Dear Polly, Robyn, Debbie, Mom, Molly, Diane, Josi and on and on-my sistahs-

It was so good to see comments from my sistahs about the vacuum and cleaning (or lack thereof) issue.  The best was seeing comments and getting emails from my sistahs! 

Polly is my dear, sweet brother Pat's wife.  My sister and I used to think he'd never get married because there could never be anyone who could deserve all that, let alone be smart enough to accept it.  Enter, Polly, stage right.  This is simple-before they even got married I told her she was my sister and she started calling us sistahs and we've loved each other ever since.  I'm blessed enough to share a relationship with my brother's wife that exists on a deep level, dare I say even spiritual at times.  No one needs to know exactly what I'm talking about.  Just that Polly is my sistah.

Robyn is my ex-husband's current wife.  She is amazing and if he wouldn't have married her, it's my sincere hope that our paths would have crossed one day and that we would have become friends.  We could each have chosen another path with one another...one that wouldn't have been good for anyone, especially our kids.  Instead, we chose to care for one another and I chose to value her for how well she treats my sons.  From there, we've talked and talked and I count her as a friend, one on my list of sistahs!

Then there's Debbie...what can I say?  Debbie is the sister of my ex-husband.  She is one of the most giving, caring, compassionate, empathetic people I know.  She's is a fabulous mother to Julia and Micah, my niece and nephew who I miss very much.  Debbie is funky and cool.  She makes beautiful pottery and amazing drawings and paintings.  At family functions, when discussions were heated, I could always count on Debbie to huddle with me and whisper our agreement, which was usually to laugh.  Since my divorce, Debbie and I haven't talked much and it has broken my heart on more than one occasion.  I recently saw her, though, and it was like no time had ever passed.  We hugged and told one another we'd missed each other and there we were, sistahs as always.  I hope to have more time with her and Rob and their kids who I love, every one of them.

Ladies, I think you can get a real clear picture of why my mom is my sistah from going back and reading the letter I wrote to her.  There's so much more but enough said.  Seriously.

Then there's Molly, the only sistah I have that I share parents with.  I can't explain my bond to her.  Sometimes I don't think she knows how amazing I think she is in every way.  When Molly comes up in conversation, I'm like one of those sicko mothers bragging about their children and living vicariously through their beauty and accomplishments.  It's not that though, I swear.  She's just so unfathomable, for lack of a better word, to me in every way.  She's beautiful inside and out and she is so strong; so true to herself.  Last year she had a baby and every incredible part of Molly now shines so brightly from within her like you can't believe.  It makes me warm just to be around her.  I love her and trust her and I'm proud of her and...there aren't anymore words.

Then there's Diane.  She's my ex-Mother-in-law.  When I was married to her son, I loved her like she was my own mom.  When her son and I got divorced, though, it was such a mess and everyone needed someone to blame; a place to point their anger like a loaded gun.  Diane and I did a good job of that but I must admit that I missed her.  Each of us has recently been brave enough to rekindle our relationship, and I can't tell you what it means to me to have her back as a sistah.

Josi's last because you always save the best for last.  There is no one like Josi.  She is so strong that I often have to get out of her way or she'll run me right over.  That same strength, though, is the strength that rescued me 100 times and 100 times more than that.  We raised our children together for a long time.  We told each other our deepest darkest secrets.  I remember her calling me when my lovely niece (honestly-she's gorgeous and the sweetest 13-year-old girl you could ever hope to meet) was colicky.  That word-colicky-never seems to cover what my niece was or what she did.  It was more like she was a tiny little military specialist sent on a search and destroy mission. At about two weeks of age, she started screaming like someone was sticking her with a pin or had her in thumb screws.  When I say screaming, I mean loud wailing; a grinding sound that took over your whole head, body, mind, common sense, etc.  No one could talk when she was awake because she was just so God awfully loud.

So one day, Josi called me sobbing.  I could hear my niece in the background at least three decibles above her usual pitch.  This is a kid we used to sit in front of a stereo speaker and blast music at and for whatever reason, that soothed her while it was happening, but not a second after the song ended.  I heard Josi's voice and I thought "she needs to be rescued."  I told her to put the baby in her crib and make sure she was safe, then get in the car and I'd be right over.  Turn up the radio as loud as you can.  When I got there, we hugged and sobbed for hours and hours, maybe just for the sheer joy of knowing we weren't going to have to do this alone (imagine what I thought of the first 3 months of my niece's life, being seven months pregnant as I was and unable to turn back.  Still, I already knew I'd have Josi.  There was never a doubt).

Then there are all of the times Josi saved me.  I can actually say with all sincerity and complete honesty in my heart and soul that my Josi saved my life more than once, and I'll never be able to give her anything that could sufficiently represent my deep, deep gratitude to her and love for her that will never go anywhere.  It's like a tattoo on my heart and I'm so happy I have it.

The thing with Josi, too, is that she and Brian (he's a real sistah baby but I won't do that to him-separate letter to him) never abandoned me, regardless of the state of my marriage.  The fact that they were the only people present at my wedding this summer other than immediate family should really say it all.  Josi is my sistah.

