It all started with ceilings.
Some of our very good friends were suddenly without one. After rebuilding their lives from a lost business and having to sell their dream home to buy and renovate a fixer upper, they had one last big project to finish. The roof. They had spent the day tearing off old shingles to prepare for the next day's re-roofing, when it hit. Out of nowhere a terrible storm with 80 mph winds blew in. They scrambled to cover the exposed roof with tarps before the clouds tore open with fury, but did not make it. Through the evening and all night long they listened to the pouring rain, watching it seep through the tarps, into the insulation, through the light fixtures and down the walls. Their beautifully renovated walls, paint and flooring were seeping with moisture. They mopped puddles, caught what they could with buckets, but it was not enough. They watched as their ceilings, now heaving under the weight of saturated insulation, began to bow. All they could see was two years of work being washed away in one disastrous night.
We heard about it in the morning. Sending out a clarion call for help through the powers of modern technology, friends and neighbors arrived to do what we could. We started cutting into ceilings, catching hundreds of pounds of soggy insulation and crumbling sheetrock in the process. We tried to help them find their way out of their disaster.
Hours later, half their home was without ceilings. You could look through the roof rafters and see the sky, now bright and clear, beaming into their home.
I laid in bed that night, staring at my ceiling. I thought about the insulation above me, the dry, sturdy roof over my head and the pristine sheetrock staring back at me. Had I ever thought before that moment to be thankful for my ceiling?
It was as if life were beckoning me to see, to notice, to appreciate for the first time the blessings all around me. And above me.
I've often said that writing is like breathing for me. I simply must do it - to connect with my thoughts and understand the world around me.
Suddenly, writing has also become seeing for me. Taking the opportunity to notice, and record, moments of gratitude has begun to change the way I look at the world. It has altered what I appreciate and helped me see life in a new light.
After all, I have a ceiling.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
What Moms Really Want
It's that time of year again, when everyone is scrambling to find the perfect card, flowers, and gift for Mom. I always appreciate the sentiment and know that if my family didn't offer the obligatory tokens and handmade items from school, I would be disappointed that somehow I was forgotten. But it really is much simpler than all of that. Here is what I really want for Mother's Day -
An offer for a foot rub after a busy on my feet.
The smudgy fingerprints on the back door wiped clean.
The smudgy fingerprints on the back door wiped clean.
To get home from a busy Tuesday afternoon to find someone noticed that it's getting late and has started dinner.
A bouquet of flowers, on a rainy Wednesday, for no reason at all.
A simple gift, seen at a store, that someone simply had to buy because it reminded them of me.
A card in the mail, on a Thursday, with the sentence, "I love you because..."
The sneakers on the stairs to be noticed, picked up and put away where they belong.
Someone to open the fridge, fully stocked, and thank me for going to the store every week to buy nutritious food to eat so they don't go hungry.
Someone to say, sincerely, "Wow, you did my laundry again?! Thanks - these socks look awesome."
I think most Moms do what we do, day and in and day out, simply because we love our families. We gave life to these incredible human beings that we feel honored to raise and watch grow into adulthood. We simply want our work to be noticed. We want our sacrifices to be honored by those we willingly sacrifice so much for. We want to be held in treasured remembrance for the simple things we do each day to show our love.
That's what we really want for Mother's Day.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Last Day of School
I have one hour left. After spending my first year in 14 years of motherhood having my children in school all day, the remaining minutes of solitude are upon me.
It's been different than I expected. I had grandiose plans to fill my days writing music, finishing my book, reading and practicing yoga. I imagined lunches with friends, carefree shopping trips and meeting my husband on his break. There was some of each of those things, but I found that the ordinary tasks of life still remained despite my children's physical absence during the day. Laundry still needed to be washed and folded, dishes cleaned up, dog walked, floor swept and groceries purchased. Much of the mundane remained and crowded out time for more fantastic pursuits.
