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Today's Document
DEAR READER
Mike Driver
trying on a metaphor
Sweet Seals For You, Always
todays bird
Not today Justin
if i look back, i am lost
tannertan36
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
we're not kids anymore.
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almost home
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Cosmic Funnies
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seen from Morocco
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@mamamickterry
Your Prayers Will Be Answered
Come fly with me Cooper Hawk’s view through the Flint Hills Over the ancient ocean’s shelf Texaco hill and wild horses Deer right where he said they’d be Burnt in March Green in May We picked a day to soul search, revisit the ridges where I drafted a 76-page love letter to a green carpet and Kansas wind on the 333rd day Dress shopping Killing darlings and flight patterns Talking to…
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January 1st is Not a Magic Day
If you woke today, feeling melancholy about your unaccomplished goals, remember that each day is a chance to begin again.
“2020 is the year that I am going to (insert here):”
Lose weight
Get in shape
Save money
Go to church
Run every day
Be a better person
Get organized
If these phrases sound familiar, how’s that going for you?
Often, we are gangbusters to start, letting up by the first week, and giving in by mid-January. Feeling like a failure and counting the days with Cheetos until…
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Humble My Warrior — Wildflower Wellness
Humble My Warrior — Wildflower Wellness
I stared at the blinking cursor most of Sunday afternoon, trying to decide how to step forward onto the next set of stones that will lead through 2020. I’m not new to blogging, and I met many of you in the hallways at Lipstick and Laundry almost eight years ago. We celebrated our imperfections, toe-dipped […]
I opened my computer this evening and started something new. Would love for you to…
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Humble My Warrior
I stared at the blinking cursor most of Sunday afternoon, trying to decide how to step forward onto the next set of stones that will lead through 2020.
I’m not new to blogging, and I met many of you in the hallways at Lipstick and Laundry almost eight years ago. We celebrated our imperfections, toe-dipped into a pool of vulnerabilityand laughed so we wouldn’t cry. The page is still active, but…
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Meet Virginia: A Healthy Dose of Something New
Meet Virginia: A Healthy Dose of Something New
Always a dancer-around-the-bushes and lover of leaving elephants in the room, I’m having a difficult time introducing you to my beautiful office buddy.
Meet Virginia.
Christy gave Virginia to me (along with the frosting) as a reminder to use my voice (and that there could never be too much frosting).
Virginia is the metaphor for my new health coaching businessas well as a deep-seated hangup…
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I first wrote the following post five (six?) years ago. Two years later, I was fortunate enough to publish it in Front Porch Journal. Since then, the words have sat quiet on my desktop, stored in dusty forgotten files; labeled under electronic icons, or on seed packets. I write every day, but I don’t as often feel the need share my words.
I’m content to be quiet. To observe. To read. To listen. To be still.
Like many of you, I find a word (or two or three) to define how I want to shape the upcoming year. Last year my word was Finish. I didn’t write about it, and I only told three people. It worked! A story for another day.
For now, I’m going to be silent while you read. Perhaps you’ll share your word of the year in the comments. I’ll sit still and learn 🙂
*****
Still
Writers collect words, phrases, journals, and photos. When I hear or read a word that strikes a chord, I scribble it on whatever medium is available at the time. Sometimes it’s a scrap of paper or a napkin or a grocery store receipt. When I’m pretending to be a poet, it’s a leather-bound journal. I treasure words that trickle like music from the tongue or that resonate like a whisper as you’re falling asleep.
After years of cultivating this habit, I’ve built a bountiful bed of bewitching words.
Unspoken. Dalliance. Essence. Contrail. Talisman.
Most of these dulcet delicacies won’t appear in the lines of my stories. Using them would feel pretentious and inauthentic, and portray me as a more sophisticated writer than I am. Instead, I stash them away like precious metals and only unlock the glass case when I want to indulge in decadence.
Like right now.
My day job requires fifty-one percent travel (I did the math!) I spend winters in the not-so-tropical Midwest and Rocky Mountains; fighting deadlines, healthcare reform issues, and below-zero wind chills. Summer doesn’t offer a reprieve, as the snow morphs to sweltering heat, dog-day humidity, and ill-tempered personalities. At the risk of sounding like an unappreciative employed professional, the travel wears on me. Reading a private anthology of lovely words is a creature comfort, like baked potato soup. I often fall asleep with journals scattered and tangled in the tousled hotel sheets. Sometimes I even wake up with bad poetry imprinted on my cheek.
