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Rabbit Reset

Which way shall I turn next?

On the first day of July, tomorrow morning as I’m writing these words, I’ll wake as I usually do, sorting and ordering the activities of the day ahead and filtering out the already dones of yesterday. The small grey kitty that somehow manages to simultaneously curl up into a tight, tiny ball and sprawl across the lion’s share of my bed will stretch and demand attention. At some point the reality that it’s first of the month will swim into focus and I’ll say, out loud, “Rabbit, rabbit.” Thus guaranteed good luck for the coming month, I’ll spring up to face the day.

Of course, there are no guarantees.

But just as finding a penny heads up, as I did yesterday on my own front step, and making a wish when returning the clasp on a necklace to the back of my neck, feel like opportune moments, sticking to the tradition I learned at nine in England feels like it can’t hurt. I rarely miss a month and, having spoken the words out loud, will generally go so far as to post “rabbit, rabbit” as my status on Facebook.

When they were really little, I taught my kids. They think nothing of “Rabbit, rabbit,” as a greeting when they wake. They’ll sleepily say it back. At one point—they were about Four and Seven—I researched the tradition and wrote a theatrical, the script for which surfaced this spring as I was cleaning out boxes in the basement. The scant theories about origins for the practice (and its many variations) wove through a princess tale in which we and every stuffed rabbit in our house all had roles to play. Like a faded old snapshot, the script brought back memories and connection to a sweet long ago.

Saying “Rabbit, rabbit” on July 1st will usher in not just a new month, but the second half of 2017. Just then, I almost wrote the second side, a phrase my yoga students will connect to practice, when a series of poses is complete on the left side, for example, and we get ready to begin the sequence again on the right. There is a balance to it—working the body equally—and there’s a marvel as well, how different one side can be from the other.

For much of the first half of 2017 I felt like I was on a water ride, sliding across a cascade of changes that included Ninety-Two’s health challenges and associated changing care needs and launching my house onto the spring real estate market. In the swirl of May, Eighteen docked at the end of his first year of college and shortly thereafter Fifteen powered through finals and flowed into summer. Whereas I’d been paddling hard, struggling to keep the boat afloat across white water and despite strong undertows, quite suddenly I landed, the oar feeling a little like it was broken off in my hands. The constant, unpredictable motion of the spring stilled.

Honestly, it took a little while for me to recognize and stop padding. I’m still puzzling about where I am. I don’t know if I’m sitting on the beach, my suit itchy with sand, or floating in a gently swirling hot tub. And while there’s always a next storm, I don’t really know if the hatches are securely battened and we’ll be fine or if there’s a ton of shoring up to do to prevent disaster. What I do know is that this is both entirely new and somewhere I’ve been before: at the end of a series of events and plans that were so consuming I couldn’t take time to consider what my world would look like after or precisely what to do next. I may not truly be in the aftermath, maybe we never really are. Yet, there’s a stillness, a chance to reconsider and relaunch. It’s a great time to clean house, physically, metaphorically, metaphysically. And with that in mind, I welcome the opportunity to reset—both for a new month and the second side of this adventure-filled year—and I’ll take all the luck with that I can get. Rabbit, Rabbit!!

Much of my world is on sale, including these lilies that bloom faithfully each June. They’re on sale because the house they’re in front of is for sale. In that spirit, for the month of July my novel is also on sale, over at Smashwords (https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/516628). If you haven’t enjoyed it yet, maybe some summer reading (half off 7.1–7.31)? xoxo

As serendipity would have it, my twice-rescheduled colonoscopy is Monday. Rather than dreading it, I see it as a part of the overall reset. As we celebrate our nation’s birthday and many have a few days off, it’s not unlike the turn of a new year—a big party with bright lights and lots of festivities, followed by a chance to begin anew. Have you thought about it? Which direction will you turn now? Rxoxo

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Zen & the Art of Litter Box Maintenance

Did you ever watch Dr. Who?

Fourteen is a fan girl. She hunches (in cringe-inducing posture) over her laptop watching episode after episode of Dr. Who. With her friends she discusses episode features and the different doctors, speculating on who might assume the role next. Recently she produced a “cosplay” outfit from her closet, prancing off to school as Rose, the Doctor’s associate. Knowing full well I am not a science fiction fan, she asks anyway, maybe hoping to uncover some affinity to my past. I can only offer that my friend in junior high was an intrepid fan of the Doctor with the scarf. “Ah, the Fourth Doctor,” she nods with absolute certainty.

