My response
when asked
about my
leadership style:
I seek
to inspire
for we are wired
to feel productive
to have purpose
to believe
in what we do
in who we are
and why
therein lies
the candle
of purpose
to be lit
by inspire
fire
Purpose
work
2021: A year of awe
Some people call it one word. Others call it one little word, abbreviated OLW. Either way it’s the tradition of choosing a focus word for a new year. Maybe even a new word for each month. Make of it what you will, how you will, the chosen word serves as a tool for reflection, a lens for living, a frame for your days.
At the outset of 2021, I wasn’t in the frame of mind to choose a defining word unless it was survival or endurance or possibly perseverance, none of which were inspiring or lyrical (shouldn’t your OLW strike deep chords in your spirit?). After 2020, I was tired. We were tired, all of us. It was a year that seemed liked ten. The world as we knew it changed overnight. Quarantine, separation, isolation, closed businesses, bare shelves at the stores, working from home, doing school online. Plans disrupted. Staggering losses of so many kinds. Grief. Rage. Despair. Navigating the unknown every single day. The COVID-troubled world kept turning but we almost didn’t recognize it or ourselves anymore…literally, behind the masks.
We hoped. We clung to our screens. We cherished every glimmer of light in the long, dark night of the soul. How long? we wondered. How long?
On the brink of 2021, as I wearily turned the page in my academic planner, I said something like this to myself: Forget the one little word thing. I don’t have the energy to think around it or write around it. What difference does it really make, anyway. After all, my word for 2020 was reclamation. I wrote in January, before the onslaught of COVID-19 in March, when everything shut down that Friday 13th for what we thought would be only two weeks: Moving forward becomes an act of will, a revised determination to do what you can, what’s most important, for that given day. Recovering ground, inch by precious inch.
Note to self: Be careful what you wish for…
But then, then, turning that page… I discovered this quote, in tiny font, sitting on January 1, 2021, in my planner: Experiencing awe (the feeling of being in the presence of something bigger than you) can improve your physical health and make you feel more altruistic. Intentionally create awe this month by spending time in nature, meditating, volunteering, etc.
I knew, then.
Whatever might come in 2021, I must look for awe. I must keep the door open for it. Anticipate it. Invite it.
There’s a psychology, a science, to awe. A savoring of life, an ineffable hope, a spark of joy, an inhaled breath of wonder at the wonders all around, a reverence. It can make you feel more altruistic…desiring to benefit others at your own expense…can the world not use more of this?
I sat in awe of this revelation…and that is the story of awe choosing itself as my word for this year, now in its final days.
It’s everywhere, awe.
In fragile periwinkle flowers poking through the January snow, in the piercing cry of a red-tailed hawk, in the flight of an eagle near enough for me to see its white head. In the resilience of children learning from home and in their happy dogs who attended class with them. In my own dog, who slept in my lap during those long hours online. In colleagues who stopped resisting new learning in the hardest of times and began embracing it…and each other. In children learning to read despite all, in one student pointing to a new word, “trombone” (without a picture), and telling me I don’t know how to say it, but it’s a musical instrument. In resuming church services and eventually singing hymns again. In the return of the little finches which have built a nest on my front door wreath every year except for 2020. In the gift of new life…in the announcement that my son and his wife were expecting a baby in the fall. In the long summer of anticipating, in finally making it to the ocean again, in seeing how seabirds stood on the shore, protecting one of their own that was missing a foot. In passing three white horses in a grassy meadow on morning drives to school, reminding me of a game my father taught me to play on long journeys when I was a child (I have a lot of thirty-point days now, Daddy). In teaching poetry again, in seeing the kids’ faces light up with their own writing discoveries. I wrote a lot of poetry in 2021; much of it centered on awe.
I have so much more to write. I am awed by what my sons have accomplished this year, one as a minister, the other as a funeral assistant and musician. I am awed by other people who say your boys have blessed me.
Baby girl Micah arrived at the end of October. Her big sister’s wish, come true.
