Weird timing

I wanted to thank you all, so much, for the incredibly lovely notes of response you sent after last night's post about Nanny. Truly, I was moved to tears by your kindness and thoughtfulness. This morning, after returning home from drop-offs and such, I called my Mom. She's been in Houston, and I imagined her happily driving home, restored by a little R&R. Instead, she was already back, having left at the crack of dawn this morning. It seems Nanny had a stroke yesterday, and though today has shown some improvement, she is not doing terribly well. Isn't it strange that I thought so much of her yesterday and today had plans to make one of her cheesecakes. I think because of that, the news today was especially jarring.

Nanny is 92 and has lived far longer than anyone in her family line ever has. For years, she's come back from a whole host of crap: broken hip, broken shoulder, regular UTIs, stroke. I dare say she's shocked anew each time she makes it through another trial. After she fell and broke her hip, she said "I thought for sure that's what was going to kill me. How about that!" I loved her candor and spirit.

Because she soldiers on, always with a dignity and grace for which we should all strive, she's been at events we never thought she'd see: my wedding and those of my sister and two cousins; the birth of four great-grandchildren who she's actually had time to get to know. Selfishly, we all wanted her present for each and every one of those occasions and often pushed her to do her exercises or PT in support of that. "Come on, Nanny, you can do it" (she HATES exercise) and "thank you so much, Nanny, for always being there." I know she's grateful for all the extra time, to have been at all these things, to know how much her kids, grandkids and great-grandkids love her.

But she is so tired and frail, is largely incapacitated, and her eyes and ears are giving out. The marvels of modern medicine are that, but they also make it so hard to find a natural end. We don't yet know what, if any, abilities she lost in this most recent stroke, but I am ever-hopeful that whatever the outcome, she is happy and comfortable. She deserves no less.

Thinking of Nanny, replenishment in giving

I've got a wonderful new gig.

Recently, a long-time client reached out to me about the possibility of preparing two meals each week for her elderly parents, both nonagenarians who still live in the same house as they have for the past 45 years. Her father, a dear man I met briefly a couple years ago but whom I remember clearly because of the dapper seersucker suit he was wearing in the middle of a warm September afternoon, can no longer cook every day- ya think? Tom suggested I consider this might add to the already-overloaded pile of to-dos onto which I've signed, but I just keep thinking of my Nanny and how if I lived in Lake Charles, I'd make time to do this very same thing  for her. And really, I usually cook more dinner than we need so twice a week, to prepare with them in mind, seems easy as pie.

So I said yes, inquired about taste preferences, dietary limitations and the like, and got to it. This afternoon I brought over plates of roasted potatoes and thick slices of turkey meatloaf, a bowl of cantaloupe and a plate of lemon poundcake. I served it all on our own china, as I would have for my Nanny. It made my day to see these folks. They'd taken a drive to see the cherry blossoms but the neighborhood they visited was bare, the blossoms scattered asunder by recent winds and rain. We talked about this and that, I told them what awaited them and how to reheat. I thought again about Nanny and how grateful I am anytime someone brings her a good, home-cooked meal dosed with a real shake of love. I thought about how much love and support and kindness I've been lucky to receive and how much of a true pleasure it is to give some back, even if it's not my Nanny I'm cooking for.

There are different ways of giving of yourself, you know? Not infrequently I encounter folks who are rather like dementors (for you Harry Potter fans). They just take and take, sucking on and bending your ear in every which way but as soon as you seek some reciprocal interaction...well, you've never seen such quick exits. As if you inadvertently threw out your best expecto patronum: BAM! They're gone.

But in giving to others whose gratitude or sense of giving back are equally as strong as is yours, you are replenished, made bigger, restored in the best of ways. And that is how I felt when I became reacquainted with this wonderful couple earlier today. I know how much their kids love them, I can sense what very fine people they are. And so, although I don't receive anything directly from them, I do. I feel the warmth of sharing love and caring through good, thoughtfully-prepared food. I look at them as role models, of how to age gracefully and happily. I look at their marriage and think, wow, to grow old with someone for more than five decades is really amazing. I thought about how glad I am that I'm going to get to see these folks twice a week. I thought of my Nanny and how she, as I'm sure have they, has put so much love and goodness out into the world during her life. And perhaps if I can give to them as I would to her, I'll help keep the karmic cycle of paying it forward, paying it around, circulating.

This sense of interconnectedness is one reason I love tending my garden. If I take care of it, it returns, year after year, offering itself as a beautiful gift. No  matter the weather, most of the time, the strength of each little plant pushes it towards warmth and light every spring. This time of year I go outside on a daily basis to check the progress. Sometimes I worry- did this one or that one just not make it? But more often than not, they're just moving at their own pace: "I'll emerge from the earth when I'm ready, thank you very much." A reminder that with tending must often and also come patience. A wait-and-see relinquishing of control. A recognition that not everything can be had immediately.

As a garden takes nurture, so too do relationships and community. And though Tom often says I'll make friends with a wall if it's in line with me, I still think that extending the hand of connection is worth it. Remaining open to people and experiences is what keeps minds young, things fresh. Some Em-i-lis food for thought tonight, dear readers.

A vision in magenta

Friends, T and I were not pleased to have been woken up at 1:53am: "Mom! Dad! Mom! Dad! I need help putting my shirt on! I'm brr!" A) Oliver, you're the one who wanted to sleep without a shirt on even though I told you you might get cold, and B) since when was it hard for you to put on a shirt? Mother of... and then again at 5:42am as the boys barreled in, light-sabers clashing, at stake the Empire, with a side of "we're hungry and want breakfast NOW."

I swear to you I could not even begin to count the number of times we have opined that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCE (except an exceedingly dire one) should either child disrupt us before 6:15. Jack has a clock and feels extremely proud of his ability to tell time. Oliver has a light that turns from a moon to a sun when the time has come. These are neither difficult cues nor an onerous rule. While drinking my coffee, I realized I felt as if I'd pulled an all-nighter in a disco. Then I remembered I was to drive carpool and head to Pilates.

I hurriedly dressed in my new outfit- magenta yoga pants and a pink top a few shades lighter- grabbed my raincoat and hauled it out the door with Jack. Only when walking into Pilates did I realize what a pink-nut I looked like. In addition to the outfit, my raincoat is yet another shade of vibrant magenta, and my toes are painted Elephantastic Pink. Surely I looked like some kind of vision as I headed into class.

Fast forward thirty minutes, and I'm in the lobby, shirt in my lap, damp peppermint tea bags resting around the sports bra straps on both shoulders, a Reiki master who also fills in at the front desk performing some gratis healing. Some combination of fatigue, hormones, stress and stretch caused my neck to spasm and then seize. It feels like someone poured electrified cement into my neck and shoulders which then hardened. I'm moving like a mannequin and am still clad in magenta.

And then there's our pathetic excuse for a Senate who apparently is too impotent and weak and cowardly to pass something as critically needed and simple and supported as background checks for people who want to purchase guns. The NRA must be laughing their heads off right now.

This piece by Gabby Giffords is a good one!