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Halloween, Security, and the Power of Caring

November 3, 2013 by terrypetersen

The potential of the average person is like a huge ocean unsailed, a new continent unexplored, a world of possibilities waiting to be released and channeled toward some great good. (Brian Tracy) 

The outdoor parade at Rebecca’s kindergarten is cancelled. An indoor march will need to suffice. I’m surprised by the silence I feel inside the school.  I may be a few minutes early. But I can’t be the only parent or grandparent who wanted a good parking place. The lot isn’t empty.  I don’t look for Rebe’s daddy. He couldn’t have arrived yet. He called from work less than an hour ago to let me know about the change of plans.

The closed inner door is no surprise. It’s a security measure. The quiet, however, shouts change. The violence at Sandy Hook and other schools has affected facilities everywhere. When Kate was this age there would have been a group in the waiting area outside the office. Camaraderie, enthusiasm, and anticipation would have swelled, even in a small group, perhaps moved to the gym.

Someone from the office I recognize smiles and gestures me inside. I sign-in and she gives me a neon red badge. “Do you know where Rebe’s room is?” she asks.

I don’t. She leads me to the correct corridor. A few adults, probably teachers and aids, seem to be planning something. No children are in the room. Rebe’s teacher says the class is in the music room next door. I am welcome to visit. All this time I wonder where the rest of the visitors are hiding. Is hide-and-go-seek on the agenda? No one was in the gym. My watch reads 10:20. Class dismisses at 11:00. I assumed 10:30 should be a good time to arrive.

Rebe’s smile widens, yet she refrains from rushing into my lap. I can tell by her body language that she is using considerable restraint. When the teacher announces that the children will be watching a movie with Disney songs I see a chair in the back of the room and ease toward it. Perhaps if my granddaughter doesn’t see me the temptation to step out of line won’t be as difficult.

“Sing if you know the words, boys and girls,” the teacher says. A few of the kids turn around as I join in on such oldies as “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah” and “A Very Merry Unbirthday,” but they don’t comment. I keep my voice soft. After all, this isn’t a performance. I am visiting their space.

I am the only adult visitor in the music room.

If the action begins at 10:30 it will start late. My watch reads 10:40. Greg, Rebe’s daddy, calls my cell phone. He is in her classroom. Security has fragmented the visitors. Their numbers don’t appear until our little parade reaches the gym, hardly a mob. How many folk can get off work on a Thursday in the late morning? However, there are enough to create an audience to make a circle of children feel special. Greg may be present, but he needs to return to the office.

The children look no different than they did when fourth-grader Kate was beginning school. Superman flexes his immature muscles, ghouls rule, and one boy asks if he got to be in the picture Greg took of Rebe. I nod. He beams. However, I don’t recall Kate telling me about the drill they had at school about what-we-would-do-if-the-bad-people-came.

Rebe hugs me as I leave. So does one of the other girls. All I know about her is that she is in Rebe’s class, and that she is a precious kindergartener. One hug can’t overcome hate and fear. The problems that lead to violence are deep-rooted. They don’t have an easy fix. They need the attention of all, an awareness that transcends security.

Rebe is Rosie the Riveter. She wears a badge that reads “Yes, we can.” Perhaps that message can be extended beyond World War II. It will take time. Any worthwhile cause does.

hug power Charles M. Schulz Museum

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Saying Goodbye to the House of my Childhood

October 29, 2013 by terrypetersen

Life can be difficult sometimes, it gets bumpy. What with family and kids and things not going exactly like you planned. But that’s what makes it interesting. In life the first act is always exciting. The second act, that is where the depth comes in. (Joyce Van Patten)

Thanks to my savvy brother, my father’s house has been transformed—from worn and dreary to modern and beautiful. Floors shine; appliances sparkle. Even the landscape feels different. The family homestead is for sale.

