Happy Holid...

Yeah. That.

I start Owl School on Thursday.

In the interim, have a nice holiday, peeps.

If Only

There is often just a minute sliver of time between a tragedy and Life going on as normal.

You hear it all the time... If only I'd waited... If only I'd gone... If only I hadn't... If only I had...

If only.

A fragment of a second can change a person's life - a family's life - forever.

Today?

Was not an If only day.

I didn't want to go to the mall today. I don't like the mall on a good day, but the day before Christmas Eve?

No.

Just no.

But I found out last night that my niece had requested something specific for Christmas and, though I'd already gotten her gift, I figured it would be better to get her what she wanted. So I grumbled my way through traffic and the parking lot and the crowds inside. I waited in line in the store and then trudged my way back out of the mall, to brave the mess again.

As I was approaching the crosswalk leading into the parking lot, I heard a woman behind me calling out to her son.

"Tyler! Stop! Now! Tyler, wait for me!"

I turned to see Tyler, about two-years-old, in a bright red jacket and blue jeans, running like mad toward me and the parking lot, giggling like crazy. His mother, looking frustrated, was chasing him, her arms full of bags.

Tyler and I both reached the curb and the crosswalk at the same time. There was an older man, sitting his car, waiting for us to cross. I waved to thank him and just as I was about to step into the walk, I caught a moving vehicle, to my left, in my peripheral vision.

In that minute sliver of time - in that fragment of a second - my mother's reflex kicked in and I grabbed for Tyler's hood with my right hand and, making contact with a handful of soft, quilted nylon, I yanked him back onto the curb. He landed on his little butt and squealed just as I felt the whoosh of air on my face from the large SUV as it barreled past, moving way too quickly for a parking lot on any day, let alone on a crazy-busy one.

Tyler's mother had dropped all her bags and reached us, and the man I later realized was Tyler's father sprinted past us, to catch up with the woman in the Escalade. The little guy's mother scooped him up with one arm and reached for me with the other, sandwiching the toddler, who had no idea what had nearly happened, between us.

I could see in her face, in that split second, every possibility... every Christmas without her precious little boy... every tear... every "If only."

My heart lurched into my throat and I could hardly speak.

She thanked me over and over and over. I assured her it was OK; it was just reflex, as I have a child of my own; I was just so glad he was OK and tragedy had been avoided.

I left that little family a few minutes later, after Tyler's dad came back to us and nearly shook my hand and arm right out of their sockets, thanking me, asking if there was anything they could do for me.

All I wanted to do was go home.

I wished them well and happy holidays and walked to my car. I turned the key in the ignition with a shaking hand... and then burst into tears.

And instead of If only, I thought, What if?

I didn't want to go to the mall today.

But in that minute sliver of time...

I so glad I did.

Whooped

I'm whooped.

I'm still not finished with my Christmas shopping. Every time I think I'm finished, I remember someone else...

I'm not a very good Christmas planner, apparently.

Or a very good shopper.

And I've been busy all weekend.

And I'll be busy tonight.

And I need a nap.

And I have no more words.

I'm sure I'll find some tomorrow.

Words, that is.

All bets are off on Christmas presents.

Happy Solstice!

Today is the Winter Solstice, also known as My Favorite Day of the Holiday Season. It's my Thanksgiving, my Christmas, and my New Year's Eve, all rolled into one. It's been a sacred day, honored and celebrated, for a long time -- long before any religion incorporated its time and traditions. It's the day I welcome back the sun and the day put all my hopes and fears and wishes and gratitude out into the Universe.

It's a day to reflect and to look forward.

It's very good day.

Every year, on the Solstice, I make lists. I like making lists. They give me a sense of purpose... and accomplishment... and direction.

My Solstice Lists are as follows:

• Things I'm thankful for
• Things I need to let go of
• Things I want for others
• Things I'd like to happen in the coming year

I put a lot of thought into them... a lot of care. They're detailed and specific... and general and sweeping.