But I made a discovery. There is a quiet calmness that can be found in the ordinariness of daily living. It was a bit unsettling at first to have so much time to myself, time to think my own thoughts and be with myself hours upon end. But I have grown to like my own company. Most days I fill with silence, choosing to refrain from music or television accompaniment. I have found a sweet freedom in being present with my thoughts, uninterrupted, with my hands and body busy maintaining order in my home. Not since I was a young, single student in college have I had so much time in my own mind to consider.
As the last, precious quiet moments tick away, I pause. Knowing the upcoming weeks will be filled with friends and sun, swimming pools and camps, travel and chaos, I relish the gift of the present. I try to embrace the stillness, hold it deeply in my heart and remember the secret I have learned during this year. No matter what happens around me, there is a quiet place inside. The simple motions of folding, washing, sweeping and weeding can all invite me to return to the place I have visited so often these past months. The place of peace.
I am hopeful that when the bus doors open for the last time, I can invite my children to visit that gentle garden with me, helping them embrace a slower pace of living. As we work together, we can find the rhythm of reflection in the simple tasks of life.
Welcome home boys, so happy to be with you my daughter, let me tell you a secret. Here, can you help me wash this dish?
It's been different than I expected. I had grandiose plans to fill my days writing music, finishing my book, reading and practicing yoga. I imagined lunches with friends, carefree shopping trips and meeting my husband on his break. There was some of each of those things, but I found that the ordinary tasks of life still remained despite my children's physical absence during the day. Laundry still needed to be washed and folded, dishes cleaned up, dog walked, floor swept and groceries purchased. Much of the mundane remained and crowded out time for more fantastic pursuits.
But I made a discovery. There is a quiet calmness that can be found in the ordinariness of daily living. It was a bit unsettling at first to have so much time to myself, time to think my own thoughts and be with myself hours upon end. But I have grown to like my own company. Most days I fill with silence, choosing to refrain from music or television accompaniment. I have found a sweet freedom in being present with my thoughts, uninterrupted, with my hands and body busy maintaining order in my home. Not since I was a young, single student in college have I had so much time in my own mind to consider.
As the last, precious quiet moments tick away, I pause. Knowing the upcoming weeks will be filled with friends and sun, swimming pools and camps, travel and chaos, I relish the gift of the present. I try to embrace the stillness, hold it deeply in my heart and remember the secret I have learned during this year. No matter what happens around me, there is a quiet place inside. The simple motions of folding, washing, sweeping and weeding can all invite me to return to the place I have visited so often these past months. The place of peace.
I am hopeful that when the bus doors open for the last time, I can invite my children to visit that gentle garden with me, helping them embrace a slower pace of living. As we work together, we can find the rhythm of reflection in the simple tasks of life.
Welcome home boys, so happy to be with you my daughter, let me tell you a secret. Here, can you help me wash this dish?
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Overstated Ovations
I have a thing for music.
Although trained as a classical pianist, I have a deep love for well-crafted country songs, a passion for theatre music and a closet obsession with 80's hard rock. I have attended performances from Broadway to the the Bluebird Cafe, shows and concerts of every shape, size and skill level. I love live performances where the music can move through me and sing to my soul, but I have an increasing dilemma. I do not stand in ovation for every performance. In fact, rare have been the moments when I felt compelled to rise to my feet in thunderous applause.
One such moment happened last week.
My daughter is a violinist and plays in an orchestra with other youth her age. They played in concert with the local high school orchestras in preparation for their upcoming state competition. Somehow, the directors booked a guest artist to come and perform two solo pieces, mid-concert. A guest member of the faculty at the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music, he played to an auditorium filled with orchestra parents and students free of charge. Within seconds of hearing Gao Can, I was mesmerized.
