am jealous of my jewish friends. Sure christian have christmas and jewish people have hannukah. But I think Yom Kippur is the real prize in the holiday sweepstakes. You get something better than presents...you get a real chance at redemption.

Yom Kippur is a holiday which can be translated "Day of Atonement". It is a reflection of the atoning that Moses and the people of Israel did after that fit he threw coming down the mountain. (I have too much in common with Mo to be too hard on him. Sure he had some anger management issues. But you gotta respect a guy who takes on that leadership gig. I sure do. )

Yom Kippur isn't celebrated like Columbus Day or Labor Day. There are no picnics (in fact you fast for 72 hours) and there are no big sales gimmicks at the mall (in fact, you can't do any work at all, not even shopping which is now considered to rival some olympic sports). It's a day to reflect about the stupid stuff you said to your family and the mean tricks you played on your friends at the office. And it's encouraged that you make some amends (like say, "I'm an idiot, I was wrong.") and then make your amends to God. The idea being that first you make your peace with others and then God makes his peace with you.

I like this idea a lot. I think, though, that the jewish holiday may be a little too short for me. It would probably take me much longer to make amends for all the wrong that I've done in a year than just 72 hours. But at least it would be a start and I could get through at least half the stupid stuff I did, say thru at least March or April. And maybe, if I made that start, I could get through the rest of the year with some encouragement.

It's kind of like Yom Kippur is the equivalent of making errors a part of the design. Like somehow the fact remains that no matter how devoted we may be to others (or to God) we're going to make a mess of things and need a day (or two, or three or more) to make things right.

I'm going to keep thinking about this and then I think I'll try Yom Kippur for myself this year.

Agassi's Legacy and the quote for the day

"The scoreboard said I lost today," he said. "But what the scoreboard doesn't say is what it is I've found."

Stuff I'm learning

1 - There's a big difference between Success and Celebrity. Celebrity is defined by others. Success is defined by me. And it's OK to change the definition from time to time.

2 - The real test of a garden is how good it looks in August. Any garden can look great in April or May.

3 - The real test of health is how good you look at 40 and beyond. Anybody can look great at 21.

4 - There is a big difference between seeing something and really observing it.

5 - Interpretation comes after seeing/observing.

6 - People who talk on cell phones while with other humans present are rude.

7 - Life is more about the questions we ask than about the answers we seek.

8 - Chocolate is good anytime, anywhere and in any quantity.

9 - Being with people you love requires little more than simply being present.

10 - Being present takes a lot of practice.

Cell Phone Relief

I misplaced my cell phone a few days ago. I was talking to my brother and then the next thing I knew, I couldn't find my cell phone. I'm sure that some may see this as some reference to an unconscious desire to rid myself of my brother, but actually, no. The desire is not unconscious at all.

I'm trying to understand the panic that I felt at losing this gadget of plastic and metal. I'm trying to make sense of the absolute terror I felt when I realized that I could no longer make a phone call without my roster of names, which was, of course, on the lost phone. Most of all, I can't figure out who was more lost -- it or me -- when I was not in its possession.

My first step was to notify all who knew me -- and some that did not -- that my cell phone had been misplaced. This was met with benign neglect from many (who clearly have never lost their cell phone) and with anxiety surpassing mine (by those who have). I think the next support group should be for those who because of financial insolvency or text-message challenges find themselves not able to use a cell phone.

The next step was to look and look again (and again, and again) for the thing. I f the height of insanity is doing what you've always done and expecting different results, then commit me, because I looked through the same car, the same purse, the same building 764 times. In the process, I discovered candy bars that I had hidden from myself, old coins and ancient grocery lists - but no phone.

Which encouraged me to think - -logically of course -- that the rice-grain size of most cell phones is a direct attempt from wireless companies to help us lose more of these devices -- and ourselves in the process.

After four hours of being without my phone, it became clear to me that I would not be able to last the rest of the week without it and I was beginning to worry if I could last the rest of the day. I took out a map of town, noting where all the wireless phone stores were located. This was a thinly veiled attempt to calm my nerves and reassure myself that when I needed to, I could get another one. Like a drunk scoping out bars, I was plotting my next binge with war-time precision.

After several calls from my friends (on my land line, asking me to please, please stop calling them looking for my phone) I decided that there was nothing else I could do - -I had to replace it. Think of the calls I was missing, the text messages from my son who was probably frantic that I hadn't called him back, not to mention the many lunch dates from my friends that I was being left out of because of the lack of communication. My world had stopped turning and I was delirous, panic-ridden with a feverish anxiety that resembled, well, my usual emotional state.

