Reflections

September 11: 2,000 Miles Apart

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I wrote the following story around September 11th of this past year—the 10th anniversary—but have not had the luxury of time to finish it until now. Although I know I could wait until September 11, 2012 to share it with you all… I feel like it doesn’t really matter. We all remember where we were that day. It is a topic that enters many, many conversations that I have with people to this day… on any given day of the year. It is an event none of us will soon forget and there are as many accounts of this infamous day as there are people on the planet.

This one is mine.

And hers. Thank you Jan for allowing me to share just a part of your story…

I was so proud of her for moving out of Ohio and embarking on an adventure all her own. With no job she decided to roll the dice, take a chance and move to New York City.

Brave girl, I thought. I admire her. I envy her. This experience will change her life forever… even if she winds up right back where she started… in the Buckeye State. She will have had the time of her life.

In the summer of 2001, she and a friend took an apartment in the heart of Manhattan’s financial district. Two blocks from the World Trade Center. Two blocks from what would soon become the site of the worst attack ever to occur on American soil. But of course, during the long, sunny days of summer in the city, the events of that fateful day couldn’t have been further from her mind.

Though job hunting, she still found plenty of time to go shopping and enjoy some big-city glam. I still remember the new clothes and trendy haircut she showed me once while we were both back on our home turf, visiting our families at the same time. She was a New Yorker now. And, as Carrie Bradshaw would say: She looked fabulous.

On a random, mid-September, Tuesday morning the sound and vibration from the first explosion woke her from a dead sleep. Eventually she made her way to the rooftop of her building to see what was happening. Not long after, another collision convinced her this was, indeed, not a dream. Fire and smoke and chaos reigned.

2,000 miles away in southern New Mexico it was a little after 6 a.m, Mountain Standard Time. I had gotten up like every other day, set my feet on the floor and flipped on the news. A plane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers and, like many others, I thought it an accident and hoped no one had been seriously injured. That was, until I watched—on live television—a second plane smash into the other tower. I was immediately sick. I knew this was no accident.

On the drive to work the news informed me that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon and another into a field in Pennsylvania. Reports were also coming in that people had been spotted jumping from the twin towers. And it felt as though the sky was falling. In many ways… I suppose it really was.

My thoughts immediately turned to her.

I had no cell phone in 2001, so I began driving faster to the office to use the phone. Miraculously, when I rang her apartment, she answered—practically hysterical. Because of the news coverage here and the power outages there I quickly realized I was more aware of what was happening from a technical standpoint. She, much more aware than I of what was happening from a sensory one.

With 24-hour news coverage, instantaneous broadcasting, cell phones and the internet, technology had shrunken our world in such a way that even from 2,000 miles away I knew what was happening at the very same moment she was witnessing it. A voice yelled down my hallway: “The second tower just collapsed.” As I simultaneously heard her cry out the same words through the phone lines.

As she saw it begin to fall, her voice was gripped with terror and disbelief. She would soon report that her windows and view was becoming blackened from the overwhelming billows of ash rolling through the streets, swallowing everything in their path.

I told her that they were reporting for people to grab what they could from their homes, including towels or clothing to place over their mouths and noses and get out—NOW. We said our good-byes and hung up.

Later that night—from a hotel room in Albuquerque where I had traveled to on business—I spoke to her parents and found that she had safely arrived at a friend’s beach house on the Jersey shore. They had walked all the way there, relying on the kindness of strangers along the way to give them masks and bottles of fresh water.

And I thanked God she was OK. And as I later learned of all the people who never got to speak to their loved ones, let alone KNOW whether or not they were OK or gone forever… I thanked God that I was fortunate enough to speak to her in that life-changing moment from 2,000 miles away.

Jan and I at an Ohio State tailgating party. November, 2011

 

Residential Purgatory

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“It’s weird being here without all of my stuff.” I said to Lee on the phone yesterday afternoon.

“It’s weird having your stuff all over my—I mean our—house without you here.” He returned.

It is official. Living in an empty house is depressing. All of my things are in my new home while only a few necessities remain here so that I can continue to exist having contact with the outside world as I tie up all of my loose ends.

After three days, I finally put my finger on it and found the right words. I feel as though I’m in residential purgatory. Now, I’m not catholic or anything so I don’t know much about purgatory per se… but from my limited understanding of it—it seems an appropriate term. I am merely waiting here in between appointments, lunches with friends and niece’s/nephew’s winter sporting events.

