Heidi Beth

Three by three they arrived early this cool autumn afternoon. Being prompt is rewarded in the third week. 1pm, at tables and chairs, we can see each other. Two groups, two rooms. Small and large. Different virtue for each class. For some, today is the first time.
I stay with the 5 to 8 year old group. Name? How old are you? What is the most interesting thing you did last week, will do this week? Two five year old boys point to each other, “I’m having a sleep over with my friend.” Beaming independence.
Sea of delight, makers of wonder, I am in your universe, happily unaware that time has meaning to some, keeping time strictly.
Floating smile, brilliant eyes, her hair skips lightly. Moving still, sitting in motion, tell us your tale. “I ice skate fast. I fall to stop. I’m good.” Beautiful child, I love you so.
New teacher speaks, smile spreads through her face, we smile with her, gaze locked there, on her dancing eyelashes.
What is a virtue? What is not? One thump for happiness, two for selfishness. Generousity, thump. Peacefulness, thump. Cruelty, thump thump! Courage (today’s virtue), thump! We make music all day.
Soon I drift to to the 9 to 12 year old class. Their teachers are quieter. There’s less to say. By 9 they know virtues (it’s their turn to watch us, the grown ups, to see if we live by our own rules). I find them decorating business sized cards with a simple message. LOVE “Hatred cannot drive out hatred; only love can do that.” – Martin Luther King Jr.
Technology in the form of a mini laminating machine impresses all. Quick art freezes today’s lessons. Ribbons adorn. Magnets make useful. Craft time gives way to skits of courage (thump) and love (thump). Later, courage and love will share space with holiday pictures and grocery lists in their kitchens. Skits give way to snack. After snack, rehearsal.
Welcome Ms. Katie. Welcome Mr. Brown. Brilliant stars illuminate the way. “When you’re on stage…” All eyes fixed ahead, ears pulling in, minds recording critical information. Ms. Katie and Mr. Brown are rivers of wisdom, their knowledge flowing to young souls, dancing games, sincere consideraton of ideas offered, maintaining clear, focused attention for hours.
Little ones puzzle over kindness, consideration, belonging. Should anyone be left on the outside, friendless, just because they look different? Get around in a wheel chair?
Their slightly elders sort out slavery, ask important questions, unravel the reality of hell on earth for many. Between songs, scripts open in their laps, in response to one slave family being separated even when the father was paying for his wife, one boys demands to know, “Why didn’t he take away his master’s children in retaliation?!”
Compassion and sadness grow side by side.
Late winter performances of “Ugly Duckling” and “Henry Box Brown” have now begun to form in the womb Saturday afternoons.

A piece I wrote over 20 years ago at 4am. This may have been my first attempt at humor. At the time I was still living with my parents. After they went to bed I’d go to my moms room and take out her fancy 1986 Smith Corona. It was the most advanced machine in the house. I’d set it up on our dining room table where I’d have a fresh cup of coffee, clean ash tray and pack of Marlboros waiting. I desparately wanted to write something real (not sure what I thought real would look like). Most of my attempts back then were dark, deep and sad. One example was a story titled, “Therapy.” That I’d never been in therapy (though it may have been a good idea!) didn’t keep me from diving into the world of one man unraveling his painful past.
How “Insomnia!!!” got written back then, I have no idea. Anyway, just for fun and non deepness, here it is.
“You are now prey to frighteningly early droning hours of insulting creativity, “Perfect Family” sit-coms, and deranged thoughts while analyzing past events.
You have entered…Insomniac Death Grip…!!!
Strange urges drive you to clean the bathroom and make a collage from shelf scraps to reflect a sudden feeling. There is nothing like a slow 10 minute cigarette to pass a short time of nothing. No one is up at this time to consult on the dark hours of morning in thankless terms.
One full hour may have passed since you last looked at the clock, though I wouldn’t stake a cent on the chances. Even the cats can rest their heads. The refrigerator is bare or so it seems. You’ve seen the same choices day after day. At this point White Castle and a friend is the only temporary remedy for your boredom. Still, there is no one to call.