The firs store I visited was clean, calm and staffed by children who I believe were less than 14 years old. Their thumbs worked incessantly over the keyboards of cell phones, simultaneously working their keyboards at their work stations and while they did this, they made lattes with their toes. It was like watching a magic shoe with electronic gadgets.

The thing about the generation of techno-wizards that we've raised is that they cannot comprehend a life without the technology that they have all around them. Thus, they look at me -- and those in my generation -- with a certain mild displeasure. In their infantile state, they cannot fathom being old, panicky and in need of connection. As I stood there trying to explain my predicament - that all I needed was a simple phone, his eyes took on that look that some doctors get when they realize that their patient is without hope and there is nothing that can be done except speak in soothing, calm tones.

The pimply faced kid behind the counter showed me to a couple of models, spoke in some dialect that I can only describe as "digital-eze" and as I squinted at the "specs" of the models, all I could make out is that I was not getting out of there for under $175.

More, if I wanted anything with -- what did he call it? "ridiculously easy features". I've worked easier calculus problems.

I did what most people do when confronted with a body of knowledge that they know nothing about. I smiled knowingly and repeated, "ridiculously easy, you say? Where again is that portal that attaches to the thingy-ma-jig that lets the electricity - -you know---the stuff in the wall -- charge my battery?"

He sneered, politely, in that way that communicates in no uncertain terms, "you are clearly a dinosaur who has come from the past to annoy me."

I decided upon a model that could fit easily in the palm of my hand while I use it to check email, call my mother and find Greenwich Mean Time for most all of the other countries in which I will never visit. As I drew out my checkbook to pay, the droid behind the counter gasped.

"Hey, let me see that" he exclaimed coming from around the counter to my side. "Is that a REAL checkbook? With REAL paper. Isn't that quaint -- I've HEARD of these from my grandmother but never really seen one. WOW. AMAZING. RIDICULOUS."

4 adults, 2 freshman and a dorm room

I'm reading David Sedaris tonight because Sedaris makes me laugh and I'm in need of a great laugh.

I'm grateful and sad and excited and worried and a whole slew of 90 other emotions after leaving Nathan at school where in his dorm room he and his roommate are surrounded by more electronics than is really appropriate. It wasn't easy to be quiet while I remembered lugging my electric portable typewriter up flights of stairs as I watched him network his computer with stereo, TV and his roommate's desktop. I was a good mom, though, and I instead tried to organize his closet and was told, "Mom, don't touch my stuff."

This is what we spend 18 years getting them ready to do: to look us square in the eye and tell us "hands off". Standing there in that small room, trying to make some good use of myself and failing miserably I realized that my purpose now is to do just that. That's a realization that is both reassuring and sobering.

As the day wore on, I watched him break away from his dad and me as we walked around campus. This was a good sign, I thought, after pensive days where I he lapsed into silence as he finished cleaning his room, saying good-bye to high school friends and packing for the big move. Today I saw him walk alone out in front of us -- and not with us as he had been doing all day-- and I knew it was time.

So we walked him back to his dorm room, just moments after this picture was snapped. After the move-in, after the last minute dash to office supply and after the final stop to get his books for the semester he was ready to begin life on his own. I want to remember so many things from the day and there are so many to think about. I' ll savor them a few days, rolling them around in my heart awhile. Maybe some insight will emerge, maybe not. Maybe some days are best observed from a bit of a distance and letting someone else find meaning.

Friday Nights in T-town

My favorite night of the week is Friday night. Friday's use to signal the end of the "work week". I don't find that to true and I'm not sure it ever was. And work is such a wierd term..is working in the yard work or not? Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. I guess work is a concept as much as a timeclock.

I like Friday's because there is Friday night stand up. Now on Comedy Central there is a new show, "Live at Gotham" which features new and irreverent comics. My favorite comics are Brian Reagan, Alan Ferrara, Daniel Tosh, Maria Bamford.

I like to say I've been listening to stand up all my life because growing up "fundy", I heard 3 stand ups a week in the form of sermons. They just weren't very funny most of the time.

My brothers and I had would sit in the back of the church and make fun of whomever was up at the pulpit. So we were teenage hecklers in a sense. We'd time the prayers with a watch that we got from T.G. and Y (the discount store before Wal-Mart that smelled like moth balls and bleach) and we always knew when a certain suit would get up, we'd be in for a "napper" which is what my brothers called those prayers that went on for decades. Prayers in our church were more like announcements really, where we'd find out who had gall bladder surgery, who had ingrown toenails, and who had "left this earth for their heavely portal." To this day, I have no idea what a heavenly portal is.