I know I mentioned this on the blog earlier but with nothing but a single bed, a 13″ TV, a stereo, one place setting of dishes, one set of silverware, a pot, a pan, a cheese grater and a computer with a lawn chair in front of it… I am beginning to feel like a bit of a squatter in my own home.

I loved this house the moment I saw it and it has done a great deal of restoration in me as previously noted in a post from last week. But I realize now that it isn’t so much the walls of the structure, but rather what they contain.

Pictures of my family, photo albums, journals, books, gifts, pieces of furniture and knick-knacks with special memories attached to them. These are the things that make up a home.

And if you’re lucky enough to have some or even one person also inside those walls who loves you, talks to and listens to you at the end of the day… well then that’s just gravy.

The Space Between

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Our new shower rod was resting on the dining room table along side Christmas presents, gloves and our newest stack of purchases from the local used book store. Wrapping paper, ribbons and holiday bags were strewn about the hallway in what can only be described as the result of a full-blown holiday fury. New lamps and old, skirted the edges of the living room as the “appropriate decorative illumination” deliberations entered into their second day. As far as I was concerned, nothing seemed to be in its “place” and it was driving me crazy.

You see, this wasn’t yet my house… but it soon would be. None of my things were there… but they soon would be. My mind was swimming with questions and concerns: Where will I put my favorite side table? Will my throw pillows match his couch? Man I wish I had my Keurig… and my favorite flannel pjs… my down pillows… my DVDs… and Stanley.

During the transition from an old life to a new one, there is a space that lies between. This is where I found myself then and even though I can see the other side from where I am now—as I inch ever-closer day by day—I’m still standing on the bridge over the gap.

Within the gap there are some everyday things that inevitably get caught in the cracks between the transitions we make in our lives. Things like misplaced shower rods, bagels and laundry laying where they aren’t supposed to be along with mixed-up emotions lacking any proper explanation. Yesterday, I was reminded by a beautiful writer in her recent post about a personal life transition just how out-of-whack life seems in the midst of major change.

No matter what our journeys look like. No matter our transitions… be it a career change, a new baby, a relocation, a tragic loss or the beginning or ending of a vital relationship… there will always be the transition and that awkward space between when we’re bound to feel out of place, discovering our “things” in odd locations where it seems they don’t belong.

The House That Re-Built Me

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Standing squarely, both feet planted firmly on the ground and staring straight down the road toward a brand new life one cannot help but feel a range of emotions. There is excitement and anticipation for the adventure that is about to begin and yet it is accompanied by tinges of nostalgia and sadness for that which is being left behind.

This is what I’ve been experiencing on a nightly basis upon my return home from work. I have moved many times in my life. Twelve to be exact… and yes that makes this particular move of mine “Lucky Number 13.” But for anyone who has moved you know that some homes hold special places in your heart. This home has been just that for me.

I consider myself fortunate to have called so many unique, beautiful and interesting places “home” over the years — like a dude ranch high in the breathtaking Colorado Rockies and an ancient adobe-turned-studio-apartment in New Mexico (where I slept in a loft above my walk-in closet… accessible only by an equally-old, wooden ladder.)

Also in New Mexico, there was the four-bedroom, brick ranch that I helped to gut and remodel with my own two hands, blood, sweat and tears… And the gorgeous upstairs condo overlooking a bare, unblemished desert. From my windows there I could watch the mountains as they transformed from purple to a fiery salmon and eventually a deep blue in one 24-hour period.

And as fascinating and different and “exotic” as those destinations were from the place in Northeastern Ohio where I was born, raised and currently reside… my simple two-bedroom home has been a sanctuary. I walked in the door three years ago… 50 pounds overweight and pretty beaten down by life. Suffice it to say that it was through both circumstance and choice that I arrived in this state of being and unpacked my things within these walls a completely different person than the one who is typing these words.

The 100 year old charm is built right in, constantly making itself known in the creak of each floorboard — this home, all that surrounds it and the time that I have spent here has literally served in the re-building of me. It sits across the street from my parents, two blocks from my sister and seven nieces and nephews and is literally surrounded on ALL other sides by people who knew me as a child.

In the town that I came from and during the time in which I grew up there, the notion that it takes a village to raise a child was not only accepted it was EXPECTED. So when I returned to that very same neighborhood, 33 and broken, it seemed that my family, everyone around me, as well as the house and the neighborhood itself… all had a hand in putting me back together again.