As I ferry Fourteen from point A to point B, she often talks dreamily about the wonders of time travel, outer space, and swift saves for the planet. Her talk challenges the notion of staying present, something I teach as a part of yoga practice. Our breath and our bodies are in the present moment; our minds are time travelers. The mind’s abilities to race ahead—anticipating the worst or stressing about events to come—and linger behind in hurtful past happenings lead to tension and stress. On the mat we can call the mind to be present, staying with the breath and connecting through movement, relaxation and meditation with the body here and now.

But naturally it’s more complicated than that. While time may be a construct of the rational brain, life’s progressions imprint throughout the body. Our bodies carry the stories within of everything they’ve experienced and—I would suggest—anticipate changes to come. But what I want to tell Fourteen is that we do travel through time; however, it happens in one continuous narrative rather than dramatic leaps into the future and back to the past.

What, then, do time travel and yoga have to do with cleaning the litter box? How is a task so mundane but vital to life with felines in any way a practice, let alone an art?

Cats have been a part of my whole life. Our farm cats went in and out freely, and I can’t remember if we ever had a litter box inside, perhaps a little-used one in the basement. But ever since petite, longhaired Tillie adopted me in graduate school, I’ve had at least one cat and one or more litter boxes under my roof. That’s about thirty years of cleaning up litter.

The most significant break came when Seventeen was around Ten and started cleaning the cat boxes for a dime a day. Later, the cats would subscribe to Time magazine for him, a satisfactory arrangement for all. So when he left last month for college, I was dismayed to find that the task reverted to me. At first I dreaded it, the clay dust, the scooping, the carrying … if you’ve ever done it, you know. I still can’t say that I like it, but I have learned a few things.

The first is obvious: once it’s done for the day, it’s done. But less obvious is that I can tell myself, in the morning for example, that if I take five minutes to clean the litter boxes (there are two in the basement and one upstairs), then the afternoon me won’t have to anticipate the unpleasant task. The present me takes care of the future me. And, inversely, later in the day when the job is already completed, the present me thinks back fondly on the actions of the past me—and it feels like a kind of time traveling, even if it has little to do with saving the world.

Cleaning the boxes takes little more time than walking down the stairs to the basement, up two flights to the laundry room, and out to the garage. In that short time, I ponder this notion of caring for my future self. It makes putting money away for a rainy day, for example, or making a phone call right now that I’ve been dreading, a bit easier. More logical. Sweet, even. It makes me feel a little bit braver in the present moment, knowing some unpleasantness may be avoided in the future.

And then there’s this. Regular litter box maintenance is having another interesting effect. Seventeen wasn’t as habitual about the task as I am, meaning the boxes sometimes got, shall we say, over-filled. When that happened, the cats were known to “think outside the box” or at best leave the boxes messy. I determined to clean them nearly daily and in doing so, I’ve been feeling—this sounds almost ridiculous as I write these words—a bit of pride. But here’s the most remarkable part—the litter box users seem to have noticed. They aren’t throwing litter out of the box, using the sides or even the outside, or leaving their eliminations uncovered. It’s a behavior change I never could have anticipated, but one that leaves our present selves purring.

Shine on Harvest Moon! And Shine on YOU, in whatever present self you find yourself. Thanks for witnessing my journey, Rxo

In Which Seventeen Has Flown the Nest (and I remember when we used to read Winnie the Pooh together)

In Which Seventeen Has Flown the Nest (and I remember when we used to read Winnie the Pooh together)

How’s your half-empty nest?

Oh, then he’s not far away … This is the sweetness most people offer after asking about my Seventeen. And it’s true. His first-year college dorm is just sixty-three miles from my door. It is another mother who shares my hometown and whose son is at the same school who best understands: Sure, he didn’t fly far from the nest, but he’s gone. And the nest will never be the same.