He stood, all alone, on the broad stage with his violin. No orchestra, no conductor, just a man and his instrument. As he began J.S. Bach's Preludio from Partita No.3 in E, his hands simply flew up and down the strings, his bow leaping in perfect precision. His intonation was flawless as he soared up and down the instrument. He played with grace and feeling indicative of years spent in study. It was breathtaking. Stunned into blissful submission as he began the second piece, N. Milstein's Paganiniana, my eyes grew increasingly bigger, my jaw dropped and I was transported. With every bowing and each fermata, I felt as if my soul would leap out of me. I had never heard anything like it before in my life. Carried away for what seemed only a moment, but was evidence of thousands upon thousands of hours of preparation, I found myself at the end of his stunning performance. I simply could not contain myself and nearly leapt to my feet in response. There was no other suitable way to express my appreciation for the experience of being in his presence to hear him play.
I simply had to stand.
I thrilled with the performances of the student orchestras. It was wonderful to hear their progress and development as musicians. I clapped and clapped for each number I heard, but I did not stand again. Many other audience members did, and perhaps some of them looked at me seated and wondered why. Of course I want to encourage the students - my own daughter was up on that stage. I want to honor and praise them all I can, but here's what I don't understand - when did applause become insufficient? At what point did appropriate appreciation become an insult? When did we succumb to the unspoken social pressure to stand in obligatory ovation? When did we lose the right to stand simply when we are compelled to stand?
If we rise for every performance we ever attend, what happens in the moment that we witness greatness personified? What more can we possibly offer to that artist? How do we tell him that we were moved beyond description, that we recognize his discipline in developing his gifts, that we joyed with him in the experience of the live performance to the point we simply could sit no longer? That, to me, is worthy of an ovation. Bravo, Gao Can. Bravo.
http://www.gaocanmusic.com/
Although trained as a classical pianist, I have a deep love for well-crafted country songs, a passion for theatre music and a closet obsession with 80's hard rock. I have attended performances from Broadway to the the Bluebird Cafe, shows and concerts of every shape, size and skill level. I love live performances where the music can move through me and sing to my soul, but I have an increasing dilemma. I do not stand in ovation for every performance. In fact, rare have been the moments when I felt compelled to rise to my feet in thunderous applause.
One such moment happened last week.
My daughter is a violinist and plays in an orchestra with other youth her age. They played in concert with the local high school orchestras in preparation for their upcoming state competition. Somehow, the directors booked a guest artist to come and perform two solo pieces, mid-concert. A guest member of the faculty at the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music, he played to an auditorium filled with orchestra parents and students free of charge. Within seconds of hearing Gao Can, I was mesmerized.
He stood, all alone, on the broad stage with his violin. No orchestra, no conductor, just a man and his instrument. As he began J.S. Bach's Preludio from Partita No.3 in E, his hands simply flew up and down the strings, his bow leaping in perfect precision. His intonation was flawless as he soared up and down the instrument. He played with grace and feeling indicative of years spent in study. It was breathtaking. Stunned into blissful submission as he began the second piece, N. Milstein's Paganiniana, my eyes grew increasingly bigger, my jaw dropped and I was transported. With every bowing and each fermata, I felt as if my soul would leap out of me. I had never heard anything like it before in my life. Carried away for what seemed only a moment, but was evidence of thousands upon thousands of hours of preparation, I found myself at the end of his stunning performance. I simply could not contain myself and nearly leapt to my feet in response. There was no other suitable way to express my appreciation for the experience of being in his presence to hear him play.
I simply had to stand.
I thrilled with the performances of the student orchestras. It was wonderful to hear their progress and development as musicians. I clapped and clapped for each number I heard, but I did not stand again. Many other audience members did, and perhaps some of them looked at me seated and wondered why. Of course I want to encourage the students - my own daughter was up on that stage. I want to honor and praise them all I can, but here's what I don't understand - when did applause become insufficient? At what point did appropriate appreciation become an insult? When did we succumb to the unspoken social pressure to stand in obligatory ovation? When did we lose the right to stand simply when we are compelled to stand?