So, to all of you women and the many others I call sistahs, thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing your strengths and weaknesses with me, for making me laugh at the worst of times and for crying with me in the next breath.  I'm the luckiest woman on earth.  I've got these sistahs and a whole bunch more.

If you're a woman who's been too involved with men or your careers or motherhood or whatever to find sistahs, all I can tell you is "change and do it right now."  This is the best gift you can give to yourself and another woman, and the best example you can set for your daughters, nieces and any little girls who happen to be in your life.  Let them see you hugging and kissing and crying and laughing together so that they want that feeling, too.  Bless them with sistahs.

Who are your sistahs?  Or are you a woman who's still looking for them.  These women here and the many other sistahs I have really want to hear what you think and feel about sistahs.

My heart is filled with love and peace tonight.
Sincerely Yours

Dear Readers-

Here's what I'm talking about!  What Mark said!  Thanks for taking the time to engage in "connection," Mark, and proving that it can occur here and anywhere people are willing to be prompted by honesty to BE honest.  That's an exchange between anyone who reads the post and his reaction.  It can prompt us to have a back and forth about "communication" vs. "connection."  That's important.  YOUR OPINION AND IDEAS ARE IMPORTANT.  Here's what I'd say about the amazing ideas in Mark's comment:

You're so right.  We're all guilty of "communicating" without "connecting" when we are just thinking of the next thing we want to say rather than trying to understand what's being said TO us.  Learning to listen is the first step in learning to connect and it's a hard skill for all of us to master-did I say master?  Maybe "be successful at once in a great while."  I find that when I am having an exchange with someone, personal, business, on a board-whatever-if I keep "namaste" in mind-the divine in me greets the divine in you-I'm much more likely to be a good listener and to "connect."  When it really happens, connection feels so much better than communication, which always has the risk of one person left empty or feeling misunderstood...and when you're that person or that's what's coming at you, it feels anything but good...you're right.  Wish it's what we all had with one another all the time.

Sincerely Yours

Dear Readers-What kind of vacuum do you own?

If you're a grown up who doesn't make her bed, raise your hand.  Who among you doesn't dust until you happen to be in the same room when a sunbeam alights on the inch of dust on the bookshelves?  Has anyone other than Sincerely Yours ever gone out in the middle of the night to buy a pack of little boys' underpants because you realize you just haven't gotten quite as far in the wash as you'd planned?  Perhaps that's because you ran through the sprinklers all day with those same little boys and forgot?  Who's gotten out the vacuum, plugged it in with every intention of vacuuming, gotten distracted and then walked around it for days, still there, still plugged in, feeling guilty?  And that's where we get to the heart of the matter:  vacuums and guilt.

Six months or so ago, both my sister and sister-in-law got the "Dyson" vacuum.  My family has a "Blackberry Group" that we refer to as "the circle of trust," where we brag about our children, send pictures, say "I love you" and parse out little morsels of wisdom.  Well, there came a day when both my sistahs almost got kicked out of the circle of trust for talking AD NAUSEUM about their Dyson vacuums.  Oh, the level of cleanliness that could be achieved.  You could eat off the floor.  It had changed their lives.  Seriously.  They both said that.  Instead of laughing at them like my brothers did, you guessed it, I went out and bought that God forsaken vacuum.  My life has never been the same since, either, in the sense that I am now fully aware of how filthy my house is.

When I was married, even after I had my sons, I was a clean freak.  After I got divorced and moved away, I was taking care of them alone and working full time.  I started out the same head case I'd always been, angered by the least little spot on the kitchen floor, horrified if I'd see dust in the corners or, God forbid, a dog hair tumble weed blowing around under the couch.  Then one day, after living in this house for about six months, something changed all that.  I was walking around, carrying a micro cloth like a security blanket as usual, and when I walked into the living room and absentmindedly sat down next to my son on the couch.  He was eight at the time.

"Wow, Mom," he said nonchalantly without taking his eyes off "Ben Ten" or "Sponge Bob Squarepants" (or some other idiocy I don't know how to spell, referred to around here as "the reason we don't have cable anymore"), "this is the first time you've ever sat down on our couch."

I laughed nervously.  Of course that wasn't true and I sat down on the couch all the time and what was he talking about and...oh my God!  I racked my brains for a memory of lounging on the couch watching tv (never) or reading (never) or sitting between the two of them all cozy with my arms around them-please, please don't say it-(never).  He was right!  I had NEVER ONCE sat down on my own couch that I had purchased with my own money in my own house in six months.  I felt like someone had sucked all the air out of my lungs and, stunned, wondered what the Hell I'd been doing during the amount of time one would usually spend seated each day...

Cleaning, I realized.  I'd been cleaning for six months and I knew in my heart I wasn't working towards dome point where I would be "done."  I may have been able to say that when I was still unpacking boxes but that had been finished for a long time.  If I was at work for eight hours a day and cleaning the rest of the time, what time had I been spending with my five and eight-year-old sons, the little boys who were fresh off a divorce and needing me?  I thought I was going to throw up.  I resolved right then to cut it out, and how.

"What's more important," I asked myself, "cleaning or spending time with the children who need you, are counting on you and who you love more than life itself?"