There are 419 tiles on the shower walls, 18 cracks in the ceiling. You must wait 3 minutes for the toilet to flush a second time (4 minutes for a third time). Your teeth are slightly crooked. Epidermis is the word from that dumb elementary school joke! The trash can has a dent in the side you’ve never noticed because your mother turned it around so it wouldn’t show, and 5 channels have gone off the air.
The sick realization you finally make is that you truly are enjoying yourself, while learning new and unimportant facts about your house and your life.”
The end
Remember, I was 17…

Open Salon is an online community of writers who share their work through blogs. Here’s how Open Salon explains what it is. http://open.salon.com/blog/kerry_lauerman/2008/07/24/welcome_to_our_public_beta
“Happiness and delight come easy in a supportive friendly atmosphere.
Agreeing to disagree courteously is impossible in an atmosphere of disunity and discord.
Less than two weeks ago I put out an Open Call that I thought would be mostly ignored, “12 Random Facts About My Life”. Much to my delight over 80 people responed. I loved the lists so much I hardly moved from the couch for a good part of 2 afternoons and evenings. Looking back, I think the comments (full of love, laughter and kindness) kept me at my post scanning the horizon for new lists of 12 even when my legs were going numb. Delight was everywhere apparent. I’m well aware that many here on OS stayed away from the whole thing. I’m also aware some people felt it wasn’t appropriate for OS. I’m simply thankful those who didn’t care for it didn’t say so “outloud,” at least not where I was reading. During those few days, OS felt like a warm, caring, supportive community.
Yesterday and the day before, a lengthy, often unpleasant discussion about “who is a writer,” lit up OS. As far as I can tell, the fire is out. Unfortunately not without incurring damage. I’ve been on here less than a month so I may be responding to something that happens regularly. If that’s the case, how unpleasant. Many comments and posts were peaceful and courteous. Many weren’t. As a result, several people on both “sides” may have left OS. Two people contacted me to let me know they would not be sticking around. I know, people are free to make their own choices. We choose to be hurt and walk away. True. Does that relinquish each of us of the responsibility to be mindful of how our words may be received by others?
There may be an answer in a teaching that can be found in most, if not all, of the worlds major religions.
“Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful.” – Buddhism
“What is hateful to you, do not to your fellow man. That is the entire law; all the rest is commentary.” – Judaism
“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” – Christianity
“No one of you is a believer until he desires for his brother that which he desires for himself.” – Islam
“Blessed is he who preferreth for his before himself.” – Baha’i Faith
Regardless of what one believes or doesn’t, can’t we agree to disagree courteously?”

I wrote this in the afternoon but didn’t have time to finish it up until now. This is my response to the many posts and comments about who is a writer. Though it doesn’t seem like in in the beginning, keep reading, I do address the issue.
I’m ready now. I’m ready to have my work picked apart. Thirteen years ago I wrote “My Name is Heidi Beth,” for a writers workshop. Tonight I’ll be attending week 2 of my first writing class since college. My piece will be on the table. Our teacher already warned us she’ll be honest.
Two years ago I may have declined, let someone else go first, kept my pages hidden until I was home. I may have opted out of the critique process completely. I was at a different stage in the process.
Most of my writing is practice, not product. For thirty years, I spent countless hours finding my written “voice,” playing with word combinations, reading to friends while reading their faces and revising almost nothing. That changed earlier this year.
In January I decided to write 30 pieces in 30 days. I Posted them to my first blog. My intention was to move out of practice into form. For the first time, I reread, revised, reread, asked for feedback before posting and continued to revise after I hit publish. The difference in quality between earlier writing and the first 30 in 30 is night and day.
A few weeks ago I found OS. I was delighted to find a community of writers at all different stages supporting each other through friendship, detailed praise (not just, “Great!”) and feedback if requested. I was so delighted, I hit a wall! To get past the block, I decided to do another 30 in 30. My purpose in this has been to keep moving so I don’t get intimidated by my inner voice that has been trying to tell me I’m not good enough. Good enough for what?? This is day 16.