If we rise for every performance we ever attend, what happens in the moment that we witness greatness personified? What more can we possibly offer to that artist? How do we tell him that we were moved beyond description, that we recognize his discipline in developing his gifts, that we joyed with him in the experience of the live performance to the point we simply could sit no longer? That, to me, is worthy of an ovation. Bravo, Gao Can. Bravo.
http://www.gaocanmusic.com/
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Put On Your Hat
It almost killed me. Watching my beautiful teenage daughter walking to the bus stop this morning. You see, it's spirit week at her school and today is hat day. She was so excited getting ready this morning. She had chosen a darling knitted hat to wear that she picked out last year and looked adorable. She put on her jacket, backpack and walked out the door with a confident stride. As I watched her walk down the street, I saw her step slowly slacken. Her head turned towards the bus stop and she saw the other students- all of them hatless. She quickly reached up, grabbed the white cap with the brim off her head and stuffed it into her pocket.
My heart ached as she stepped onto the bus. How does it happen? How do we lose our sense of self slowly in the name of simply fitting in? When does the desire for conformity conquer our individuality? Why do we let others dictate our desires?
I remember being that age. I remember dismissing friendships I had valued all through elementary school so that the 'cool' kids might like me. I remember wanting specific styles of clothes and listening to music my friends liked. It's simply a time of life when we all have the challenge of uncovering our uniqueness. The difficulty in our discovery is that we often see our individuality in a negative light, instead of realizing that the light of our singular soul is what makes us who we are.
I had a friend ask me the other day what she should call me. I laughed because she called when I was scrubbing out a pot smeared with spaghetti sauce. I teach her daughter piano and she wondered how she should refer to me with others - as a master pianist, a composer, an author? I told her to call me Anna.
I don't want a title. I simply want to stand up and claim my own life based on the joys and interests of my heart. I want to write poetry and do yoga, read books and play music. I want to tap dance and rock climb and be the drummer when I play Rock Band with my kids. I want to write plays and share thoughts and make a difference in someone's life. I want to love my dog, walk on the beach and watch the stars. I want to be totally, completely, uniquely me.
And mostly, today, I want my daughter to feel the joy of discovering how unique and beautiful and priceless she is. Oh, honey, put on your hat.
My heart ached as she stepped onto the bus. How does it happen? How do we lose our sense of self slowly in the name of simply fitting in? When does the desire for conformity conquer our individuality? Why do we let others dictate our desires?
I remember being that age. I remember dismissing friendships I had valued all through elementary school so that the 'cool' kids might like me. I remember wanting specific styles of clothes and listening to music my friends liked. It's simply a time of life when we all have the challenge of uncovering our uniqueness. The difficulty in our discovery is that we often see our individuality in a negative light, instead of realizing that the light of our singular soul is what makes us who we are.
I had a friend ask me the other day what she should call me. I laughed because she called when I was scrubbing out a pot smeared with spaghetti sauce. I teach her daughter piano and she wondered how she should refer to me with others - as a master pianist, a composer, an author? I told her to call me Anna.
I don't want a title. I simply want to stand up and claim my own life based on the joys and interests of my heart. I want to write poetry and do yoga, read books and play music. I want to tap dance and rock climb and be the drummer when I play Rock Band with my kids. I want to write plays and share thoughts and make a difference in someone's life. I want to love my dog, walk on the beach and watch the stars. I want to be totally, completely, uniquely me.
And mostly, today, I want my daughter to feel the joy of discovering how unique and beautiful and priceless she is. Oh, honey, put on your hat.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
How to Say "Yes" - in Moderation
In the past 24 hours I have heard from one exhausted, burned out friend after another. One is ready to run away to the beach for the weekend. Another just wants a good night's sleep with less to do. One didn't say much - she was too tired. I remembered this morning another friend asking me a few months ago how to do it.
You see, there are some of us who view a certain two letter word as akin to profanity - never to be uttered, only being heard in desperate times of complete exhaustion with extreme frustration followed by instant regret. So in deference to my amazingly talented friends and to avoid any confusion with profanity, I entitle this entry 'How to Say Yes - in Moderation'. I hope to share a few principles that have helped me in this difficult endeavor.