After I'm sure I've gotten everything down I need to get down, I burn them. I send everything -- all my thanks, my fears, my hopes, and my wishes -- out and up to the heavens, to the Universe.

I've been told they're prayers... and maybe they are.

I'm OK with that.

In the end, I feel good -- less burdened, less hurried, less worried.

It's a very good day.

Happy Solstice, everyone! May your welcoming back of the sun leave you less burdened, less hurried, and less worried! XO

Gifts

This week? A little bit crappy. It started out that way on Monday morning... and then Tuesday felt like Monday all over again... and then Wednesday felt like Tuesday, which felt like Monday all over again... and all I could do was wish it was Friday.

Work has been trying... and tiring. Christmas pressures are wearing on me... the gift-buying (I don't like shopping or crowds... and shopping in crowds gives me anxiety), the money-spending, the running-out-of-time thing. And the rest of Life seems, oftentimes, overwhelming, even when there's no big wallet-sucking holiday to contend with.

So today's Friday... and the day wasn't much better than any of the others earlier in the week. But it did mark the beginning of five days off in a row. That doesn't happen very often, so I'm pretty excited about it... though my last thought when I left the office was how much I was dreading Thursday morning.

Sigh.

Then I got home.

And someone sent me a gift.

A wonderful gift.

And I was overwhelmed.

And I felt loved.

And I realized that I often feel loved.

I am surrounded by people who love me... and who show me. All the time.

I receive gifts every day, in their words, their deeds, their friendship.

But I get so caught up in the crappy Mondays and Tuesdays that feel like Mondays and the dreaded Thursdays, that I forget... or I don't see the gifts, even when they're right in front of my face.

But tonight?

I see them.

I feel them.

And I am ever so grateful for them.

Ever so grateful.

Reads With Staying Power

A while ago, I did a Facebook meme, which required me to list ten books that affected me... stayed with me... changed me in some way. It was a difficult list to compile, as I think every book I've ever read has affected me in some way.

But, of course, there are some that stay with you longer than others, aren't there?

After I wrote my list (which was actually comprised of twelve books... I'm an overachiever... sue me), I thought of another ten (or thirty) that could have been on it.

So, tonight, I'm going to list five... and then, maybe, five another night... and then, maybe, five another night... and then, maybe...

You get the picture.

Here are the first five in my list... in no particular order:

The Color of Water by James McBride

This is beautifully-written -- a black man's account of his mother's life; his mother -- a woman who raised her twelve black children while denying her own white, Jewish skin. I read this book about 16 years ago, in one sitting, on a plane from Mississippi to New York. I'd been visiting my new baby niece, whose skin was chocolate brown. Mrs. McBride's story is remarkable, and the love with which her son tells it is palpable. It is never far from my nightstand, even today.

A Time to Kill by John Grisham

It took me several years to get through this book. Every time I would start it, the first chapter would nearly do me in and I'd have to put it down for another several months. The book begins with the rape of a black child by white men and moves on to the trial of her father, who kills them. I struggled with the story because I understood her father's actions, but I also believe that taking the law into one's own hands is wrong. There is a part of the book, though, which sums up that conflict and makes it OK... an old (disbarred) lawyer tells the young, idealistic attorney handling the case that it's a highly unusual one, in that if the father is found guilty, justice will be served; and if he is acquitted, justice will be served. It summed up an amazingly well-told story for me.

Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan

Finding myself somewhat obsessed with the food industry in this country and coming to believe that it, via agri-business, is poisoning us, with support from the government, I was lead by a friend to this book. Michael Pollan writes clearly and compellingly, explaining exactly where our food comes from and exactly how our economy and our health are affected by the processes. It made me angry and interested in learning more about how to support healthy, sustainable farming.

 Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris 

David Sedaris is brilliant... and brilliantly funny. This book made me realize the essayist I would like to become. Sedaris' work makes me howl with laughter, tears streaming down my cheeks, and, at times, makes me tear up because of the honest, poignant manner in which he relays a thought or memory.