During a late January trip to Idaho, I found a word. The word. It sat, unassuming, scribbled at the bottom of different pages in two of the three writing journals I’d tucked into my travel bag.
Still.
The word acted as an anchor for memories that gasped for air in their quest to stay at the surface. A story wove through my thoughts like gold and crimson strands of silk in a tapestry. That night, the threads continued to tangle and break and rejoin as I ate supper at a deserted diner nearby. I was crafting prose in my head, sipping on lousy wine and eating pot pie, when the old-fashioned grandfather clock behind my booth began to chime. Westminster chimes, just like Big Ben. Goosebumps invaded my arms as I was whisked back in time to my Grandma and Grandpa’s home.
As children, it was a treat for us to spend the night there—camped out in front of the living room fire by their towering, beautiful clock. From her bedroom, Grandma could hear us (siblings, cousins, friends) giggling long after everyone was supposed to be asleep. She’d come out in her robe, no dentures, and shush us.
“Be still!”
When it was just us, she’d say, “Be still and count the chimes. Make sure the clock is right. Listen to the hands ticking off the time. You’ll never get those seconds back. Lie still and listen to them.”
And I would.
In addition to hoarding words, I also photograph still-life subjects. To get the perfect shot, one has to move quickly, and sometimes manipulate the subject to capture something ethereal in ordinary items.
Many of my friends call me a hummingbird—never stopping to perch, rest, or eat. So many times in my life, it would have paid to be still. To let problems work themselves out, permit kids to make mistakes, allow relationships to happen. Or not happen.
Still is the ultimate opposite of my nature. I am the antithesis of still.
Instead, I’m a fixer and a flutterer and a smasher of unfinished sentences. I can’t stand unsaid words, unaddressed conflicts, or uncomfortable conundrums. I am swift to swoop, soothe, and say anything to steady a situation. For all the times I got it right, there were more instances when it would have been wiser to remain quiet. To stop and let the storm blow over.
Let the sentence stay unfinished.
Such a simple, one-syllable word with so many quiet, subtle meanings: Shhh… be still. Don’t you love how still the night is? Let’s lie still. Would you please just sit still! Finally, the wind is still. You are still my dearest and best friend. I love you… still.
This rediscovery of the word still opened up a promise from my heart that night. A commitment to let others do their work while I refrained from rushing in to fix every hurt. To curb the urge to pinch-hit and take every curve ball thrown in the dirt. An oath not to smooth over, whitewash, and manage things with smothers or fidgets. To let situations evolve before I address them, and help with problem solving only after others have tried first. A pact to pick the smallest word in my journal and make it mean more than calligraphy on a page or a capture in a photographer’s frame. A solemn vow to be still.
Even if it’s not in a hummingbird’s nature to do so.
The Lord will fight for you; you need only be still. Exodus 14:14
********
Sign up for my free newsletter here. New wellness series coming soon
Still I first wrote the following post five (six?) years ago. Two years later, I was fortunate enough to publish it in…
Life Lessons on the Deck of a Longboard
Life Lessons on the Deck of a Longboard
Instructions for Living Life~
Pay attention Be astonished Tell about it
–Mary Oliver
*****
Note: I wrote a version of story that follows almost four years ago. If you read the original what you didn’t see was the fall-out. At the time, my deeply private (and barely teenage) son was mortified by his mom’s whimsical musings. He was okay with the blog post, but didn’t appreciate the Facebook tag. It…
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If You're Afraid of a Journey, Don't Buy Shoes
If You’re Afraid of a Journey, Don’t Buy Shoes
Each weekday, my son is up and out the door at 5:30 a.m. for Washburn Football work-outs. Even though he’s responsible for his alarm, the mama in me still sets a Kramer just in case.
Dane didn’t need prompted to get out of bed this morning, but I did. I’d planned to run, water the veggies and be back inside by 7:00 for e-mails and…
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Biscuits (Music While You Wait)
Biscuits (Music While You Wait)
Sorry I missed you last week. I’m working on some things. All the things.
I have ideas. A mission. A plan. Two posts I’m writing. Gimme another week.