Now I’m entering a new stage, willingness to accept critcism. While I’ve always intended to “do something” with this obsession,that is, to form thoughts and impressions into published works, I know myself. If I sought feedback too soon, I would have folded. Instead of fear and discouragement, today I experience excitement and eagerness at the prospect of continued constructive feedback, especially from a qualified teacher. I’ve seen the results and I want more!
In the piece we’re going to be critiquing tonight, I wrote, “When I was little I thought there’d be these lines I’d cross when I belonged, grew up, succeeded…and now I see life as a dance, round and round to this beautiful music. I have to be quiet to hear it, and to feel the swan like motion.”
Is there a clear line when someone becomes a writer?
While we’ve all been figuring out the answer to this question in posts, comments and PM’s (I got an intense one this afternoon) for 2 days, I sense that some people have been hurt unnecessarily. Everyone has valid points to share. Going back to Ken’s post that seemed to ignite this fire, I found my first comment. In it I quoted him and then responded. Maybe it will help to share it again.
“This, then, is where I leave it: when

I was 8. He was 34.
I was at the summer babysitters house. I spent that season with Jamie, a 12 year old who was the coolest person I knew. I was her shadow. Other than seeing myself trail around after her all over town, I have only one clear memory with her that summer.
We had just returned to her house. I walked to the kitchen when Jamie’s mother told me I had a phone call. My mom was on the line. “Daddy’s been in a bad accident. He was hit by a taxi cab. The doctors think he’ll be OK but he has to stay in the hospital for a while. Here, he wants to talk to you.”
Those four sentences lasted weeks. Normally I remember many unimportant details of each house I’ve ever been in, like where the kitchen window is in relation to the hanging pots and pans. I remember nothing of Jamie’s house. I only know it’s where I was the first time I experienced sink in, terrifying, “out of body” dread where the earth shifts and wobbles beneath you.
“Hi honey. I’m OK.” Gentle laughter. “I was walking across the street downtown Chicago and a cab came roaring around the corner and out of the more than 30 other people walking my way, the cab managed to hit me and I flew 30 feet.” Breathing returned. My brain began to thaw. This is what I saw in my inner visiscreen. My dad first flying straight up then sideways at a ninety degree angle across the sky before crashing onto the pavement. My next question will forever be part of family history, “But how high did you go daddy?!”
The following day I was allowed to visit the hospital. I understood why he was there and not at home. I got that he was fragile. So did the wonderful staff seeing to his recovery. That’s why they earnestly discouraged my dad from letting me wheel him around the corridors. My dad would not be swayed. His little girl wanted to take him for a ride and he wanted a little variety.
Keep in mind, though my dad was bruised and bloody (and up to his eyeballs in pain meds), he miraculously had suffered no broken bones or internal bleeding. The fact that he wasn’t dead mystified everyone. The consensus was that his having been a trapeze artist in the circus 14 years earlier saved his butt, as well as his bones and organs!
Anyway, there I was, the shortest girl in my in grade at school, strong beyond my understanding, hands at eye level gripping the grooved, gray plastic handles of his wheel chair. And away we went. I wasn’t interested in moderation. I assumed my dad wanted to go as fast as I could push him. I was right, much to the yelping concern of everyone watching with wide eyes, their shoulders between their ears with anxiety. I couldn’t stop that chair on my own. In a short time I had run him into a wall. He was laughing so hard. At this point, these well meaning people tried to step in but my dad insisted he was fine and that they should go away. His amusement park ride didn’t last much longer, though it did include a few more meet ups with other walls and man was it fun! I love my dad’s laugh.
Soon he was back in his funny looking bendable bed adorned with useful wires and swithces. Hospital rooms can be eerily quiet. One by one he showed me each of his wounds. That’s when I understood how lucky I was to be hearing his voice.
He came home a week later. Eventually he was fully recovered aside from some back problems that have manifested in different ways over the years.
In a long, low plastic box under my bed, I have a brittle envelope containing photos of every scratch, gash and ocean of black, blue and red on his legs, back, abdomen, neck and face. I used to look at them often. No thoughts, just observing again, thankful my dad knew how to “fly through the air with the greatest of ease,” even after being rendered unconscious.

I have half an hour to write.