What I liked was the euphamisms used during prayers that denoted the code words for something really terrible happening that we couldn't really talk about but everyone knew about. Prayers for "family peace" usually meant someone was fooling around again and "unfortunate financial changes" probably meant someone had lost it all in Vegas. The really big deals were usually lumped under, "this difficult time.." which meant either a pending lawsuit or a sex scandal. My brothers would keep a tally, kind of like in poker over a series of weeks to see what our church's score was.

Another favorite way to pass the time in church was the rewriting of the church songs. I mean, you have to do something while you sing all stanzas of "Just as I Am". There are 8 stanzas that I know about however some of my friends from church camp who came from more traditional churches threw in a couple of other verses. I assume they were more committed in their walk with the Lord than we were and perhaps their heavenly portals gleamed more brightly.

My brother, Russell was like the Wierd Al Yankovic of church songs. Our hymnal was a huge blue book with shape notes. We had shape notes beause we had no instruments. And the really wierd part was that even though we had no women leading anything, most of all all learned alto parts by listening to Ms. Brittany (or someone like her -- everyone church has one) who sang much better -- and on key -- than whatever guy was leading. Russell would take whatever song we had and make it something funny...."Willing the Cross I'd Bear", became "Willy, the Cross-Eyed Bear" and "Peace, peace, sweet peace" became, "Peas, peas, sweet peas". He'd belt it out and the rest of us would just try to keep from laughing which always would get us a smack from someone. And it would never be Russell who'd catch it, it would be me (I was the oldest, therefore responsible for everything) or one of the younger ones who couldn't duck as fast. We rarely made it through a service without some bruising or a concussion.

And we'd continue to make fun of church later. Over grandmother's roast beef, my brothers and uncles would sometimes imitate the voices of the speakers and they'd contort their faces in that way that dubiously pious people do when they know they are being watched.

One of my favorite comedic scenes is an old "Mr. Bean" skit where he goes into church and tries to listen to the sermon and take part in the singing. It is spot on and reassures me that I'm not the only one whose church experiences gave them more than bible bowl memories.

To me, good stand up is like this -- taking the mundane and sometimes abusive parts of life and looking at it, making it bearing and even asking, "why is it like this?" and "how could it be different?" What's interesting about good stand up is that it is unlike any other kind of theater or art: if the piano player is terrible, you still clap. If the singer is out of tune, you still applaud. But if the comic is off his or her mark, then no one laughs out of being polite. You either are good or you're not and if you are it's magic.

Miranda and Me

The summer hubby was laid off, we would take some time in the mornings after the kids went to school to walk a couple of miles together. Up until that point I had been active in kickboxing, progressing all the way to a brown belt. But with the change in plans, I opted to find less taxing - and less expensive -- forms of exercise.

It wasn't much of a sacrifice, really. I was always the last one in line to finish the runs, prompting sneers from those who also finished the jumping jacks and could always do more crunches than me. They were the same ones that didn't cry when they they got hit in the face or when they broke a nail.

Dan went back to work in the fall and by then it was too cold to walk without, y'know, running, so I began searching for other forms of exercise. One day, while sipping my earl gray tea in front of CNN, I stumbled upon a public station that had a program, called "Classic Stretch". (www.classicstretch.com)

Having given up kickboxing and now a retired walker, I thought the movements demonstrated seemed easy enough to start my day. Mornings have never been particularly good times for me. I once read that most heart attacks happen in the mornings when we awaken and that reason is enough for me to sleep until noon. The slow, rhythmic stretching seemed simple, easy and well, kind of like taking a nap.

What also attracted me to the program was the instructor herself, Miranda Esmonde-White. She was noticeably "un-hip"...she didn't have several other exercies wanna-be's circled around her in matching suits. She even stumbled a couple of times, like maybe she, too was struggling with the morning thing. And she didn't say cheerful things like "get your burn on!" or other such rot. She talked, instead about her daughter, about her make-up, about the wind or the ocean. Once, while in a stretch I saw her get confused and she just looked at the camera and laughed. This winsome quality stole my heart completely because I often get confused and laugh in public, usually when I'm out with my 16 year old daughter who when this happens, has been known to leave me at stores and not return my phone calls.

