There's No Place Like Home

Finally after nearly six and a half years I am calling this home. Finally.

Not parenthetically for the time being.

One of my feet or t'other has been ready to bolt periodically since I moved here.

I have teetered on the threshold one step out the door.

That's not right. Not fair. To me. To my family. To my friends.

I live close to my darling, precious Mama. Have the dearest friends and most lovely neighbors. Am active in town and other civic affairs. Am vested in my quaint community village near the sandy Maine coast.

But most importantly ... my home, that I treasure and adore, is my nest.

So without further ado I am going to figure out what it takes to integrate my physical self and emotional being into this one place. To subdue the wanderlust rearing its perky head for the moment. To roll up my shirtsleeves anew and enmesh myself in the fabric of my hometown.

I know that I will continue to travel the world adventuring and connecting with the diverse cultures across the planet.

I know that I will find my life love who together will cherish and protect me and love me quirks and all. As I will him. Together we will share in the bounty of our families and the riches of unexplored experiences. Who will co-imagine the possibilities even if they are slightly askew. And who might balance our lives partly in my antique village home and then his abode ... wherever.

I know that the proximity to my darling Mama was paramount to my relocation to this corner of the world. And I am oh so appreciative to have the ability to frequently share an outing, a read on her porch overlooking the harbor, by the crackling fire watching a DVD and sharing giggles past midnight on one of our beds. She is my bestest bud. My confidant. My precious mother.

Just as I know that moving here would allow Charlie the opprotunity to board at school and begin the rest of his life was critical ... fueling his personal journey.

I am blessed.

And furthermore ... to hell with loneliness ... the one thing that doesn't reside here anymore!

My 2 Gs

What would I do without my best girlfriends? My 2 Gs in a 4 G world?

One lives on the edge of the prairie, where the dust devils swirl when the wind blows wild and woolly across the plains. The other lives in the foothills of my beloved Rockies where wolves and elk roam her neighborhood and snow drifts ten feet high in January.

Gale and I were study group partners at b-school over thirty years ago in that academic mecca called Boston. We bonded and together with Judy racked up As to the utter dispair and frustration of the uber-competitive all male teams. Crazy smart. Our sensibilities, intellects and sense of selves aligned. We rocked their boats and emerged successfully into the world of biz.

Fifteen years ago, Gayla and I befriended each other in the carpool line at our sons' grade school. Third grade boys who were ... and are ... the apple of our eyes. She and I walked and talked and got to know each other through middle school years of dances and football games. Our similar upbringings as one of three sisters and the mothers of the most precious boys this side of the Mississippi forged our forever friendship.

We stay in touch ... my soul sistahs and me ... over the miles, through the years via phone, email and irregular visits. I love them both. Dearly. Each is from a most special part of my life. But neither knows the other. Sadly. They'd like each other.

Cheers to Gale and Gayla ... love ya, darlins, like sisters! LYLAS!

Robin's Egg Blue

My sister Robin is wise. An old soul. Her wisdom spans time. She is a quiet spirit. Contemplative. A natural guide. Instinctive.

Twice she has led me out of the quagmire. Two times.

Not that I wasn't already about to make my moves, but her insights confirmed my beliefs. Easily. Propelled me to take the action necessary to free me from the brambles which were strangling the essence of me, detrimentally.

Twice. The only even prime number. Divisible only by itself and one. Primality. Simplicity. A compositness test. The basis for cryptology. Hidden meanings. With her honed intuition, she nails the issue. Frames it logically, if not a bit emotionally borne from a decade of turmoil.

Perceptive. Not unlike me. My innermost thoughts that propel my journey. Rightly. Or, wrongly. Fueling the direction of my travels. Unhooked from societal demands. Unconventional. Strategic and brave.

A debt of gratitude for once again illuminating my path so that I can remove the danger lurking so closely.

Cheers to my darling baby sissor, for whom I have a deep and loving connection, whose heartstrings are intricately interwoven with mine!

Dusting Myself Off

R~E~L~I~F~E

Ah, the sweet delicious release. My composure steadfast. As I regain equilibrium, lost momentarily as I stumbled on a pile of stones littering my path. Faltering for a moment.

My backpack rebalanced, a cool drink of life sustaining water wets my parched lips as I carry on with balance and greater insights into the me I have become.

Cheers to the continuation of my journey, this marvelous redefinition of my life well-lived, with renewed vigor, a refreshed store of energy, revived passion as I gracefully stroll with purpose into the lemony sunshine and clear blue skies.

Chipping Away At The Peach Pit

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on the rise and fall of my chest. Inhale/expand. Exhale/release. Shanti. Shanti. Sha-anti-iiiiiiii. Namaste.

Bring it in. Feel at one with it. Let it go. Out into the universe. The negativity. Replace it with joy. Inner peace. My head falls forward. Hair dropping to the floor. Swinging gently. Palms flat. Rise up. One vertebra at a time. Rounding back. Shoulders last. Face to the heavens. Smiling. Fingers touching together over my heart.