The daily reminders come thick and fast. Our dishwasher doesn’t fill up as quickly, the laundry piles are smaller, and leftovers don’t disappear from the refrigerator. By contrast, my chore list has grown: it’s once again my job to shop for groceries, carry them in and put them away; mow the yard; fill up the yard-waste bin; and clean the cat litter boxes. (I’m working on striking a deal with Fourteen for this last task, the one chore that I will pay someone else to do.) Since Seventeen’s departure was followed by the beginning of Fourteen’s high school journey, we’re in that wobbly transitional time between summer’s ebb and flow and fall’s established routine.

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Fourteen on the first day of high school

I walked into Seventeen’s room the other day and was startled to see that before he left he unplugged his alarm clock. It was a thoughtful thing to do and a clear example of his attention to detail. But it struck my heart as so final. He’s made this move fully, with barely a backward glance, divesting of his childhood and heading off with only what he needs for his new life. Looking at the dark face of his alarm clock, I felt especially glad for the togetherness we had in August before he moved, not only because I felt needed and included in his process, but because making lists and preparing for this enormous change grounded me.

Change gets a bad rap. I’ve been one of those people who say I’m not good at change. But I’m amending that. I’m really good at change. External change requires action. When it’s upcoming, there are lists to be made, errands to run, letters to write. When it’s sudden, be it plot twist or emergency, I’m your go-to gal. A change in circumstances requires calculated response. I can do that.

Emotional transition, before, during and after the change has happened, is another story. I can pre-process, yes. I can muscle through the actual change (I didn’t cry once during the drop-off overnight) reasonably well. But the aftermath? I’m wandering around my big, empty-feeling house this week, and I’m struck by this. Things are so different and yet they’re not. I look for the constants. What I find is that I’m the same person even though my to-do list, our grocery needs, and my parenting time all look different. And so, I’m beginning to understand that successfully navigating change requires staying open and curious in order to adjust to both anticipated and unintentional consequences.

The best changes, both big and little, are the ones we choose with joy, anticipate with excitement, and delight in the results. Fourteen made just such a change this weekend, hennaing her blonde-brown hair to a spectacular red. Neither of us was quite prepared for the effort it would take, but it was a lively joint project for a Saturday night and she is thrilled with the stunning results.

In the grand scheme of things, changing one’s hair color isn’t generally fraught with problems or rife with unexpected ramifications. But the discrete nature of the shift lets me review what I’m learning about change. Whether elective or not, change is logically the one, true constant. I’m good at creating an action plan around change and that process keeps me grounded. I’m less adept at knowing how I’ll respond emotionally to any change until the action swirls away and I begin to consider the new normal. Recognizing that I don’t know what I don’t know and being open and curious until I do know—this strikes me as the solution to navigating the emotional piece. These are not such simple notations to add to the to-do list—stay grounded, open, and curious—but I’m beginning to think they should have a permanent place in indelible ink, right at the top.

It’s a few days after the new month launched under a new moon. Perhaps instead of a new normal, every shift brings a new beginning. Wishing you the best possible even-if-it-is-all-new fall—with love, as ever, Rxo

Lemonade from Lemons

Lemonade from Lemons

How does an outing to look at flowers and Lego sculptures turn into a life lesson?

On an overcast, remarkably cool Friday morning after a litany of hot and humid summer days, Fourteen, Seventeen, Ninety-One and I set out for Reiman Gardens in Ames. The goal was an outing for my children with their grandmother, pursuing joy during our last summer before Seventeen leaves for college. The butterflies were magical, the Lego sculptures delighted us, and throughout the gardens we enjoyed summer blooms. My mother watched her grandchildren play even as they took their responsibility for pushing her borrowed wheelchair seriously.

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At Reiman Gardens

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The bee & pansy Lego sculpture

The day was warming and Seventeen had a little over two hours before he needed to be at work. I went to fetch the car, climbed in and turned the key. It wouldn’t start. A light came on with the message, “service transmission.” I tried the key again. Nothing. I took the key all the way out of the ignition, turned it over in my palm, took a deep breath and reinserted it in the ignition. Nothing.

On the walk back to the entrance I did my best to hold back my frustration. When I arrived at the stones where my mother and children were seated, I pressed my hand up high overhead and said, “Okay, everybody put your arms in the air like this.” They did! “Okay, now say: ‘Plot Twist!’” Of the three, Mom’s call of “plot twist” was the most enthusiastic. Fourteen gave me her best teenaged girl why are we doing this look. Seventeen knew already something was wrong.