Now it's true I don't exercise in front of an ocean or garden like Miranda (she's usually positioned in front of some Mexian Riviera resort with lush tropics or mayan gardens) , unless you count my still-undone bridge and pond project outdoors or my failing indoor herb garden. But she did use other things that I had -- a step, the back of a chair, even my floor.

She looked surprisingly unmade up, even a little dishelveled, like maybe she too stumbled out of bed bleary eyed and was late to work after reading InStyle magazine until 2 a.m.

So I gave it a try, laughing a bit at the ease of the movements. Surely this could not be doing that much for my body.

That was about a year and 2 dress sizes ago. My chronic back pain is not gone and when it does flare up, I just do this hamstring stretch that Miranda teaches (she maintains that back pain is more about tight hammy's and gluts) I have no idea what science is in the stretching all I know is that for me, it works. It both refreshes and relaxes me. I have purchased two of her DVD's and use them faithfully when I'm on the road. I simply will not start a day without her. I often find the movements prayer-like, meditative. They do, in a sense, restore my soul daily.

I have added a 30 minute power yoga to the regime recently. And while I enjoy the intensity of yoga, the stretching continues to be a way for me to ground myself to start my day.

7 days and counting

Thomas Moore, in his book "Dark Nights of the Soul", defines "sacrifice" means "to make sacred". When you make a sacrifice, according to Moore, you don't just give something up, you acknowledge a realm greater than yourself.

I read this during early morning hours before my kids were awake. It seemed a nice sentiment, something I should tuck away and remind my students in the nurturing parenting class to remember.

As I finish preparing for my next class, my son walked into my office, sighing and skulking in the way he has acquired these last few days.

"Have you had breakfast?" he asks. I am suddenly brought to full attention. know this is a set up.

"Yes" I say, and my eyes dart to the clock. It reads 11:43 am. I have had breakfast hours ago.

"What did you have?" he asked. At this question, my pocketbook started to rumble. It knows it will soon be empty. In fact, just the mere approach of my son causes my wallet to begin rising from my purse.

People often ask me about how I learned to be such a good negotiator in my sales career. The answer stands before me, sulking, in an Aeropostle T-Shirt.

"I had waffles. " I replied. I watched him. His recent string of performances are better than most and I see a lot of acting. Between the sales calls that I do ("my husband won't let me buy that...) and the movies that I watch, I say I estimate I see more bad acting in a week than a Hollywood casting agent.

"I have had waffles for 4 days straight." He hangs his head lower, his eyes take on that glazed look that comes from too many Krispy Kreme donuts or methamphetimines which I think are the same thing.

"I'm dying for cereal." he moans, grabbing his stomach. I've seen less misery on Jerry Lewis telethons.

"We don't have cereal?" I asked while silencing my ever-ringing cell phone. "I thought we had some Special K".

With this question, I get the same look I get when I've asked, "Is a field goal in football worth 2 or 6 points?" It clearly says in ways that only a teenager can communicate that they now understand that their parents is truly not of this world. They are, in fact, orphans who must endure living with mere humans while on this planet.

"I don't consider Special K a cereal." he sniffed.

"Hmmmm, I do." I silence d my phone again, kicked my purse further under my desk. Something about his sad shape, his hanging head I began to feel compassion. "I can make some tuna fish sandwiches." I replied brightly.

With another heavy sigh, a roll of his head, he shufflled off.

I wondered if in 7 days, when Nathan is tucked away in some college dorm and eating until his arteries pop open if I will regret this conversation.

In the past few weeks, he has turned 18 and now he announces his schedule to his father and I. We will be sitting innocently at the dinner table and he will turn with the chicken still in his mouth and say, "My friends and I are going to the drive-in and we won't be home until, oh say, 3 a.m."

His father will stare into his plate, looking dazed and confused which is the signal that says, "He's your son, deal with him." I've seen Dan stand between fighting refs at a basketball game. I've seen him duck a punch from a wild coach. But around his son lately he begins to get fidgeting and nervous like a kid on a first date. When he's not staring into space, he is working on the blueprints for what the upstairs will look like once next week is here.

I don't blame him. I and my friends, those of which I've served on committees, watched countless band, soccer performances walk around town these days without our kids in tow looking like we've survived a bad molar implant or watched too many episodes of "Survivor".

"I just don't know him anymore. " my friend recently said over salads at Wendy's. "He's like he's turning into this person I never knew. His room is a mess. He never is home. He spends all his time with friends and just this past week quit his job so he could have more time to himself before he starts the next phase of his life."