Lying on the hard wooden floor which cradles my body. A purple bean bag covers my eyes, a rolled cushion supports my knees. The gentle incantations of our instructor brings me comfort. A peaceful bliss. The knot dissipates magically.

Floating free. Out of body and mind I gather the accouterments at the end of our practice. Folding the twin rubber mats which have cushioned my back and supported my weight. Pulling them back to their rightful place along the wall. The feng shui of it all. I carefully replace the strap which supported my outstretched legs on the rod framing the rice paper ink drawings. Carrying the blocks which moments before pillowed my upper sacrum and base of my skull as I lay in repose. Quietude.

Relax. Breathe in. Breathe out. Descend the narrow wooden stairway to the street. Slowly. One graceful step at a time. Capture the essence of the sacred warrior.

Then in one fell swoop it clinches up. My tummy tightens. My smile melts. Dissolves. One word. One frantic thing on the checklist which has come at me all too fast in a very condensed few days as if there is no tomorrow no reason to wait compelled to tic off every last thing blurring whirring until it is completed no rest for the weary no celebration no nothing just one thing after another and another and another until I seize up. Knotted. In a ball.

Seven days until yoga. Seven. It shouldn't be this hard. Not now. Not ever.

Pinball Wizard

Ever since I was a young girl I've played the silver ball. From Nantucket down to Edmond, I must have played them all. But I've never seen anything like him in any amusement hall. That deaf, dumb and blind boy sure plays a mean pinball.

Must be those crazy flippers. His touch gives them a thrill. His deft tongue wags so glibly, I know I'll take a spill. Such a smooth talking wizard. There has to be a twist. Words warp illucidly. Hit me like a fist.

Cunning. Sharp. Plays by intuition. Scores big by manipulating the landscape under glass. Uneven pressure. Metal balls crashing, bouncing. Racking up the points. One offs no more.

Bells a' flashing. Buzzers squealing. Knot growing deep in my belly cutting off my inner joy. Attacking my self-assuredness. Shrouding my joie de vivre. Until I acquiesce. Fold my cards. Melt into the shadows.

Things going bump in the night. My night. Once solemn peaceful slumber interrupted by rattling noises. Breath whistling scarily. Noisily. Carrying me to the very edge of my comfort zone. And beyond. Uneasily. Ding. Ding. Ding. TILT!

To think I almost handed my pinball crown to him.

Drizzles

Bit by bit the life is being sucked out of my spirit. Nary a job, part time, seasonal or other on the horizon. The economy downsized the north New England business community and it continues.

And, all I want is to write. Prepare the lengthy, complex CELTA application for acceptance to the Hanoi language training center. And, most emphatically, save a few dollars to cover my minimized expenses on the ground here in Maine. Add meager (yet needed) funds for my coming out of the 50s celebration. The one that will mark the beginning of the next leg of my hopalong journey.

So today I spent writing cover letters for employers in those industries I swore up and down to never return. No need to mention. Just imagine the feeling of saying NO. Then sucking it up in order to maybe, if I am not too old or over qualified or not lacking in experience, accept a position that will entrap my spirit. Egads.

Sign me up for an attitude adjustment. Or, a long walk along the sandy Gooches Beach a few short miles from here. Probably one with my darling Bailey in the 'hood. The one on the shore without. So I can really relax. Commune with my daddy. Try to get a message from the other side ... or the inner me.

But grey sodden clouds trickle cold wet drops on my dampened spirits. But only for a few more days. Then I can burst forth into the chartreuse leafed trees sprouting new and the warmer yellow sunshine.

In the meantime, I vow to peruse every posting on that god awful Craig's List. I might even plan a fake vacation to Buenos Aires where castanets click and lacy mantillas flow around sultry dancers gracefully, angrily dueling in erotic danceplay on the crowded floors in a zillion barrooms across the Paris of South America.

I raise a glass of ruby Malbec and toast my dreams ... glistening with rain drops and tears.

Perceptions

The stakes escalate. The reality behind matter. What does it matter really?

Outfitted in black: slacks, Tory Burch sweater with brass signature buttons, Longchamps purse. I seem the paragon of ample accounts. But no. Not really. Just the appearance. Not the reality. Perceptions.

Italian leather portfolio. A sexy, confident lemony yellow. Laptop and files packed neatly inside giving it weight. The semblance of professional chic. On her way to a client meeting. Not. Perceptions.

An LV bag. Gorgeous design. Wallet slim. All the right credit cards. Darling regiment striped black-brown Fendi cosmetic bag concealing make-up from Walmart aisles and Rite-Aid bins. Seemingly plush. Knowingly broke. Perceptions.

A quaint antique house in the village. Stunningly painted. Modestly landscaped. The living room and dining salon adorned with 16th century hand painted engravings. Lovely Chippendale camel-back love seats. A four hundred year old Oushak. Original oils framed lovingly. Riches. Hardly. Perceptions.

Thick photograph albums illustrating journeys across the globe. Five star hotels. Movie starred lobbies. Private touring into the vineyards. Extravagance. Hotels.com bookings. Air mile fueled crossings. Perceptions.

