Untangling Knots

A few weeks ago, my daughter Tallulah found one of her favorite necklaces, a sweet silver angel with a rhinestone heart, in a jumbled tangle under the passenger seat of my car. She asked me to fix it. “Sure, yeah, just stick it on the dashboard.” I may have a habit of saying “sure, yeah, later” to my kids and their 47 daily requests for me to do something for them.

Days went by, and I made no effort to fix it. Driving to and from work, grocery shopping, picking up girls from soccer practice, I would look at the small lump in the corner of my dash and push it out of my mind. It took me a few days to realize that I wasn’t merely putting off a mundane task.  I was actively avoiding it. Why was that little thing taunting me? Why did the sight of it fill me with something like dread?

A few more days went by before I realized it was because of Ann.

* * *

Ann and I met when I was 13 and she 14. Immediately, I realized that she was basically good at everything. She knew how to ride horses, and taught me how as well. She got better grades than I did (than nearly everyone did), and helped me in my classes. She trained me at the deli where we both worked, and where we first met. She was confident and humble, and I looked up to her, even as we became good friends.

A couple of years later, she had her driver’s license, a brown diesel Volkswagon Rabbit, and a sense of adventure bigger than mine. Powered by Ann, we went to the Sonoma Coast, on hillside hikes, and to exotic San Francisco, always exploring. I followed her everywhere, literally and figuratively, and I relied on her for many things, large and small.

Among her many talents, she was particularly good at fixing tangled necklaces. Such necklaces would have gone to the top of my dresser to die if not for Ann. Lacking as I did the patience to fix them myself, I would save them up for her, my more patient and optimistic friend.

“Ann’ll do that for me,” I’d half think to myself before tossing them aside. And she would, always. She never seemed irritated or bothered. She went about the work of untangling knots as if she had all the time in the world and no more important thing to give her attention to. She is the reason my necklaces survived my teenage years.

In many ways, she is the reason I survived my teenage years, my college years, my 20s and 30s and 40s. As one of my closest friends, she eased my fears and insecurities for decades. When I needed to study, she helped me buckle down and focus. Ever the caretaker, she knew that I didn’t eat much when I was stressed, so she’d show up at my house with apple fritters drowning in butter. Later, as a doctor, she helped me understand the medical issues faced by my children as they grew and my parents as they aged; I would often call her after leaving a doctor’s office to get The Ann Translation, because I knew she would tell me what I needed to know, with the perfect metaphor to help me understand, and that she would ease my anxieties over the health and well being of my family.

She even once pulled a tick out of two-year-old Lola’s neck, because I was just too completely freaked out to do it myself. Never mind that she was all dressed up for her own daughter’s baptism, never mind that she had a house full of people to host. She responded to my plaintive “Aaaaaannnnn!” by whisking my child up to the bathroom and applying her tweezers and surgical skills to the nape of Lola’s neck. In no time, that tick was surfing down the toilet drain, giving rise to yet another opportunity for me to say: “Thank God for Ann.”

Ann died of cancer in July of 2017. I can’t call her anymore to ask what some weird medical thing means. We won’t be going on any more jaunts to Goat Rock beach. I can’t indulge with her in chocolate chip cookie dough or apple fritters. She will not be talking me down from any more social-anxiety ledges.

And I can no longer save up tangled knots for her to fix.

* * *

Last week, I found myself at a soccer field, waiting for a notoriously over-time coach to finally call the end of practice. As I sat there simmering in mild annoyance and thinking uncharitable thoughts about the coach, my eye fell upon Tallulah’s necklace. This time, I didn’t push it out of my mind. Instead, I pulled it and so many memories of Ann towards me.

“OK, dammit, I can fix this stupid thing,” I thought as I tackled the job of picking the knots apart. With no small measure of bitterness, I looped pieces this way and that, followed dead-end paths, and stubbornly tried again. I stared at clots of chain, willing my eyes to pierce the mysteries of which lengths went where. More than once, I chastised Ann for leaving me to deal with this mess without her.

After countless fruitless tugs this way and that, one loop finally got a little bigger and pieces started sliding through. As I worked, I found myself warming to the task, and concentrating more willingly and hopefully on my goal. More spaces opened up, knots resolved one by one until at last the angel was free. It probably took no more than 20 minutes, but I lived a lifetime in those minutes, a lifetime of thinking about all ways I miss having Ann in my life.