I really did change.  I started letting things go, little by little, turning from a clean freak into a person who merely flogged herself privately every few days about cleaning after looking around and seeing the raspberry jam on the counter (when did that get there?) or trail of crumbs leading to one of the kids' bedrooms like Hansel and Gretel, so they could find their way back to the living room or the Legos strewn across the floor (you'd think I would have at least gotten to that one because honestly, is there anything that hurts worse than stepping on a Lego in your stocking feet...maybe thumbscrews...I doubt it).  I went to bed with dishes in the sink once in a while.  I stopped sweeping every day.  I no longer Windexed all the picture glass and mirrors every day.  Slippery slope, I'll tell you.  The best example of the slippery slope I've ever encountered.  Pretty soon, I was the grown up who didn't make my bed, went out and bought packages of underpants because I hadn't gotten to the wash and counted a swipe across the counter with a Clorox wipe as a "deep clean."

Fast forward a few years to the Dyson conversation on the circle of trust and that ill-fated day when I went to Kohl's and purchased the Dyson vacuum with my 30% off coupon.  Back home, I took it out of the box, had my son put it together and then started vacuuming.  I could feel the suction (cue laughter from my sons who think it's pants peeingly funny every time I say "suction").  After about ten square feet, the canister was so full I had to empty it.  When I saw what was inside, I literally gagged.  I don't even know how to explain it.  It wasn't separate things-it was a pulverized mixture of pure, unadulterated dirt.  Usually you can see the dog hair and cracker crumbs and safety pins you've picked up.  Not so with the Dyson.  All of those individual pieces are obscured by the general filth.  It really looks like you've never vacuumed your house.  There could be a dead mouse amidst all of what comes out of that canister and you'd never even know it.  You run it over your kitchen floor and it looks cleaner than it did the last time you mopped.  Seriously.  I can't even tell you what the canister holds after a trip to the bathroom.  It's just too embarrassing to admit you've been allowing your children to bathe in there.

Then one day my sons started asking when we were going to start going to lap swim every day again or play
Mancala one night?  When was I going to start going grocery shopping again let alone cook again (like cereal isn't dinner?  Milk, whole grains-put banana on top and what more did they want)?  Was I ever going to check if they'd done their homework or tell them to clean their rooms?  Oh, boy.

So I stopped.  I couldn't go back to being a clean freak who never spent any time with my sons.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  Once I stopped, I couldn't get started again.  I remembered how nice it was to be with my sons, my husband, family and friends.  I remembered how much I liked reading every day.  Sleeping once in a while.  Emerging from the Dyson induced fog, I blinked and decided to rejoin the human race.

Now, rather than being a valuable cleaning tool, my Dyson is a constant source of guilt.  I get it out, plug it in, think about where I'll start vacuuming and then allow myself to get distracted by something else.  There the Dyson will sit, plugged in and ready to suck at my command (cue second round of laughter from my sons because if there's anything funnier than "suction," it's "suck").  It's sitting right in front of me this very minute.  The problem is, as soon as I even vacuum an area rug, I realize once again that my house is about as sanitary as a barn and it just makes me feel like a negligent, lazy person if I don't clean the whole house from top to bottom, starting right then and there.  I've decided I have neither the time nor the inclination to do that.

I've ruined so many vacuums in my life.  I've had three in the five years since I've lived here.  My mom says I'm "hard on things" (look for more on that in a future post, "I'll Bet You Haven't Wrecked as Many Things as I Have").  You could throw the Dyson off a 10 story building and it would keep on sucking.  This is only an inference, but I feel justified in making it based on how many times I've thrown it down the stairs.  Seriously.  It's efficiency and quality remain fully intact.  I can't justify any harsher treatment due to the exorbitant amount of money I paid for this guilt machine, though I have fantasized about running it over, beating it to death with the five pound arm weights I'm not using, covering it with gasoline and starting a bonfire with it.  What was I thinking???  I could have bought clothes with that money!  Shoes, for God's sake!  Hell, a new kitchen floor if this one was so disgusting!

The moral of this story?  Don't buy a Dyson no matter what your sistahs say.  They're younger and one doesn't even have any kids!  Let's hear what tune she's singin' in couple years when she adds a baby to her two golden retrievers (talk about dog hair tumble weeds!).  Just proceed in blissful ignorance, telling yourself you've got your priorities straight because you put more important things like love and your childrens' happiness and world peace above cleaning.

Whatever gets you through the night.  That's my motto.  Seriously.

Sincerely Yours

Dear Readers-

Good Morning to All.  I am so sorry I didn't write a letter for you to wake to this morning and devour for breakfast.  Sincerely Yours got deeply involved in a creative project with Blackbird and his singing in the dead of night was so distracting, I forgot all about everything else.  That's bad as far as the interruption to last night's letter writing, but it's very good for me.  You see, ultimately, creativity is my path to Spirituality, and a search and rescue mission has been needed for many, many months.  The lawyer gig-yuck-has been sucking me dry and has left my Spirituality on life support.  Since a couple weeks ago, with the assistance of some of the most loved and important people in my life, when I built a force field between  myself and all things law related, I feel creative all the time.  I have to take every opportunity to let creativity flourish so I can get back to my soul. I know in my heart you understand.

men·tor

  /ˈmɛntɔr, -tər/ Show Sp[men-tawr, -ter] 

–noun

1. a wise and trusted counselor or teacher.