With just the tiniest bit of sadness and a giant heap of gratitude I have begun re-packing my things into boxes and am thrilled at the thought of a new life ahead. The lump in my throat that forms each time I remove a picture from the wall tells me that the house’s work is done now. At least it is for me.

With hammers, nails, lumber, drywall and shingles it provided a quiet shelter during the storms, a safe place to pause and heal, reflect, refresh, reset and renew. It has finished its work in me. And when I leave my keys behind, I’ll know the time has come to move on.

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The Power of a Smile

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Smiling from beneath a Taco Bell visor she handed me my change and exclaimed: “Have a great day, honey!” As she always did every day that I appeared at her drive-thru window. I never knew her name, but I knew that she was one of the friendliest people I have ever encountered working at a fast food restaurant.

Several times a week I used to drive to the Taco Bell near my office to get lunch. On most days she would be the one to take my order and money. She looked to be about mid-forties but there was something in her appearance that hinted at the fact that life had not been kind to her. No matter what, each day, she always smiled a wide grin and made a little small talk. It was a welcome change to deal with a pleasant person at a drive-thru window, plus I liked the way that I could always count on her being there, wearing that welcoming smile…

Until one day she wasn’t there.

It must be her day off, I assumed, and went about my business. After the next visit and the next visit and the next, I began to wonder what had happened to her. Did she get let go? Did she quit? Did she simply change shifts? Did she get a better job somewhere? Anything was possible I guess, after all, I knew absolutely nothing about her. Several months went by and finally I just figured that she was gone. And odd as it seems to feel this way about a stranger… I hoped that wherever she was… she was happy.

Then one day she was back at the window, still smiling! I was so happy to see her again that I blurted out: “Hey! It’s you! You’re back! Where have you been!?!” I never gave a thought to the fact that I might be infringing on her privacy by asking such a question. She didn’t seem to mind one bit, she was as kind as ever.

Then I noticed it. Peeking out from the neckline of her purple polo, I could see the jagged edge of an angry red scar. “I had open heart surgery” she said matter-of-factly as she handed me my change. “There has been something wrong with my heart since I was a baby… but they finally fixed it.” And she grinned wider than ever.

We spoke to one another for a few moments. I inquired about her recovery and she explained that it had been a long and difficult one. She had experienced severe complications, gotten an infection and nearly died. I said how happy I was to see her again and that I’d keep her in my thoughts and prayers. She seemed genuinely touched by my words and appeared a little dumbfounded, but still managed to smile anyway.

I drove away thinking about her and how in ALL this time while I was shuffling back and forth to work and going out for lunch and running errands and stressing out and scurrying this way and that… she was battling for her life. I found myself praying for her — this woman whose name I did not know. And it made me stop and consider how much we rush and rush and race through life, so focused on the tasks that lay before us… the items on our To-Do lists… or the things that are troubling us… that we never stop to consider what the strangers whose paths we cross may be going through.

For all we know, the nasty woman in line at the check out counter may just have had her entire world turned upside down. Maybe they lost someone dear to them or lost a job. Maybe they’re battling illness, depression, defeat or heartbreak. Maybe they are lonely and longing for someone to simply look at them and NOTICE them.

For some reason, we’ve become so self-involved that we just don’t get it anymore. We don’t take the time to actually look and SEE one another. We don’t stop and ask someone how they’re doing. How they are REALLY doing. It seems all we really want is for them to just get out of our way. I know I am guilty of this.

Years ago, I read a bumper sticker that said: “Today: Give someone one of your smiles, it may be the only one they receive all day” and that has stayed with me. The woman at the drive-thru, who was so sick that she nearly died, yet always offered me one of HER smiles, gets it. She gets it. And thanks to her maybe I can finally get it too.

A New Year: Gifts Within a Gift

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Nearly everyone is familiar with the idea of a gift within a gift within a gift. A large, beautifully-wrapped box that when opened, contains another smaller wrapped box that when opened, contains yet another even-smaller wrapped box and so on.

This came to mind today as I considered the notion of a new year and all of the unopened surprises it contains. As we put to bed the events of 2011, we cannot help but reflect upon them. Mulling over its unique highs and lows, celebrations and horrors we ponder both things that happened to us individually as well as collectively.

Each of our “gifts” looks different and of course contains entire sets of varying surprises. Some of the boxes will contain wonders and joys beyond belief while still others may hold heartbreaking secrets and life-altering circumstances.

