Monday - August 30, 2011

This is my 30 days, my 30 days of posts. I have finished what I set out to do one month ago. I hear from some of you that you are reading this, that you are enjoying what I write. I don't know if there are more of you than a few, but I have enjoyed doing this knowing you are reading and taking this journey with me.

I have a decision to make. Do I continue? Do I make myself post every day? Every other?

I will make the decision, I will post, I just don't know how often or on what subject.

Keep checking....

Sunday - August 29, 2011

We have been waiting all week for Hurricane Irene to hit Maine, to hit us with the force of a storm we haven't seen since Gloria hit in 1985. We waited, we listened to the weather, we watched the news, watched the video of wind, rain and flooding as she worked her way up the coast. We watched and we waited.

We waited, and she passed. Not without damage to Maine, but she passed without significant damage to us and for that we are grateful (we'll be even more grateful when we have our power back!), grateful for the lack of force, for the lack of hurricane force winds and floods. Grateful for her lack of damage.

Not having power for a day is humbling, it forces stillness in this era of technology. It was a good day, a quiet day, a day to be thankful for the lack of damage, a day to be thankful for the quiet.

Saturday - August 27, 2011

She makes me weak in the knees, this girl, this granddaughter of mine. Her eyes, her smile, her way of loving with her heart wide open.

There are things I want to protect her from, painful things, sorrowful things, things that make her sad. Things like losing a quarter in the grass at the Farmer's Market.

She carries a picture of my mother with her through her day and sleeps with it by her bed so if she wakes up at night my mother will be there to keep her safe.

A life as pure as this one, a love as pure as this deserves the joy she carries with her, the joy she spreads with her smile. What could be better?

Friday - August 26, 2011

Throughout my career as a nurse (and during the time I was in school) there were people rooting for me, people hoping I made it, that I achieved my goal. They cheered me on, wished me well and supported my every step.

When family does this (as my family has done without question) it makes the journey easier, it encourages you to stick with it, to work harder, to not let them down. When others take an interest in you, in your goals and your work to achieve them, their encouragement, their opinions matter. They matter because, unlike family, they don't have to care. They don't have to participate. (It's like when your mother tells you you're smart and beautiful you tend to think it may not be true, she has to say it, she's your mother. Except in my case...my children are smart and beautiful!)

Today I sat with Eloise, a woman of undaunted professional courage, a woman of personal integrity, a woman of genuine kindness and commitment to our profession. We sat in the afternoon sun overlooking harbor and talked. We talked of our careers, our work, our family and our friends. We talked of travel and adventure and career choice. We talked of giving back, of having an impact. We talked as peers.

To have this conversation, this time with her (and her wonderful husband) was a gift, just as her support and encouragement for the past many years has been. We don't know where our lives will lead us, where we will be years from now, where gifts will be found.

Today my life led me to a friend and I am thankful for that gift.

Stop the Presses

I was told when I started this job, when I took on this public role, to ignore the papers, to stop reading what others wrote. It is not so much the articles, the reporting of the stories, it's the comments people post online, the latest way people get to show their ignorance. I was told to stop reading those. I should have listened.

Tough decisions require thought, tremendous amounts of thought. We did that, we do this, this remarkable team I work with, we think, we process, we seek guidance and then act.

If only those who post, those who do not know the whys or hows, gave as much thought before using their keyboards to attack, to judge.

Tough Decisions

Each day I wonder what it is I will write about, what will occur during the course of my day that will make its way to this page, make its way to you. This morning I thought it would be the laughter that accompanied my ride to Skowhegan, laughter I shared with a friend, a new friend, a friend with a badly sprained ankle and a wedding to attend (it's her right ankle...no driving yet). Riding with her, my car filled with guffaws and smiles (particularly when she described the look she received from a friend after a comment she made..."she looked at me like I'd slept with her father"....now you understand the guffaws!).

As we drove and talked and discovered that it is highly likely our fathers knew each other professionally (they both died young) I again assumed that would be the blog post, that realization that long before we met, before we shared our writing together, before we introduced our husbands to each other, before we shared our grief, we were somehow united.

But as the day passed, as difficult decisions and tough conversations overshadowed my work, the laughter of the morning faded and the reality that the decisions I make, the choices I choose have an impact and that impact is powerful, even when the decisions and choices are the right ones. Right doesn't equal easy.