Christmas Eve at my house, 2021
Awe abounds. It waits to be found. Just like the little present placed in my stack on Christmas Eve during our family gathering.
That’s especially for you, Franna, said my daughter-in-law.
I opened it.
Micah’s tiny handprint, in white plaster.
Awe.
And tears. Too overcome for words.
My daughter-in-law didn’t know the story. One day I will tell Micah about the handprint I made for my grandmother so long ago, how it hung on her bedroom wall for over thirty years…
Awe. Awe. Awe. Life in its abundance, making full circles. Light to be found, even in the darkest season. The treasure of having each other. Love, blessing, wonder, the gift of life itself, all from the hand of Almighty God.
I see no reason whatsoever for changing to a new word in 2022.
Wishing awe to you all – each new day with its waiting treasures
*******
with much love and gratitude to the Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge. There is sustaining power in writing. There is more in a writing community.
Diverted
So the holiday ended.
I energized myself for the return to work.
Bag packed. Masks washed and ready for the week.
My day mapped out in the planner: Lessons to review. Emails to send. Trainings to schedule. Reports to complete and submit. Meetings to attend. Agendas to make…
Quick check on the weather. In a word: Yuck. Raincoat and boots needed for morning bus duty and filling in at carpool arrival afterward.
Lunch packed (Note to self: Go to grocery store ASAP…).
—oh yeah, my temperature. I’ve learned I am usually below normal, in the 97.7 range (at the moment 97.8, but I just sipped my coffee. Kids arriving at school in heated cars can register as high as 105…we have a fleet of touchless thermometers that must be left out in the cold for a few minutes to calibrate. We will have to perform several rechecks before verifying a child does NOT have a fever and may enter the building…).
Enter my temperature in the district website and answer the COVID questions for this cheery message: Thank you. You have passed your daily health screening. You may report to your worksite. Remember your 3 W’s: Wear a cloth face covering over your nose and mouth. Wait six feet apart. Avoid close contact. Wash your hands with soap and water or use an alcohol-based hand sanitizer. Have a nice day!
Um.
But I am ready to go, with time to set up before the arrival bell rings.
Except.
I forgot I needed gas.
4 miles to E.
That’s okay. See, the gas station is only about a mile up the road here.
I pull in, happy to see no one is at the pumps: I’ll still make it in plenty of time!
There is, of course, a reason:
Every. Single. Pump.
I sit for a moment with rain sheeting across my windshield…
…nothing for it but to go back home and tell my son he has to take me to work.
—He has no gas in his car, either.
But he does have gas in Pa-Pa’s 1989 blue Cadillac DeVille. With the dented-in back door on the driver’s side where the boy cut the turn into the garage too close (it is a LONG car. And that’s one of the few times I’ve seen my young Cadillac Man cry).
There’s more to this story, because the unforeseen complications didn’t stop there; these were but a harbinger for a day full of absurd and unexpected turns. My neat list in the planner … poof. Suffice it to say I texted admin that I’d be late. I made it just as the tardy bell rang.
In an afternoon meeting—online, naturally—the facilitators (battling internet connectivity issues) closed with this message:
I did not throw my laptop of out the window (after all, the laptop nor the window belonged to me…).
I just kept on flowing.
Even when there was no gas.
A reminder that I’m only going so far on my own resources. With my best-laid plans that can disintegrate without warning.
Willing to be led by the process of life…
Even when diverted, to an absurd degree, with plot twists right and left…
And it was sort of beautiful, in its way, arriving at my destination in a vintage Cadillac with a willing and loving driver.
Lead photo: Gas pump. Mike Mozart. CC BY.
Of calluses and rings
My older son showed me his hands this morning: “Look, Mom.”
He has tiny calluses across both palms from working out.
It causes me to reflect on why we labor hard enough at something for the friction to wear such places on our skin. To my son, the weight training is worth the effort for his physical well-being; he is dedicated to his regimen. His hands pay this small price for the health of the rest of his body.