The memories are not. They simply don’t live in the same space anymore. My siblings and I need to maintain them, in our own ways. Strange how the moments I recall first aren’t necessarily the most significant. I smell Mom’s chicken soup wafting into the living room and up the stairs into my room. Our food budget wasn’t huge, but Mom could make a feast out of almost nothing. Then there was Christmas, the house uncluttered for a change, the lights from the tree reflecting in the front picture window. I watched more television as a child than I do now. Bullwinkle Moose acted as a perfect companion to homework, at least I thought he did. The television is where I learned about the Harlem Globetrotters and laughed with my father, deep hearty guffaws that expanded me a bit because I hated sports. Gym and I were oil and water. I didn’t throw like a girl—any round object could throw me. Meadowlark Lemon lightened my approach.

Not every memory brings a smile. Life doesn’t work that way. Grief, death, and trauma also touched those seven rooms. However, they didn’t live there. They moved on, as the clock moved from one hour to the next, as my parents accepted heaven’s invitation.

Sunday, just before I entered the small area where my church community gathers, I spoke with a man who said he had just found a place to live. His apartment had been sold, so he had been kicked out. He said someone gave him a sandwich, but it was getting cold. I heated it for him in the microwave. He didn’t seem to know how to use one. I was struck with how much I take for granted.

I always grew up in a house, small maybe, but a house. My father called me his little girl even as I reached my sixties. My childhood is gone, at least externally. My parents live with the angels. Nevertheless, I am grateful, for the good and the bad. I wouldn’t be me without both.

May I live in this day, with whatever comes, and find its blessings. Peace upon all.

enough

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A Son Who is Sunshine on a Rainy Day

October 23, 2013 by terrypetersen

A well-developed sense of humor is the pole that adds balance to your steps as you walk the tightrope of life. (William Arthur Ward)

My raincoat may repel the drizzle, but cold penetrates the coat’s surface anyway. Maybe I’d better get the gloves out soon. However, as soon as the revolving door of Mercy Hospital spins open, a blast of warmth runs through me. That sudden change reminds me that today is my second son’s birthday. Steve is the practical talent son. He holds a belt in Six Sigma; he’s the thinking-out-of-the-box problem solver of the family. Steve has a lemonade-out-of-lemons attitude. The party starts when he arrives. “Nobody is sillier than Uncle Steve,” one of his young nephews claims.

When Steve was a kid he would sneak a pony between cereal and eggs on my grocery list. He would walk with his arm around my shoulders at the mall without fear that one of his friends would see him being attentive to his mother. Sure, kids learn from their parents, but it works the other way around, too.

Last week we needed an old smoke alarm and carbon monoxide detector replaced. Steve had little time to do it. However, he managed to replace our detector and get his daughter, Ella, home to bed at a reasonable time, too. He didn’t complain.

Steve plays an active role in Ella’s development even though he works sixty hours a week. While Ella has Down syndrome, there is nothing down about her smile—or her daddy’s.

Yes, Ella’s Daddy will get the standard birthday gift, but sometimes words need to be spoken—or written. There are other folk like my Steve, people who give just because it is the right thing to do, because it is who they are. Blessings to all of them as well; to all of you, peace.

live like someone left the gate open

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Playing Follow the Leader with Rosie the Riveter

October 16, 2013 by terrypetersen

Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the seriousness of a child at play. (Heraclitus, philosopher, 500 BCE)

Sometimes what begins as a mistake can end right-side-up.

I’ve left physical therapy and I’m on my way to pick up Rebecca from kindergarten. Her daddy calls my cell phone. Both Daddy and I remembered the wrong dismissal time. Rebe’s big sister is in fourth grade now. That seems like longer ago than it is. Morning kindergarten ends at 11:00, not 11:30. Since the time in my car reads 11:10, the chance of a punctual arrival doesn’t exist. My ancient Toyota has no time-machine properties. In fact it locks and unlocks with an old-fashioned key—not a remote control.

“Rebe’s okay,” my son assures me. “She’s in the office.”