Creating a thirty-two day mindfulness series. Gimme two three weeks.
Side note: This morning, I found myself comparing my skills to others. Parenting, wife-ing, housekeeping, working.
Comparison is the thief of joy. Thank you, Eleanor…
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No borders, just horizons – only freedom.
~~Amelia Earhart – Kansas Native
*******
Limestone
Rolling plains
Creek beds
Hidden caves
Prairie grass
Sunsets
Sunflowers
I grew up on a farm in north-central Kansas. An expanse surrounded by fields of wheat, soybeans, cattle, and pigs. My dad was born in the kitchen of my childhood home, and Mom and Dad both still live there today.
Isn’t it ironic stereotypical to wax poetically about Kansas hours before tornadoes and mayhem are scheduled to arrive in our neck of the woods?
I love Kansas storms and adore my red shoes, but today’s purpose is to torch the sunflower state stereotypes along with the prairie fires and let them blow away in the Dodge City wind. To do so, I’ve engaged the talents of some of my favorite Kansas photographers. Enjoy the photos you see below and then find them on their Instagram pages.
******
Jeff McPheeters:@macalterego and jeffmcpheeters.com
Jeff’s gallery in one word–stunning. He captures our Kansas skies, wildlife, and landscapes with the technical eye of a pro and the creativity of an artist.
***
Jonathan Adams:@jonathanadamskansas
I met Jonathan over a year ago at an Instameet, and we immediately felt like old friends. As humble as they come, Jonathan is the first to celebrate the talent of others…never really seeing his personal magic. With over 75,000 photos to choose from, somehow he managed to send three of my favorites.
***
Joy Kistler:@joykistler
When I asked sweet Joy if she’d participate, she revealed that she was moving to Oklahoma and that would make her “not a Kansas Instagrammer.” Joy…you will always be a Kansas artist to me ❤ See all of her beautiful photos near El Dorado–clean lines and a haunting tone–I want to frame them all!
***
Steve Current: @st53curr
Another kind and creative soul, Steve’s photos are rich, layered, and diverse; like the valleys and plains we populate. He makes the emotion of our state jump off the screen. Midway through the post, he messaged me to say that he’d visited my website and could we be Facebook friends–Kansas peeps are the best!
***
Erica Gruebler:@ericaportiaor @limestonegardens
When the idea for this post popped into my head, so did Erica. She and her husband own Limestone gardens, and their produce stand at the Saturday Farmer’s Market always caught my eye. A gentle but strong soul, Erica’s photos capture the essence of family, Midwestern work ethic, and faith.
***
Jamil Moody: @jcmoody
Jamil let me pick my favorites from his feed. It was like picking a favorite child or song–impossible to name only one! His page shows the beauty in the abandoned and makes the viewer wish we knew the whole story. With an amazing eye and gorgeous edits, I know you’ll love his stuff.
***
Mickey Shannon:@mickeyshannonphotography and mickeyshannon.com
You MUST look at Mickey’s photo feed. Vibrant colors, expanse landscapes, and eye for detail truly make for awesome captures. I keep hinting that I’m going to beg for photography lessons–his photos of the Milky Way are incredible!
***
Kay Swietek:@kansaskay
Kansas Kay is a dear friend who lives ‘down the way’ from me. Quiet and humble, I didn’t realize what an artist she was until I found her Instagram. An eye for beauty coupled with a poet’s heart, the viewer quickly gets a sense of place and the feeling that Someone/something bigger loves our state.
***
Scott McGonagle:@ibishawimages and ibishawimages.com
From still life to wildlife, Scott captures both the calm and the storm of this place. With an eye for detail, he will dazzle you through all of our seasons. He’s such a Kansas icon; I was thrilled that he said yes!
***
Jennifer Anderson:@baileysnbabies
Love, Love, Love Jennifer’s photos! Her joy and zest for life are evident in the photos she shares. I adore how she captures the whimsy and wonder of the people who are our neighbors, friends, and family.
***
Scott Bean@scottbeanphoto or ScottBeanPhoto.com
When you scroll through Scott’s page, you’ll jump in for the wildlife and stay for the vibrant landscapes. His owl and eagle photos are my favorites…but those sunsets, though. Incredible!