Something else happened too: I caught a glimpse of her spirit, of the way she did a job with purpose and single-mindedness -- and without self-interest or complaint. It seems too flippant to say I was channeling her, but I was bringing her to life for myself once more, by doing a task the way she would do it. As I worked at the tangles, I grew calmer and less bitter. Knowing how happy my daughter would be made me experience something like joy in the process. Realizing that Ann once did these things for me, and now I would need to do them myself, made me want to do this job and do it well.

This is is how she will live on for me: not merely by my remembering her or thinking about the things we did together, but by embodying her way of being in the world and making her present in the actions I take each day.

Hopping in the car after practice, Tallulah noticed her newly liberated angel swinging back and forth from the rearview mirror and happily exclaimed: “My necklace! Thank you! You’re so good at fixing tangled chains, mom!” With her words, I realized that I have adopted a little bit of Ann to take with me into the years ahead. Tallulah will probably save up her jumbled necklaces and shove them in my direction for the next several decades, and I will welcome them. Each one will bring with it another chance to have Ann by my side.

She once helped me smooth every tangle and resolve every knot; now I know that she will do that forever, from deep in my heart.

-->

New Rules

“Were you scared?” I asked her.

“Well, maybe a little. But the good news is, I thought, is that I was in the computer room, which is waaaaaaaay at the back of the school, and I figured that if anyone got into the school, he probably wouldn’t get all the way back to us there, so we were probably fine.” 

She went on: “We hid under the computer tables, which was gross because people stick their gum under there. So we had to lie there and stare at old gum. So I pulled out a book and started to read so I wouldn’t have to stare at the gum.” 

And a little later: “My teacher didn’t get underneath anything though. She just kept walking around. Shouldn’t she be safe too?”

I agreed with her that yes, her teacher should be safe too.

This is the conversation I had with my daughter recently, after her school experienced a lock down. The episode was brief: the lockdown was triggered not by anything dangerous happening at the school but by police activity in the neighborhood. It was a routine precautionary procedure, and was resolved quickly. However, the automatic text that went out to families only said: Lockdown at XX School. Receiving that text was anything but routine.

Tallulah is 12. When I was twelve, I was thinking about music, goofing around with my friends, and circling the clothes I liked in catalogues. I was not calculating the likelihood that I would get shot at school or picturing in my head what might happen to my teacher if she didn’t duck down under the tables with me, my classmates, and the old wads of gum.

I wish she didn’t have to think like that. I wish this were not normal for her. She was incredibly matter of fact when she was describing her predictions that a gunman wouldn’t make it to where she was huddled underneath the gum. That hurt a little to hear.

Sometimes, I feel a little hopeless about the gun debate in our country. It seems so obvious to me, a bleeding heart liberal, that the answer is gun control, but I know that for many conservatives the answer is more guns. It feels like never the twain shall meet, and we will only ever be angry with each other for not seeing the world the way we do. The problem with the gun debate is the same problem we are having with every policy debate: we cannot listen to the people on the other side. We demonize the people on the other side. That is what needs to stop.

I think we need a massive, communal reset, with new rules. Here are a few suggestions:

• Don’t say anything mean about the people you disagree with.
• Talk to people you disagree with. Ask a minimum of 10 questions to learn more about them personally and about why they hold certain views.
• If you’ve never talked with someone on the other side of an opinion you hold strongly, see if you can change that.
• If you have never met an immigrant, a Muslim, a rural voter, a gun rights enthusiast, a tax and spend liberal, a trickle down conservative, or anyone else you think of as “other,” if you’ve never tried to understand their point of view, put that on your bucket list instead of a trip to Bali. Or maybe in addition to.

What makes a difference in any person’s life? What makes a difference in yours? Relationships. Connection. Community. Expression. Being known. Those are the things that transform individual people, individual hearts. Those are the things that make us peaceful. That is where every policy debate needs to begin, with seeking community and connection. We may not agree (um…we definitely don’t agree). But we can still talk to each other, hear each other’s stories, and put ourselves in each other’s shoes. I think that’s what’s missing in our civic lives these days.

These are just random, somewhat weary thoughts as I think about the Tree of Life and the grocery store in Kentucky, and I worry about what is happening all around me. My daughter is safe, for now; but I’m scared that tomorrow, or the next day, or next year, she won’t be. I’m trying not to lose faith in this country, but it’s hard. 