In the grand scheme of things, it really is best not to know… until the moment has come to open each one in its own time. Naturally, in the dawn of early January we will ask ourselves the question: What does 2012 have in store for me, my family, my friends, my country and my world?

And I realized that if time is one of the most precious gifts (and I truly believe that it is) then the days of another year—a gift unto itself—is not unlike the concept of that beautifully-wrapped parcel. There are gifts within a gift within a gift. Each day intended to be unwrapped and fully experienced one by one… in the order in which they are presented to us.

My Own Private Christmas

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This is the day I’ve been waiting for. Two days before Christmas. Christmas Eve Eve if you will. Today I sleep until the Lord wakes me (instead of the alarm clock) then curl up with a nice, warm, artery-clogging breakfast, a good cup of joe and a cheesy Christmas movie… and Stanley, the cat. Naturally.

In my pajamas, wrapped in a soft blanket, the tree is twinkling and all of the presents beneath are wrapped in pretty paper, each topped off with a nice red bow. There is no more shopping to do. No more worrying about what to get and for whom. If they don’t like it… well… it’s too late now.

There are no parties to rush to or concerts and services to attend, therefore the Spanx, control top panty hose and tall leather boots are quietly stashed away in their respective closets and drawers. There is no fuss about a pair of flannel pants and old, college sweatshirt. There is no need for makeup. No one needs me today. And it is a thing of beauty.

Tomorrow, on Christmas Eve—when the family gatherings and church services begin—well, that will be another story. Today is what I like to call “My Own Private Christmas” with my own sacred practices and traditions. It is the gift that I give to myself… a chance to take a deep breath… and an opportunity to reflect on all of the beautiful people and things that make my life so full.

Were it not for all of them filling up the other 364 days of the year… there would be no need for a day like today.

Less is more.

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Last night as I unplugged the tree I couldn’t help but notice how much less was beneath it compared to last year. At this realization, I smiled the whole way up the stairs and while I got ready for bed.

Yep. There are fewer presents beneath my tree this year and I couldn’t be happier. Sure its always fun to see a beautifully decorated tree with colorfully wrapped presents adorned with shiny bows and ribbons cascading out from under. But sometimes those mounds of gifts that may bring joy NOW, bring nothing but stress and misery in the months to follow when the bills come due.

I have known such misery. Maybe you have too. I have heard the scraping sound of the shovel digging deeper into the soil of my hard-earned resources. And I have peered into the hole as it grew deeper and deeper and deeper based on my poor decisions or lack of restraint.

Unlike many, I am fortunate that I have not lost my job or experienced a large financial shifting of any kind. But I am proud to say that the practices and wisdom of people like my mother and Lee—being my polar opposites when it comes to financial discipline and discernment—have begun rubbing off on me. The encouragement from my father to make smarter choices has helped as well. I am truly seeing the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel! And it feels both peaceful and exhilarating!

Fewer packages beneath the tree means I did not overextend myself by buying things I can’t afford or borrowing from my future to pay for my “present.” The people I love will still receive gifts from me, just not quite as much. Since when does the amount you spend reflect the amount of love you feel for someone? Since always I suppose. Since we’ve learned to worship the almighty dollar and ALL the “things” it can garner us… if only we had MORE.

I like having things and taking trips and spending money. In fact, I LOVE IT. A little too much. And just like everyone else… I want more. But I have to ask myself: How much more is enough? When does more cease being more if it comes at such great a price?

It has taken me almost 37 years, but I think I finally understand how less may actually be more. In learning to love the having of less… we make room in our lives for the enjoyment of financial freedom, peace of mind and so much more.

Easily Distracted by Shiny Objects

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When I was little I was obsessed with clear things. Bottles, containers, glass, clear beads and stones… you name it. If I could see through it, I was completely transfixed by it. My parents have photographs of me as a toddler, sitting on the couch or the floor, playing with little plastic bottles, pouring the contents from one into the other over and over and over.

I know. Apparently it didn’t take much to amuse me then either.

For a while I had a clear, turquoise, glass stone with a flat bottom that I carried with me EVERYWHERE. I kept in my pocket for safekeeping and took it out whenever I was bored just to look at it. I held it up to the light and laid it on top of the papers on my desk at school to see how the page changed colors or the words became distorted and magnified through its unique shape and shade.