In the photo above, a man’s ring has worn a callus on his palm when he forgot to remove it before a mountain bike race. It draws me because I have a similar, very faint callus on my own left palm from my wedding band. As I hardly race mountain bikes or use my hands in intensive manual labor on a daily basis—and I don’t even wear my rings while at home due to contact with soaps, cleansers, and detergents—it’s a bit mysterious as to why this hard little spot exists on my hand. I’ve decided that it’s occurred over time, over many, many years of marriage.
Therein lies the rub, so to speak. The ring, over time, has worn the callus. Might it be symbolic of marriage friction? For, let’s face it, no two people can live under the same roof for long without some earnest element of friction. But in a strong marriage—in any strong relationship—the labor of love is worth it; you keep at it. As long as your hearts don’t become callused (and your attitude callous) toward one another, the relationship protects itself against the friction. That’s what a callus is, a protection-against-the-friction place.
Last Saturday, my younger son, Cadillac Man, showed me the huge callus on his own palm. It’s from the shovel he used to dig the grave for Nik, our sixteen-year-old dachshund. This little dog was his daily companion since he was four and saw him almost through college.
If you’ve ever raised a dachshund, you know about friction . . . .
But the callus on Cadillac Man’s hand is a labor of love.
And worth it, for while his heart (and mine) are presently more sore than his hand, we expect more calluses yet, for we’re going to make a memorial garden where Nik is buried. A beautiful callus on the earth, if you will. A protection-against-the-friction of having to let him go, a working toward healing by building up a place of strength. The pains of creating our little memorial will be insignificant compared to the expected result.
It happens to be Memorial Day weekend. I think of men and women wearing wedding rings given by spouses who’ve died in service of the United States. Of families and friends marking the losses of those they loved. They’ll bear the scars of it on their hearts always. I think of those who fell, in this generation and all those before, believing that, if they must pay the price of their lives for the well-being of others, the outcome would be worth it.
Labors of love, protection-against-the-friction.
The story of sacrifice, sometimes complete, often beautiful, lies in the hard places left behind.
Beautiful lady
It took me a while to figure out the tiny, nondescript building in the heart of the rundown side of town. I only noticed what it was when I needed it—there, in the tiny window, a tiny sign:
Dry Cleaning.
My first thought: So that’s what that little place is!
Second thought: Time to take that mountain of cleaning . . .
Back at home, I grumbled all the way to the car with my armload. Too much of my family’s wardrobe required dry cleaning. Suits, coats, some of my dresses . . . this is ridiculous, this is IT, I am reading every tag in the future and I am NOT buying anything else that has to go to the cleaners. I could buy several more outfits for what this is going to cost!
The tiny parking lot had only three parking places. A pretty tight fit.
Fortunately, two spaces were free.
I got out of my car, gathered my garment mountain unto myself, and somehow maneuvered through a sliding glass door to enter the shop. I made it to the counter where I let it all go—thunk!
Yes, the weight of the clothing was enough to thunk.
Then, as if by magic—I didn’t see exactly where she came from—a young woman materialized.
“Hello!” she said, smiling at me. “Welcome! I am happy to help you today.”
Her Korean face shone like the sun; I actually blinked. I could feel the warmth she radiated.
She clasped her hands. “Oh, you are such a beautiful lady!”
Tears stung my eyes.
Seriously.
I almost wanted to hide.
I had been feeling—acting—anything but beautiful. I am quite sure my face looked like a thundercloud when I walked in.
“Oh my,” I said, feebly. “Um, thank you.”
She beamed.
She catalogued my family’s clothes, said they’d be ready next Tuesday, and she walked me to my car. When I pulled out of the parking lot, she stood there waving good-bye with fervor.
My first thought: Grandma used to do that. Used to wave after the car when I left, even ran out into the old dirt road to keep waving until she couldn’t see me anymore.
Second thought: How can this lady be so exuberant? Is ANYONE really that happy?
But I realized, as I drove away, that I was smiling, too.
Thus began years of visits to this dry cleaning shop.
Always when I walked in, the young woman dropped what she was doing and flew to meet me: “Beautiful Lady!”
I stopped ruing the fact that I had so many clothes needing to be dry cleaned.