Who wants to talk? Who wants to listen?

Repost: Life & Death

I first posted this piece in 2011.  Since then, my family has experienced quite a bit of grief and loss.  There are some lessons we need to learn and relearn every day of our lives.  This, I think, is one:

* * *

My son asked me the other day how long it takes to get over the death of someone you love.  There is inherent hope in that question, that getting over loss is possible, that everything will be OK at some point in the future.  I didn't want to answer him, because...well...who wants to tell a child that there are things you never get over?  But I answered.  I told him that you never get over a death, that you always miss the person you love, and no one and nothing ever can take his (or her) place in your life.  It's also possible, I told him, to go on and live a wonderful, full and happy life, to meet other people that you end up loving very much, to be joyful and to enjoy your life to the fullest.  But you don't get over death.  You don't ever go back to the way you were before a person you love dies.

My other son asked me questions today about 9/11.  He asked how it was possible for a small plane to bring down a building as big as the World Trade Center.  He had it in his head that the terrorists who flew into buildings that day were in small two or three seater planes, and had just taken off from wherever and flown to their targets.  I watched his face as I explained that no, actually, the planes were as big as the one he flew on to his cousin's wedding, that the terrorists were not the only people on board, that there were passengers on those planes as well.

Then he asked me about the field in Pennsylvania: why did the terrorists want to crash into a field?  Again, I watched his face as I explained that they actually wanted to hit another building, perhaps the U. S. Congress, and that some of the passengers fought back and caused the plane to crash into a field, and that by doing that, they saved the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who would have been killed had the plane reached its target.

I cannot describe the look on his face when I explained those things to him.  Horror, disbelief, rejection.  Rejection comes close.  He didn't want to know this about the world, I could tell.  He thought he knew the story of 9/11 -- I thought he did too.  But the details, as one learns them and lets them sink in, are freshly tortuous each time, for each person.  I watched those details torture him today.

And I felt like the hijackers were making me hurt my son by showing him that these things are possible, that people can really do unspeakable things, and that people are faced with impossible choices.

He couldn't respond to me in words.  He had no more questions.  He just sat there, looking stricken and sick, and we kept driving, on to the field where he would be playing in a soccer game in another hour.

* * *

9/11 gave us devastation, pain, suffering.

9/11 gave us dust covered faces and falling bodies.

9/11 gave us goodbye voicemails.

9/11 gave us a scorched Pennsylvania field.

9/11 gave us widows and orphans, and 3000 unfillable holes.

9/11 gave us sorrow.

9/11 gave me, gave Rick and me, something else, too.  9/11, five years later, gave us the deepest, fiercest kind of love, the strongest and best thing two people can produce together, 9/11 gave us Little T, in all her defiant and radiant glory.

She turns 5 as the country marks 10.  She'll wake up tomorrow overjoyed that this is her day, that she was born, that she is to be celebrated, even as the country wakes up to remember, soberly, lives that were lost to dust and steel 10 years ago.  She sees tomorrow as the greatest day ever in the history of the universe, because this is a kid who loves life like few people ever will.

When she said good night to me tonight, she asked about her Fruit Loops, since we let the kids eat sugary cereal on their birthdays.  I told her I still needed to go to the store and buy them, and she asked if I would be going tonight, or tomorrow morning very early.  When I told her I wasn't sure yet, she said, in that crazy cartoon voice of hers: 

"Well, if you leave tonight, and you think I'm asleep, and you leave without giving me a hug or a kiss?  Well, you can still hug and kiss me, even if I'm asleep, because I really don't ever want you to leave without giving me a hug and a kiss.  And sometimes, when I wake up and your car is gone, I think you should have given me a hug and kiss before you left."

And then she hugged me, with her strong and spindly arms and legs, and I felt her small frame pressed against mine, and I felt her smooth cheek, and I thought to myself there is nothing as purely good as the hug of a little kid.

She is --  all of my children are -- my hope that love will triumph over the evil done on 9/11 and the pain and suffering that reverberate out from that day.  She reverberates too: a resounding and repeating song of grabbing life with both hands, jumping in with abandon, and hanging on for the laughter filled ride.  

9/11/01 and 9/11/06 have given me the very same thing, namely this lesson:  hug and kiss the people you love, each and every time you leave them.  

* * *

My Own Little Renaissance

I went for a walk today after work.  I really didn't want to.  I was torn between passing the time before picking up my daughter from soccer practice by (a) stopping at the local taqueria and having a beer or (b) getting. in. my. steps.  

