Tag Archives: Writing

Good Night, Moonshadow

28 Tuesday Apr 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, The Great Outdoors

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There’s a lovely crescent moon out tonight doing its best to light the night sky.  This little sliver of a moon is encircled by a halo of light that looks like smudged paint.  Could it be moon dust, I wonder? 

 

 If I were to write a book called Good Night Moon, my moon would definitely be crescent shaped.   I would ask it to shine its light into my daddy’s bedroom window so he would no longer be afraid of the night.  Maybe if it could shine bright enough, it would help daddy stop bumping into floors.  Dad’s wearing a bad shiner right now around his left eye.  Last week it was crescent shaped, but now it’s a full moon encircling his eye.  Purple, blue and yellow—he says it doesn’t hurt.

 

I would tell my moon how thankful I am that my brother Jon has been able to help me care for Dad this Tuesday and last.  As I do the housekeeping, Jon helps Daddy with personal care.  It feels good to help Dad the way he helped us kids when we were little.  This circle of caregiving shows that we have a cycle just as the moon does.  Where the moon goes from a blank new moon to a gorgeous full moon back to a blank new moon, we humans begin life needy and end life needy.  And in the middle, when we are full of ourselves and our own light, we are still needy though we often do not see our need.  It is probably our own blinding light that makes us a little dim-witted.

 

I would tell my moon that I’m now on the light-dimmer side.  The light is slipping out of my moon bit by bit, and in a mere twenty years, I’ll be close to my father’s age.  God willing.  And I can’t even imagine living the shrunken shriveled life my daddy is living right now – too frail to walk, too frail to talk.  Is he becoming a new moon – invisible to the eye, but there all the same?

 

The moon borrows its light from the sun.  And Daddy borrows his light from us.  And like that lovely crescent moon outside my window tonight, Daddy is doing his best to light up his world. 

 

Cat Stevens sang a song called Moonshadow that speaks to Daddy’s dimming light.    

 

“And if I ever lose my legs, I won’t moan, and I won’t beg,

Yes if I ever lose my legs, oh if … I won’t have to walk no more.

And if I ever lose my mouth, all my teeth, north and south,

Yes if I ever lose my mouth, oh if… I won’t have to talk…”

 

I guess that smudge paint halo that tonight’s crescent moon is wearing is a moon shadow.  Good night, moonshadow.  

Monday, Monday

27 Monday Apr 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Mesta Park

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“Monday Monday, can’t trust that day

Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way

Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be…”

-The Mamas & the Papas

 

I use to pack so much life into my day that I always had leftovers.  But I’m a new woman these days.  My goal each and every day is to live a ‘just right’ life – not too skinny and not to fat.  But today should have been Fat Tuesday, because by supper time, my hair looked as harried as I felt.

 

Who knew zippers would be busting all day from the stress of fullness?  I woke up Monday morning relishing the fact that I would be having a lovely relaxing pedicure and then maybe a fun lunch and a movie with Kara.  Oh sure, I knew I was dropping the dogs off for their monthly grooming, but I didn’t anticipate that this would create any problems.  And who knew that the upholstery man would want to deliver my reupholstered couch right before class tonight?  And that I would be eating supper on the run at 4:30 in the afternoon, because it was the only open slot until after 8:00 this evening?

 

When I dropped off the dogs at their new groomer, they were surprised to learn that the poodles were standards and that I hadn’t brought in their immunization records.  And I was surprised that they were surprised.  And I confess, I don’t deal well with surprises – the stress just put too much pressure on my lip zipper.  So out came words of frustration pouring from my mouth.  And once spoken, always regretted.

  

Getting the surprises pushed back into the box where they belonged caused me to leave late for my relaxing pedicure appointment.  But traffic was moving smoothly.  It looked like I would only be ten minutes late.  Stopping at a traffic light gave me a minute to kill, so I dug through my purse to find some lip gloss.  When I picked up my cosmetic bag, the zipper surprised me by breaking, and since I had the bag upside down, all the contents scattered into the bottom of my big purse.  Was this a metaphor for my day?  No time to ponder.  The light changed green and I left the mess and the metaphor for later. The pedicure was lovely, interrupted by one follow-up call from the groomer.