I'm glad the day is over. I'm glad the work of today is finished. I'm glad the day started with laughter. I'm glad the memory of my father surfaced....I needed him today.

Looking Forward

Americans live in the future. We look forward to what comes next, what we will do next, where we will be next. It is important to us to have plans, to be prepared, ready. I try to live in the moment and make a conscious effort to be present in the here and now but admit that more often, I join the rest of you and live in the future.

Lately, even though I love the work I am doing, I find myself looking to retirement, to those days when the alarm will not go off, the emails and phone calls will cease and the days will be mine and I will fill them with whatever strikes me as important at the time. I think about that a lot on my drive to and from work. I particularly think about it when I see a car or truck pulling a camper along the highway.

I see those campers and look forward to the day when my husband and I will take one and let it take us, take us down roads and through towns across the country where we will visit old friends, make new ones and relax and enjoy each day as it comes.

But mostly what I think of when I see those campers, is not where we will go or what we will do, but the preparation, the anticipation of the trip itself is what I look forward to. I picture us packing our clothes, carrying them a few at a time from our room at home into our room in a camper and it is that thought, the picture of that future event that makes me long for the time to pass.

We live in the future and while I do look forward to those days, I grow more conscious every day of how quickly the time is passing and how soon these days will be gone, these days of work, of emails and phone calls and meetings. Of decisions and excitement and work.

I look forward, but hope it takes a long time to get here.

Inspiration

We find inspiration in many places and through different people. It is inspiration that holds us up, pushes us to be our best. With inspiration we do better. Today I was inspired by a friend from my undergrad days, my former Biology lab partner, a Nursing colleague. Today I was inspired by Pat.

Today, throughout my day at work, a day filled with meetings, calls, e-mails and decisions, Pat was on my mind. She was with me when my alarm went off, on my drive to work, in my meetings and as I answered emails. She was with me when I checked her blog off and on all day (if they check my computer at work tonight they will find all the internet time!).

Today, Pat inspired me with her courage, her dedication, her commitment and her strength. She inspired me with her excellence. She inspired me.

Pat is in the record books now. She earned her place today. Her place among others who inspire. Today Pat did something no other 60 year old woman has done. Today Pat swam the English Channel.

Inspiration....you never know where you will find it.

My Mother's Clothes Are Not My Mother

My family is not the only family to grieve the loss of a loved one, to mourn the passing of time and the absence of someone in our daily life. My family is no different from yours. Our experience no different than yours.

After my mother died, I spent several days on the coast of Maine in the company of writers, a company I crave, a company that drives my creative side, my love of the language. Over the course of those few days I shared my grief with one of the women there. A women who was an acquaintance then. A women who is a friend now.

We talk now about a lot of things, our jobs, our writing, our husbands and our mothers. We talk about that weekend. We talk about our grief.

We shared a lot on that weekend and from that has come a friendship, a sharing in each other's lives that has gone beyond our grief. But while we have gone beyond our grief, we still carry it with us, hold it deep inside where is rests sometimes peacefully and other times enraged.

We have both used words to heal our grief, mine here in this blog, hers in a more formal fashion, a play. A one woman play that premieres next month (see the notice below and if you are in the Portland area I encourage you to attend...I've heard some of this and you will not be disappointed!).

Words hold great power. They can cause tremendous harm or bring true healing. My friend and I prefer the latter.

"MY MOTHER'S CLOTHES ARE NOT MY MOTHER" premieres at the St. Lawrence Arts Center in Portland on Sept. 15. For information, go to www.stlawrencearts.org.

A New Life

Soon, very soon, we will welcome our grandson into our family (as you can clearly see from this picture...). He is due to arrive mid-September but we are ready for him any time he chooses to join us.

Today I watched people show my daughter how much they love her, how much they care, how they share with her the anticipation of this life. Today, she and her husband and their son were showered with this love and I was there to see it, to feel it and to recognize how loved she is. Today I got to love her all over again as I remembered how I felt when I carried her, when I had her all to myself in a way that only mothers know.

We cried together today, something we don't do often. We cried when she opened a gift, a simple gift, a gift of a blanket. A blanket for her baby.