A volley of phone calls later, Chrysler roadside assistance had been summoned, the courtesy shuttle from the nearest Dodge-Chrysler dealer had whisked my family off to the air-conditioned waiting room, and Seventeen had both notified work of his predicament and ordered lunch to be delivered.

The next three hours tested my legendary patience. The tow truck was late, the service advisor moved at a crawl, and the car didn’t even get a bay for at least an hour. I took to walking circuits around the dealership where no one was making any deals. When the service advisor finally allowed as they hadn’t found anything wrong with the transmission but the computer spit out twelve pages of protocols they had yet to run, I said simply, “Can you get us out of here?” Suddenly, he seemed to want nothing more. With barely a glance at my driver’s license, he handed me the keys to a 7-passenger van and we were on the road to home.

It occurred to me, on the drive, that a van would make moving some furniture that I needed to move somewhat easier. Should I have the van for the weekend, I decided, I’d put it to work.

Instead, midday Saturday I got a call to come pick up my car. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” What? How could it have gone from not starting with engine lights glowing to just fine? With reservations and not a little grumbling, I drove to Ames and swapped the van for my car.

For ten days it worked fine. My grumble eased a little and I started to think, shrug. With the summer days drifting along, I knew I needed an oil change before the car left with Seventeen for the fall. I thought I’d check with my regular mechanic, with whom I had consulted from Ames, but otherwise trust that somehow we’d had a glitch not a true malfunction.

And then the call came. My son was stuck in a parking lot. The same

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Round Two …

message was flashing, the same symptoms … and once again a torrent of phone calls followed. This time the tow truck was early, fifteen minutes ahead of the estimate. Sitting in the cab of the truck I marveled at how it rocked when the bed lowered to hoist my car into place. We were at the dealership in just a few minutes and my apologetic service advisor, who privately opined that the people in Ames may have done precisely nothing, had me on the road in a brand new 2016 Dodge RAM 1500 extended crew-cab 4-wheel-drive pickup in next to no time.

A truck? You bet I can drive a truck. I grew up driving a variety of heavy-duty farm trucks, construction trucks one summer for the county road crew, and buses for four years in Washington, DC. This truck had a spin dial gear shift, a back-up camera, icy cold A/C, and could seat six. Not waiting, we hauled two loads of furniture home from the yoga studio and seven boxes of documents for shredding over to my accounting firm’s annual event.

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Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear!

But the best was taking it for a spin on another outing—a nearly sunset Sunday drive up to the High Trestle Trail, one of the loveliest sites in our area. Converted from an old railroad bridge, the trail invites bikers and walkers to look out over the Des Moines River from 130 feet up. As the sun goes down the lights come up, and the architectural wonder is nothing short of magical. The peeps and I walked from one end to the other and back, and on the way home in the dark we stopped for ice cream. “Don’t eat yet,” I said, as we climbed back into our truck. A mile or so down the country highway, I found a place to pull off, backing the tailgate up to a cornfield. We climbed in the back to eat our ice cream and look at the stars.

Opportunity has a weird way of knocking … sometimes I think it sends a precursor, an experience that gets us ready to answer when the knock comes. And tonight, under the full August moon that rose glowing apricot over our last night home as a family, I’m thinking there are so many, many more opportunities ahead if we are open to them. As ever, thanks for taking the journey with me, Rxo

Fitbit GO!

Fitbit GO!

How many steps have you walked today?

The first week that I wore my Fitbit, a graduation gift from my son for, he sweetly said, getting him through his public school experience, I walked a marathon without actually trying. My idea was that I’d walk as far as I normally do, a regular week, and see what my totals looked like. I did not anticipate that around my kitchen prepping for a party, for example, I can easily put in three miles. I knew the long, rambling walks I often enjoy outdoors with my friend would add up, but nonetheless it was a surprise when the email popped into my inbox celebrating my first marathon. It gave me confidence.

Could I, at 50, set my sights on walking the Des Moines Half-Marathon in October? Seventeen will be home for fall break from school. Fresh from summiting Harney Peak (7,242 feet) in South Dakota and cresting 10,000 feet in the Rockies in Colorado (we made it above the snowline in July), he feels physically ready for anything and is willing to walk with me. I’m less certain.