Open My Eyes, Open My Soul compiled by Yolanda King and Elodia Tate

I have a very personal connection to this book, which is a compilation of essays on diversity, put together by Martin Luther King's daughter, to honor his birthday. The essays in it are by people like Maya Angelou, Robert Kennedy, and Stevie Wonder... and by 'ordinary' people, too. About ten years ago, I submitted an essay - late - for consideration for submission to this project. Because it was late, I knew I had little chance of being selected but, to my surprise, I received an email from Yolanda King. She said that she'd been so touched by my story, she was going to find a place in the book for it. And she did. I remember the first time I saw it in a bookstore... I was in the airport and there was a display at the front of the store, full of brand new copies. It was all I could do not to open it to my essay and run around the airport squealing, "Look! This is me!"

So, what books have stayed with you?

Writer's Workshop: Gifty McGifterson

It's time for Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop and this week, I chose the prompt:

A Memorable Gift

Like most people, I suppose, I have been the recipient of many gifts in my life... some tangible, some intangible... some perfect, some not so much. 

Back in 2008, for one of Mama Kat's Writer's Workshops, I wrote a letter to Santa, which you can read right here, about how I was breaking up with him because of his gift-giving missteps (that fat guy does not know me at all).

But today? Today I'm writing about a different sort of gift. A gift that was most definitely not a misstep. And it wasn't from Mr. Claus, but from one of his elves -- an elf who lives right here in Pigsknuckle.

I have this friend, you see. His name is Loren... though for the purpose of this post, I will refer to him as 'Lorwyn' (as that's, you know, what I call him [well, it's the name I can write here and still stay PG-rated]). Anyway, Lorwyn is, quite possibly, the best gift-giver I have ever met.

Ever.

His gifts are epic. The thought and effort he puts into them is simply beyond my comprehension. And even when you want to be mad at him for spending too much or doing too much or very nearly getting himself arrested for skulking around your yard, planting 200 candy-filled eggs at dark o'clock on Easter morning, you can't.

(For the record, I'm still finding those damned eggs... every time I mow the lawn, another one miraculously appears.)

However, Lorwyn and I decided two Christmases ago that we weren't going to spend much on each other's gifts, as money was tight.

And I? Stuck to our agreement. To be honest, I don't really recall what I got him, though it was probably something like a bag of M&Ms and a 12-pack of toilet paper.

What? Toilet paper is practical, people.

So we met up for breakfast, as we hadn't seen each other in a while, and we exchanged gifts. I handed Lorwyn the TP and M&Ms...

And he called the crane operator to lift mine onto the table.

I kid you not, the package weighed approximately 3,647 pounds.

OK, hyperbole aside, it was freakin' heavy.

He heaved it over to me and I gingerly unwrapped it...

It was a binder. A 3-ring binder, to be specific. Blue. Thick. Like, 6 or 7 inches thick. Like, I didn't know they made binders that thick.

And in it...

Was...

My blog.

My entire blog.

All 400+ posts.

Printed... each sheet placed in its own plastic protector... all the posts and pictures in order, from newest to oldest.

My entire blog.

You see, I had once (just once, but that's all it takes with Lorwyn) mentioned that I was afraid Blogger was going to lose my blog one day (it had happened to someone I know)... and since many of my posts were written right here, I hadn't ever saved them anywhere. And if my blog somehow disappeared, big chunks of my life would be gone.

Gone.

And that? Would be awful. It worried me.

But I never imagined, not in a million years, that anyone would take the time, energy, effort, and money to print out every single post, protect every page, and then hand them to me in a binder that weighed 3,647 pounds.

It was overwhelming.

There were tears.

And not just from the hernia.

And it almost - almost - made up for the time Lorwyn called me a bitch.

Almost.

Right, Lorwyn?

Heh.

Them's Fightin' Words

Over the past year or so, I have actively tried not to engage in conflict... not disengage... but simply not to engage at all.

Now, for someone who is opinionated and mouthy, that's not always easy. I come from people who seem to thrive on conflict... people who like to "debate"... people who love to be right and to have the last word.