 

I dashed straight from my pedicure to eat lunch with Kara.  Then we spent most of the afternoon together, beginning with independent shopping carts up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart to parking ourselves on Kara’s sofa to watch a few episodes of “Sex and the City”.  During this time, I had two more follow-up calls from the groomer.  Much to the groomer’s surprise, the dogs were taking longer than anticipated.  I was surprised at neither the groomer’s surprise or the fact that the dogs were taking a long time.  

 

But what did surprise me was that I picked up poodles who have never looked better.  It had been worth the wait and the early surprises and the three follow-up phone calls and the two phone calls to former vets to have shot records faxed over.  And even though I knew I was packing in way more than I should, I couldn’t help myself.  I just had to reward Max and Maddie with a short poodle walk.

 

But who could have anticipated that this would be the day that a perfect stranger would zoom out of nowhere to quickly park and hop out of her pickup truck to strike up a friendly conversation about everything poodle, just as we were doing a mad dash around Mesta Park.  And of course, I was not the least bit surprised when she asked me for the name of their groomer. It was the perfect refrain for my own little “Monday, Monday can’t trust that day…” 

 

But now that’s its Tuesday, I’m wondering if the three follow-up calls weren’t in response to my upzipped lips of Monday morning.  Were the groomers simply trying to manage expectations to avoid unpleasant surprises and the possiblility that their day would end as it began?  Because their Monday morning gave them a “warning of what was to be…..”   

 

Why does it take the morning after to discover the truth that humbles and silences me in a way that nothing else does. Oh, “Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way…”

Growing Up Lion Kings

26 Sunday Apr 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

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Thanks to my dad’s taste in movies and music, I grew up enjoying Broadway Musicals.  I liked them so much I brought them to life on my own backyard stage.  I can remember belting my heart out in song while stretching wide my seven year old arms and anchoring my legs into the shape of an upper case ‘A’ on top of our backyard picnic table.  Of course, I didn’t know I couldn’t sing like Ethel Merman.  But how I remember dropping my enrollment in Junior High Glee Club after Mom broke that terrible news to me five years later.   

 

Some early experiences have a way of defining what we hold sacred as well as the people we later become in life.  For example, as a mother of four, I tried to never discourage my children from self-expression in the arts or athletics.   When Bryan wanted to be a baseball pitcher, I supported his dreams with afternoon pitching practice and playing the role of Team Mom.  When others discouraged Kate from cheerleader try-outs, I told her to ‘go for it,’ and wasn’t at all surprised when she made it.  When Kara wanted to be a ballerina one year and a gymnast the next, then this was what she got to pursue.  And when Kyle wanted to experiment with art, I found an art teacher to show him the way.      

 

With both husbands out of town, Kara and I pursued the arts on our own this weekend, by taking in yesterday evening’s performance of “The Lion King”.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t the glorious music but the story line and rich colors of the props and costumes that captured my attention.  I had all but forgotten the nuances of the storyline:  how the young lion cub Simba runs away from his destiny when he believes his Uncle Scar’s lies; how two sympathetic souls help Simba anesthetize his pain with their own happy-go-lucky philosophy, which fits for a time but leaves him restless and searching after he grows up; and how Simba frees himself to claim his original and true destiny by facing his past and overcoming the lies.     

 

If only.  If only brokenness were as easy to mend in real life as in a Disney fairy tale. If only the early and often dashing of children’s hopes didn’t breed more harm than good.  Because criticism, whether it be good or bad, serves to hem us in by keeping us shrunken, a mere shadow of what we are fully intended to be, rather than inviting us to stretch wide our arms to embrace life fully, even at the risk of singing off key.    

 

I made many mistakes when raising my children.  But giving them the freedom to discover their own personal truth in art and athleticism–this I hope I did right.  Growing up lion kings … this was what I tried to do as a parent.

 

As for myself, I’m just growing up.  Into what… well that remains to be seen.