Now I need to keep the speed somewhere close to the limit. The needle on the gauge wants to jump into the panic zone, next to how I feel. However, after turning left instead of right only once, I arrive. My granddaughter has the attention of everyone in the office. She trusts that Grandma will come. Her smile calms me immediately.

Since Grandpa is out-of-town until Tuesday he couldn’t have helped. Her babysitter isn’t available today. We would never have planned for the office to take over for a half hour. But today it worked, and I’m grateful. My therapy didn’t end until 11:00.

“We have six hours of Grandma-Rebe time,” I tell my granddaughter.

“Is that long?”

“Long enough to have lunch, go swimming, and have dinner together.”

“Yay! Can we go to your house, too?” she asks.

“Don’t see why not. It’s our day. Let’s play follow the leader. You lead.”

“The kids stay on this side of the sidewalk because it’s safer. We had a fire drill today, with fake smoke. I kept away from it though because we were learning what to do if it was real.” Rebe walks as if she were on a tightrope. My act looks less natural. I consider it a privilege to follow the kids’ route.

I watch my granddaughter and know the example I follow is worthy. She enjoys the moment, recognizes its beauty.

“What are you going to dress up as for Halloween?” I ask.

“Rosie, the Riveter.”

“Great. That’s history. From what was called World War II. Did you know that Rosie, the Riveter is older than I am?”

“Older than Mommy, too.”

I’m grateful for swallowed laughter. Our little girl’s feelings get hurt when she thinks I’m laughing at her, not her innocence. Rebe’s mommy is a tall, attractive brunette—she’s the same age as my son. However, time and age are relative terms in our kindergartener’s world. When she turned six a little over a week ago, she told her daddy, “In ten years I can drive.”

Right now I would rather play follow the leader, and act as if time didn’t exist. This day is precious. The gift of unconditional love abounds. And I’m enfolded in its child-sized arms.

Rosie-The-Riveter-Button

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Once Upon a Blue Spruce

October 11, 2013 by terrypetersen

What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset. (Chief Crowfoot, Native American warrior and orator, 1821-1890)

The rumble of drills, hammers, and machinery runs from the curb to our basement. We are getting new gas lines this morning. The connection must be occurring right now; I smell it. The energy of the work extends from the basement to the living room floor. Nevertheless, reaching for the ceiling while using my core muscles, I finish one back exercise and begin the next. Let the work on the street and in my basement continue. Let me trust that it will be completed well, that all will be well—whether it appears to be or not.

At least my husband and I know our blue spruce will be spared. When we saw the painted yellow planning line on the grass next to it we feared that our friend of at least thirty-seven years would be lost.

When our evergreen was planted as a sapling our older son, Gregory, was a toddler. It was planted for him. We have pictures somewhere of him watering it, in the days when he could touch the ground with his head without bending his knees. Our son is now a father of two girls and the author of two books. “Open Mike” came out recently. The tree is the front yard. It’s a bed and breakfast for birds in any season. At one time my husband and I considered moving. Our son’s first thought was about the loss of the tree. It arrived as a gift from my husband’s uncle who owned a nursery at the time. That gift has cost us a fortune in maintenance. The tree contracted a fungal disease and blue spruce isn’t covered by any health insurance policy. Fortunately, treatment has brought color back into our spruce’s limbs.

The tree represents life. Birds thrive in our evergreen’s branches despite snow, wind, or rain. Yet, they remain prey for hawks and other predators. We have seen scattered feathers and dead sparrows, an occasional Cooper’s Hawk, a squirrel feasting on the birds’ seed.

If our spruce had been lost, it nevertheless would have been a symbol of life. And we would have mourned it. But it carries on and reaches for the sky, as I do with the final exercise count as I strengthen my core muscles and feel the smallest twinge of pain in the small of my back. It’s okay. Anything worthwhile has its cost. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…finished for now.

blue spruce

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Go With All Your Heart

October 6, 2013 by terrypetersen

Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart. (Confucius)

Kate sits on my bed with my guitar between her knees as I tell her the names for the strings: E, A, D, G, B, and E. Some of the strings are as much as a full step sharp. They need considerable adjustment. Pain has curtailed my playing for longer than I’d like to admit.