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Sioux Falls SD

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With infinite patience, my Fitbit prods me along. If I’m sitting still for the first fifty minutes of an hour, Fitbit will silently vibrate, a signal it’s time to move. When I cross 10,000 steps for the day, something I accomplish most but not every day, it celebrates on my wrist, treating me to electronic stars and fireworks. I’ve done that thing that people do at the end of the day, just a few hundred or even a couple thousand steps out, walked around and around and up and down and back and forth, just to see the light display. Fitbit and I can then go to sleep happy.

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The view from 10,000 feet in the Rocky Mountains

Sleep, however, is another matter all together. The goal set on my Fitbit is for seven full hours of sleep. From mid-May to late June, Fitbit recorded only a few such nights. The others fell short by as much as two hours. But, I reason, I’ve rarely in my life slept a full night. More alarming to me is the number of times I wake fully up. I understand that being restless and even waking—as I do to check the time and listen for the quiet in my house—are a part of a full night’s sleep. But waking up and staying awake, that awful experience when the mind spins up into action and going back to sleep seems impossible, these are all recorded by Fitbit, the electronic that wakes faithfully when I do and records my restless moments. Per the record on my phone, I was sleeping less and less, midnight worrying more and more.

And then an amazing thing happened. My peeps and I went on vacation. The first week I still wasn’t sleeping deeply, but we were having a blast. Each day we looked back on the day’s events and nominated a wonder—the falls of Sioux Falls, SD, where we played in the lingering sunset just a few days after Solstice; the Badlands, hot and full of colors and tourists, prairie dogs and a single noble big-horned sheep curled on his rocky perch surveying all that spread below him; Harney Peak, in the Black Hills, which we hiked a bit haphazardly, not really clear at the onset what we were in for. Truthfully, I’m not fully in the Harney Peak camp, having thought there might be nothing so wonder-filled as the experience of driving through the Needles and walking past the Cathedral Spires, craggy eroded granite pillars that reminded me of standing stones in Britain.

Experiencing absolute darkness—so dark it’s impossible to differentiate between eyes

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Mount Rushmore behind two future presidents (?). Love the cloud formation above the carvings—reminds me of Nomade, the sculpture in Des Moines.

open and closed—deep underground at Jewel Cave was another big moment, as was visiting Mount Rushmore. The buttes of eastern Wyoming made for conversation-provoking scenery as we drove through, and I gave some wonder points to the excellent pizza restaurant we discovered in downtown Lusk, WY. It’s the kind of place I would visit again were it not 660 miles from home.

The next few days were all things Rockies, experienced in Estes Park and Boulder. Stepping in snow on July 1 is certainly a novel experience. What’s more, Fitbit celebrated with me as three days that week I walked more than nine miles. Since it doesn’t adjust for difficulty or altitude, it had no idea how tough some of those mountain miles were.

After a week of sleeping in unfamiliar beds, we arrived at the welcoming home of dear friends and one-time Iowa City neighbors. We enjoyed a lovely reunion and a delightful dinner. I could barely keep my eyes open at nine and my hostess sent me off to sleep. It comes as a surprise to me now, as I look at the data, that Fitbit recorded a particularly wakeful night. What I remember is sinking into the embrace of the perfect bed, sleeping a long time, and dreaming deeply and meaningfully about past events in the way that feels like my subconscious taking them out, sorting and ordering them, and then folding them neatly and putting them away. Perhaps Fitbit interpreted all of this unpacking and packing as restlessness. What that sleep launched has been a series of nights, including one more hotel stay on our trip (wonders in Denver never ceased) and arriving home after a grueling day’s drive, Denver to Des Moines, that have been increasingly better and better. I’ve slept deeply, woke rested, and seen fewer and fewer red and blue lines in Fitbit’s recording of my sleep, indicating that I’m still and peaceful most of most nights.

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Perfect cappuccino!!

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Brunch with these two at the Brown Palace Hotel

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White & dark chocolate fountain

Can I walk a half-marathon in a few months’ time? I can sign up, train, adjust my shoes, keep my toenails short, and see how it goes. As I blend the information from my electronic friend with what I know about being an active human, I am struck by the truth that rest is not just important but something we need to train for as well. Maybe that’s true for most things: whether it’s having fun, sleeping well, entertaining, working effectively, getting organized, or walking far—whatever our ambitions we need to train. A good night’s sleep encourages the next night’s good sleep. Ten thousand steps turn into 13.1 miles. The effects compound.