Christopher Wrecker:@christopherwrecker
Truly an artist, I told Christopher that I must have his photos for this post. His pictures are captivating, edgy, and goosebump-worthy. I am hooked on his grungy edits, and it took me forever to find only three favorites.
***
Kent Crow: @crowkent
When you view Kent’s page, you’ll see that he’s an avid traveler. You’ll also see that his Kansas captures, landscapes, and botany photos can stand toe-to-toe with the most exotic of places. Another Kansas icon, you gotta stop by and visit!
***
Me: @mamamickterry
I’m putting this here because Jonathan told me I had to! I chose the Ball of Twine because my childhood farm is less than six miles from here. Pam Grout, Kansas Native and bestselling author even wrote about it earlier in the week.
In our 1991 wedding invitations, I typed up a little note for my Kansas City friends that read turn left at the Ball of Twine and then right on the unmarked black top–it’ll take you all the way to the church.
A huge thank you to my Kansas friends, talented artists, and plains lovers. I sent these lovely folks a message on Tuesday morning and had everyone’s photos in my hands by Wednesday. Most of them only know me thru Instagram, so it was a fantastic experience to have their trust and enthusiasm.
If you want to see more stunning photos, follow @KansasTourism and #NoPlaceLikeKS on Instagram. You can also visit our tourism site at TravelKs.com.
Extra treat: In case you’re traveling through Kansas to get from one side of the country to the other, feel free to check out the tab at the top of my page called Kansas Eats. Here, I’ll keep a running list of amazing Kansas diners and restaurants for you to visit. I am super excited to be a new contributor to the tourism blog and will post there about once/month. I’ll even save you a table 🙂
Grilled Cheese is the Bees Knees at The Wheel Barrel
Best.Grilled.Cheese.Ever!
Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m off to see a woman about a dog.
via
PS: For everyone who has asked and sent Macy their love. She is doing GREAT! It’s almost as if she read my last post and said, “Okay, Lady. I am just fine, thank you!”
Beyond the Ruby Reds and Tornadoes–There’s No Place Like Kansas No borders, just horizons – only freedom. ~~Amelia Earhart - Kansas Native ******* Limestone Rolling plains…
Wag More Bark Less (A Repost and a Footnote)
Wag More Bark Less (A Repost and a Footnote)
Repost from 12/17/2013 – please read the footnote after the article to see what’s happening these days with our beloved Macy Grey.
Hi! I’m Macy Grey and I run this joint.
In case you didn’t know, my family often looks to me for advice. I’m smart and loyal and I love them with my whole heart. In dog years, the earth has gone round the sun 72 112 times since I was born and that equates to enough…
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Monday? You’ve got this. (Short Read!)
Monday? You’ve got this. (Short Read!)
“Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest that we take between two deep breaths.”
~~Etty Hillesum
*****
Monday, right?
You have a big list rowing waves in your head.
Groceries
Graduations
Taxes
Work
Kids
We can approach this week one of two ways. With dread and trepidation and angst that the list will continue to grow to mammoth size.
Or…
We can infuse each instance with…
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Note: Reposting a favorite from March of 2014.
With a late arriving spring, landowners and farmers are burning fields and pastures to eliminate weeds and promote new life. Whether this is the first time you’ve read Prairie Burn, or you’re indulging me again, view it as a meditation and a call to look inward and determine what in your life may need invigorated, renewed, or eliminated.
*****
“She’s mad, but she’s magic. There’s no lie in her fire.” ― Charles Bukowski
In my corner of the country, spring is the signal to burn the prairie. Start fresh, and purge the landscape of weeds and seeds and spindly trees. This fire-fallow cultivation is a showy signal to Mother Nature and a tell that it’s time to beckon the sprouted green aftermath.
“There may be a great fire in our soul, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.” ― Vincent van Gogh
Like thunderstorms, the sensual lure of the fire is fascinating to the farm girl side of me. I’m drawn to the lick of the flames and the way its fiery tail snakes through the prairie grasses. If the wind is just right, the roar will rise to the open sky as the sound surrounds the soul bowing beneath its heat.
The men in my family have always understood the science behind a controlled, agricultural burn. Over the decades, I’ve watched the experts and learned, and I’ve played with fire, too. As a pre-teen, I stood at our backyard trashcan and practiced coaxing the flame from one strand of grass to another with a wayward twig…or gasoline.