“One of the first things you are going to need is an electronic tuner,” I tell my granddaughter. On the bed isn’t the best place to play, but we aren’t going to get as far as a real song. Not yet. We’ll just see where the open chords are, and how they sound.

I hold my Big Baby Taylor for the first time in a long while. The weight feels precious in my lap and I realize I’ve missed her even if she hasn’t missed me. “This is what a minor chord sounds like and this is how a major chord sounds. They each have a different feel.”

Kate listens carefully and I realize that one chord is not enough to show a mood, just as a single word is never sufficient to give an adequate view of anything. I should have played at least a phrase or two. A first impression isn’t always accurate either. When one of my water exercise classes became aqua zumba, I thought, I dance like a cardboard cutout. I’ll never learn it. The class has ended now and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“Taylor,” Kate says looking at my case. She’s a Taylor Swift fan and loves the song, “White Horse.” I hold my breath, unsure how much my nine-year-old granddaughter understands about romantic relationships. The love inherent in everyday giving seems sufficient for a girl who still treasures her American Girl dolls.

“Your turn.” I give her the guitar back. “This is an expensive instrument. But I trust you.”

Kate’s E-minor sounds amazingly crisp for a first-time try. She and I both smile. She talks about all the instruments she wants to play. And I encourage her.

“Not going to be easy,” I say hoping my smile hasn’t faded. “But it will be worth it.”

Kate may not be old enough to be in double-digits yet, but she’s seen the ups and downs of life already. One of her school mates died of cancer this summer. Another friend was disabled by a freak accident when she was three-years-old. Kate has volunteered at the Free Store. She knows designer clothes are not her natural right.

She has no idea how beautiful she really is.

“You play,” she says.

There isn’t much time before Daddy will be here so I show her a few chords: C, G, E, and F, using a variety of strums and picking patterns.

“That sounds pretty,” she says.

“You can do it, too. And more.”

Her long legs are tucked under her and I suspect her thoughts reach into possibilities. No, I can’t see her thoughts, only her expression and glistening eyes. I suspect she sees some day, far away. I see now, a fourth-grade-girl with the world ahead of her.

Wherever you go, go with all your heart, Kate. Go with all your heart.

secret of genius child Optimism Revolution

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I Forgot; I Can’t Do That

October 1, 2013 by terrypetersen

Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right. (Henry Ford)

Pain has lightened in my legs and knees at least for a while. The exercises for my back feel familiar and I move with hope. The feeling extends outside the borders of the physical into the impossible—or at least it appears that way.

One of my best friends is coming to our house to celebrate his birthday. I enjoy preparing special meals for the people I love. He likes custard pie. So does my husband.  In my enthusiasm I forget about the blog I wrote on September 9, 2012, “Recipe for Bowl Pie.”

Because of an asthmatic condition I use steroid inhalers. They make my hands tremble. Spilled egg and sugar mixture in a hot oven trigger the smoke alarm. Not only is the sound set at cat-fight high-pitch offensive, the smoke could interrupt a trained athlete’s breathing. Last year I made my friend’s pie in an old Pyrex bowl, and the experiment worked.

This year I forget about that trick and focus only on my final creation. I make a beautiful whole wheat crust in a standard pie plate.

Ack! Ack! Triple ack!. Just what do you think you are doing, Ter, I think as I remember the pour-into-crust step?

But I am in a hey-you-are-going-to-beat-this-back-problem mode. So, why not tackle the shaky-fingers situation as well?

When the filling is ready I pour it into a liquid measuring cup and transfer half of it into the crust. Then, when the pie is on the oven shelf, protected by a cookie sheet, I carefully pour the rest. Pushing the shelving back inside and closing the oven door takes an extra breath and some patience, but the filling cooperates.