And I? Am one of those people.

But as I mentioned in a post last month, I realized it was doing me no good. I wasn't changing other peoples' minds; other people weren't changing mine. And engaging (at least with certain people) was causing me to become frustrated with myself... and often, not terribly proud of myself either.

That's not a good feeling.

So I decided to try to just walk away... to keep my mouth shut... to ask myself if engaging was going to do any good at all, and unless the answer was a resounding YES, it was necessary to just shut my pie-hole.

And overall, I've done fairly well, I think. My life has certainly felt more peaceful. And I've actually found it quite easy simply not to engage.

Except...

Except when someone says something unfair, ugly, or untrue about someone I care about.

When that happens, I engage. I so engage.

But I've found that my brain isn't the part that engages...

I feel this charge in my gut, which runs straight to my heart, and it connects almost immediately to my mouth (or my fingers). The words spew out, through seemingly malfunctioning filters, and they slap the guilty party right upside the head.

It happened today.

I didn't expect it. And it caught me so by surprise, I wound up having to leave the room, punctuating my engagement with a slammed door exclamation point.

I won't say it felt good.

It didn't.

And I won't say that charge and the negative feelings left as quickly as they came.

They didn't.

But I also won't say I'll ever simply not engage when someone I care about is mistreated.

Because I'll do it.

I'll engage.

Every single time.

Smile For Me

My name was supposed to be Sharon... Sharon Heather. But my dad used to say that had they stuck with that name, my initials would have been 'SHH', and that simply would have been wrong.

I don't know what he meant by that.

Heh.

Instead, I was named for a song...

This one...

My Diane, by the Bachelors

Actually, the song is just called Diane, but my dad always called it My Diane, so I do, too. It came out the year before I was born and it was one of his favorites.

He used to sing it to me when I was little... and when I was big...

I love the lyrics...

Smile for me, my Diane

I'm in heaven when I see you smile
Smile for me, my Diane
And though everything's dark all the while
I can see you, Diane

You have lighted the road leading home
Oh, pray for me when you can
But no matter wherever I roam
Smile for me, my Diane

They make me smile.

And whenever I used to hear the song, especially if I was in a terrible mood, I couldn't help but smile... which was all my dad ever wanted when he sang it.

And my smile?

Made him smile.

To know that your smile can change someone's day? That it can turn the dark to light?

That's some powerful mojo, let me tell you.

When I was in college and worked at a restaurant in town, we had a customer who came in every day... he was very old, grumpy, and incredibly non-communicative. He never spoke. Never. So I made him my own little project, bound and determined to make him talk to me or even just smile. But he never did. And suddenly, after months of daily visits, he was gone. I worried about him but I knew nothing -- not even his name -- and I had no way to check on him.

And then, weeks later, he came back in. After he got his food, he asked me to sit down at his table. Astonished that he'd spoken, I, of course, sat. He told me that he'd been coming in during breaks from the hospital, where he'd been visiting his wife, who'd been battling cancer. He said they married when they were in their twenties, and his visits to the restaurant were brief respites from having to face losing the woman he'd loved his whole life.

He stopped coming in because she died.

But he came back to the restaurant because he wanted to thank me; he wanted me to know that there were days when my smile was the only thing that got him through.

The only thing that got him through.

Once, many years later, in a job interview, the human resources manager asked me if I always smiled so much.

I told her I did.

I do.

Because sometimes?

A smile can turn the dark to light.

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String...

Since it's been a long weekend, and it's late, and I'm tired (read: brain dead), I decided to do another Favorite Things post, because they're easy and fun and they make me feel good...

Celtic Crosses: As I've mentioned, I'm not a religious person but I have always loved crosses - especially Celtic crosses. A friend recently told me that they have been spiritual symbols long before they were attached to Christianity, and that made me feel that my affinity for them might be a bit more rational. I used to wear one - silver, purchased in a little store in Scotland, on the North Sea. The chain broke and I haven't worn it since, but I might have to get it out again...