But during a prairie burn, I’m content to hide my pyromaniac tendencies behind a camera lens. My husband and his friend speak in code to each other, and if I listen close enough, I learn the secrets of fire breaks and burn circles. The intricate dance of escorting the inferno to the perimeter without making the mistake of letting flames jump the road and become the uninvited guests of the neighbors.
The appointed evening was chosen because it had rained the day before. The wind was quiet and the night was clear and humid. The guys complained that the conditions made it difficult to keep the fire going, but I was content because it made it safe for me to crouch in the grass next to the flames and steal some photos.
Fire and thunderstorms share the same ragged corner of my mind and I’m drawn to the metaphor. With each of these forces, there is a purge, a cleansing, and a fine line between fear and excitement. Spring is the season of new life and renewal. Out with the old and in with the new.
Are we able to do that as easily with our lives as we are with the flower beds, garden sheds, and dotted prairie plots? Each spring I have good intentions to let old habits, grudges, waning friendships, and negativity fall away.
Let it go. Let it fall. let it be.
Yet, I’m drawn to the flames, and I keep looking for a way to play with fire. To make deals with myself that I’ll build a break to keep the bad habits from hopping the road and burning those around me.
I know this sounds melancholy, but I assure you that I’m not. Something about watching the flames makes me want to share the moment with you. As I snapped the photos you see, I counted my many blessings, made promises to be a better mom, wife, and friend. A vow that launched me toward a controlled burn–to get rid of weeds, unwanted seeds, and debris. To tidy up the brain for a productive and verdant harvest in the months to come.
What is it about a fire that draws, lures and beckons us toward the fatal blaze? The desire to feed the source coupled with the sensibility to douse it out once it’s served its purpose or delivered its destruction.
I have no enlightened answers.
Just a torch and a camera.
How about a little fire, Scarecrow?
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https://open.spotify.com/user/mamamickterry/playlist/3LED6IUaCbefv4XXEqRHYA
Prairie Burn – Repost Note: Reposting a favorite from March of 2014. With a late arriving spring, landowners and farmers are burning fields and pastures to eliminate weeds and promote new life.
It starts as a tickle. A whiff. A verdant flash in the upper left quadrant.
An undulating breeze that smells like Oklahoma.
One moment, a blanket of white covers the hard bed outside your window, and then overnight it’s dotted in green and yellow.
Like a bear, this winter has made me sluggish. Science says that the biological, anticipatory eating is supposed to happen in the fall, but I seem to have embraced that stage of hibernation the best. Too much comfort food in January, and more airline miles than running miles has made me sleepy and uninterested in writing.
I have pressed my fingers to keyboards, smartphones, and notepads. E-mails, proposals, spreadsheets, longitudinal plans. I’ve been writing for Topeka Magazine and have more deadlines and stories due. Gainfully employed, helping hubs put food on the table.
But I haven’t been writing writing.
Not writing the kind of prose that feeds my soul, or yours – the person who reads these random ramblings. A favorite friend told me, I hurt when you don’t write. And it jolted me.
It would be easy to chalk off non-writing to being busy, but we are all busy with our busy-ness and deadlines and mirror lines and long lines and wrinkle lines.
I despise using busy as the excuse. Shall I blame complacency? Laziness? Writer’s block?
I’m not sure, and decided there didn’t need to be a reason. Three weeks ago, I woke up and my fingers were itchy. The sun kissed my face and an urgency kicked off the covers; write, you fool.
I picked up a pen and started to write. Then I switched to a pencil and continued. After that, I pitched another story to the Topeka Mag editor. Then I wrote a poem. Edited a chapter. Practiced yoga. Photographed emerging sweet pea seedlings. Planted ranunculus corms.
packets of dreams
ranunculus corm
baby ranunculus
baby sweet peas
Then, I went for a run.
My limbs lumbered toward the sun like a bud buried under the snow. Tentative at first, and then burst forth in green and wet glory. Muscle memory took over, and life happened again.
I am embracing spring this year, and celebrating it by putting pencil to pad. Even though it snowed and iced (on Easter!), I don’t plan to crawl back under the blankets. I will write here again regularly–with purpose and presence. You may see some reposts along with new content until I hit my stride–hoping to re-inject some lightness and humor along with more photography. So many ideas, so little time!