(If you say those last four words like you're the Economics Teacher from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, you will capture something of my feeling about going for a walk.)

But walk I did.  I made the smarter choice.  I'm glad I did, but I'm also struck by just how hard it was to make that choice.  It was, like, super hard.  Like, teenager who can't get out of bed hard.  Like, tween who doesn't want to take a shower hard.  Like, toddler who doesn't want to hold hands across the street or do anything else remotely reasonable hard.  Made me feel very wimpy.

But I digress.  This post isn't about my walk, but about something I've discovered recently, which I was reminded of on my walk.  Here's what I have discovered: There is so very much I do not know.

Put another way: There is so very much to learn about in the world.  And this is a cause of great excitement for me, almost as if I am having a little renaissance of my own, in which the world is opening up to me, new ideas are pouring into my brain, new knowledge is layering on top of the foundations I've built so far in my life.  And I LIKE IT!

I am kind of excited about discovering how much there is to learn, and feeling hopeful about the process of adding new and different information to my life.  There are so many books and articles to read, and people to ask questions of, and things to contemplate.  Here are some of the great things I've learned lately:

• I learned that Bob Dylan went through a fundamentalist, evangelical Christian stage.  HAD NO IDEA.  Fascinating.

• I learned about Zora Neale Hurston's ethnography work, notably her work to interview and document the words of Cudjo Lewis, the last survivor of the last known slave ship from Africa, which landed illegally in the US in 1860.  This story is remarkable not only for the story of Cudjo in his own words, but for the story of why her book about him, completed in 1931, has not been published before now.
  
  
  
• I learned that there is a very cool little agricultural oasis, right in the middle of Berkeley, called the Urban Adamah. I walked past it on my walk, and surely would still not know of its existence had I opted for that IPA I'm still hankering for. My walk took me into a sweet little wooded path, behind buildings and alongside a creek, and eventually, the path meandered along one side of this little oasis. I spied winding pathways, vegetable gardens, a round building probably used for retreats, benches, canopies, fields, cool earthy looking projects...and nary a soul in sight. I walked around the front of the property to find out the name of this very peaceful, soulful-looking place.  And then I consulted The Google: Urban Adamah is described on its website as "an educational farm and community center that integrates the practices of Jewish tradition, sustainable agriculture, mindfulness and social action to build loving, just and sustainable communities."  I thought it was super ironic that they also have big NO TRESPASSING signs posted in several places and high fences all the way around it...but it looked absolutely peaceful and mindful.  I'm happy to live in a world where places like this exist, even if I won't ever be able to trespass there.  And yes, I would like to.  

• I learned, no joke, that my great grandparents lived in a house in San Francisco in the very early 1900's, and they lost their house in the 1906 earthquake and great fire.  They lost their house, and my great-grandmother's brother lost his business: a bar at 1st and Mission.  HAD NO IDEA.  I've lived my whole life knowing about that earthquake and the fire that destroyed nearly the entire City, and never knew I had a close personal connection to it.  I also did not know there were bars in the family, before my mom and dad were the original proprietors of Murphy's Pub in Sonoma. 
 
• I learned that in 1966, my father had front row balcony tickets to a London performance of Swan Lake, featuring Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn.  Epic.  Absolutely epic.

And those are just the things that popped into my mind in the last 10 minutes!  Those last two have me pretty much wanting to corner my dad, stick a recording device in front of him, and pepper him with questions.  There is so much to learn in the world, and in my own family.  

I'm excited to know that I will always learn new things for as long as I live; as my friend Lori says,  "Just TRY to get through a day without learning something: it's not possible!"  I'm grateful that I went on that walk today: I learned something new and am reminded of how much awaits me.

Pretty sure I can learn something from a good IPA too, but that will be for another day.

What have you learned lately?

Teenage Girls Are Awesome: Here's Why

 simpler time: before they were
so confused about me. 

When she was around eleven or twelve, my middle daughter once threw her arms around, pulled me in tight and close, and yelled in my ear, "GET AWAY FROM ME."  There was a beat of silence between us before we cracked up.  We both enjoyed the absurdity of that tortured pre-teen moment.

She’s speeding towards 14 now, and she still does some version of the "push-me-pull-me" dance on a regular basis.  Sometimes, she comes up to me and encircles me with her arms while trying not to touch me.  Or she’ll grab my arm and fling it away.  Repeatedly.  While squawking.  Basically, she’s confused.