I thought she was talking about her husband, but it was her son, who is also destined for his new collge next week, in which she was referring.

"Do you know where your wallet is?" I asked her, whispering.

She teared up. "Haven't seen it for weeks".

I remembered recently a scene out of my life when Dan and I were driving to New Jersey to start our new life with new jobs. I remembered his mother standing in the driveway and tearing up. This was uncharacteristic for her and she apolgized profusely. After all, she survived the depression on a farm in Oklahoma and greeted every morning with a "Good Morning" that would ring off the walls and make the most cynical morning person (me) look forward to another day in OK. When she cried at this emotional moment, I was touched and thought, "It must be so hard to say good-bye to your son."

I wonder now if she was indeed sad at our departure. Maybe she was gleefully remembered the $20 bucks that was still in her wallet that didn't make it into Dan's hand. And Dan's dad? Where was he during this family moment?

I think he was knocking out the walls between his kids rooms.

Prayers for a dying garden

With a week of over 100 degrees, my garden is resembling more a stack of straw than the beautiful picture of color that I had hoped. As I walked my garden today, the struggling bermuda (finally, something that can conquer it!) crunches under my feet like broken glass. My ponds are gooey messes of algae and floating bugs. My rose bushes have thorns and not much else. And I resign myself to another fall of digging, mulching, re-design. Who was it that said that any garden can be beautiful in spring -- it's in August where the real gardening shows. The heat reveals all the shortcuts I've taken with mulching, it reveals where I haven't dug deep enough, it shows off my mistakes letting me know that when dealing with nature, I'm much more of a novice than I might have believed in spring.

The fact is my garden is in need of updating. The oldest parts of my garden are about 5 years old this year and they are showing the signs of needed life transfusion: composting, mulching, adding organics to the soil

I spend early morning hours just trying to keep things watered,though, with little thought of remedying some of the more glaring mistakes until cooler weather returns. At this point, I'm just in survival mode reminding myself as I go that I must, I just must get some water sources out in the far back so the bulky hoses that I use won't totally destroy the shrubs that break under their weight. My mother gave me a wonderful gift this weekend -- 2 seeping hoses 75 feet each and I received this gift like a starving person might receive food. It is just what is needed.

It is so hot in my garden that simply sitting out and reading a book (one of my all-time favorite activities) works up a sweat. Evidently, just holding my head up is an exercise that is "over-doing" it in the Oklahoma August heat.
So each morning before 6 a.m. I head out in shorts and t-shirt and begin weeding. I think I've commented on weeding before and I'll say it again -- there is a satisfying element of weeding when I just yield to it. It's not as if I arise and say, "WOW! I get to go pull weeds in my garden until my cuticles are bleeding pulps!" I go more out of guilt and a sense of responsibility -- I was there for my garden when it was pretty, so why shouldn't I be there for it now? Sometimes I feel like a very fickle suitor. So I pour buckets of water that I collect from dripping hoses onto the fading shrubs, offering it like a prayer.

Once I'm in the garden, and the soaker hoses are doing their work, there is a meditative quality to weeding. I have heard it said that tending one's garden is tending one's soul and maybe this is true. There is a satisfying sense of having accomplished something when I review the row of clean garden patch, despite the dirt embedded in my fingernails, despite the branches that cling to my clothing. And it is amazing that during this sweaty work, knotty problems that I didn't even know I was working on begin to find resolutions. Ideas spring to mind as I lift pull on the bermuda and lift it out of the soil, popping it out like a zipper on my fat cousin's dress.

I'm sure there are those that find recluse and sanctuary in churches and other structures. Admittedly, the cool rooms of my church are enjoyable after an hour in the garden. Despite the blowtorch heat, divine spirits still emerge and nurture me as I traipse through the reamins of the garden this year. Call it peace, or enlightenment or connection -- and it is all these things -- I find solace in the garden despites it broiled leaves and toasted buds.

Transplant

This weekend, we celebrated Nathan's 18th birthday. He decided he wanted one last big bash to celebrate this important milestone and be with some high school friends. For some it may be the last time they are together as they head out to their after high school plans.

I can plan a great party. I've done so many times over the years. We've done jugglers, we've done Elmo, we've done trucks. Once I had a storyteller, Brio train and a clown all at the same party.