Yes means yes. You know the moment. You find yourself saying yes with your mouth while thinking in your mind, "Not right now, I am so tired and I already have to take dinner to the neighbor down the street who just had a baby and my husband is working a double shift and my toddler smeared lotion all over the bathroom just as I left"? The next time a request is made and your feel yourself at the breaking point, before you answer, take a deep breath. Count to 10. Pause to listen to what your mind and heart are saying. If your truly honest heart is crying uncle, politely decline. There is no explanation needed beyond, "I'm sorry. I can't today." If your heart is sincere, the other person will feel it and understand, "If I could, I would." Hang up the phone or leave the encounter, be silent and breathe again. What is your heart telling you? It will take some practice to really listen and hear. But if you have honored your truth, your heart will thank you. When we say yes, we should really mean yes. Being willing to say honestly, "I can't right now" allows us to be genuine in the times we do say, "Yes." Practicing this principle has allowed me make offers of friendship and service with sincerity, without feeling resentful. I tell people often, "I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it," and they believe me. Because yes really means yes.
Remember, not now doesn't mean not ever. Often when we are presented with an opportunity, we overlook any potential conflicts or detriments to our routine or workload and seize the moment. We think, "Well, this will never happen again!" I've moved enough times to understand the principle that there will always be another house. Our first home purchase was during the great housing boom when houses were sold sight unseen. We spent an emotional week with pressing moving deadlines losing house after house. But we kept searching and sure enough, we found another house. I sincerely believe that when we have the courage to be realistic with our expectations, being willing to pass by opportunities in the name of balance, those opportunities are not lost forever. Just because you don't do something now, doesn't mean you can't do it ever. There are lots of years ahead. Life is constantly changing. There will always be another house.
Be patient. Some things take time. Often driven, motivated people have unrealistic expectations for progress. We think we should be able to learn or finish things without delay. We find ourselves getting frustrated when those accomplishments don't meet our expectations. Several years ago I learned to stand on my head. I joined a very challenging yoga class and had been practicing for quite a few years, so I expected to make quick progress in this class. But I had never seen anyone do headstands and when I watched several women make it look simple, I was determined to follow suit - quickly. Only I couldn't. My arm and upper back muscles weren't strong enough yet. I thought I could figure out how to do it in a matter of weeks. Well, those weeks turned into months and eventually, after a year of almost daily practice, I could finally stand on my head. It took lots of patience and lots of time, but I did it. Some things just take time - a lot of time. Be patient.
"You say potato, I say potato." We all have different talents and interests. We all have different strengths and weaknesses. I have learned that this means we all have different things that bring us joy. Once I learned to let go of worrying about other people's hobbies or interests and simply sought out ways to enjoy my own, I became a much happier person. The beauty of this truth is that it allows me to enjoy others' expressions of their gifts without feeling like they are an indication of my failures. For example, when my daughter was small I took a cake decorating class with a friend. I took it simply to learn the basics so I could not embarrass my children at their birthday parties each year. It was somewhat interesting to me and I did fairly well, but after spending hours piping a realistic looking Elmo cake for her next birthday I realized that cake decorating was not my bliss. My friend, however, took off. She spent years progressing, learning new techniques, and now has a business making fabulous cakes. I am thrilled for her, sincerely. She found her passion. I learned cake decorating is not for me, so I let it go and never looked back. I found words and writing instead. Potato - potato. Discover what you love. Pursue it. Embrace it. Let others do the same. Amazing. Liberating. Joyful.
I need a nap. I canceled on a friend the other day. We have been trying to coordinate our schedules for a writing session for weeks. We had a terrible thunderstorm the night before and my dog and children were spooked by it and up most of the night. Needless to say, I wasn't at my best the next morning. I knew that if she came over, I would be useless to her because I was completely exhausted. So I rescheduled. I needed a nap. So often we neglect our physical needs in the name of productivity. And yet, our bodies are the vehicles that allow us to accomplish everything in life. Sometimes we don't get enough sleep. Sometimes we are sick. Sometimes we need to eat. We need to listen better to our bodies - honor the things they are telling us. When we listen and honor our physical needs, we are more at peace. We have more energy. We are more able to be patient with others.