2.  an influential senior sponsor or supporter.

In any event, you'll see that we heard back from Mark, the insightful hero of Wednesday's letter.  He thinks "old guys like [him]" still need mentors...hmmm...Sincerely Yours IS NOT OLD, but I would go so far as to say I'm not a teenager.  That's all of my story I'm sharing and I'm sticking to it.  Still, many mentors inhabit my life and I have no idea what I'd do without their influence, inspiration and teachings in my life.  You know how much I love definitions-look at the one up there.  Is there one person anywhere who wouldn't love to have a "wise and trusted counselor?"  A person to run to when one finds oneself begging for someone for help making a decision or experiencing anxiety or just to have the security of knowing a wise and trusted counselor wants to be and is available to you...and does it matter to anyone how old they are?  Is there a cutoff for wanting wise advice and support that one can trust?  Not for me and, obviously, not for Mark, either.

On the other side of the coin, though still firmly in the same piggy back, I mentor many and always have.  In fact, one of my most sincerely held beliefs is that women have the DUTY, not the option, to teach younger women what they learn from their mistakes, triumphs and other experiences, so I always carry around a few younger women with me.  The thing is, though, that like Mark said, it's a circle.  I learn from them and turn around and pass those pearls of wisdom along.  The ripple effect at work. 

The ripple effect or paying it forward or whatever you want to call it is consistent, wouldn't you say?  Something that may seem small-giving someone the peace button they admired right off your shirt-can travel around the world.  Holy moly!  Did you have any idea you had that much power?  You do.  The Universe confirms it; that much power multiplied by a million, at least.  Is there any doubt, then, that we all need mentors?

If we create a circle, as Mark says he has in his life-and I believe that many of us have probably unwittingly done the same-then we're actively using some of that power.  It's like compost.  Compost happens even if you don't touch it.  Put a bunch of leaves and grass and veggie scraps in a pile and, without fail, you'll get compost.  If you turn the compost regularly and make sure it's the right temperature and add worms and generally care for it, you'll also get compost, but you'll get compost in about a quarter of the time.  If we have that circle going-purposefully mentoring and, as such, constantly being mentored, and sometimes crossing different people from each of those categories, turning the circle-we get that ripple effect, the one that moves the world, because we're putting an intention out there along with other people we care for, and that's a lot of power harnessed and used.  The Universe always listens and when we live within the infinitely positive force it is, we are allowed the privilege of becoming co-creators with out Creator.  Isn't that awesome?

I'm not too old for mentors in my life.  I actively seek them out and, happily, they often just cross my path.  I can honestly say I learn from someone every day and that I teach something every day.  I've participated in many formal mentoring programs and the vast majority have been positive experiences.  I'm sure I'll do that again.  Right now, though, I just have that kind of circle in my life that Mark was talking about.  I feel like I have bean shoots and I'm watering them and putting them in the son and I've got more than one I'm nurturing on my windowsill.  I know for a fact that I'm on many windowsills myself, being lovingly cared for and infused with energy.  If not, I'd have nothing to give.

So, Reader...what do you think?  Are you too old for mentors in your life?  If you're younger, would you appreciate a mentor or do you feel like you're kind of a lone wolf and that you've got it pretty well figured out?



Sincerely Yours

Dear Crying and Tears-

First, my constant companions throughout life, let me give you just parts of the definitions of each of you...to reprint the entire definitions here would take up pages and I'd like to have some space to say what I'd like to say: 

tear

[teer] /tɪər/ Show Spelled

–noun

1.  a drop of the saline, watery fluid continually secreted by the lacrimal glands between the surface of the eye and the eyelid, serving to moisten and lubricate these parts and keep them clear of foreign particles.

2.  this fluid appearing in or flowing from the eye as the result of emotion, especially grief.

3.  something resembling or suggesting a tear,  as a drop of a liquid or a tearlike mass of a solid substance, especially having a spherical or globular shape at one end and tapering to a point at the other.

5.  tears, grief; sorrow.

–verb (used without object)

6.  to fill up and overflow with tears,  as the eyes (often followed by up ): My eyes were tearing in the wind. He teared up when he heard the news.

—Idiom

7.  in tears, weeping: He was in tears over the death of his dog.

cry

   /kraɪ/ Show Spelled [krahy]

–verb (used without object)

1.  to utter inarticulate sounds, especially of lamentation, grief, or suffering, usually with tears.

2.  to weep; shed tears, with or without sound.

3.  to call loudly; shout; yell (sometimes followed by out ).

4.  to demand resolution or strongly indicate a particular disposition: The rise in crime cried out for greater police protection.

5.  to give forth vocal sounds or characteristic calls, as animals; yelp; bark.

6.  (of a hound or pack) to bay continuously and excitedly in following a scent.

7.  (of tin) to make a noise, when bent, like the crumpling of paper.

Idioms

cry one's eyes / heart out, to cry excessively or inconsolably: The little girl cried her eyes out when her cat died.

30. cry over spilled / spilt milk. milk ( def. 10 ) . 