I have three daughters, so opportunities for absurdity abound. Today at the 9am Mass, I took a chance with Daughter #1, who is 15: I put my arm around her.  Mothers around the world know what a foolhardy mission this could have been, to open myself up to ninja level rejection and scorn like that.

But lo, a miracle occurred, and she let my arm stay where I had so boldly placed it.  She even snuggled in.  We sat there for a few minutes, listening to what can only be described as an interminable homily, with at least one of us grateful for a few extended moments of closeness.  I reveled in the sweetness, and even believed that maybe she didn’t think I was quite as cringe-worthy as usual.  And then, she raised her head from my shoulder, looked me in the eye and said plainly: "Your presence is irritating me, and I don't know why."  Having spoken her piece, she put her head back on my shoulder.   And again, there was a beat of silence between us before the pew shook with suppressed giggles.

There it was, a simple truth.  We both knew it: she just decided to put it out there.

I remember being a teenage girl.  In between giggles, I told her: "It's OK.  I remember being 15.  I know what that feels like."

But here's where she differs from Teenage Me: she put her head back on my shoulder and left it there.  She felt that mother-daughter confusion, named it, and stayed right there with me anyway.  And like her sister before her, she found humor in that confusion, and let the laughter flow.

The moment lingered.  It felt as if her funny, edgy words had cast a spell over us.  I tried not to breath or move, hoping to stay there with her for as long as possible.

* * *

I was not nearly so gracious about my conflicted feelings towards my own mother, and I certainly could not find humor in them.  I am almost 50, and while I have known for a while that Teenage Me was grossly unfair to my mom, it's only recently that I wonder what that must have been like for her.  I can't ask her: she died this past November.  I can't tell her I'm sorry I was a jerk.  I will never know if she felt the slings and arrows I silently volleyed in her direction when I was 15.  Did she feel me shudder when she pulled her shirt down tight over her hips?  Did she realize that school clothes shopping with her felt like having a disease?  How did I go from falling asleep in her lap to running laps to get away?

I wonder if she ever saw her daughters, my sister and I, wrestling with our Feelings About Mom in the same the way I see my own daughters doing today.  While there are many times I am discouraged by their scorn, or weary from reminding myself that they aren't even human yet and their scathing opinion of me matters not, lately I have started seeing their vitriol, coupled with their need for me, as something else: The Truth about All Relationships.

I am beginning to suspect that the hormonal tsunami that is a teenage girl is the most honest source of truth about love and family.  We love the people we love, and they simultaneously drive us painfully crazy.  We want them, and we want to flee from them, all at once.  We are terrified by and drawn to intimacy.  Teenage girls are just more honest about it than the rest of us.

In those brief, conflicted and funny moments with my daughters, that honesty feels like the greatest gift I have ever been given.

Perhaps it would be wise to be grateful for their confusion and for the way they express it.  Sooner than I can imagine, they will be settled young women who don’t cringe when I touch them and whose eyes have stopped rolling around like pinballs when I speak.  Sooner than I want, the tension and strife will have packed their bags and moved out, leaving echoes of “what if” in their wake.

The tsunami will subside.

The absurdity will be gone.

These too, I will miss one day.

Big Problems for 2018

Oh dear.

I am in the vortex of New Year's Resolutions.

In years past, I have eschewed resolution-making easily, tossing aside the urge like so many flyers home from school, avoiding the pull of self-improvement without a care.

But this year is different.  This year, I want to change ALL THE THINGS.  I want to be better in ALL THE WAYS.   I feel the desire to be better and the temptation of resolve, and I strongly suspect that waiting for me on the other side is disappointment and failure.  As a woman who has increasingly lived by the mantra "The Secret to Happiness is Low Expectations," I am confused and concerned by this sudden urge to set the bar high and reach for the goddamn stars.

Let's put the devil in the details.  Let's list all the ways in which I seek to be a better human being in 2018.

1. Pray more.
2. Read more books.
3. Exercise more.
4. Write more.
5. Eat better: includes eating more vegetables and fewer carbs, and drinking more water and less wine.
6. FlyLady my house.
7. Plan meals and grocery shopping consistently.  And execute on those plans.
8. Keep up the family calendar (AKA: reduce scheduling chaos)
9. Learn to play the violin.