But this year, it was all his doing. He laid out what he wanted to do and we told him that we'd accomodate his wishes as much as possible. As parents we decided when our kids were young that we would not have a party each year -- only on the "transition" years -- 1 year (of course, we had to do that), 6 years, 12 years and now 18. The rest of the time we had dinner together with family and just spent time together. I think in doing so, the "big" years have become more special and meaningful to all of us.

The guest list was originally 30, then 40 and then 45 and above. I suggested -- OK, I really TOLD HIM -- to send out invites and to call everyone to make sure that he'd have a good head count. The guest list grew. And grew. And grew.

I began to be concerned about parking, food, what would happen when the Oklahoma weather refused to cooperate. In fact on the day of the party, it started with a quick rain and then the sun stretched forth and baked the earth for the rest of the day. I knew that this was the kind of weather voo-doo that creates wild summer storms. I wondered, "What do you do with 50 wet dripping teeangers in the middle of a freak Oklahoma hail storm? "

We rented a large tent, ordered massive quantities of pizza, cupcakes. Add the necessary ingredients of loud music, outdoor movies and voila - a perfect teen party. At least as far as my son was concerned.

I stood around as he was both commander and officiator of this event. I put the cupcakes on the table as he instructed. I set the tables up as he recommended. I tried to warn him about the stereo -- not getting it too close to the water misters but was told to mind my own business (in a nice way, but that was essentially the message). When the water mister burst from the water hose and sprayed friends, him and the stereo I did the near impossible: I didn't say "like I said.." Chalk one up for mom.

I watched him as his friends kept coming and watched his natural grace with them. I found myself watching him as if I was seeing him for the first time. My son, now an adult according to law, was making this transition with ease, poise and calmness. Much more than I could say for myself.

I blinked past tears almost the entire night although I kept them hidden behind the camera that I used to take pictures. I tried to make myself useful by offering drinks or food. After about the millioneth time I asked the group, "Anybody need any food?" Nathan gently said, "I think we're good Mom." I shuffled off to put away the trash.

I worried about the heat, I worried about the yard and how I just knew it wasn't a pretty as I had hoped it would be. I worried about everything which kept my mind off the thing that was really bugging me - -that this would be the last party I'd probably ever help Nathan plan. Sure he'll come home for birthdays but this is the last one we'll do like this.

As the party kicked into full gear, I walked around my garden and started making mental notes of the shrubs that needed to be transplanted in the fall. My once "sunny" garden is now almost entirely shaded by a large birch tree and so my roses need to be completely cut back, scooped up and potted elsewhere. I had been working on a new design earlier in the week and had decided that with the heat and the dust I'd be better off waiting until early fall to do much more. As I walked around the garden's perimeter I saw a shrub that had grown too large for its original planting. It was cramping the other plants around it and it was showing signs of stress for it needed more room to stretch out and grow. I had planted this shrub several years ago when I was not sure at all what I was doing and had put it in a small row near some roses. As I looked at it again, I knew that it would thrive somewhere else much better. I almost wondered how I thought it would fit in the space I had it, although I remembered when I planted it how small and fragile it looked.

I had no idea how big it would get.

I had no idea how strong it would grow.

And as I stooped to take a closer look the tears that I had been holding back sprang forth.

Creating Sacred Space OR a day with dusty files

I've spent the better part of 2 days rummaging through some old files in my office. I realize that most people don't associate a summer vacation with cleaning out old files. Most people spend time at the beach or the lake. I envy that in some respects. I don't like lake water and there are few beaches near Tulsa, OK. So cleaning out an old file cabinet is about as good as it gets for me.

The process can be spiritual. It can be violent. It can be cleansing. It can be freeing. And it can be all these things at once, I think.

Spiritual in that there is a universal concept that I neither can understand or explain. It is simply this: before one's life can move forward there must be some letting go of things so that new things can come. Some might call this forgiveness. Some might call this releasing. Some might call this trash. Whatever it is, it is the first step in creating something sacred.

The process requires simple tools. First about an hour of time. This will allow you to settle into the process, review what all you want to purge and keep. And deciding if you are really ready for the process. Letting things out of your life requires a certain courage, a certain welcoming of the necessary grief that will no doubt come your way.

Next, something to drink. I'm an iced tea girl but I have some friends (I like to call them the "Mid-life Crazies") who have confided to me that their drink of choice might be a bit stronger. I'll leave them to explain. They may have bigger messes than me or maybe they are more honest than I am.