Avocados: Love 'em! I eat a couple every week... cut up in salads, mashed into guacamole, sliced onto grilled cheese sandwiches. And I'm an expert at picking them when they're perfectly ready to eat.

White Mice: When Ryan was a baby, she had a white mouse puppet named Stuart (or, as she called him, Stew-it). She loved that mouse... he went everywhere with her for years and now he sits, all grey and worn, a Band-Aid on his tail, on her bookshelf. Stuart is her Velveteen Rabbit... er, Velveteen Mouse. I love him as much as she does. And since my girl was about two, I've been drawn to all little white mouse toys, figurines, and pictures I see. Even the real ones are kind of cute...

Hand-knitted Anything: My mother used to knit and I always loved getting a new sweater or blanket from her. I used to search for little hand-knitted sweaters for Ryan when she was little and kept several in her 'box of special things.' I'd love to learn to knit, though I don't know that I'll ever have the patience (or coordination) to pick it up or become good at it.

Travel: I have my favorite places, certainly, but the chance to go anywhere from home? Golden. Close by or far away, every trip is anticipated and enjoyed. But being able to use my passport? That's the best.

Public Speaking:  I know it's odd... I know most people hate it... but I truly love being able to do presentations in front of a group of people, small or large. I've periodically had jobs that have enabled me to do just that, and it's always my favorite part of my job description.

Collaging: I've never been very good at any sort of visual art but I love to collage. Spending an afternoon cutting pretty or interesting pictures out of magazines takes me to a very Zen place... and being able to reassemble them into new pretty or interesting pictures is energizing and strangely cathartic. It's another way to tell stories... and it can generate ideas and topics to write about.

Kayaking: Being in a kayak, alone, on a still lake, is absolutely one of the most relaxing places I've ever been. If I could do it every day, I would. And after a trip to Maine, I want to try sea kayaking... it's on the Bucket List.

Garden Gates: As a child, one of my favorite books was The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett, and I'm sure that began my fascination with garden gates. I love the idea that whole secret world exists behind them, including fairies and pixies and sprites...

First Snow: I love the first snow... the stillness... softness... as long as I can stay home from work. Snow days? Are even better when you're an adult!

Wishful Thinking: I love wishful thinking... it helps me to zero in on what I want and need, what's important to me, and it helps me to set goals. I wish always... on dandelions, at wishing wells, on birthday candles, first stars, and falling stars. Wishes? Are good things.

The Invitation

The other day, a friend shared a poem with me -- a poem entitled The Invitation, written by a woman called Oriah. It is profound and it moved me to tears at first reading.

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

 

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Every now and then, you read something, or hear something, or see something that speaks to you on a level deep under the surface... something that describes so perfectly what you feel or think or believe... something that makes you stand up and say, "That is what I want!" or "That is who I want to be!"

This piece of writing did that to me... for me. I think it will be a while before I'm able to fully process just how deeply it dug in... before I will fully realize its impact... before I will be able to break it all down and absorb each verse. And I expect I will write about it again, once that all happens. In fact, I'm sure I will.

But for now, I just want it to wash over me, again. And again.

And I thought you might like it, too.

XO

Bah Hum Cuteness!

I was feeling kind of Bah Hum Buggy today, so I went looking for something to cheer me up...

Looky what I found...


Baby Ryan says, "Well, hello there, bears! So, what do you want Santa to bring you?"

Baby Ryan is still happy... and tickling Mr. Bear's fuzzy chin...

Uh oh... Baby Ryan has had enough of bears and boxes and bows...

I know I'm partial, but I think Baby Ryan might just have been the cutest little elf ever. I miss that little elf. I crazy-love the big elf she's become... but I miss that little one.

On Muchness

A very long time ago, between The Boy From 30 Years Ago and the person who would become my ex-husband, I knew (and loved) someone else. He was lovely. And brilliant. And funny. And perfect for me in so many ways.