I’ve got most of an 80% cocao content extra dark in my backpack. I’m sipping strong decaf loaded with cream. Old show music sings behind me. Hello sun! You’re why I came to this crowded cafe at a busy intersection. Autumn days insist I sit outside.
Autumn asks me to smile, feel her gentle spirit, spend an extra moment silent.
This 30 minute break is all I have to focus. When I get home, there’s pizza to make and I have a date with my ideal man. Grandmas and grandpas are precious. They like to watch boys watching Pokemon. They like to feed them yogurt and dates and grapes. Grandpa has some of this Pokemon world figured out.
Cleaning trumps creativity for the rest of the evening (though I may sneak in a batch of chocolate mint cookies).
There’s it is! Here’s what I want to write today…
Oh little boys. I only need a break from you so that I can see you as you are. Beautiful. Without a break, you begin to walk sideways because I’m tilted. You begin to whine more because I forget to listen for what you’re really saying…and because I whine more. I don’t whine like you. I correct more. You begin to cling anxiously because I withdraw right in front of you. That must hurt. My dad used to do that. Then he used to go to IHOP in the middle of the night and write endless pages in a top ring half spiral. Doubtless he has a box of old notebooks too. I take a break so I can remember and retain the wonderful times with my parents, their gifts, and pass these on to you.
For my dad, it’s his story telling. I hope one day he can tell you too. About his crazy family, his favorite aunt, his early determination to find that “something wonderful” in the world, how he and grandma met, their first two years together before they accidentally conformed to a normal that broke their spirits and how they found their hearts again.
For my mom it’s her questions. She saw me as a complete human being from the beginning and treated me…well, we all may have benefitted if she had put me in my place as not the head of the household sometimes (the place I carved for myself as it’s my natural personality). Grandma spent time, included me in her every day life and was a part of mine. Out of necessity, but she enjoyed my company.
This must be why I tell you stories, ask questions more often than giving answers and spend most of everyday with you by choice.
Break’s over. Time to get a few groceries and head home.

Many here on OS are polished writers. I’m not one of them. I believe a few of the posts I’ve shared here are good, but I haven’t developed the skill of artfully discussing every day issues in a way that clearly expresses my understanding or insights on a given topic. This lack of skill (that I’ll gain eventually) has been the reason for my delay in sharing part 2 of “How I learned Racism is Real and Present.” I wrote part 1 eleven days ago here.
http://open.salon.com/blog/heidibeth/2010/09/15/2_of_30_how_i_learned_racism_is_real_and_present_part_1
Swallowing my hesitation, I’ll now share my story in whatever way unfolds as I let my mind go back in time to one of the saddest learning experiences of my life.
I was 20. Old enough to drive, vote, work and be classified as an adult. I was old enough to live on my own. I wasn’t old enough to thoughtfully sort out the destruction triggered by the Rodney King verdict that I was witnessing on the news. I wasn’t old enough to feel anything but horror and then numbness at all of it. I hadn’t developed the faculty for mature reflection in the face of violence. Everyone had gone crazy. I was going back to the cafe for a latte and a cigarette.
Fortunately, I was surrounded by thoughtful people who believed something needed to be done, even if it was apparently insignificant compared to the magnitude of what was ultimately needed to bring order to the chaos resulting from the very real presence of racism in our nation. As I was often concerned with basic survival issues back then, like getting enough food, finding a job I enjoyed that paid enough for me to live on on my own, healing from an event I may never write about, when I look back, I only see disjointed scenes and conversations, but not a cohesive series of events. Here’s what I remember.
A weekly gathering for people to learn about various aspects of the Baha’i faith was changed into a weekly gathering of people who wanted to have an open, honest discussion about the current reality of racism and what we could each do in our daily life to heal the wounds already existing and help build a world much like the one I thought we already had (this is explained in part 1). I showed up every Saturday night. So did Harold, a tall black man who was relieved to finally have an opportunity to share his experiences with a group that included many white people he trusted would listen to him and not brush off his assessment of his life experiences as over reacting. Harold and I always had great respect for each other but it wasn’t always evident. I didn’t want to be lumped with all other white people. He didn’t want to believe my experience was real and he wanted me to clearly understand that his experinces were the norm. One time we stood next to the couch hot in a debate at high volume, Harold towering over me, me looking up at him, locked eye to eye.