Okay, this is not a cooking blog. I write about positive outlook. But here is my custard filling recipe anyway for anyone who wants to make an easily prepared dessert. The crust recipe came from a cookbook, with a few personal adjustments of course.

Set oven to 350 degrees. Warm two cups skim milk or plain Greek yogurt thinned with skim milk. Add one-half to two-thirds cup of sugar over stove while also warming crust in the oven. I add nutmeg to the custard mix, but it can be placed across the top of the pie just before going into the oven. Warming the crust and filling at the same time keeps the bottom from getting soggy. When the milk and sugar reach steam level, whisk in three beaten extra-large eggs and about a teaspoonful of vanilla. Pour into warmed, but not fully baked crust (approximately five minutes). Sprinkle with chopped or slivered nuts if desired. Bake for about 45 minutes. Cool on wire rack. Refrigerate.

Then celebrate transformation. Ordinary eggs have blended with sweetness and milk. They have abandoned their preconceived notions of who they are to become something else.  I have to admit I don’t always like the baking part of change in my life, the heat and the work. But willingness to give yields something better.

Here is a picture of the finished pie, now only a memory.

pie

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Backward, Forward, and Lumbar Stenosis

September 26, 2013 by terrypetersen

Your present circumstances don’t determine where you can go; they merely determine where you start. (Nido Qubein)

 At 4:00 in the morning I watch the clock move to 4:01 with the help of my vanity mirror. It reads backward, of course. But backward seems to fit how I feel. I am awake because my knees throb. However, there is nothing wrong with them. My legs are reasonably strong for a person with such short levers.

My back is creating the chaos. Sure, I’ve known since at least middle age that this no-need-to-duck-for-low-hanging-branches frame is slightly off balance. My right shoulder is closer to my right ear than the left shoulder is to the left. I guess the back got tired of the disharmony and said I’ve had enough. Then it forced my knees and lower legs to pick up the slack. In less flippant terms, x-rays show that I have lumbar stenosis, a narrowing of the spinal canal in the lumbar spine. I make a tent under the blanket with my legs and relax. That eases the pain—somewhat.

I am in no way unique. Many people experience this back condition. All an individual needs to do is live to middle age and beyond. My physical therapist said I am fortunate that I don’t have excessive fat around my middle. That adds additional pressure on the back.

I gave her one of those embarrassed, no-teeth-showing smiles. I can definitely pinch-an-inch, if not more where a belt would be if I had a fashion-model figure.

Unfortunately, due to a blood-clotting disorder I can’t take the standard non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. I’d give my kingdom for some ibuprofen—if I had a kingdom.

If-only leads nowhere, however.

As the numbers on the clock move into 5:00 I think about all the survivors I know: folk who have beat cancer, stroke, and unbelievable abuse issues. They are blessings. The trick is to focus on the inspiration, and not compare struggles. Who accomplished more? Does it matter?

I do a few core-strength exercises in bed: the old tried-and-true pelvic tilt, a slow and easy sway of both bent knees from side to side while pressing my lower back into the mattress. All moves focus on the upper and lower abdomen. A stronger core takes the pressure off of the narrowed area of the spine.

The clock tells me it is after 5:30, which looks like a 0, followed by a backward 3 and a 2. It isn’t too early to get up now and begin the day. And somehow, miraculously, I’m okay to do just that.

Not every message in life makes sense—seen directly or mirrored through the wisdom of someone else. Sometimes I just have to do what I can, with the information available and a positive outlook.

Peace to all wherever you may be along your journeys.

 beauty of the broken

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Spelling Gratitude: T-E-C-H H-E-L-P

September 23, 2013 by terrypetersen

Life begins where your comfort zone ends. (Karen White, author, “Sea Change”)

My desktop background reflects where I am on my life’s journey in an odd sort of way. I change the picture frequently—just because I can. It displays family memories, a season, a humorous notion, or an uplifting thought or scene. For a few hours I decided it would be fun to rebel against responsibility, so I let Donald Duck stand behind all my icons. He claimed that he wasn’t cut out for adulthood.