I often wonder what would happen in our fast paced society if everyone were willing to say yes - only in moderation. I think we would all smile more, we would be better rested, we would be more willing to help each other with sincerity and we would be more patient. Say yes - but only when your heart tells you to. Remember that not now doesn't mean not ever, there will always be another house. Be patient. Find your own passion. And take a nap. Have the courage to find the place of balance, listen to what your heart is really saying to you. You just might hear it tell you 'YES!'
You see, there are some of us who view a certain two letter word as akin to profanity - never to be uttered, only being heard in desperate times of complete exhaustion with extreme frustration followed by instant regret. So in deference to my amazingly talented friends and to avoid any confusion with profanity, I entitle this entry 'How to Say Yes - in Moderation'. I hope to share a few principles that have helped me in this difficult endeavor.
Yes means yes. You know the moment. You find yourself saying yes with your mouth while thinking in your mind, "Not right now, I am so tired and I already have to take dinner to the neighbor down the street who just had a baby and my husband is working a double shift and my toddler smeared lotion all over the bathroom just as I left"? The next time a request is made and your feel yourself at the breaking point, before you answer, take a deep breath. Count to 10. Pause to listen to what your mind and heart are saying. If your truly honest heart is crying uncle, politely decline. There is no explanation needed beyond, "I'm sorry. I can't today." If your heart is sincere, the other person will feel it and understand, "If I could, I would." Hang up the phone or leave the encounter, be silent and breathe again. What is your heart telling you? It will take some practice to really listen and hear. But if you have honored your truth, your heart will thank you. When we say yes, we should really mean yes. Being willing to say honestly, "I can't right now" allows us to be genuine in the times we do say, "Yes." Practicing this principle has allowed me make offers of friendship and service with sincerity, without feeling resentful. I tell people often, "I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it," and they believe me. Because yes really means yes.
Remember, not now doesn't mean not ever. Often when we are presented with an opportunity, we overlook any potential conflicts or detriments to our routine or workload and seize the moment. We think, "Well, this will never happen again!" I've moved enough times to understand the principle that there will always be another house. Our first home purchase was during the great housing boom when houses were sold sight unseen. We spent an emotional week with pressing moving deadlines losing house after house. But we kept searching and sure enough, we found another house. I sincerely believe that when we have the courage to be realistic with our expectations, being willing to pass by opportunities in the name of balance, those opportunities are not lost forever. Just because you don't do something now, doesn't mean you can't do it ever. There are lots of years ahead. Life is constantly changing. There will always be another house.
Be patient. Some things take time. Often driven, motivated people have unrealistic expectations for progress. We think we should be able to learn or finish things without delay. We find ourselves getting frustrated when those accomplishments don't meet our expectations. Several years ago I learned to stand on my head. I joined a very challenging yoga class and had been practicing for quite a few years, so I expected to make quick progress in this class. But I had never seen anyone do headstands and when I watched several women make it look simple, I was determined to follow suit - quickly. Only I couldn't. My arm and upper back muscles weren't strong enough yet. I thought I could figure out how to do it in a matter of weeks. Well, those weeks turned into months and eventually, after a year of almost daily practice, I could finally stand on my head. It took lots of patience and lots of time, but I did it. Some things just take time - a lot of time. Be patient.