Over time we learned from each other. I learned that a high percentage of the population felt justified in treating a fellow human being as inferior. I realized at least one assumption I regularly made based on skin color. If a white guy I didn’t know asked me how I was doing I figured he was being polite. If a black guy I didn’t know asked the same thing, I assumed he was about to hit on me. I can’t say for sure what Harold learned but over the next several years he became active in the Baha’i community again, a respected voice in the area.
Within a year of the beginning of this painful education, I attended a workshop called something like Healing Racism. There were two trained facilitators, one black, one white, both women. We watched a documentary about 2 close friends alike in most ways, notably, similar education and economic position. Their noticed difference was skin color. An experiment was performed around St Louis where they each applied for the same apartments, jobs etc. They were given different answers at many of their stops. The white man was treated with respect, the black man was brushed off with comments that contradicted what the white man had already been told by the same managers. We watched other videos, very graphic, that took us (the white participants) on a tour of our countries history of racism even up to present day. I can only recall one comment from that whole multi week workshop. The black facilitator expressed irritation that anyone would say they could never understand what black people have gone through. She said anyone who’s been treated unfairly based on gender, size, how much their daddy didn’t make, or for no known reason, could understand enough. She challenged us to start from there and think in terms of how any human being, regardless of color, would feel and respond to injustices such as slavery and institutionalized racism then and now. Something clicked. I finally had a way to understand. That’s when I started to cry.
Before these gatherings, for the most part I saw each person as an individual (except when I made race based assumptions about a guy’s intentions and the fact that I generally didn’t want to be bothered by “jocks”). I waited tables because I love people. I enjoy their smiles, their unique voices, how they laugh, the funny things people say. Gradually though, the more aware I became of this devestating social reality, the more difficulty I had being myself. I remember one day, in downtown Chicago, while waiting on a group of black women, I grew nervous. I started overthinking. Do they think I’m like other white people? Do they think I’m being nice to them because I want them to know I’m different? Do they think I’m irrelevant because I’m just another white person? It was incredibly painful. I wish I could explain how shattered I was that day. I’m even tearing up now, 16 years later.
Eventually my sadness would turn into anger and I would find myself regularly challenging the damaging assumptions of many of my white friends. Eventually I learned how to do this without alienating anyone.
If I were to tell my journey in regard to the efforts I’ve made to heal racism and create unity, as well as new understanding and insight, I’d go on too long. I’ve come to realize that racism is a tricky and ugly monster. I’ve come to clearly understand that in order to heal the wounds inflicted by this monster, we must all be willing to internalize the reality that every human being is a member of our family. Then we can begin seeing each person as an individual with a name given to them by their parents. And not simply, “one of them.”
I will hit “Publish,” even though this is a completely inadequate piece compared to what I feel it should be, as the issue of race in our country affects every one of us whether we know it or not. If there are comments, I hope they are respectful. Maybe I’ll have more to tell there, when I can talk to an individual.

There will be a last time I pick up my youngest child. I won’t know it’s the last time. I won’t realize that he hasn’t wrapped his little legs around my belly, little arms around my neck, head on my shoulder until it’s been months. Then I won’t be able to look back in time and remember the moment of the last time. I can feel this day coming sooner than I’d like with my older son. He’s a small 10 so we may have another year or two of running jump hug mommy holding. But I feel the transition coming. I want him to grow up. Still, I ache knowing some things will change unnoticed.
I knew as each started walking that crawling would quickly phase out. I was sad then too, but I knew. Same with sitting up, learning to crawl, weaning. There were chalk marks in time. Right now I’m thinking of the transitions that happen invisibly. Like when words are one day clear, no more endearing pronunciations. Our youngest still says, “yorgut.” That may be the last hold out. He wears his shoes on the right feet now too, washes his own hair, dries himself after a bath, and chooses his own clothes. His older brother runs his own bath, often makes himself food, reads to his adoring sibling and spent a couple days teaching him how to draw a few months back. I may be the only person in the world amazed by these talents. It comes from spending countless hours with them when I had to do for them more than what they could do for themselves.