 

So, Crying and Tears, you can see the different incarnations of each of you that I find the most important as I address you.  As you know, we've had a long, involved relationship.  For me, you are employed to express my every emotion.  You'd think I'd just write a letter to you, Crying, but that wouldn't work.  Crying is action and sound, even if in grief and not (though usually) accompanied by tears.  You, Tears, are the "saline, watery fluid" that appears in or flows from the eye as a result of emotion, especially grief.  So there are tears and there is crying and there is the combination:  tears flowing, accompanying inarticulate sounds.  That's good old sobbing I see in that combination, and it's what I do most often, but not always.

In times of stress or conflict, I can be overcome to the point that you, Tears, literally just start leaking out of my eyes and dropping to the floor.  It doesn't seem to be something I can control, though God knows I've tried.  I can get my feelings hurt and the immediate sting of that afflicts me with another definition from above, where one "Tears up."  I've seen people do just that, Tears, and then blink you back, but once you're "up" I am seldom able to keep you from overflowing and falling down.

When I was younger and would cry-every time a bug died, every time I thought someone wasn't being treated fairly, every time someone looked at me sideways, every time I felt shy (translate=75+% of the time) and on and on.  My father would say, "save your tears."  He'd tell me about all of the really bad things that could happen that would be truly said and then what would I do when I didn't have any tears left?

I'm not sure anything has ever sounded so ridiculous to me.  I am a never ending font of you, Tears, along with flowing snot and the sounds made by Crying.  When I mourn, I stay in my bed and I take the two of you with my and you become my constant companions.  Crying, you bring forth such quantities of Tears (and the ever present snot), accompanied with your own "inarticulate sounds," that I'm sure I've frightened neighbors.  I dream my bed into a raft and float away on a lake of you, Tears, or a castle, where Crying creates Tears to form a moat and inarticulate sounds to scare away intruders.  

 

Sure, I've tried to use the two of you to protect me; when you're sobbing, it's hard to think about anything other than your grief and sorrow and sometimes, that's easiest.  Crying and Tears, you express the feelings perfectly, but you shield me from having to consider what comes next.  How will I blow my nose one last time, after 14 rolls of toilet paper, get up and find an answer as to how to take the next step?  I've always done it, but it hasn't ever meant I've left you behind on that subject, Tears and Crying, just that I have to get up and do something.  I've walked around for days, weeks even, working, talking to people, having business lunches, opening birthday presents, driving, grocery shopping, etc., all with the two of you as my companions.  You won't believe me when I tell you this, Tears and Crying (I know you love the limelight) but if you've been at it for long enough, people stop noticing.

When you're flowing, Tears and when you're making your sounds to go along with, Crying, it seems uncontrollable and like it'll never stop.  How is it that every time I forget that it will, indeed, stop and I'll be left with a pounding headache and so much more.  If I were a pretty crying, that would be one thing, but Crying, you just make me a mess, you and Tears.  At the first sign of you, Tear, and a sniffle, your precursor, Crying, my eyes swell up like I've been in 13 rounds of a prize fight, snot starts flowing from my whole face, everything and I mean everything from the top of my head all the way down my chest turns horribly red.  I've never "shed" you, Tear.  I've never "Cried softly," you loud thing.  I bawl.  I sob.  My chest heaves.  I make horrible wailing noises and there have been times (I'm so ashamed to say) when my crying has been accompanied by begging.  I have you, Crying, because that's who I am but you've never made me beg.  You've just given me a "state of mind" defense and you and I both know it's bull shit...

So, Tears and Crying.  I'm writing you tonight to ask you for some cooperation.  This isn't my first rodeo and I know I'm never going to be able to leave you behind.  I would like it, though, if you allowed me to keep the rest of my brain functioning while I Cry and Tears flow.  I'm at a new point in my life, a place where the paths diverge and I can only take one.  I'm not asking you to stay behind.  I'm just asking that you meet me in the middle on the way to the person I've grown into and refrain from pushing and shoving aside all of my logical thinking processes.  You're really both being bullies.  I'd appreciate it if you could give that some thought.

On last thing.  I once read a story in a magazine at a doctor's office.  This couple had adopted a four-year-old little boy from a war torn country who had seen things no one should; things children shouldn't have to survive their way through.  His adoptive mom took him to see "Free Willy."  At the really sad part when everyone in the theater was sobbing, including her, she looked down at this little person and he was sitting straight as an arrow, eyes confused.  When she asked him what he was thinking about, he told her, "not sad, Mom...just not sad...not sad."

That's what my da meant when he said "save your tears."  Until I read that, it had always seemed a really insensitive reaction to my crying, uncharacteristic of him.  Even though I understand it now, I haven't been able to do it.  Tears, you flowed, and Crying, you made all your inarticulate sounds of lamentation when I scraped the side of the car against the house and knew I'd really screwed it up.  You were there in force the next morning, though, when I found out I'd lost our baby at 14 weeks.  You may have looked the same from the one day to the next, but the three of us know that my baby dying brought forth forms of both of you, Tears and Crying, that were beyond expressing frustration or anger or guilt.  This was a form of you both that was utterly devoted to expressing to the whole Universe my grief over the deeply felt loss of a little soul I already knew, even if everyone else was thinking "no big deal-just try again."  

I get frustrated with you both at times, Tears and Crying, but when it comes to something like a necessary call to the Universe or a lost soul, you are the best for the job, and though I haven't ever been able to save you for anything, wherever I go, there you are.