"You say potato, I say potato." We all have different talents and interests. We all have different strengths and weaknesses. I have learned that this means we all have different things that bring us joy. Once I learned to let go of worrying about other people's hobbies or interests and simply sought out ways to enjoy my own, I became a much happier person. The beauty of this truth is that it allows me to enjoy others' expressions of their gifts without feeling like they are an indication of my failures. For example, when my daughter was small I took a cake decorating class with a friend. I took it simply to learn the basics so I could not embarrass my children at their birthday parties each year. It was somewhat interesting to me and I did fairly well, but after spending hours piping a realistic looking Elmo cake for her next birthday I realized that cake decorating was not my bliss. My friend, however, took off. She spent years progressing, learning new techniques, and now has a business making fabulous cakes. I am thrilled for her, sincerely. She found her passion. I learned cake decorating is not for me, so I let it go and never looked back. I found words and writing instead. Potato - potato. Discover what you love. Pursue it. Embrace it. Let others do the same. Amazing. Liberating. Joyful.
I need a nap. I canceled on a friend the other day. We have been trying to coordinate our schedules for a writing session for weeks. We had a terrible thunderstorm the night before and my dog and children were spooked by it and up most of the night. Needless to say, I wasn't at my best the next morning. I knew that if she came over, I would be useless to her because I was completely exhausted. So I rescheduled. I needed a nap. So often we neglect our physical needs in the name of productivity. And yet, our bodies are the vehicles that allow us to accomplish everything in life. Sometimes we don't get enough sleep. Sometimes we are sick. Sometimes we need to eat. We need to listen better to our bodies - honor the things they are telling us. When we listen and honor our physical needs, we are more at peace. We have more energy. We are more able to be patient with others.
I often wonder what would happen in our fast paced society if everyone were willing to say yes - only in moderation. I think we would all smile more, we would be better rested, we would be more willing to help each other with sincerity and we would be more patient. Say yes - but only when your heart tells you to. Remember that not now doesn't mean not ever, there will always be another house. Be patient. Find your own passion. And take a nap. Have the courage to find the place of balance, listen to what your heart is really saying to you. You just might hear it tell you 'YES!'
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Veteran's Day Volition
My baby brother went to war today.
He was anxious to go. He had been preparing and training for a long time to serve his country. I could hear the excitement in his voice as I spoke to him for the last time on friendly soil, waiting in the airport in Baltimore. He felt honor in his mission and pride in fulfilling his duty. He's a grown man, a new father, a pilot in the Air Force but somehow to me he will always be that tiny, chubby boy I held in my arms as an eight year old girl. When I first met my new brother I remember looking into his big brown eyes and wanting to protect him from the world. Those feelings haven't changed even though almost thirty years have come and gone since that day.
I grew up with strong feelings of patriotism. I remember as a thirteen year old girl walking the wall of the Vietnam Memorial in DC choking back tears. I saw so many, many names and felt I owed them an unfathomable debt. They gave their lives so I could be free. I had ancestors who had served in previous wars, but I grew up with a cloudy vision of soldiers. They were mostly symbolic to me, a vision of a mission of freedom. I felt gratitude for their sacrifices, but I could not fully grasp what the sacrifice of a soldier meant.
Until I married one.
I spent seven years married to an active duty soldier before we joined civilian life. We lived in cities where uniforms were commonplace and deployments routine. Our hearts ached with our friends and neighbors when their loved ones were sent off. Our children ate lunch and rode bikes with their children. We saw the strain and worry of wives, husbands and families. We watched them brave family life without the constant support of spouse, colored by the constant worry of their safety. We saw them shelter each other, support each others' children, and cling to camaraderie through difficult circumstances.
We saw their faces. Suddenly the symbolic soldier became real. He was my neighbor overseas while his wife received a diagnosis of breast cancer. He was my friend who witnessed the birth of his baby on a phone call. He was my friend's husband, coming home weary and thin and shaken from months in the field. He was a brother from church, worrying simultaneously about his wife's pregnancy complications and his unit's safety in the next engagement. He was the father of my daughter's friend, missing from their orchestra recital. He was a five year old's Dad on a plane to Haiti with 24 hours notice, absent from preschool pickup. He had a family. A home. A dog. A truck. A daughter. A son. A wife.