My grandson will have a blanket like his mother has, one stitched by hand with a flannel backing. One with animals and bright colors and love sewn into every thread. The difference between this blanket and the one my daughter, her sister, her brother and all her cousins have is this one was not made by my mother. This one, this blanket filled with the love of a family was made by her husband's Aunt.

How fortunate for my grandson to be surrounded by such people. How fortunate for my daughter. How fortunate for us all.

Friday - August 20, 2011

I saw this technique on a website and thought I'd try it. My granddaughter asked to have her picture taken with her great grandmother, to be with her again in any way possible.

She carries this picture with her, takes it to daycare, sleeps with it by her side and when she's stressed, when she's tired or isn't getting her way, she turns to it, turns to her great grandmother. She turns to my mother for comfort.

I like this connection. I like that my granddaughter finds comfort where I always did, with my mother. There is something about this connection that feels right. There is something about this connection that feels real. There is something about this connection that keeps my mother alive in the next generation of our family. This will be short-lived. But while it is here, while my granddaughter remembers my mother, I get to remember her, too.

Thursday - August 19, 2011

If you flipped the state of Maine on its axis at Kittery, Fort Kent would be in Maryland (at least that's what I heard somewhere). After this week of travel, I believe it.

Each time I travel, each time I walk in to another State office and meet those who work there I am overwhelmed by their generosity, their dedication, their devotion to our state and their work and I hope that I live up to their expectations, that I work hard enough to never let them down.

We've done good work during our time on the road, my colleagues and I. We've listened to each other, learned from each other, laughed together and put the needs of the state at the forefront of every conversation and plan. It is hard work, but it is good.

Wednesday - August 17, 2011 - Happy Anniversary

There is love in our family, deep love that crosses the generations and draws us to each other and holds us together. It is genuine, palpable. It runs over us and through us and brings us great joy.

We share our lives and share our love and when we see each other we show it. This is what we teach our children, this is what was taught to us.

My sister is the master of this. She is the one in our family we all turn to, she is the one who turns to us first when we need her. She is the one who says the right things, does the right things at just the right time.

We have long marriages in our family, strong good marriages. We had that example from our parents and hope we have set that example for our children.

Happy Anniversary to my sister and brother-in-law. Thirty-seven years, what a beautiful statement.

Tuesday - August 16, 2011 - The County

Once again I am in awe of my state, of the beauty that surrounds me at every turn. We have 16 counties but only one that has earned the distinction of being called simply "The County". Up here, here where Canada touches us, the air carries the scent of pine and water and the people carry a familiarity and friendship that welcomes everyone.

Today I am in The County with my colleagues and while we will enjoy some down time in the beauty of this place, we are here to work, to learn from each other, lean on each other as we seek to understand our new roles and how we can best serve the people of our state. Those who rely on us, depend on us.

Up here we will do our work, surrounded by all that is good about Maine, all that is good about us. We will work, but at the end of the day we will take a moment, a moment by the shores of the lake and be thankful we are here, we are together and we serve Maine.

Change

A flock of geese, their V stark against the brilliant blue of the sky over the Reservation, their calls to each other lingering along with their shadows, brought with them the realization that the season is shortening. The sun sets earlier, the air cools sooner when a cloud hides the sun and our summer is passing.

I usually welcome Fall, look forward to the shorter days, the crisp air. The athletic fields of our local school are two blocks from our house and on fall nights the lights shine above the trees and the cheers of the crowd float to us and we count the touchdowns and goals by those sounds. All of these things, along with sweatshirts, fewer meals cooked on the grill and the rhythm of the school schedule separate Summer from Fall and I like the move indoors.

But this year, this year of change for me, I find myself missing summer already. I find myself hoping September is as warm as July was. That Fall won't be early.

Watching those geese fly overhead, watching them begin their journey toward winter made me stop and appreciate the summer. That is new for me.

Sunday - August 14, 2011

Traditions, those with ceremony and those without, draw us together, unite us in our beliefs, in our communities and our families. They are woven into who we are and we strive to preserve them within our families.

We teach our children and grandchildren what is important to us and hope they understand. Hope they understand and carry them forward.