Sadly, it was not meant to work out between us for the long-run, as things are sometimes not meant to work out for the long-run, but it was an important relationship in my life -- and in his, I think.

He said something to me once that stayed with me, and which has, over the years, made me stop and think and wish and, sometimes, be sad. He said,

"You are one of the most alive people I've ever known."

I laughed. Truth be told, I wasn't at all certain of what he meant and though he tried to articulate it, I waved his explanations off. I didn't need them. He was lovely and brilliant and funny, and he was smiling when he said it, so I took him at his word.

And I went on being alive in the relationship...

Until it ended.

And then I was sad. And I felt not quite so alive for a while.

But Life went on.

As it does.

All the things that happen to other people happened to me, too... things like other relationships, work, work, and more work, friendships, moves, travel, a marriage, a child, losses, a divorce, illness, etc.

There were many good things. And many bad things. And through all those things, good and bad, Life never stopped moving.

At times I ran with it... at times I trudged along... at times I was flat-out dragged behind Life, unable to do anything but just hold on by my fingertips.

And after a while -- after 25 years of running, trudging, and being dragged -- I took a look back and realized I wasn't feeling quite so alive.

Then I saw a quote somewhere, from Alice in Wonderland (not my favorite book, I have to say):

"You're not the same as you were before. You were much more "muchier." You've lost your muchness." (Said the Mad Hatter, to Alice.)

When I read it, it hit me that Muchness was what that lovely, brilliant, funny person was trying to articulate all those years ago... it's what he saw in me when he said I was alive.

Muchness is that spirit, that spark, that imagination, that energy, that optimism, that greatness which comes with youth and quick metabolisms.

And though I believe there are people who retain their muchness, I realized that I've lost it. Well, I've lost much of my muchness.

It happens, doesn't it? To lots of us (most of us?). Life happens and we wear down with responsibilities and worries and fears and stress and guilt and just plain old being tired.

And our muchness gets lost.

I talked to an old friend today -- someone who has known me a long time and knows me well. And my friend assured me that my muchness isn't, in fact, gone... that it's there when I need it...

I'm not sure I believe that. At all. But I do think we can get our muchness back. It might look different at 48 than it did at 25, but I think we can get it back...

Or maybe my friend is right and it's not really gone... maybe it simply needs to be rediscovered...

So, I'm going to be looking for mine -- for my muchness.

What about you? Have you lost your muchness?

If not, how did you keep it?

If so, what will you do to find it?

I'd love to know...

And Warm Woolen Mittens...

Yesterday's post was a bit sad... and I was a bit sad... so today I'm going to change it up with one of my Favorite Things lists. I think this is the fourth (Raindrops on Roses... Whiskers on Kittens... Bright Copper Kettles... And Warm Woolen Mittens)... yup, it's number four. Clearly there are a lot of things that make me happy (nothing wrong with that)!

And here they are... in no particular order...

Getting Together with Friends: As I've mentioned, I have the most wonderful, remarkable group of friends. I'd give almost anything to have them all here in Pigsknuckle with me, so I could see them all on a regular basis. I love introducing people to one another, especially when I'm certain they'll wind up good friends (and I'm not often wrong), and get togethers are the best places to do that.

Massages: I've always said that if I were ever to somehow come into wealth, one of the very few extravagances I'd splurge on would be weekly (daily... hourly?) massages. I believe strongly that we need human touch to be healthy and there is little else that feels better than a full-body massage.

Roller Coasters: Crazy-love 'em! That first hill scares the bejeebies out of me (the way UP, not the way down) but the rest? Pure, unadulterated excitement! Roller coasters make me feel like a kid again and that is almost always good!

Candlelight: It's beautiful... warm, soft, and kind to those of us over 40. What's not to love?

Porches and Porch Swings: When I was young, we lived in an old farmhouse that had a big front porch and a swing. I spent more hours there than I could possibly count, mostly reading, but sometimes just swinging the day away. I even slept out there when it was really hot. One day I'll have a swing again...