I started taking things that needed mending. A hem come undone, a blouse pulling apart, hateful buttons that fell off of coats because they weren’t sewn on properly to begin with. A zipper that broke, needing to be replaced.
She fixed them all.
Once I took a challenging piece to her. A jacket with torn lining.
For the first time, I saw her brow furrow as she examined the tear.
“Is it fixable?” I asked. “If it’s not, that’s okay.”
She held her head up, sticking her chin out just a bit. “I will fix it. Not on the machine. By hand.”
And she did.
When I picked up the jacket, I marveled at the tiny, perfect stitches. They were machine-precision. I looked at her in awe. Sewing, I’d decided long ago, was just about a lost art. My mother and grandmothers sewed; they made clothes for themselves, my sister and me when we were children, and for others. My mother even crafted a slipcover for a sectional sofa. I can barely sew on a button.
And here in my hands was some of the prettiest handiwork I’d ever seen.
“It’s beautiful!” I said.
My dry cleaning lady smiled, good cheer emanating from her entire being: “It must be beautiful for the Beautiful Lady.”
I swallowed, too humbled for words.
Her habit now was to carry my clothes to the car—she absolutely would not allow me to do it—to hang them and to open the driver’s door for me. And there she stood, waving good-bye to me until I was out of sight.
I had taken to rolling the window down and waving back until I was well down the road.
I met her children as they began learning the business. “Look!” she exclaimed on one visit, as soon as I entered. “Look at this report card!” Her son had received straight As.
“That’s awesome work,” I said to him as he rang me up on the register.
“Thank you,” he said somewhat shyly, handing me my receipt.
“Listen!” said my dry cleaning lady another time. “My boys are taking piano lessons.”
There against the wall by the entrance stood a piano; when did that get delivered to this little shop? The two boys, in turn, sat and played without any sheet music:
The Entertainer.
Fur Elise.
Moonlight Sonata.
My musician son was with me on some of those visits; he listened, nodded his approval, and was invited to play.
He played his favorite.
Amazing Grace.
My dry cleaning lady and her boys nodded.
“Beautiful music!” she clapped, hopping up and down, when my son was done.
“Your boys also played beautifully,” I told her.
“I am taking lessons, too,” she said, glowing with obvious joy. In that moment, I realized just how much I admired her. Her generosity of heart, her effervescence, her genuine zest. The utter freedom with which she honored life—her own as well as others’.
I didn’t know, still don’t know, her back story, whether she was born in America or came here when she was a child. I never met her husband. She labored long hours in and out of that tiny dry cleaning shop, tireless in her dedication to her work, her family, and her customers. She raised three stellar boys, paid for their piano lessons, got that piano for them to practice as she taught them the dry cleaning business after school, and decided to play herself.
I wonder how long she harbored that dream of playing.
One day I walked in and an old man greeted me. When I inquired where my dry cleaning lady was, he explained with a heavy accent: “I am her father. She is gone to open another shop.”
In another town.
That shop will do well, I thought, thinking of her smile, her magnetic energy.
But a great light and warmth had gone from this shop.
I saw her first name written down once and asked her how to pronounce it. She coached me on it until I said it perfectly. I recalled it this week, and looked it up: It’s derived from the old Chinese “Ming,” meaning bright, brilliant.
It’s too perfect. Dead-on. Life is like that, so seemingly random at times, but always, always moving with purpose, like realizing a nondescript shop is a dry cleaners and oh, maybe I should bring that mountain of cleaning, never expecting to come face to face with the most alive human being, whose ability to make another person feel valued is unparalleled, whose very name means brightness.
I’ve been in the presence of greatness in a tiny shop in the heart of the rundown side of town. I needed to be there, but not for the kind of cleaning and mending I thought I needed. For a different and deeper kind: A lesson in blessing others at the hands of one luminous, amazing, incomparably beautiful lady.
You are beautiful.
If we could all see one another that way, and could say so sincerely, if we honored each others’ lives because we believe it . . . what a different world it would be.
lit bits and pieces 