I was heartbroken when I lost it. To this day, I still don’t know where it is. But on occasion, I think about that treasured gem longingly as though it were a misplaced fortune.

My mother—witnessing this interesting behavior in her child—wondered if perhaps as I grew, the obsession would turn to diamonds, crystal and costly glass items. I cannot say that such has been the case, though I do still find clear things quite captivating. Perhaps it is nothing more than the artist within. I am a designer by trade… a visual person drawn to the properties of light, color and shape as they relate to the world around me.

Though never driven to obtain diamonds, gems or crystal — I will admit that the lovely, sparkly diamond now resting on my ring finger has become quite a distraction to me. I enjoy gazing at it in all sorts of different kinds of light. The sunlight streaming through my window on my commute to work… the flourescent light in my office as my hand hovers over the keyboard… the soft glow of candle light in the evening… the bright bathroom light and resulting reflection in the mirror… and yes, even the lighting in the cat food aisle at the grocery store.

But while I am utterly enchanted by the beauty of this intricately-chiseled stone, I am even more enraptured by what it signifies. The unspoken promises of hope, unconditional love, friendship and companionship captured within its glimmer… Things that sparkle no matter the amount of light or darkness that surrounds me.

Second Chances

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The year was 1985. It was the start of a new school year at Mary Irene Day Elementary School in Minerva, OH. And this was no ordinary year. At M.I. Day, the start of the 5th grade not only ushered in a new school year but a whole new brood of students from the tri-county area as well.

This was the year that all of the other kids from the smaller, more rural, K-4 schools joined the “townies” at the larger, local elementary. And let’s face it… Who likes outsiders anyway, right? This concept was particularly difficult for a bunch of bratty, pre-pubescent, middle-schoolers-in-training to deal with in a graceful manner.

But there I was, a little blonde girl who probably thought she was “all that” sporting a sassy new 80s get-up while unpacking my sharp #2 pencils, fresh notebooks and admiring the front of my new Trapper-Keeper. And there he was—reeking of new-kid-ness—a sheepish, chestnut-haired boy with kind brown eyes, turned backwards in his chair and staring right at me.

“Why don’t you take a picture. It will last longer!” I snapped at him in the nastiest pre-teen tone I could muster, trying to make my friends laugh and ease the heat that I felt rapidly spreading toward my face. He quickly ducked his head and turned away. I had obviously hurt his feelings by acting like such a little bitch.

Little did I know that 26 years later that same sheepish boy with the kind brown eyes—now a grown man with an even kinder spirit—would escort me to that same spot, kneel down in front of me and say: “A picture would have been nice, but I want something that lasts forever.”

It wasn’t easy for him to pin-point the exact spot where I’d hurled those hurtful words at him so many years before… but somehow he’d managed to pull it off. You see, our school had recently been torn down and a new one built in it’s place. But with an uncanny sense of direction and the assistance of Google Earth, Bing and Yahoo Maps… he found it. THE very spot where our 5th-grade classroom used to be was now the new playground.

The school as it looked in 1985.

A clever story about his role on the Building Leadership Team at the school where he teaches convinced me to go with him to the playground to do a little “research” for his district. Feeling like a kid again, I teased him about the brat I’d been back then and took a trip down the slide. He was waiting for me at the bottom poised to ask this life-altering question.

After a lot of tears and shouting “Yes, a million times yes!” we couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer amazement of how life works sometimes.

By the time we were in high school we had become great friends. Kindred spirits some might say. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I liked him. He was one of the good ones and we could talk about anything. We shared a taste in music, books, movies and deep conversation. We tried “dating” for awhile but I did not yet understand the importance of dating someone who was also a friend… so we parted as friends.

Off to college and separate adventures that would take us in completely opposite directions… To him, I was “the one that got away” when he read of my wedding announcement 4 years after graduation. And to me, years into a destructive and abusive marriage… he was “the good friend that I desperately wished I hadn’t taken for granted.”

By the time we met again at the age of 34, you could say that our lives—much like that old school building—had, over time, been completely torn down and reconstructed. We were different, and yet somehow exactly the same. And we realized that we’d been given the very rare gift of a second chance.

Since we first laid eyes on one another two years ago—after half our current lifetime had passed by—we have not looked back. Perhaps 26 years ago he saw something in that bratty little blonde, and thankfully he didn’t give up on me right then. Thankfully he stuck around and waited. Waited for something that would last longer than a picture. Something that would ultimately last forever.