Fourteen recently used up a pile of gift cards and bought herself a Fitbit. From my perspective, the best result of this is that once an hour she comes strolling through the house, getting her 250 steps but leaving her room and checking in regularly with the rest of us. Thank you for checking in with me—Happy full July moon, Rxo

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Outdoor xylophones in Estes Park, CO. So much fun!

Feed Me!

Feed Me!

Are parent birds stressed by their duties or anxious to be done with their fledgling peeps?

IMG_6252One Saturday morning this June, during yoga, my second class of the day, over the heads—or rumps actually as they were in downward facing dog—of my students I saw a small songbird perched on the streetlamp outside the studio. The fact that the bird was on the streetlamp at eye-level to my second-floor studio meant both that it was two stories in the air and that it flew there under its own power. Nonetheless, every time a bird that looked to be the same variety swept by, the bird I was watching flapped its wings. Was it frantic or hopeful? “Feed me,” it seemed to be saying, as were so many of the fledglings spotted about on the grass in my back yard. They were in that perilous moment between being taken care of and birdy adulthood when they will fend for themselves.

Hunting for food is not, in birds, a straight-up instinct. I learned this from a man wearing a Department of Natural Resources (DNR) shirt and a photographer stationed on the bike path not far from the studio a couple of summers ago. They were watching and taking video of a young great horned owl, wide awake in the early evening, who was taking swipes at a much smaller bird that was swooping around the owl. “They almost look like they’re playing,” I whispered.

“In a way, they are,” explained the man from the DNR in hushed tones. “The owl isn’t disturbed by the bird; he’s just intrigued. And he probably isn’t too hungry yet … his parents will have fed him enough so that he can survive for days eating nothing.”

“So, he’s not trying to catch the little bird?”

“Not yet. He doesn’t yet know he can. He’ll learn to, though. Play becomes prey.”

It’s different, I think, from the way humans learn to provide food for ourselves. Much of what we do is imitate the caregivers who raise and feed us. And, too, we are often driven by hunger to seek food, sometimes any food. But playing with it is the providence of toddlers who are learning how to eat, not how to obtain food.

Even so, the parallels from the bird world to my own fledglings are impossible to ignore. Recently graduated Seventeen has a bright future ahead, the college of his choice to begin in the fall, and a kind of invincibility that I envy. His sister, newly Fourteen, doesn’t seem far behind to me. Each of them is fully capable of building a meal from the contents of the refrigerator and pantry, and Seventeen is working this summer at our favorite grocery store. Instead of making my weekly treks to stock up, I hand him a list and he brings home every single thing on it with a gratifying attention to detail and one mystery item he’s excited to share.

Still, when they’re really hungry they look straight to me. Seventeen has perfected a kind of big-eyed look that we both know is a put on and nevertheless melts my heart into scrambling eggs for his breakfast or heating up leftovers at lunchtime. Fourteen takes a different tact: “There’s nothing for lunch,” she’ll assert, often around three or four on a summer afternoon. Reminding her that lunchtime has long since passed does little. Instead I leave off what I’m doing, cut up an apple, get out other things I know she likes, and point out options.

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A junior falcon improbably perched on a car. When I got closer, I saw the bird was watching a squirrel run out from under the car, shake its tail, and then run back under. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out, but I suspected it wouldn’t be too long before the squirrel became supper.

I wonder, at such moments, how the bird parents feel. I know that I am impossibly torn. Celebrating Seventeen’s high school graduation and watching him get ready for his next chapter, I could not be more proud. Giving in with a smile to his pathetic feed-me face, I’m not-so-secretly glad I can keep him close a little while longer. Lying on Fourteen’s bed while she figures out just how to register for Silver Cord hours (her high school’s program to encourage volunteerism), I’m happy for her to lead the way, but glad too when I can show her she’s flown by the pertinent screen. Are parent birds stressed by their duties or anxious to be done with their fledgling peeps? When mine were really little, I did find feeding them somewhat stressful. But we outgrew that together. Today their physical care is a kind of pleasure I’m not yet ready to relinquish.