Saturday - August 13, 2011

Walks are common these days. We walk to cure Cancer, Alzheimer's Disease, Kidney Disease and Cystic Fibrosis. We walk to thank our Veterans, to teach children to read and to build our schools. Today in Sipayuk we walked together. We walked side by side, different cultures, different religions, different governments. Young walked with old and old with young. The community opened its arms and welcomed everyone, welcomed us into their lives and their culture.

Before we walked, before the day started, while children were sleeping and breakfasts were being cooked, we met at the Community Health Center, and prepared the diabetes screening clinic. Tents, tables, glucometers, blood pressure cuffs, tee shirts, water, pens, health information sheets, clipboards, chairs, gloves, sharps box, bandaids and volunteers....lots of volunteers....came together for the Tribe. It was all for the Tribe, for their health, for their community, for their future.

We walked together.

Friday - August 12, 2011

This is one glimpse into the scenery that surrounded me as I drove north to work this morning, this morning that dawned with me at one end of the state and ended with me at the other. Today begins another step in my career, one that is a true journey, a journey of miles, a journey of cultures and a journey of people. Today my office walls disappear but the work continues.

Standing on the shore of Passamaquoddy Bay awaiting the arrival of the canoes that left two days ago from Indian Island, a whale breached the surface of the channel and led the way for the canoes. Amid cheers, drumming and traditional singing, the whale appeared to perform for the gathered crowd and lent a spiritual overtone to the opening festivities in Sipayuk, the Passamaquoddy Reservation just outside of Eastport, Maine. A tone that hovered over the day, a day filled with family, community, tradition and a reverence for the earth and our place in it that I have read about but never witnessed. Never until today.

It is a privilege to be here and be so welcome.

Melissa and Gayle...

Tonight two of my dearest friends are together ( I exclude my sister from this list of friends...no one can come close to who she is to me), they are together away from me, away from me in miles but not in spirit. They are together for drinks and dinner in Montana and I am alone in a hotel room in Maine....miles separate us, but tonight I have had calls from them and even without those calls, without those familiar voices, I was with them.

These friends, these two women I introduced to each other, are friends to me in a manner no others can compare to. They are women I trust, women I love, women I have lived with and worked with and shared with in ways that cannot compare to other friends. These two women are friends who know me on a level I find myself at a loss to explain. They are the friends who came in to my life later, arrived at an age when I didn't think I would find new friends, when I thought all the people I knew were already in my life. They are old friends who are new.

I didn't expect these friendships, this late in life recognition of kindred spirits and I am blessed to have them. They do not share my history, but they do share so much with me, so much that many of my long time friends would find foreign, would not understand. I have stood with these women in the chaos of work, in the heat of the mission field and in the comfort of my home. But, regardless of where we stood, we stood together.

Tonight my friends were together and although I was alone, I was with them.

It's Just Who We Are

I have written a lot about my family throughout the time I've had this blog. To some I know we sound unusual in the closeness we share, the way we tumble over each other's lives, the visibility of our love for each other, but it is who we are. It is how we live together.

We laugh a lot, we do silly things, we dance together at random times or when particular songs come on the radio (our favorite is the country song, "Why Don't We Just Dance"), we sit on each other's lap (my favorite time to do this is when my daughter has friends visiting) and we take the phone out of each other's hands in mid-conversation. In this picture we are in a full fledged Silly String fight. The neighbors hardly raise an eyebrow to us anymore.

We are not without our problems, we have had our share (and then some) and there are times when I have to remind myself to look for the love we have for each other. But when I do that, when I look for it, actively seek it, it's easy to find.

Tree Hugging

I learned something about myself a long time ago....I love trees. Not in the tree hugging eco-zealous chain myself to logging trucks kind of love, but in a simpler way, in a walk through the woods enjoy the smell listen to the birds sing kind of way.

All trees are not equal in my eyes, however....one family rises above all others in its beauty, the pine. I never tire of them.

When we studied the eco-systems of the world in school (forgive me my southern friends) I failed to see the beauty in the lazy drapes of heat laden equatorial branches, those moss drenched trees that rise out of bayous and swamps or the large leafed trees connected in their canopy by vines and roots that grow above ground (the ones Tarzan and Jane swung through calling on the elephants). Their beauty still escapes me.