And those are just the ones I thought of in the last 5 minutes; I'm pretty sure there are more.  Which means: this list is far too long for one woman.  Those are too many things to improve upon.  I can't decide what to cut! What to focus on!  What to shoot for!  

I think I know why I'm feeling the need for so many positive transformations.  2017 was terrible.  I need 2018 to be better, and I want to feel like I have some degree of control over making it so.  

On the one hand, I have this oh-so-strong urge to take charge and make everything better, and on the other, I have this knowledge that I am not in control, that I cannot force myself or the world around me to comply with my wishes.  I cannot bring Ann back, I cannot bring my mother back, I cannot turn back time and save my children from the particular pain of losing a beloved dog.

It is very likely that the best course of action for me is to resolve instead to breathe, be still, and practice mercy, patience and kindness, to myself and all around me, starting with my family.  I suspect the Pope is on to something here:

So, crazy unattainable plans on one side, the Pope on the other.  What to do...what to do...

* * *

  

THANK YOU MOM

First I want to thank everyone for being here to honor my mom and support our family.  We are incredibly appreciative of your love and support.

The thing I most want to say today is thank you mom.  Thank you for giving me the life I have, the faith I have in a loving God, and the experience of being raised by someone who worked quietly, consistently, and with great integrity, for her family, community, and world.

Thank you mom, for the gift of laughter.  Many of my favorite childhood memories are of laughing.  Laughing really hard at Mary Tyler Moore, Bob Newhart, and especially MASH.  Laughing at the Sunday comics, the Far Side and Bloom County.  Even Doonsebury, which I rarely got, but which I knew must be funny because my mom and the rest of my family sure thought so.  Laughing about our family lore – the inside jokes and stories that made me so glad I was a Murphy.  Looking through family photos this past week, I was struck by how many of them capture all of us laughing – you can almost see the tears streaming down our faces in some of them.

Even as she got sicker and less herself, she kept her wonderful sense of humor, and seeing it pop up was always a bright spot in my visits with her these past few years.  Not long after my folks celebrated their 50th anniversary, I asked her if she had any words of wisdom about how they had stayed married for so long.  Her instant reply: "Nope.  Just a lack of imagination."

I can't truly express how delightful it was to hear her crack that joke.  It was playful, hopeful, hilarious...and just so completely her.  

Thank you mom, for the gift of caring about the world.  Bob talked about her many causes, the organizations she supported and the ways she was an activist here in Sonoma and beyond.  Talking with my family this week, I realized how many things she was involved with that I had no idea about – and my dad even remarked that some of her philanthropic efforts even he never knew about.  Hers was not a “selfie” kind of activism – it never would have occurred to her talk about, much less promote, her contributions.

 

The cause that left the biggest impression on me as a kid was her involvement with Sonoma Action for Nuclear Disarmament, and the weekly vigils she attended at the Plaza.  She stood there, with her candle and peace sign, every single week.  As a kid, I admit I sort of thought “What the heck is the point of that?  Standing there with a candle?  In this tiny town?  That’s IT?”  I didn’t have the long view then.  But now I think she did even more than bring about nuclear disarmament for our entire country and world: just as significant to me, her daughter, was the example she embodied, of standing for what she believed in and of doing whatever she could to shape the world she wanted to live in. 

This past January, I went to the women’s march in Oakland with a group of friends – other moms I know from soccer fields and birthday parties.  And every single of them said that this was the first time they had ever participated in ANY kind of march or demonstration: to which I responded: “Seriously???”  As our friend Kaeti Bailie joked when I told her this story: “WHO RAISED YOU?”  Not Rose Murphy, who carried many a protest sign in her day, most frequently one that proclaimed peace and love.  I learned from her life long example that you show up for the things you care about and that gestures large and small make a powerful difference, sometimes in ways you don’t expect.

Thank you mom, for the gift of literature and language. 

Mom was a huge reader, and as a teenager and young adult I got most of my reading recommendations from her.  Great novels, volumes of Irish poetry, the ever-present New Yorker magazine – these were some of her favorite things, and were always ways she and I connected.

And clearly, mom was a gifted writer.  In her books, articles, and reflections, she knew how to express herself, how to make ideas clear and tell captivating stories.  Her writing is now, for me, a way to continue my conversations with her, to keep getting to know her and learn from her.  Reading Dervla, The Secret Irish Bard, is particularly delightful – her creativity and imagination leap from the page.  I am grateful beyond measure that as my children grow up – and their own children someday -- they will be able to read her words and get to know the beautiful woman she was.