 

In between the new moon and the full, I’m playing a little catch-up here at OverneathItAll. The end of the school year, graduation, and the Great American Road Trip all meant I put writing largely aside for a bit. Even the most compelling of activities require breaks now and then. I’m happy to be opening my computer again and looking forward to sharing the journey with you. With gratitude and big love as ever, Rxo

Emergency Services

How do I show my gratitude?

Memorial Day. I wake up after a night of tossing, my body turned sideways across my bed. The room looks odd until I blink a few times and realize how far I’ve roamed from my normal orientation. The FitBit on my wrist will confirm that it was not a restful night, even as it sends me a gleeful message that I’ve walked a marathon in six days’ time. I’ll ponder the implications of my every step logged somewhere in the cloud later, I tell myself, right now it’s time to get up and see if I can’t get things squared away after the weekend’s graduation festivities.

The new graduate, Seventeen, is up and ready to mow before he goes to work. The ruffling of his summer is behind him—in reverse order: graduation, graduation party, honors convocation, and wisdom teeth removal—he looks ahead now to a summer of working to save money for college. He’s so excited to launch his next chapter.

I elect to start with pitting the over-purchase of cherries I have left from his party. It’s a messy process, but the Internet has taught me that fitting the cherries over the end of a funnel is a great way to pit them. I’m sitting there awash in cherry pits and splattered in the sticky juice, when Seventeen arrives back inside, the mower ominously quiet.

“There’s a large, dead, bloody creature in the front yard,” he informs me.

We go to the window to see. Sure enough, on the grass in front of the house there’s a opossum, its feet in the air.

“Are you sure it’s dead?” I ask him.

“It has a big gash on its side and there are flies buzzing in and out,” he tells me.

We stand there looking out, regard the equally dead branches in one of the trees in the front yard, and I look back at the opossum.

“It’s not dead,” I tell him.

Together we watch the wounded animal. It’s righted itself and is lifting its head and then dropping its nose into the grass. It must be in severe pain.

A flurry of wondering what to do later, I have the number for off-hours animal control and a dispatcher is telling me he’ll send someone soon. Meanwhile, the opossum is struggling to move and I’m wondering how to corral it until help arrives. In short order a policeman drives up the street in a marked SUV. To my “Good Morning” he replies:

“Are you sure it’s alive?”

“Yes. Barely. But it just moved about two feet.”

He’s in full uniform, a gun and more on his hip, a communication device strapped across his chest. He begins conferring on this, walking away from me and up and down my neighbor’s driveway. Alternately my daughter and son stand on the driveway with me watching. My mother has pulled a chair to the dining room window.

Ultimately, the man gets a pole out of his truck with a loop on the end. I suggest to Thirteen that she go inside and not watch. The opossum snarls weakly as the officer works the loop around it. I turn away, knowing the end will be swift. When it’s over the officer asks me for a garbage bag and I bring three. He asks if my trash will be picked up tomorrow and when I tell him it’ll be Friday, I am relieved when he allows that he’ll take care of the body.

Throughout, he’s shown no emotion, not even in greeting. As I thank him seven more times he says simply, “I hope your day gets better.”

“Yours too,” I reply, thinking he probably became a policeman to encourage law-abiding behavior, not deal with dying opossums. I immediately wish there was more I could do to fully express my gratitude.

And the thing is, as I stood in my drive watching, I was profoundly aware this was the second time in just a few weeks I’d had to call for help. The first time was an outright 911 call when we needed an ambulance to help care for Ninety-One after a fall. The lieutenant of the first-response team, who came in a fire truck from their station little more than half a mile away, remembered that they’d been to my house a couple of years before before, under similar circumstances. Both fire truck and ambulance personnel were professional, courteous and efficient. In a short time my mother and I were headed for the emergency room in their capable care. Fortunately, she was not irreparably harmed in her fall.

It’s Memorial Day, a day when shopping and picnics and outings launch the unofficial start of summer. It’s a day when we remember those who have served our country and lost their lives doing so. And this Memorial Day is a day when I feel gratitude for the women and men who serve today, who come at the behest of an alarmed phone call and who offer their services with honed skills, with comforting words, and without apology. It is so little, but my words are the gift I have to offer in return.

Thank you, Rxo

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A happier discovery in my yard earlier this week–there were at least 9 four-leaf clovers when I looked down at my feet. Camera couldn’t get them all in one frame. How many can you find in this picture?

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