I have to go put ice on my eyes now, Tears and Crying.  I've been on a "jag," as my mom would say and my head feels like I've been hit with a tire iron and that's just how I look, too.  Not a pretty crier and that's never going to change.  Another one of those things...I'll never be a supermodel, I'll never be a rock star, I'll never be a pretty crier...a trio of ships that have sailed.

Goodnight.

Sincerely Yours

 

 

Dear Mark-

Good Morning!  When I wrote to you last night I completely forgot to include one other observation and make an offer I'm so willing to make to you and the OWLS.

You were telling us your fabulous ideas about mentoring.  Every study shows that the single thing that makes the most difference in a kid's life is to have a kind, responsible adult to count on.  Any mentoring gig deserves all the help to get going it can get!

So, as I understand it, your idea is to have kids come in as, for lack of a better phrase, unpaid interns.  Am I right?  I hope so because that is such a great way to do this.  I know internships look really good on college applications so you'll have a whole gaggle of takers.  MY BIG IDEA is to use this to take care of one of your big problems-your website-and I know that was part of your idea, too.  Here are the details of the idea you inspired me to think of:

1.  You offer an internship for, maybe, 7th-12th graders and you offer it through the computer classes they  take.
2.  You limit how many kids will be involved at any one time...I don't know what the facilities are or what the deal is, so this isn't something I can make suggestions on.
3.  You make sure all the kids are computer stars (and there are plenty of them-we all joke around about our kids being better with computers but the truth is, it's no joke.  They really are!), AND that they are interested in the outdoors/conservation and can articulate that interest.
4.  You split them into two groups-for the first half of the internship, half of the kids sit on the board and are able to have input and learn about that.  The other half are working on your website.  Half way through, you switch so every kid gets and idea of what it's like to be on a board and gets a chance to do some real work for a deserving charity.
5.  I believe (not positive) that this could count towards not only volunteer hours, but also class credits.

Now to what I'd be happy, happy to do for you.  I will get in touch with computer teachers from the middle school and high school.  I will also get in touch with Chuck Fain.  I will also use the services of my "couldn't love the outdoors and believe in conservation more" husband, Gary Russell.  I will talk to each about the feasibility of this plan and get input as to changes that would need to be made.  Once all is in place, we can nail down criteria, I'll submit and outline of an application to Chuck, Gary, computer teachers and your board and when approved, I'll draft the application (which I know everyone hates to do but not me-love it).

I'm communicating this to you in a follow up letter, Mark, rather than a personal email because I seem to have many readers and hear from them all the time via email and facebook that they read every letter...if that's so, perhaps they'd be willing to belly up to the bar and make some comments/suggestions and/or volunteer for this project (if approved by your board, of course) or another project the OWLS are working on that they'd be  interested in.  It would make me so happy if that happened because if one more person tells me they're reading ever letter I write and then emailing me about instead of commenting I'm going to...you get my point.

So the question is, what do you think?  Reply in a private email-you  have my address-or through a comment here.  Can't wait to hear from you.

Sincerely Yours

Dear Mark-

...Copeland, that is.  Thanks for coming to Coffee Pause today to talk about the OWLS, which I now finally remember (seems like I've known it so many times and forgotten) stands for "Otsego Wildlife Legacy Society."  I've heard about the group before and I knew it was concerned with conservation, but I had no idea that the OWLS have so many projects in the works.  I also know that anyone who wants to find out more about the OWLS and their efforts in the works and goals for the future, can get in touch with a bunch of members:  you, at Jay's, Larry Edwards, Paddy DuBois, to name a few that jump to mind.

This letter isn't so much about the OWLS, though.  It's a letter to you, Mark, because you really touched me today and I was thankful to have your words and ideas to think about throughout the day...

What really struck me was your willingness to share your ideas for future projects, even asking what we thought and making comments about how the OWLS could get involved in efforts other Coffee Pauser's were expressing interest in.  Lots of times, I find that a speaker representing a group has a really set agenda of what s/he will be sharing about the group.  There's no interaction between the speaker and the audience...which brings me to the biggest reason I chose to write to you tonight.

I really liked you and admired your openness, not only as a representative of the OWLS, but a s a human being.  I didn't feel like I was listening quietly to a speaker...I felt more like it was an interaction between the whole group.  Maybe you were giving us some topics that were part of the conservation mission of the OWLS, but there was so much more than that.  I spoke about my new business and this blog, all about writing letters, and we all started talking a bit about writing letters and what they mean and how special they are...that certainly had nothing to do with your topic, but you made a statement that will stick with me for a long time, I was so grateful to have this simple, yet powerful idea.  You said, "there's a difference between communication and connection."  Seven words you put together that say so, so much.  It's about intention, to me, and you expressed that fabulously.  You either choose to "shoot" an email at someone or "drop" them a note or "leave" a voice mail...those aren't words that have anything to do with connection.  

Mark, everyone who knows me how valuable I feel the dictionary definitions of words are.  I like my paper dictionary but there are times when the cut and past is just too time saving...sorry, Dictionary, my friend.  So check this out:

com·mu·ni·ca·tion

/kəˌmyunɪˈkeɪʃən/ Show S[kuh-myoo-ni-key-shuhn] Show IPA
–noun

1.

the act or process of communicating; fact of being communicated.