But the pines, those trees brave enough to hold their needles through fierce weather, those that stand straight above all others, those that fill my state, I can't get enough.

On my daily commute, and as I work my way around the state over the next few months, I will watch the trees, the pines. I will look for them, watch them, and love every one I see.

A Little Strength

When I was young (I use the term young rather than little because I haven't been little since I was 6 months old) I used to wear my mother's shoes. I would walk around in her high heels and try to recreate the sound of her walk, the sound I associate with Sunday mornings, the sound of her heels on the brick sidewalk outside our church. My mother was a small woman so I wasn't very old when I could no longer fit into her shoes.

People refer to me as strong, they assume that within my 6 foot frame there is strength and in many ways they are right. Like everyone, I have strengths and as I've grown and had different experiences I have nurtured those strengths. Some are obvious, some less so. Some old, some new. But strength, true strength of character and spirit needs no physical presence to be present. It simply is.

I misunderstood my mother's strength. I thought her strength was in direct proportion to her size. I wish I had realized this mistake before I lost her, before she faded away before my eyes.

My mother was a strong woman, she just carried her strength in a small frame.

A Reminder

I was reminded this week that it has been a full year since we welcomed home our son-in-law and his troops. A year since we paced in anticipation of their arrival, since we waved our flags, made posters, held the hands of the 'wives' and mothers and fathers and sons and daughters. A year since we stood in the hangar and let the emotion of that day wash over us and spill into the air in the form of cheers and tears.

In this year, this very full year, so much has changed in our lives. Events have occurred, the holidays came and went, the seasons changed, jobs
changed, transfers happened and new
life was started. We breathed again. We relaxed. They were home and they were safe.

The wars continue, their controversy spelled out daily in the news, the arguments over whether we should be there or not go on and while we care, while we want it to be over, want everyone home, I am embarrassed to admit that it became somewhat distant for me again. Distant in the sense that those soldiers I know personally are not in danger, they are away from the front lines, they are home.

My complacency was shaken, shaken violently a few weeks ago when we received word that someone was injured, injured beside others who were killed, someone who means a lot to one of our soldiers, someone who by the nature of her relationship with one of ours, means a lot to us.

The sacrifice our soldiers make for us, their selflessness, their willingness to leave all they know and love and bear the burden of freedom overwhelms me and I am grateful once again.

Unexpected Time

When you live on the coast, when the ocean and the tides are such an intrinsic piece of your life, you often take the rise and fall of the tide for granted and before you know it days and weeks have passed and you have barely noticed the salt in the air. Tonight we not only noticed, we breathed it and lived it and as I write this my body hasn't fully recognized the fact that it is solid earth under my feet and not the rise and fall of the swells of the ocean.

Today was supposed to be a quiet day at home, a day of puttering, a day of doing all those tasks and chores that need to be completed but take time to do. A day of weeding the garden, mowing the lawn and finally getting all the laundry washed, dried, folded and put away. Instead, an invitation to spend the day on the ocean brushed the chores aside and replaced the tasks with time and sunshine and laughter and family.

It is hard to describe the ease of our time with family. Our time with those who know us so well, have known us for so long and love us no matter what we say or do. Those who have a history with us, a history filled with time and events and people and love and laughter. A history filled with each other.

Today was a day that began as ordinary and ended filled with the extraordinary. With moments on the ocean and then beside a fire. With time together with those we love. Time that lets us know we are connected and loved. Time we are fortunate to have. Time we treasure.

Please Pull For Service

Today I took a step, not a giant step a little step, a step back in time. Back to a time when fall approached and school was about to start. Back to a time when my mother took my sister and I to get school shoes at Roy's Shoe Shop.

Roy isn't there any longer but when I pushed the door open, the door covered with signs and stickers that indicate the store hours, handwritten on cardboard, the bells above the door and the aroma of old leather, shoe polish and some mixture of cements and glues ambushed me and I was drawn into the shop as if through a tunnel that led to a time machine.

Across the floor, past the vinyl covered chairs with the silver arms and above the counter the string with a handle made from the piece of a shoe mold holds a note that reads, "Please pull for service". I hadn't thought of that sign for more than forty years but when I saw it, when I held it in my hands an tugged on it, the sound of the bells at the other end of the string, the bells that hang in the working part of the shop sounded the same as they did when I was a little girl and my mother was the one to pull the cord. They sounded like my childhood.