Like my garden, my ideas are in early growth and I’m plotting beds (stories) and nourishing the soil (words). I am even creating an audience participation series in May (or June!) – I can’t wait to share the details, so stay tuned.
As always, thank you for being here, and happy spring! Hibernation is over.
Hibernation It starts as a tickle. A whiff. A verdant flash in the upper left quadrant. An undulating breeze that smells like Oklahoma.
We are not privy to the stories behind people’s actions, so we should be patient with others and suspend judgement of them, recognizing the limits of our understanding. – Epictetus
I pitched to the editor of Topeka Magazine, a story about a prison greenhouse project. I’d written two other articles for him, so I felt confident in my proposal. He hopped on the idea, and three weeks later I was standing at the entrance of the Topeka Correction Facility–our local prison for women.
I have an amazing friend (Jennifer) who works there, so I assumed it’d be easy to navigate the system and get the story. It wasn’t until the guard chastised me for bringing in an iPad and cell phone that I realized I was outside my realm of experience.
The first visit was low-key; a pat-down of my character to ensure I wouldn’t go outside the bounds with a reveal-all expose’. What I wanted to say to the prison administrator (Kevin) was, “Listen. I’m not a real journalist. I have a day-job, and this is my side-gig until I finish my book and become a real writer. And I will spend the 150 bucks I’m making on your plant sale in May.”
He turned out to be engaging and excited about the article.
The second visit was life-changing. The four women I interviewed were kind, insightful, and amazingly full of life. Midway through the interview, Kevin pulled me out and informed me that two of the women would not be allowed to show up in print due to last minute information. We both agreed that we didn’t want to exclude them, so I continued with the interviews agreeing to leave out their names and quotes.
All four of the women contributed to the overall feel and tone of the story, and twice I hid tears by pretending to take vigorous notes in my scribbled up notebook.
By the time we finished, I wanted to hug each of these women–Norma even let me. What you see below is the story that Sunflower Publishing printed last week.
https://issuu.com/sunflower_publishing/docs/tm18sp/16
Many of you know that I can be over-the-top with emotion and this story triggered that. The skillful editor kept more of my words than I had expected, and I was grateful that the heart of the story remained. Talented photographer, Katie Moore, makes my subjects jump off the page.
I mined the original text and noted the removed paragraphs. In honor of the women who took their time to speak with me, I’m sharing some of the passages that were edited out, though still acceptable and within the prison’s rules. (Shout out to the girls if you’re reading this. I’ll see you in May!)
****
Where Flowers Grow in Concrete
The ladies projected a calm sense of peace and connection to nature as each shared their personal stories. There’s a defined sense of pride in what they produce both for the public and for their fellow inmates. Norma said, “Last year we drafted blueprints for the dorm landscaping.” She admitted it wasn’t easy to see what the result could be. “But each day, there were more flowers and plants filling the space that used to be dirt.”
Mary added, “In a place where everything is burgundy and blue uniforms, the pop of color on a cloudy day is all a person needs to feel some serenity.”
Norma, often the matron of the team, admitted that an individual could come inside and leave as the same person if they didn’t make an effort to evolve. This program gives the participants a chance to change and make something of themselves.
As the greenhouse tour and interviews were winding down, one of the women remarked at a clump of green and red on the ground under the seedling tables. “Look! There’s salvia blooming. Right there in the gravel!”
Someone asked, “How does it do that? We didn’t plant it there.”
A contemplative silence washed over the knitted group as the red petals bursting from the rocks became the center of attention. In a program that emphasizes growth, nurturing and development, it wasn’t surprising to see beauty, like hope, rising from the concrete.
Did u hear about the rose that grew from a crack
in the concrete
Proving nature’s law is wrong it learned 2 walk
without having feet.
Funny it seems but by keeping its dreams
it learned 2 breathe fresh air
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared!
Tupac Shakur
If you want to see what else I’ve been writing, take a peek at the following:
Topeka Magazine Fall Issue
Fun Fact: A picture of my daughter is on page 38!
Topeka Magazine Winter Issue
As fun and rewarding as seeing my words in print can be, I’m missing the creativity of soulful writing and the joy of interacting with all of you.