2.

the imparting or interchange of thoughts, opinions, or information by speech, writing, or signs.

3.

something imparted, interchanged, or transmitted.

4.

a document or message imparting news, views, information, etc.

5.

passage, or an opportunity or means of passage, between places.

Yuck and I won't be using that word again if I can help it.

According to that definition-you "impart" or "act" or "process" and then you call that an "interchange," or even the "opportunity for an interchange"...that doesn't feel like any kind of interchange to me.  No listen, absorb...nothing mutual.  The speaker or writer is "doing" something to the recipient, even though the word is a noun, and really, I'm not so fond of what someone is doing to me in the name of communication.  Did you see anything in there about listening.  Once you said that short sentence, that word, communication, felt abrasive to me.

That was probably because it was clear that you thought connecting was the superior mode of true interchange.

Back to my definition obsession-try it an see where it leads you, Mark, because it seems like something that would resonate for you:

con·nec·tion

 /kəˈnɛkʃən/ Show Spelled[kuh-nek-shuhn] Show IPA

–noun

1.

the act or state of connecting.

2.

the state of being connected: the connection between cause and effect.

3.

anything that connects; connecting  part; link; bond: an electrical connection.

4.

association; relationship: the connection between crime and poverty; no connection with any other firm of the same name.

5.

circle of friends or associates or a member of such a circle.

6.

association with or development of something observed, imagined, discussed, etc.: to make a connection between the smell of smoke and the presence of fire; I have a few thoughts in connection with your last remarks.

7.

contextual relation; context, as of a word.

 

Ok, Mark, those are only 7 of the 18 different definitions!  Look at the difference!  You were so right...these words aren't even comparable.  Again, I'm grateful that you made this connection for me...I felt like a part of that sentence and I immediately internalized it.  How many times can you say some one's had that immediate impact on you?  Not often at all so when it does, I feel like we have to "catch" each other doing really, really cool things.

 

I loved those words, Mark, but I'm not sure if I love that more or your analogy about kayaking with your friend and telling him "don't let the boat go sideways and if it does, when you fall out, just stand up in the river."   Sure enough,  he quickly fell out and was hanging from a tree limb screaming to you about how he couldn't swim.  "Stand up," you said and when he did, the water was only hip deep.  You made that connection for me and that was the bomb, because I'm a little brain, um, not so great right now after leaving a career and launching another.  You told us that this applies to life:  when we think something is so insurmountable, we might just have to let go and stand up.  I think God or the Universe or our spirits put you in my path today because those were two concepts I really needed to accept and internalize, implying them to my life instead of constantly giving good advice to my client and ignoring it in every way.

 

Starting this business, this blog-it's turning a dream into a reality and that's always scary.  You know what you did, though?  You explained two truly important things I needed to know that I didn't even know I needed to know.

 

I thank you for your open heart and for all of the great things you do with the OWLS, and I've got a feeling you so some other great stuff, too.

 

Call or email me about your ideas for the mentoring program, especially the part about getting a better website online.  I think I could help you make that work and would love to do so.

 

Readers-Mark is the GM at Jay's Sporting Goods.  Take the chance to go in there and meet him.  It's worth it.  In doing some informal research for my letter to you, Mark, I talked to not one single person who had a bad word to say about you-"just a good guy," was the general refrain.  I like good guys.  I like you and appreciate your style.

 

You're doing some really amazing stuff, and I've got a feeling you're doing it on purpose...or maybe people are just saying these cool things to get an in with your wife, working at the Spud.  Let's face it, it would be understandable.

 

I like you, Mark, and I appreciate your contributions at Coffee Pause today as an OWL and, again, a stand up human being-I'll bet you don't tip over often, but when you do, you jump right up and stand up straight and tall.

 

Sincerely Yours 

Dear Blackbird-

 aes·thet·ic

   /ɛsˈθɛtɪk or, especially Brit., is-/ Show Spelled[es-thet-ik or, especially Brit., ees-] Show IPA

–adjective

1.

pertaining to a sense of the beautiful or to the science of aesthetics.

2.

having a sense of the beautiful; characterized by a love of beauty. 

 

Right here is my favorite definition and the only one that matters to me, but I put the whole dictionary entry in to be accurate and proper.  This is the only one that really means what the word sounds like and looks like and feels like when you read it or sounds like when you say it.

3.

pertaining to, involving, or concerned with pure emotion and sensation as opposed to pure intellectuality.

–noun

4.

a philosophical theory or idea of what is aesthetically  valid at a given time and place: the clean lines, bare surfaces, and sense of space that bespeak the machine-age aesthetic.

5.

aesthetics.

6.

Archaic . the study of the nature of sensation.

Hi, there.  I've been thinking of you for days.  As you know, I've always liked you.  I have funky paintings of you with a girl with a black bob.  She's always looking sidelong at you.  I don't know who created the paintings, but I feel like I know her from looking at you and that girl so often.  I don't have them in my bedroom, though.  In daylight, the sunny yellow background and your happy eyes make the images friendly.  In the dark, though, there's no bright background and that girl looks pretty pale and I'm not sure I like the way she's looking at you...so I don't have those in my bedroom.  My bedroom's painted the chocolate brown of a Hersey's Kiss, so you wouldn't look so good in there anyways.