The man who came through the door wasn't Roy, or Roy's long time assistant (I never learned his name) but his smile and approach were similar to Roy, a shy smile, an unhurried walk, calloused and black/brown stained hands, an expert inspection of my shoes in need of repair.

The orange ticket, handwritten with a Bic pen, is my ticket to return again to my past. It is my assurance that I can go back again, that I can walk in to that place, step back in time. I don't really care that the shoes I left there will be repaired (they aren't all that comfortable anyway), what I care about now is that my orange ticket will take me back there, take me through those doors and back through time to my childhood.

Beauty

Even after living my entire life (so far) in Maine, I am not tired of how beautiful our state is. Every morning I get on the interstate and as I round the corner the view never fails to please me, it does not lose its beauty. My parents appreciated Maine, too and passed that to me.

When we were kids, my sister and I would sit on the rocks at Two Lights with our parents and watch the waves for hours. On rides, either family trips or Sunday drives, we'd point out the horses and cows, or count the birds on a wire (I always claimed to see birds on a wire whenever we played Car Bingo.....we didn't need a DVD player, we had windows) and watch the forest or ocean pass. In Rockland with our cousins we had the boats in the harbor, in Winter Harbor with the Billetts we had the ocean. And now, every morning I have the ocean, the forest and a variety of pine trees, birds and meadows that I count on to start my day.

So when people ask me if I mind my hour long commute every day, I think of Mackworth Island in Casco Bay and how it appears to float on the ocean in the morning sun, the bald eagle that overlooks the wetlands from his perch in a tree at Exit 43 and the stand of pine trees at mile marker 41. I hold these images as close as I hold the images from my childhood and say I don't mind the commute at all. And then, with those thoughts in my mind, I think how lucky I am that tomorrow I get to make the drive again.

Reunion

I don't necessarily have the fondest memories of High School, achieving the height of 6 feet in Middle School (or Junior High as it was called at the time) didn't lend itself to strong feelings of security. But tonight, 38 years post graduation, I sat with more than a dozen of the 'girls' who share that past with me, that past of homework, tests, finals, teachers, leaving campus for lunch, boys, sports, boys and boys. We sat together in the evening sunshine and talked of what was, what has been and who we are now, now that we are the parents and grandparents. Now that we are comfortable in our own skin, in our lives.

We talked of then, of who was who and we talked of now, of jobs and husbands and children and grandchildren and 'what was his name' and 'didn't she marry...' and 'whatever happened to..', but mostly we talked of time, that sweet measurement of life that moves faster than we thought it could.

I don't have the fondest memories of High School, but tonight I built a memory, one that will become a fond one. One that picks away at the other memories, those that aren't so fond, one that brings to my life a group of women with lives rich and strong, lives filled with people and jobs and friends and memories. Lives well lived.

Grammy Time

I seek moments of joy in my life and the good news is that I find them. I find them in the ordinary days, the ordinary actions of our family. I find them in the moments when we're together doing ordinary things. I find them in the routine and rhythm of our days and again in the special moments, those special times when we're together. I find them in my grandchildren.

A Nudge

I have been nudged. You know the gesture, the communication that has no need for words because the people involved know what the other is thinking and confirm it with a physical connection, a touch, a nudge. I never gave nudging much thought before this but now recognize it for the intimate sign it is, the gentle message it sends from one to another. The level of 'knowing' that rests in it. The direction it gives. In my case, the nudge pointed me back here.

I miss my mother still. Sometimes with a passing thought that brings a smile, other times with overwhelming grief that twists me with the intensity I felt in those first hours after her death. Not knowing when which moment will occur is the difficulty with grief.

My life is different now. Much has changed. Some of it is simple, a new job, a new role, a new grandchild on the way, a new boat. But much of it is harder to explain. Harder to grasp. I am not who I was and I wonder what she would think of that.

On a TED video (if you haven't seen TED.com check it out, great speakers on any number of topics) a speaker challenged the audience to try something for 30 days. Anything for 30 days. It could change your life, he claimed, or, if not you can do anything for 30 days.

What does a 30 day challenge have to do with my nudge? It's simple...I will post.

What will you do?