Soldiers. Brave. Honorable. Heroic. Serving our country willingly. What country? We the people. You. Me. Your child. Your sister. Your mother. Your friend. They leave and fight and serve, some of them even giving their lives so you and I could go to the grocery store today. So we could drive to work and hug our kids and go to sleep in peace. Without fear of war.
So as the day folds down here, I see my brother's face. His dark hair and brown eyes tucked under his crisp dark blue hat as he climbs on a plane in the desert. As he scans the sky and catches a glimpse of light shining over the horizon I hope he sees me. I hope he sees you. Not just a grateful nation, but a grateful person.
A soldier sacrifices self for the safety of all.
Thank you, Mike. Thank you, Max. Thank you, Scott. Thank you, Doug. Thank you, Mark. Thank you, Erik. Thank you, Malone. Thank you, Glen. Thank you, Frank. Thank you, Farrell. Thank you, Herb. Thank you, Irene.
Thank you, soldier.
I see you.
He was anxious to go. He had been preparing and training for a long time to serve his country. I could hear the excitement in his voice as I spoke to him for the last time on friendly soil, waiting in the airport in Baltimore. He felt honor in his mission and pride in fulfilling his duty. He's a grown man, a new father, a pilot in the Air Force but somehow to me he will always be that tiny, chubby boy I held in my arms as an eight year old girl. When I first met my new brother I remember looking into his big brown eyes and wanting to protect him from the world. Those feelings haven't changed even though almost thirty years have come and gone since that day.
I grew up with strong feelings of patriotism. I remember as a thirteen year old girl walking the wall of the Vietnam Memorial in DC choking back tears. I saw so many, many names and felt I owed them an unfathomable debt. They gave their lives so I could be free. I had ancestors who had served in previous wars, but I grew up with a cloudy vision of soldiers. They were mostly symbolic to me, a vision of a mission of freedom. I felt gratitude for their sacrifices, but I could not fully grasp what the sacrifice of a soldier meant.
Until I married one.
I spent seven years married to an active duty soldier before we joined civilian life. We lived in cities where uniforms were commonplace and deployments routine. Our hearts ached with our friends and neighbors when their loved ones were sent off. Our children ate lunch and rode bikes with their children. We saw the strain and worry of wives, husbands and families. We watched them brave family life without the constant support of spouse, colored by the constant worry of their safety. We saw them shelter each other, support each others' children, and cling to camaraderie through difficult circumstances.
We saw their faces. Suddenly the symbolic soldier became real. He was my neighbor overseas while his wife received a diagnosis of breast cancer. He was my friend who witnessed the birth of his baby on a phone call. He was my friend's husband, coming home weary and thin and shaken from months in the field. He was a brother from church, worrying simultaneously about his wife's pregnancy complications and his unit's safety in the next engagement. He was the father of my daughter's friend, missing from their orchestra recital. He was a five year old's Dad on a plane to Haiti with 24 hours notice, absent from preschool pickup. He had a family. A home. A dog. A truck. A daughter. A son. A wife.
Soldiers. Brave. Honorable. Heroic. Serving our country willingly. What country? We the people. You. Me. Your child. Your sister. Your mother. Your friend. They leave and fight and serve, some of them even giving their lives so you and I could go to the grocery store today. So we could drive to work and hug our kids and go to sleep in peace. Without fear of war.
So as the day folds down here, I see my brother's face. His dark hair and brown eyes tucked under his crisp dark blue hat as he climbs on a plane in the desert. As he scans the sky and catches a glimpse of light shining over the horizon I hope he sees me. I hope he sees you. Not just a grateful nation, but a grateful person.
A soldier sacrifices self for the safety of all.
Thank you, Mike. Thank you, Max. Thank you, Scott. Thank you, Doug. Thank you, Mark. Thank you, Erik. Thank you, Malone. Thank you, Glen. Thank you, Frank. Thank you, Farrell. Thank you, Herb. Thank you, Irene.
Thank you, soldier.
I see you.
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