Next, I'd recommend some music. Music is the pathway to the soul for most of us so whether it is Mick Jagger, Enya or Los Lonely Boys, you gotta have something to let you know that you are not alone in this big job. My music is "adult alternative" which sounds like something I should hide but it's an eclectic mix of rock, blues and new age. I find this heady mixture soothing was I toss old emails into the can.

A rugged honesty would be the next accessory. Ya gotta be ready to toss. Ya gotta be real with yourself and say, "have I even LOOKED at this file in the last 6 years?" If you haven't, it's probably not going to be missed. But letting go is hard (whether it's with old files or old relationships) so go easy on yourself. Start three piles: Keeper file, Giveaway File, Re-label file, and the "i'm not sure I"m ready to let go" pile. One note of caution: If you find yourself with every pile empty except the last, seek therapy. Or maybe get something stronger to drink.

I find that at certain times in life there is more than just the usual cleaning out that is required. Sometimes it is more of a "reordering" that is needed. I found this to be true this year. Let's just say that I recently took a stress test and when completed, I was inducted into the Stress Hall of Fame. I was also given the name of a noted cardiologist and asked to carry Bayer Asprin with me "just in case". So this year, my annual cleaning out required some tossing of old stuff. In fact, I cleaned out an entire drawer that is now devoted to some new hobbies that are becoming more and more the stuff of my life: gardening, writing, speaking. "This is how", I thought while throwing out old pictures of people I don't even recognize any more, "a life changes." I renamed a drawer, I made new files with new names and I said a prayer over what I had thrown away. "Thank you" I said to the pile, for being in my life and now for letting me go."

It's wierd how we get so attached to stuff. Old manuals for old cell phones that kicked a long time ago. Leftover memories of relationships that were good learning but terrible on the self-esteem. Dreams and ideas that were instrumental in so many parts of my life but who served their purpose in just letting me dream them. They were never to see the light of day.

I find that letting this stuff go -- determing what I'm going to be about for the next year (and what I'm not) -- creates a sense of centeredness that I know is necessary. Clutter is more than just about things I'm not using, it's about things that are taking up space and energy and time that can better be used somewhere else.

Another important tool: a sharp pencil, sticky-notes and fresh files. Here again is a needed luxury, the simple task of saying that whatever goes in a new file is worthy of some respect. So I live lavishly and invest the .02 cents required to set up my files in a way that when I look into the drawer I can actually read the file tab. I don't write over them, I don't label over them. It's wild, I know. Decadent even.

I am practical if not pragmatic. I don't use pen on any of my files. I use pencil. Which says a lot about trust and flexibility I think. Nothing lasts forever, not even the good stuff.

One of my Mid-Life Crazies said to me recently, "All that time on the soccer field with Seth and for what? He's not even playing soccer in college? What was that ALL ABOUT, anyway?" She shook her head and I could tell the tears were near the surface. And so she recently threw out all the old schedules, the old phone lists, all the soccer paraphanalia that had dotted her son's landscapre over the past few years.

I had no answer to her question because it's one that I ask, too. What is all this STUFF about? Is about a more full life? Is the answer to life's journey more accomplishment? More awards? More things for the brag wall? Does more coming and going really make us better or does it just make us tired? These are deep questions and they require more than a glass of iced tea for resolution.

Nestled in one of my files is a file marked "Nathan". And yeah, in it are some precious memories that I will hold onto. A ticket stub from a movie we went to. A napkin from a banquet where he played his trumpet. A picture of he and his dad. Memories are meant to ground us in something that was good and wonderful while we let go of those things that need to grow in new ways. It is never easy, it never simple. It is always necessary.

MidSummer's Day Dream

I walked my garden this morning, watering to offset the July heat. I have been ruminating on what changes I will make in the garden for fall. There is a long list.

It seems that any garden can look great in Spring. Spring is a time when everything in the garden is new and if it isn't new, it's just awakening so that things like slugs and bermuda grass and weeds haven't yet made their presence known.

July is a whole different matter. July shows you all the mis-steps, the shortcuts, the design goobers that you made but thought you outsmarted. July is when you see the real problems and when you have to make some big changes, at least in theory.

For the biggest challenge about July is that you really can't do much about the garden save plan for cooler weather, start hammering away at some hardscape (which is an effort in hard labor with the Oklahoma clay now in brick form).

In July, only really committed gardeners are showing up much at the garden center. Most annuals have already been planted for the year and the only thing left at my garden centers are some surly counter help and wilting trees that probably will find the trash heap come Labor Day.