I knew when I gave him center stage he wouldn’t be there for long, and eventually chose a sign that fit the moment better: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE FEARS. It made me smile, yet expressed truth at the same time.

Now, as I talk on the phone to my nephew, Alan, I want to pretend to be Donald Duck and let someone else do the work. Alan is my tech support. I am trying to renew my virus protection on my laptop and it has FAILED. It lets me know in bold, bright, horrifying color. Alan is calm. He is a genius nerd who knows his stuff. I imagine my world locked inside these 0’s and 1’s, swallowed by a monster virus.

“Okay, simultaneously hit Control and J,” Alan says. “That will bring up your recent downloads.”

And it does—the first time. That download doesn’t complete either. My throat is as dry as desert rock on a-120 degree day. My laptop has other plans. it seems to be saying, I’m loading down, sister. taking a nap instead.

I catch sight of my desktop pic and sigh. Won’t feed the fear, but I could use a glass of water.

My nephew remains on the phone. He leads me to safe directions. I see the promised land and read a most precious word: INSTALLED.

Halleluiah! I have passed through dangerous land without being hijacked, robbed, or killed.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling as if I just gave a miracle worker a twenty-five-cent tip.

“Well, if computers worked all the time, we tech-savvy people wouldn’t have anything to do,” he answers.

He’s right, but that doesn’t diminish my gratitude one megabyte.

pic from the Optimism Revolution

don't feed fears Optimism Revolution

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Bye Bye, Plane

September 18, 2013 by terrypetersen

Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans. (John Lennon)

Canceling our vacation plans seemed so strange I didn’t unpack for at least twenty-four hours. We expected to travel to the west coast. However, a family emergency demanded that we stay here, one of those no-brainer situations. Anyone who can spell the word emergency—and many who can’t—understand how that happens. It’s called reality. Insert any situation here. Little imagination required. Our emergency looks like it will be resolved, possibly even erased. Don’t know. That answer is left to the unknown future.

After the shock lifted, time appeared, hours of it. Sure I expected to make friends with a sequoia. That may happen eventually. Instead I tackled a manuscript that had felt like stirring congealed concrete. I finished a major edit.

Next I faced a physical issue I’ve been avoiding. I love parks and the outdoors. A three-to-five mile walk in a nature preserve equals love. I can think like a poet, examine the lines of trees, and follow the flight of a bird from a branch into the clouds. Within the past few months that experience has meant a big pain in the knees. Arthritis? Probably. That Art-form has visited many, many folk. And he doesn’t leave after a casual hint or two. He fights until bone rubs against bone. I have one finger in that condition. The rest of my body isn’t that far gone. It isn’t ready to plod through mountains, hills, and glens either. That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, however. Mr. Arthritis absorbs the couch potato.

My doctor referred me to a specialist. This ten-day space, the time to think, led me to accept vulnerability. I decided to live in the as-it-is present. Of course visions of the past show up as I recognize my awkward, uneven, old-lady gait. I recall my mother as she grasped the handrail and ascended the stairs one at a time.

She didn’t complain about how much each step hurt. Now, I appreciate the difficulty of those movements. She had knee replacements during earlier days of the surgery. She didn’t waste time complaining about her lot in life. Not much point to it. I pray that I can follow her example.

In the meantime beauty exists everywhere: in a sunburst, laughter, a recent uplifting conversation with my brother, Bill, and sister-in-law, Lisa. It appears in words and songs, in encouragement, and in the gift of simply being.

Jay and I will probably make plans for another vacation—some other time. Chances are we’ll actually make it through security and all the way to our destination. I create chaos without at least a little structure. But, for now, my husband and I have been repeating John Lennon’s words frequently. Yep, life is happening all around us, and I feel blessed to be in the midst of it.

enjoying scenery on a detour

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