I have that pin with you and your twin on it that I love to wear on my bag.  You're definitely at your most intriguing in that tiny print.

I have images of you I've cut out of magazines and old books and posters.  You can be hard to come by because you're a blackbird, not a raven.   I even have a plate with you on it. 

Those are things I've always loved, and there are more, but in the past few weeks, I just haven't been able to get you out of my head and until last night, I couldn't figure out why.

I put up a mural on one of my walls filled with your whole family.  It's a tree of life and you and all of your brothers and sisters are perching on branches and flying to and fro and carrying little twigs in your beaks.  Everything about that mural is black.  I guess it's all in shadow or a silhouette.  It's on my turquoise wall between two windows right above where the boys do their homework on the computer.  It makes me happy to have you watching over them.

I took my favorite picture of you and started trying to draw it, but I don't draw well at all.  So then I just skipped to cutting it out freehand.  Over and over again but it just didn't look right.  My son had been watching me.  He loves to be a part of what I'm doing when I get into a deal like this.  He watches and then he scootches up next to me and then he picks up a pair of scissors, too, and the first time he cuts out the image, it's perfect.  I've been using it as a template.  Sometimes, I keep trying to get it right and it starts out about 4'x2' and ends up the size of the tip of my thumbnail, at best...I cut and then the head's too flat so I have to make the curve and then compensate by shortening the body, requiring cutting down the curve underneath, and so on...as I've been saying to my husband and boys, "there's a thin line between a blackbird and a duck."  Seriously...one wrong cut and you turn from an almost right blackbird into a horrible duck creature with a beak instead of a bill.  Not pretty at all.

We had an old U.S. map that was laminated but had been folded so many times and to render it pretty useless.  So I started cutting your shape, my friend, out of different states, with rivers flowing through your body and mountains climbing your tail feathers.  I finally got one right when I cut you out of the North Atlantic Coast.  Part of the words of "Atlantic Ocean" are printed along the curve of your breast.  I think I might be most fond of this version of you.



Then came last night.  I was up late, as usual, and from out of nowhere, it just popped into my head:  I need the song.  I had looked at you and tried to create you out of paper and pencil and scissors and any other way I could think of, but the two dimensional had to expand.  It wasn't that the images of you weren't pleasing, it was that they needed rounding out by another medium. 

About six months ago, I lost all of the music I'd ever downloaded.  Now I'll think of a song and it'll make me so upset that I don't have it anymore or will never have the bootleg version of it or the live recording of the show I saw.  Sometimes, though, I can get just what I'm after, when I've just got to have it.  I did.  I downloaded your song and I realized two things.  I've missed hearing the Beatles croon and you tweeting in the background, hesitantly hopeful along with the lyrics.  I am hesitantly hopeful.

The more important thing was that all of the thinking of you and searching for you and wanting to feel you is defined by one of my favorite words:  aesthetic.  The spelling of the word, the look of the letters on paper, listening to people try to use it in a sentence..."concerned with pure emotion or sensation as opposed to pure intellectuality."  HA!  Sometimes, that's just who I am.  A lover of beauty. 

You'll never believe this, Blackbird, but there's even a science of aesthetics.   A science, as in a branch of knowledge or study dealing with a body of facts or truths systematically arranged...and so on.  Who decides what is beautiful and what constitutes of "love" of whatever it is they come up with.  This makes no sense to me but I don't care, not one iota.

You see, Blackbird, you taught me over the course of the past month that there are times when one medium of expression is not enough to create honesty and a whole.  Integrity, that most valuable word I wrote about a couple of nights ago.  Now I know that I was thinking of what you looked like because somewhere, I was remembering what you sounded like; what that song has meant to me in the past and what I knew it meant now, but had put it away in a box up on a dusty shelf  in a dark basement.  I've cleared the cobwebs, though, and I'm ready to listen. 

I downloaded it and said to my son's, "your Uncle Pat can play that whole song on his guitar," and he can; so beautifully and softly it makes you feel like you'd never want to hear it any other way ever again.  I got the Beatles, though, and I hit "repeat-one song" and listened to it over and over last night while I kept cutting away, out of fabric, now, because I'm not done with that yet, either...and I cried and cried until I couldn't cry anymore.  I cried for your broken wing and sunken eyes.  I cried for the moment you were waiting for to arise.  You are just so brave in this song.  Even if I never create the perfect rendering of you, I strongly feel that you can help me find my moment to arise, Blackbird, and I'd most humbly ask you to do so when the time is right.

I love you, Blackbird.  Thank you for appealing to my aesthetic, my very own science of that concerned only with pure emotion and sensation, as opposed to pure intellectuality.  I'm not sure I can ever be "purely intellectual" again.  I think that ship has sailed.  Aloha...


 
Blackbird
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Black bird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise,
You were only waiting for this moment to arise,
You were only waiting for this moment to arise




The Beatles



What, reader, appeals to your aesthetic sense?  Crazy color combinations?stark, white minimalism?  Soft velvet?  What does that word-"aesthetic"-mean to you?  Do you think it's as stunning a word as I do?  Do tell...