$3 burgers and David Sedaris

Imagine this: 2400 people, sitting in the dark, watching a guy read from his books for 2 hours. Most performers would have to throw in some kind of body moves or move around the stage in interesting way to keep the show going. Not Sedaris. He can hold an audience spell bound with stories of Japan, Christmas in other countries and shopping with his sister.

I went with a friend of mine who is much more well traveled than I. She and her husband lived in Japan for a few months and she even speaks a little Japanese. She told me this over $3 burgers at a local pub where I had my very first beer. (I don't drink but I totally caved into peer pressure when the bartender said, "why'd you come into an Irish pub if you don't drink?" So I asked for a suggestion and he gave me "Fromboise beer" which has a raspberry blend to it. It was really good -- for beer -- and the best part is that I was able to stay sitting in an upright position on my bar stool, a feat that requires a lot of skill I discovered.

It says a lot about my strict religious upbringing to understand that I arrived at the age of 43, have conceived two children (now teenagers) and just now have had one whole beer. It will no doubt be my very last.


"Wow," I said to my friend as we finished our meal . "There must be a lot of people here going to the show."

"No, " the bartender interjected. "It's $3 burger night."

At the show, Sedaris was signing books to a crowd of people so I walked (ran, actually, trying not to attract too much attention) to get in line where I assumed the posture of an educated, literary observer along with the rest of the Tulsans who were in the same line. Having never really been around literary types too much, I'm always intimidated by them. I read 4 books a week and probably can hold my own when discussing the classics but something about that crowd just kind of freaks me out.

I had brought one of my books of Sedaris ( I have given away probably 100 of his books to friends, etc.) and I carefully took it out of my handbag so that I could have him sign it. The closer I got to him the more I began hero-worshipping so that by the time I was actually in front of him, I said something ridiculous like, "ohmygodmrsedaris, I love you sooooomuch, ihaveallyourbooks and.." I went on for a bit while he looked at me, somewhat fearfully, and said, "what's your name?" Since I couldn't speak, I held out the card the usher gave to me with my name on it. He smiled, stated my name and then said, "that's a good name for a writer", then signed my book and looked at my friend for her book to sign.

My friend was much more composed than I. Perhaps her time spent in Japan gave her a certain reserve that I was clearly lacking. She smiled, gave him her book and they struck up an instant rapport while I stood aimlessly by watching her Sedaris talk for a bit in Japanese, no doubt about me, while I stood limply at the side of the table.

Baby Boy and College

The call came, as I knew it would, almost to the minute in which I expected it. My son, a new freshman, called late Sunday just to say "hi". Uh huh.

As any parent will tell you, whenever a teenager that is living on your dime calls to "chat" about "nothing in particular" this is indeed cause for alarm. You see, kids don't call you when they bang up the car and are standing at the police station. They have friends for such emergency. Friends that help them get their game plan together before they call their parents.

Kids call parents to "chat" only when there is some major life change happening.

So I, of course, begin with the litany of questions. That is what mom's do. They nag, they ask innane questions and they, most of all, repeat themselves as they try to think what to say during the conversation.

ME: "Are you OK?"

SON: "I don' t know."

ME: "Are you bleeding?"

SON: "Not really."

ME: "What's her name?"

SON: Silence. Sigh. "I can't talk about it." Sigh. Sniff.

ME: "Where are you?"

SON: "Alone."

To my credit, I kept my eye on the road, my cell phone plastered to my head and though I considered pulling the car off Hwy 169 and making a deadbolt to Stillwater and right into rescue mode, I held firm. Sure, I had trouble seeing the road what with all the rain and my tears, but I kept going.

ME: "What are you going to do?"

SON: "I don't know. Maybe go work out. Do some homework." Now THIS was cause for alarm. A depressed, love sick teeanger doing homework? Where did this kid come from? I certainly hadn't taught him such stability. I generally cannot make it through a week without some kind of mental breakdown that commands a steady diet of coffee, chocolate, bad movies or reading Faust.

SON: "I'm not sure college is for me."

Now this is where many parents lose it. On one hand, we know what to say. We know to say something like, "Oh, you'll get through it. It's not so bad..." and do some sort of motivational speech where your kids see the value in sustaining the belief that a college education will somehow keep them off welfare and out of trouble. But, the parent in all of us -- especially if you're a mom -- cries out, "YES! I know! You must come home! Your room is all ready, clean and I'm making a great pot roast!"