Even today, she is still giving.  Because of who she was to each of us, and to each of you, I am still receiving gifts and blessings from her.  So many of you have shared stories with us about how she helped you or how much fun you had together. I’ve heard about her college days, her San Francisco days, her wonderful friendship to others, and her contributions to Sonoma – each story is another gift, and each of you has helped fill in the gaps that a daughter naturally has in understanding her mother.  It is a joy, even as we have to let her go, to see more fully the impact she had and the ripples of love she spread in every direction.

So thank you, mom, for bringing all of these people together today; thank you for the countless ways you actively loved us, your family, and the entire world. Thank you for showing me how beautiful each person is in the eyes of God.  I love you, I miss you, and I look forward to being with you again. 

SUSTENANCE

Charlottesville is consuming me. I admit to being obsessed with all the coverage and interviews. It cannot be good for me to watch too much CNN and listen to too many talking heads, but I cannot look away. I am fascinated by how human beings can grow such hate in their hearts and minds, hate that leads them to see others as less than human. It’s a specific kind of selfishness that is truly terrifying. It’s fear. It has always been fear and it will always be fear.

Look into your own family, look at the people you love. Why do they lash out, why do they do hurtful things, even to people they love?  Fear.  

I look at my own children, who I know are good and kind people, and I’m shocked multiple times a week at how vicious they can be with each other, how immediately defensive they are when they feel threatened and fearful. If they are about to get in trouble, if they know they did something hurtful, if they think they are about to get steamrolled -- they are virulently defensive. They feed each other to the wolves.

It’s disheartening to see, partly because it suggests that we, their parents, aren’t doing a very good job at helping them navigate interpersonal relationships. We want them to know, in their hearts, the power of a sincere apology, of raw empathy and kindness. As parents, we know that these things are the foundation of relationships that sustain us and ultimately bring us peace and joy.

Relationships that sustain us: this is what we need in our culture and communities. What is so terribly sad to me is to look back 25 years, to the way I saw the world when I first joined the Jesuit Volunteer Corps, and to recognize that at that time, I thought I lived in a progression that was taking the country forward. I thought I was on and part of a path that was bringing more good into the world, more love and compassion, more empathy and understanding. Less divisiveness.

But when I look at what’s happening -- everything from the Neo-Nazi violence in Charlottesville, to the way we attack "neglectful" parents when their children get hurt, to the relentless viciousness of social media -- I am chilled by how far it seems we have gone in the other direction. Children of the world, THIS is why parents are alarmed at what the culture is teaching you, showing you and planting in you. We do not want you to look around and see the nastiness and the vapidness and grow up breathing that air. I do not want my daughters to see the Kardashians, laugh at the shallowness with which that family is portrayed for the sake of ratings, and simply be entertained. I do not want my sons to see tasteless memes about sex, and simply be amused.

There is a through line, for me, between these mindless, slippery slope allowances and the hate and hurt assaulting our communities. Both are about demeaning others and putting things (profit? power?) before people. Neither will ever help us build the relationships we need.

When Trump was elected, I wept bitterly because I felt fear. It was, then, an unnamed fear of something sinister coming, or more rightly, being revealed. I knew, in my bones, that the weeks and months ahead would be filled with things that would make me ache for people, for my children and for the children of people I don't understand, like the neo-nazi's filling the TV screen. Watching recent days unfold, I feel as though I am watching my fears materialize, those fears of what Trump’s presidency would usher in. I knew this would happen. Standing in my kitchen on election night, I wept each time my son came in to tell me that another state had been called for Trump. And I knew we should be bracing ourselves for ugliness, for the infliction of pain and for all manner of affronts to human dignity and goodness. I knew Charlottesville was coming.

How can simple human kindness make a difference? It doesn't seem strong enough in the face of hate marches and seas of swastikas and weaponized cars. It doesn't seem like enough, until I look at the most important times in my own life, those that have transformed me and brought me peace. They are all intimate and personal occasions of connection -- falling in love, the birth of a child, listening to a friend's story of suffering.  The private moments when we are most present to each other are the moments that make us the strongest.  

This is my activism, paying attention to the private moments that connect us all and looking for more and more of them to sustain me.