It’s spring and, in nature, that signals the end of hibernation Who knows…maybe I’ll see you again soon. xo
Where Flowers Grow in Concrete We are not privy to the stories behind people’s actions, so we should be patient with others and suspend judgement of them, recognizing the limits of our understanding.
4:50 a.m. – the alarm rings its tune from the kitchen counter. No need to have set it (and checked twice)–I was awake at 4:00.
Time to make sausage links.
Knowing that other moms and dads were in their kitchens at the butt-crack of dawn made me smile. Understanding the reason why we were doing this filled my eyes with tears.
It’s been a fantastic football season and the playoff party starts tonight. As a mama, it’d be easy to plaster pictures of my player and his stats on this blog. It’s my blog, right?
Senior Night 2017 Photo Cred to Brad Shaffer
But that has not been the tone of this season.
With every win (there’s been a lot), with each loss (there’s been two), it’s only ever been about one thing.
The guy standing next to you.
Photo Cred to Kay Swietek
When a local newscaster thrusts a mic in front of the star quarterback for one of the big win games, you don’t hear I did this or I’m so great because…
Instead you hear, “I couldn’t have done it without my defense. They are the best in the city.”
A linebacker makes some critical 4th down stops. “The offense really came through for us tonight.”
Kansas Prep Zone Interview
Many of these Shawnee Heights T-Birds have played together since they were in third grade. They have become brothers from other mothers and misters. They practice together, go to school together, hang out on weekends together. These men are the first to give each other a hard time and the first to rise the when someone else does.
I have witnessed a movement with the parents, too. Moms and dads who show up each week toting food for Thursday night team dinners. A tireless TD Club president whose kiddo was out with a knee injury before the season began and still coordinated and led members through the year. Adults who stepped up when they were needed with smiles and positive energy.
Sweet Mamas on Senior Night!
Imagine if we treated each other like teammates. Lifted one another up when the other was down. Filled in the gaps, scraped off the negativity, and blocked the self-doubt when an opponent was barreling in on us.
And speaking of opponents. These guys pick them up, too. As a parent, you want reassurance that you’ve raised a good man. I see the back-pats and handshakes to start the game and I see the same at the end – no matter how tough the battle or gritty the contest.
So, as I head out to the last senior breakfast I’ll ever serve, I’ll throw out a challenge to anyone reading this: players, coaches, teachers, students, parents, fans –
Look to your left.
Look to your right.
Play for the person on either side of you…and then watch them do the same.
https://vimeo.com/239561770
Video credit to Brooklyn Armbruster – another talented Senior T-Bird. Crank it up – see you all tonight!!!
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Please excuse the brevity and any typos you may find – I wrote this in 5 minutes – we have a game to go to!
Playing for the Guys Next to You 4:50 a.m. - the alarm rings its tune from the kitchen counter. No need to have set it (and checked twice)--I was awake at 4:00.
Note: I wrote the original post Sept 11, 2015. With some revisions, I’m sharing a message that still resonates today. Thank you for taking the time to read. xo
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George Strait was my first country singer crush. In college, my roommate and I sang Amarillo by Morning to each other while we Aqua-netted our hair to heavens. Mr. Strait was handsome, humble, and very helpful in snagging me a husband–All My Ex’s is the perfect song for Two-Stepping and I needed a partner!
The King
These days, I never listen to him.
Hearing his voice reminds me of younger, more carefree days. It’s easier to change the channel than to note I don’t look as hot in Rocky Mountain jeans and red Ropers like back in the day.
via
But, this past week, I left the dial alone as his voice crooned Run and filled the rental car with classic George smoothness. The sun was setting in the Appalachian Mountains and the song, coupled with the scenery, made my heart flutter. The I-40 landscape hinted at Autumn and revealed itself like the bend in the curve around the mountain–you knew it was there, but not quite in view. My soul was full of gratitude for the gorgeous day, and the mind monkeys were quiet.
Then, Tim McGraw started to sing Live Like You’re Dying and my fingers cranked the knob to find a less-heavy tune.
Slim Tim is a true favorite, but his song marks a sad time–the year we lost Dion. Suddenly, I realized that the very last time I’d been on this highway between Nashville and Bristol was fourteen years ago – with my husband and Dion.