I don’t remember when each started reporting the contents of night dreams nearly every morning. I do remember that at first it seemed our oldest was making up a story, calling it a dream so he could be seen as being like mom and dad. We listened just the same. Now, comforting a child at bed time because he’s afraid of what he might experience when he drifts off is common.
They’re 6 and 10. I was an adult 10 years before my first child was born. Those 10 years took forever! The 10 years I’ve been an adult since he and then his younger brother came into the world have been a blink. I spend most of everyday with both of them and this doesn’t seem to slow the pace. It does give me more memories of their faces at every stage. More than if I had to work outside our home.
Today I realized that I don’t know how long it’s been since I sat down on the couch with a stack of books and called out, “Story time!” There’s no reason I can’t take a break from typing, head over to the couch right now and initiate that long ago midday ritual of snuggles and kind conversations over Pooh or The Quilt Maker.
Excuse me, I have plans.

What do you do with a dad, fully recovered from quadruple bypass surgery, who spends 22 hours a day either in his recliner with the wooden arms or in the once new bed you bought him as a recovery gift. What do you do when he won’t take walks, eat healthy or enough and won’t socialize 95% of the time with anyone besides family. It’s been 2 years. I don’t do anything. I don’t remember giving up trying but I did.
When he’d been home from the hospital a month, post heart surgery depression flattened him completely. I sent out prayer requests to friends all over the world. A few hours later, not knowing I’d sent out a request, he lifted himself the slightest bit, craned his neck around and smiled, reporting that he finally felt just a little bit better. I was standing in the kitchen door way behind his chair. Many of these friends, from as far back as 40 years, sent him messages I later forwarded. He delighted in reading every one. That was the first inch of progress. A few months later, he was still fairly sunk in mire. So I posted a note to facebook, tagging everyone my dad knows. I asked not just for prayers, but for people to send him loving letters. Many did and it had a positive affect, but he was still scratching the sides of a deep well of nothingness mixed with anger.
That Spring, his brother took him fishing in the north woods of Wisconsin. This brought him out to where he could at least see, smile openly with his grandsons, begin to joke around. The year following was static. The next spring his brother took him to the north woods again. This trip was magic. He witnessed an eagle swoop near his boat over and over as one of his companions presented the beautiful bird with food, placed close enough that the amazing creature came within a few feet of their boat in it’s graceful dive and return to flight. That wasn’t the only magic, but those parts are not for me to tell. They’re his to cherish.
For weeks after that trip, my dad was willing to go with us on small errands. Over and over he said how much he missed Wisconsin, how he wanted to go back, how he hadn’t wanted to leave. He was happy in his sadness. At this point my dad made it out of the well and into the sunlight but he didn’t leave the ledge to explore his new surroundings. At least a smile comes easily now. Months have passed. An unusually hot summer came and went. Now autumn. There’s a chance his brother will take him to the woods before winter. I haven’t heard.
But what can I do? I don’t ask in hopes that someone will hand me the magic solution. I ask because a few minutes ago I realized I’ve given up and that makes me sad. He does take care of our 4 cats that have all adopted him. He gives them generous love and attention. He gets their special allergen free food from the vet across town. He buys grapes for his grandsons when he knows they’ll be over for a movie-a-thon. He’s interested in our family life, in the most recent adventure, an ever changing report. But he barely leaves his house and doesn’t eat enough to have sufficient energy on the rare occasion he goes out socially.
I get it! I get that I don’t get it. I know the number of times, in my own life, when well meaning people have missed the mark trying to help me out of some emotional wreck I was managing internally. It’s like this. I’d go to his house every morning at dawn, open all the windows, brew fresh coffee and blast Beethoven if I thought it would help. Rather, I do think it would help, but not if I walked away soon after, leaving him to have to close a curtain if the sun’s too bright, or close all the windows if it rains. Leaving him to himself in a wide open space, full of emotional triggers, like a gentle breeze or natural light. I have an affirmation I must say sometimes or suffer. “I pray for the willingness to accept the prosperity in my life.” I get the need for this kind prayer from my dad. Too much beauty hurts.