Beautiful Dresses: If you were ever to see my 'Pretty Clothes' board on Pinterest, you'd swear I channel Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly when I pin. I love classic dresses and clothes that look like they stepped right out of a black and white movie. I don't wear them, mind you... I just love them!

Soup: I don't really like to cook much but I make the most seriously amazing pots of soup! As soon as the weather turns cool, I start thinking about what sort would taste good. I love to gather whatever ingredients strike my fancy from the produce aisle or the farmer's market. Add a loaf of crusty bread and a glass of red? Heaven.

Cornwall: It's where I want to retire... at Wit's End Cottage at Land's End. Because just look at it, that's why. It's everything I love, all wrapped up into one place.

Stained Glass: I love stained glass... a spectacular stained glass window, glowing bright from the sunlight streaming through? It's take-your-breath away beautiful. Whenever I travel, I always find myself in old churches (I love the architecture), photographing the windows.

Sleep: I cannot describe the joy I feel on Friday and Saturday nights, knowing I can sleep late the next mornings. My bed? One of my truly happy places. And put on fresh dried-in-the-sun sheets? It's my own little piece of Heaven, right in my little room.

Winnie the Pooh: I have loved Pooh Bear ever since I can remember, as one of my very first books (which I still have) was a collection of the A.A. Milne stories. I've always preferred Classic Pooh over Disney Pooh... I call my dog "Silly Old Bear"... the Milne stories are some of my all-time favorites, as is Benjamin Hoff's The Tao of Pooh... and one of the highlights of our NYC trip this past summer was getting to see the original stuffed Pooh (and Piglet, Eeyore, Kanga, and Tigger) in the main library. There is a simplicity in that silly old bear's thinking and actions that has always spoken to me... and likely always will.

500th Post: Her Daddy

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved her daddy.

She was small and blonde, with blue eyes and his nose.

She called herself Di-I, so he did, too (and sometimes Bella... and sometimes Aggie).

And when she was very small, she would stand on his feet and he would dance her around the room to Frank Sinatra and Glenn Miller records on his stereo. She would hold his big, calloused hands to keep from falling, and look up at him, laughing, as they danced.

When one of her toys broke, she would hand it to him and say, "Daddy fix," and he would say, "Me fix, Di-I. Me fix."

And he always did.

When she said to him at breakfast one morning, "Me no ike eggs, Daddy," he told her that she was eating soufflé and not to worry because, "Di-I ikes soufflé."

And she did.

As the little girl grew, her daddy taught her Very Important Things.

He taught her how to put up a tent. And how to ride a bike. And how to fold the American flag properly. And how, if she got stuck at the top of the monkey bars at the playground, he would always come to rescue her.

When she got a bit older, he taught her how to shake hands "like a man." He taught her how to drive a stick-shift, to check her own oil, and to never let the gas go below a quarter of a tank (though she didn't always [and still doesn't] mind that last one).

He taught her how to tell a story, how to make everyone laugh, how to pour a beer properly, and how to swear with aplomb.

He taught her to stand up for what she believed in and about the importance of having her "ducks in a row."

He taught her about community service and giving back, and how, even if you have little, you still have more than someone else who needs your help. He taught her to always be kind and friendly to service personnel, to tip waiters and waitresses well, and to stack her dishes to make their jobs just a little bit easier.

And when the little girl had grown into a big girl, her daddy, reluctantly so, let her go her own way. He allowed her to choose her own path and think her own thoughts, even when she made big mistakes... even when he didn't agree (and he often didn't agree).

And when she came home with some broken thing, including her heart or her ego, he'd reach for it, saying, "Me fix, Di-I. Me fix."

And he always did.

When he got sick, he taught her that even when there is pain, there is humor, and that the best way to make people feel more comfortable when they are hurting is to make them laugh.

He made her laugh. He made her laugh so much.

And then he died.

And she realized there was one thing he didn't teach her.

He didn't teach her how to live without him.

She has had to learn that all on her own.

She is still learning how.

She will forever be learning how...