I walked my garden this morning and noticed that I have planned better than before on the mulching. Although my roses aren't blooming anymore, at least their stalks and leaves seem nourished. And my shrubs are looking fuller, healthier and filling in more.

The biggeset thing my garden needs now is structure. I need to put in some heavy pathways and for this, I'm relenting and calling in the big guns. I'm either going to purchase my own tiller or hire the work done. My last pathway that I created looked great for about a year but I see now where having an expert do the work could save me a ton of time in maintainance and in planning. My battle with the bermuda continues to rage. When I asked a landscaper what he does about such issues he just looked at me and said, "What can you do about bermuda? You just have to stay on top of it everyday."

Which is what a garden is really. A constant maintaince, a constant source of meditation (for some) or a routine task that some find bothersome. I'd be lying if I said that weeding was a source of bliss and joy for me everyday but I do find that at times it can be rewarding, especially after a hard summer rain when the weeds peel off the earth in a satisfying way. Somedays it is rewarding to simply say, "look what I got done today" and show a clear path free of bermuda, dandelions and weeds.

Later today, I'm heading over to OKC Bricktown where I plan to see friends, sleep late, have a massage and tour some gardens. In short, time for rest.

It's official: I'm a REAL writer

I have the evidence right here. A bona-fide, authentic rejection letter.

It's not the first by any means but something about this one makes it seem more real to me. I guess that the first few rejection letters that I received were more like practice. The work I submitted, though important to me, was more like going on a blind date: I kind of threw myself out there with little expectation that much would come of it.

And not much did. One publication, no money just the buzz of seeing my name in print. Even if it was misseplled.

This entry was for an essay contest that I really worked on. I labored on the rewrite for several weeks and it is like I was bleeding on the page. There is a lot of me in this essay and I sent it out in its white envelope with a prayer and then I promptly forgot about it.

Again, that reminder about a blind date. "Oh nothing will come of it. "

The difference is that with writing something always comes of it, even if it is a rejection slip. It's like a blind date calling you back and saying, "Not only did I have a rotten time, I never want to see you again."

Kinda like that, I guess.

This rejection letter is a whole page and while I do appreciate the editor's attempt to be kind and even though the letter is on a real paper instead of a notecard or even worse, a postcard (which brings to mind that the editor has already embarked for ports of calls in which I'll never be invited) this letter is officially now my FIRST OFFICIAL REJECTION as a writer.

How will I celebrate?

I could rewrite the essay. I could call the editor and say, "thanks for the initiation". Or I could write some more, which is what a real writer would do.

I've said this to some in the writing field and now I'm ashamed. I said once to an editor that I figured rejection would come easy to me, after all, I've been in sales for 14 years, what could a little rejection be to me, a hardened sales veteran?

I'm surprised that she didn't wallop me good right then, right there. She must have known that I'd get my due, that this day would come when this letter would both brighten and darken my day and I'd know what all writer's come to know: it ain't rejection unless you throw your heart over the bar and it means something to you.

A sacred garden is one that can renew your spirit and calm your soul. This is true of the OKC Myriad Gardens which were a comfort to me as I visited my mother while she is in the hospital. While at the hospital, I noticed that this concept of "healing gardens" is one that is as ancient as it is necessary. At the hospital there is a beautiful "healing garden" that I visited and will visit again later this week. I will post pics from that visit then. I believe that there is a reason that every ancient religious practice has many key moments which happen in gardens. I believe that they are a place where the spiritual and the earthly combine giving those who visit them a refreshing and soothing place to laugh, weep and celebrate all of life's moments. 

A trip to OKC which included a stop at the Botanical Garden in OKC. The exterior gardens are filled with wildlife, like this turtle who is enjoying the warm (very warm!) sun.  

I'd like to write here that this is a pic from my back yard. But, it is from the entry of the OK Myriad Gardens as are many of the following pictures. 

My brother, Jon, trying to look tough, while hubby Dan trying not to hurl from the height. This is from the "Crystal Bridge" from the Myriad OK Botanical gardens conservatory. It is 224 feet long, 70 feet wide and a jungle paradise. It is made of seventeen tricord trusses which form the frame and 3,208 panes of Exolite acrylic which form the shell. These crystal clear, double-walled panes insulate the Conservatory's coolers to ensure a healthy and stable growing environment. They also protect the plants from the harsh winter climate while greatly reducing heating costs. This entire bridge where Jon and Dan are standing is actually suspended over a large pond, so these guys are not just towering over me and the jungle, they are also suspended over a large lake as well. Which is why Dan looks a little pekid.