Maybe I didn’t give up. Maybe I’m simply being more respectful than I used to be. I used to make his private world up to be serene to me, because I assumed it would be so to him. Instead he’d get uncomfortable. He’d sigh and politely ask that I return his things to their proper place.
I haven’t spent much time at my parents lately. I’ve been busy home schooling boys, doing my best to maintain a clean and loving household, baking for the business we decided not to continue, teaching with Soul Miners Children’s Theater Company or out on my own for much needed Heidi time while my mom and dad watched their grandsons. But when I am there long enough to cook a meal, I try to make what he likes. Meat. I can’t manage beef, but I’ll prepare buffalo. I don’t ask if he’s hungry. I hand him a bowl of meat, rice and vegetables with salt and butter on top, a spoon and napkin. Then I walk away. He smiles. He eats.
Maybe we’ve simply turned a corner in our relationship. I can no longer be the daughter who spends long afternoons at his house, cleaning (because I’ll clean almost anyones house if they let me), looking through family photos, telling him eagerly all my new insights about life and the world, listening to him unravel magic tales of meeting spiritual giants back in his 20’s or carefully framing advice I didn’t ask for so it doesn’t sound like advice. He’s good at that last one.
I guess it’s time I love him just as he is, grateful for every inch of progress, every smile, every act of generousity, every spontaneous visit to our house, every enchanting story of his childhood, even if it’s so much less than before. Love him just as he is. Yes.

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Between Monday night and now, I’ve lerned something I already knew. Every person’s story is important. If not to them, it’s important to their friends, or to a stranger who would benefit if only there was time to connect.
I expected a few people to respond to the new OSer’s Open Call, mostly out of kindness so I wouldn’t feel left out in the cold. I don’t mind encouragement so this was fine with me. I put the call out Monday evening, notified my favorites, then waited for only one comment. It came from mimetalker. She has known me all my life and before, when I was just a hope in my parents life. Still, the tone of her comment was delightful. I was content.
Fortunately I didn’t have concrete plans for Tuesday because when I opened my laptop in the early afternoon to check email, every other message was either a comment alert or a “someone has made you a favorite…” notifcation. I figured I’d have a little while of enjoyable reading getting to know some folks. Almost immediately I was laughing out loud then reading aloud to my husband who didn’t want to miss out on whatever the good news was. Then a surprising thing happened. Every time I checked email there were fresh messages, fresh favorite notifications. Every time I returned to my blog there was a new random 12 list on my favorites post updates. Soon I was checking “most recent” to catch the others. I love people. I love their stories. I was in a candy store! Countless bite size stories were available in seemingly endless supply, at least for a while.
At some point I realized a couple hours had passed and I was still on the couch, cross legged, thoroughly wrapped up in reading, laughing, meditating, trying to comment authentically. A bit after 5pm I forced myself to go beyond the 900 sq feet of our home. I went for a bike ride to nowhere in particular. I needed to be in the fresh air. I needed to move!
When I returned around 6pm there were more. That’s when I gave myself permission to do nothing but read OS responses to this oddly popular Open Call all evening. I enjoyed writing and reading comments as much as the blog posts. The pace of new lists continued late into the night. One of my favorite comments came at 10:05pm from sweetfeet. She said, “I’m gonna be reading theses all night, you know.” I did know! When I finally dragged myself to bed, I had 4 windows open of blogs I wanted to be sure to remember to read this morning.
Today, I didn’t get on the computer until early afternoon again. Again my email was full of notifications and the newsfeed, though not to the same extent, was dotted with these random lists of 12 life facts. Cranky Cuss, one of the first writers I looked out for here, joked that, “This may have turned into the best OC ever, and you know why? Because we’re writers and we LOVE to talk about ourselves.” It’s true, we do. But I don’t think that’s the reason. I think it was so popular, at least in part, because people matter, our lives matter. Our memories are a precious possession and one of the most valuable gifts we can give another person, even if they’re not pretty or grand, because they are the fabric of our life.