A joyful time…
three years before Dion was diagnosed with cancer
before a storm ransacked our home with flood waters
before the Twin Towers fell and broke our American hearts
Since then, I have used three major benchmarks to note passage of time:
~~before Dion died ~~during the flood ~~after 9/11
Like my homage to George and memories, I turned back to Tim and let him sing. Reminiscent tears filled my eyes and then I did the math. We had taken the Tennessee road trip only three weeks before 9/11. We showed up at the airport thirty minutes before boarding–loaded down with liquids and gels of all weights and sizes. As the song came to the last refrain, my mind ticked off all of the ways life had changed, and I ached for my kids to know a non-post 9/11 world.
9/11 thrust us into a collective “never enough” and it feels like we’re still trying to find our way out. It would be easier if the answer was more money, more accomplishments, more power, more perfection, more security, more “better than” – but I don’t think that’s working on an individual or cultural level.
Healing scarcity and fear at a cultural level requires exactly what it takes for an individual or family: Connection. It’s the willingness to both offer help and ask for help. It’s about finding the courage to say, “Can you stand by me?” and “Can I stand with you?” Healing requires the courage to be vulnerable. This is the irony. This is the struggle.
~~Brene’ Brown*
I never felt like the 9/11 story belonged to me until I read Brene’s words a few years ago. I didn’t know any families, first responders, or victims. I couldn’t grasp what had happened, and the only thing I wanted to do was shut off the TV, huddle with my family under big blanket forts, and watch Disney movies.
As a punishment for living (survivor’s guilt), I memorized faces and stories. Like millions of others, I tried to work that week, but spent most of the time pissed off at people who said we needed to move on. A year later, with others in a hospital chapel during a moment of silence, a mouthy sales rep spouted off, “get over it already” and I let him have it.
I would never get over it.
I’ll forever remember sitting in my car and being on the phone with Scott when the first tower fell. How my mom called me and how it sucks that my brother’s birthday falls on September 11. How I wanted to grab Tanna out of school, retrieve Dane from Grandma Terry’s, and hide at home. I recall standing in our back yard that beautiful afternoon and looking up–feeling the eerie quiet of a sky devoid of contrails and air traffic. I won’t forget the stories, the piles of rubble, and the all-out-in-the-trenches prayers.
Via
Years later, I finally had the opportunity to go to New York. While my co-workers went to happier places like Broadway and Central Park, I snagged a friend, and we visited Ground Zero. I knew it’d be tough, but the sheer emotion of the place was even more overwhelming than I could have imagined. At that time, the cavern of the parking garage remained. There were makeshift memorials everywhere, marking the pain and sadness rising from the cracks in the sidewalk. I cried for the two hours we were there.
And it felt good.
Since that visit to Ground Zero, I have tried to see 9/11 in a different light and find the positives buried in our rubble-filled brains. What if we honored the living and dead by remembering a simpler life before our collective national trauma paralyzed us?
Sixteen years ago, we weren’t chained to our cell phones, poised for an emergency, or creating images of a perfect life on social media. In this culture of scarcity and the fear of being average, can’t we let our wholehearted lives be our legacy? Imagine if we honored our post 9/11 heroes by:
Forgiving others, even when forgetting is impossible
Imagine that people are doing the very best they can*
Acknowledge that WE are doing the best we can
Understanding that people leave, die, or move on and that it has nothing to do with our personal worthiness
Capturing the moment, being present, and channeling a brave heart in our everyday interactions.
via
If you are someone who was affected directly by 9/11, I am so sorry for your loss. If you are one of the many brave men and women who helped others on that day, or went to war later–thank you for your service and I hope your healing strengthens with each year.
My heart is not as heavy as it sounds, but I’m learning that it’s okay to roll with these tough emotions. It’s courageous to honor your memories, and look forward to the future with a brave, whole heart.
I’d be honored if you shared your experiences and memories from 9/11/2001 below. Tell us where you were, who you were with, and what you can do to promote national and international healing. No biggie, right?
And please, don’t turn that dial.
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Helloooo to all of my new friends and readers. Your kindness and support in reading my last post on Wishes left me speechless and grateful. Thank you so much for taking the time to be here.
George Strait, Tim McGraw, and Remembering 9/11 Note: I wrote the original post Sept 11, 2015. With some revisions, I'm sharing a message that still resonates today.