My children, my sweet children, those I’ve given birth to and those I haven't, I know who you are. I know you are made of goodness and kindness to your core. I know, and you know, that the behavior we are witnessing is antithetical to love and humanity. Find ways to rise above your own fear and defensiveness; find ways to rise above others’ as well. Reject, resist, and repel the hatred you see swirling around us. Learn about it, understand what is out there, but turn to the people around you and cultivate the habits of being that drive out hate. Start with the people closest to you, then turn outwards to others, but keep it going. Never stop radiating love, patience and empathy. Never, ever stop. You are what the world needs now.

Thank God for Freezing Soccer Mornings

We were up at 6am, in rural Turlock, California, ready to cheer on a field full of 10-year olds competing in their early morning State Cup Quarterfinal.

It was 34 degrees outside -- not so impressive if you're playing winter soccer in Chicago, or New York, or Kansas, but pretty freakin' cold if you happen to be 10-year old California girls and their parents.

The grass crunched beneath our feet. We blew frosty smoke rings from our mouths. We stomped our feet and talked about how it was damn cold but WOW it could be even colder, and at least the sun was out.

We cheered on our girls, hoping to will them to victory with our support and encouragement. And then, we felt heartsick and helpless as we watched them go down in defeat. We fretted to each other that they deserved this win, that the score didn't tell the real story.

We joked "At least we'll get our Sunday back," since by midway through the second half it was clear that we weren't returning for a 2pm Semifinal. None of us really wanted our Sunday back.

We high fived the losing team -- our daughters -- as they ran by our outstretched hands at the end of it all. I slapped my own daughter's hand as she ran by in a blur, and saw eyes full of tears and a face crumpled in torment. She, with visions of being the next Carly Lloyd, had run smack dab into the wall of 10-year old failure and was feelin' it, big time.

We took the team to crepes afterwards, in rural, sleepy Turlock, where we enjoyed the parent table a few feet from the player table, where they stuffed themselves with crepes piled high with nutella and strawberries and whipped cream: no need for our young athletes to be smart and healthy with no afternoon game beckoning.

It was a bittersweet morning, and I will forever love these days, as gut-wrenching as they can be.

The owners of the Creperie in rural, sleepy Turlock were absolutely thrilled to see us pile into their small cafe. Thrilled, cheerful, welcoming, and then, as our large group kept streaming in, ever so slightly panicked and then downright stressed out by the impact we had on their three crepe machine establishment. It took forever to get our food. For. Eh. Ver.

The owners of the Creperie in rural, sleepy Turlock are, as it happens, Syrian immigrants.

That’s how we spent our Sunday morning, and thank God we did. Because had I not been there, riding the wave and crash of U11 competitive soccer, I would have been in front of a screen somewhere, swallowing up the fear and rage that I find rising in me lately when I see my Facebook feed, check Twitter for the current outrage, and scan npr.org’s pages.

There are more than enough horrors happening in our country these days to fill our every moment and every breath. There are marches to go to and phone calls to make and airports to occupy. There are difficult conversations to have – with people we agree with as much as those we don’t. If we are to be responsible and well-informed, we have to do the work to make sure we are getting real information.

We will see more horrors. Of course we will. The time to wonder if this will be the thing that does him in is over. The time to make this – or the next thing, or the thing after that – be the thing that wakes up our country and unites us in ridding ourselves of this orange cancer is here and now.

But for today, I am grateful for the freezing cold pitch beneath my feet and the chance to watch my daughter lose her soccer game, because I needed a wee-bit of a break from the chaos of the real world. Today, I am grateful for delicious crepes, sweet balm after a tough loss, prepared with love and enthusiasm by a lovely Syrian couple now living in the middle of California.

My daughter is sleeping on the couch next to me, still in her stinky soccer socks.

Tomorrow morning, she will shower. And tomorrow morning, I will call some US Representatives who need to know that I oppose Betsy De Vos’s nomination as Education Secretary and that I want him or her to vote against it. Tomorrow, I will tell a friend of mine that yes, I will go with her to my local representative’s office to thank him for opposing DJT so far and to let him know that I expect him to continue to do exactly that at every turn. Tomorrow, I will search for reliable news sources, and I will resist the click bait that beckons me and my righteous indignation.

Today, I am grateful that I got to watch my 10-year old daughter play her heart out and lose her State Cup Quarterfinal. There’s always next year, and maybe we can go back and visit the Syrians.