I was silent as I pondered my options.

ME: "What do you think you should do?"

SON: "I don't know."

ME: "If you did know what to do, what would it be?"

SON: Silence. More sighs. "Just keep going?" This was said with such dread, with such sadness that I again, fought the wheel.

My urge to pontificate was so great at this point, I could see the climax of my arguments, I could see me bucking up his sagging spirit and us having a regular 7th Heaven moment. And I admit, I was tempted.

Stupid things went through my head. Things like "this hurts me more than you" made a pass through, as did "wish I knew what to do". Where do this colorless phrases come from and why do they make their way to the front of our lobes when we have nothing to comfort those we love?

Instead, I just sat there, listening to his sobs as I drove through the rain.

This is me and comedian, author Barry Friedman, who presented at our club's workshop.  

Here's Barry and Gaines, after the show, trying to figure out their cell phones. This is usually what men do when I'm around and they don't want to answer all my questions. 

My friend, Gaines, who MC's at the comedy club. He's telling me a joke that is probably not funny. 

Business/Comedy Workshop

Here are some pics of a recent workshop that my speaking group put together with the talents of Barry Friedman, comedian, author, radio host and now, my friend.

It was a simple idea -- bring in somebody who knows humor and have him teach us how to use it effectively in business and other situations.

I had a blast. What I loved about the event was the way that Friedman could read the group and respond to the needs of the group and keep everything moving. I also loved the fact that in that room, at least three major religious groups were represented (christian, catholic, jewish..) and the comedians in the room outnumbered the pastors 2 to 1. There were insurance salesmen, advertisers, retirees, volunteers, real estate agents and students.

And we all laughed together. And I believe that when people from varied backgrounds can learn to laugh together, we can learn to do a lot more together, too.

Thoughts on this week's news

I remember Sunday dinners at my grandmothers where my grandfather would bounce around the news of the week. He was a union leader, so by definition a democrat who raised his family on the work ethic of Oklahoma Democrats. I remember these loud, boistrous discussions as I was completely caught up in the New Republicans that I had heard on campus. Reaganomics were just then becoming a part of our nation's political landscape and while I understood little of what I thought I knew, I did know this: I would never be a democrat.

Fast foward now, 40-something years later. That earlier prediction may or may not hold true. I wonder what discussions me and my grandfather would have after this week's news about yet another political sex scandal in Washington. I've only known a couple of great men in my life - neither of which were in politics - and I'm beginning to wonder if any of the human race can last in a system that seems to spit out evil, contempteous people like our political system seems to do. Can man (or woman) really handle power of any kind? It's a good question and one that I'm asking a lot these days. It seems were all so very bad at handling responsibility and power. The more we have, the worst we seem to be at it.

I'm embittered by Foley's comments about being an alcholic and being abused. "So what?" I want to shout. Like who hasn't been? While I'm sympathetic for Foley's childhood, I'm disgusted at the idea that what happens to a person in their childhood is now suppose to be the reason we forgive them their transgressions. "Ah, it's OK you want to be a pedophile, after all, you had a tough childhood. " Gimme a break. Wanda Sykes said it best on the Leno show this week: "After a few margaritas, do I go look up my local girl scout and say, 'hey, baby, mama wants a thin mint?"

I know many, many people who come from similar backgrounds and they are not out hitting on kids for sex. Sure, they may have their demons but that's what being a grown-up is about: dealing with the hand that is dealt you, maybe even rising above it.

But it takes character to go beyond where we are and who we can become and what gets men and women elected in our country is not character but money and media, neither of which can salve the ruins of a tortured soul.

Jonah

After a busy working weekend, I took a break to see a movie. On the drive there, I caught up with my acquaintance Ellen Kushner on her radio show, "Sound and Spirit". It was a reflection on "Jonah" and the show and Ellen's comments, along with the music she selected, resonated deeply with me. Her comments on the ancient story of Jonah and Yom Kippur hit deep chords within me, making me think and mull over so much.

Here's a link for you to review:
http://www.wgbh.org/pages/pri/spirit/thisweek.html

I met Ellen at Tulsa Nimrod Conference last year where she was a guest speaker. She's written many books. What I remember about meeting her is that she took time to answer my questions and seemed happy to do so.

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.