Brilliant discourse. Witty interjections. The gourmet supper guests elbows touching around a Charleston-inspired mahogany oval scalloped table on anthacus carved pedestal legs. Jovial banters. Candlelit diners clinking glasses of bubbly Champagne. Economy bottles of sparkling Chilean wine. Frivolous? No indeed. Perceptions.

Cheers to the smoke and mirrors gaily shrouding the anguish felt deep in the pit of my emptying pocketbook.

Lemon Slices

Peeling the rind from this thick-skinned lemon reveals a few more slices of this steel magnolia than you may or may not (or want to) know. But add me to your beverage of choice, squeeze me over fresh greens or grate me into a light summer mousse for a bit of zest! Refreshing. Promise.

1. I have visited 46 states (North Dakota, Montana, Oregon and Hawaii are still on my list), five continents (here I come South America! not so sure, Antarctica), both Iceland and Greenland and crossed most of the world's oceans. I am scheduling a fast jaunt via Amtrak from the Twin Cities across those three states in the Lower 48 I am missing. And plan to hula in Hawaii on a forthcoming trip to southeast Asia. Argentina has been a destination for most of the past five years. A milonga in Buenos Aires awaits. The frozen southern nether reaches are not in my scope quite yet. Although I did see some dwarf penguins in South Africa near the Cape of Good Hope. So you never know!

2. In my next life (I know I am coming back and that is another story), I'll be a hoofer (chorus girl, not race horse) on Broadway. Being 'on the boards' is in my soul. Something tells me in a prior life I was an ill-fated ballerina in 19th century France, or a courtesan. Not too sure. The musicality, talent and the grace has eluded me in this carnation ... but not in my dreams!

3. It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved. I senselessly harbored the deepest feelings for a gentle man who could never commit. Despite nearly thirty years of hapless and countless near hookups traversing the country from the Colorado Rockies to the megalopolis on the East Coast. Life goes on.

4. My number one secret pleasure is _______. Hey, if I made it known in this public forum with all to know, then it wouldn't be mine to hide guiltily.

5. I miss my Grandma Alice more than you'd ever imagine. Sadly, I am living her life sans the glamour.

6. Country western music is so much better in the southwest. I loved two-stepping backwards across a floor covered in sawdust and cornmeal. Sliding in my tan suede cowgirl boots in Oklahoma cowboy bars. Yee-haw!

7. My iced tea is brewed fresh daily from Earl Grey, Constant Comment and orange pekoe. I love it sweetened with Sweet and Low, garnished with oranges ... but never (and I mean not ever) sliced lemons. That lemonade-iced tea concoction favored at country clubs and golf courses would never pass my lips. Nor can I tolerate lemon slices in water, TaB, diet coke. Lemons are for salmon, lobster, Dover sole, asparagus. Now you know. Limes on the other hand add zip to cola!

Cheers ... to peeling back a bit more from this pithy citrus and punching up the flavor a notch or two!

Layers

Frightfully low. Bare bottom. The piggy bank has no rattle. No tinkling of coins. Dare I freak? No. I suck it up. Carry on.

Take that job as a Walmart greeter. No not that one, but I know it'll be another one as insipid. And embarrassing. Honorable employment, AARP friendly and with a double deep discount would make the items I purchase virtually free. But somehow I do not believe it would be good for my morale. My sense of self. My confidence. But never say never. That is my motto.

Funny how life comes at you. Multilayered. Bittersweet. Awfully good. Brilliantly dull. Completely unfinished. Dangerously safe. Icy hot. Good grief. Oxymoronic.

So with shrinking coffers and a glum outlook this afternoon, I did what any stylish woman with aplomb and time on her hands would do ... drove straight to my village coiffeur. Just like the ladies who lunch. Midday frivolity. Straight to Salon 96, in the nearby neighborhood shopping center around the corner from the (sadly) soon-to-be closing Garden Street Market next door to Bailey's favorite food store, It's Reigning Cats and Dogs, to pay darling Cheryl with au courant hair that only a twenty-something can pull off -- layered blond on top and black underneath -- a visit.

A subtle change. Nothing dramatic. Add vibrancy and shape into my tresses and my amorphous life. Snip out the weight. A bit of pizzazz to add sparkle to this rain dreary day ... and my ennui.

So tonight I sit at home resplendent with slightly updated, lightly layered locks. Part Jennifer Aniston, part an age-appropriate Sally Fields. Read: a more tousled, casual look. My thick chestnut hair more delicately gracing the top of my shoulder framing my face in a come hither look. Which makes Bailey more attentive. But, hey, she wouldn't care if I was sporting a burka so long as I come bearing treats.

Cheers to peeling the layers one sliver at a time. I am just getting started. Who knows what is next!

The Pile Shrinks

One by one. Things are being extracted from the pile. Not by me who'd love nothing more than to go into the basement, the garage, the closet in the dish room to find nothing. Rien. Nada. No such luck!

We're not giving away the badminton set with net, are we? And you know I love croquet. Oh no. Not my fly fishing poles or tackle gear. You just never know, Mom. But you'll be in Asia, I plead. No matter. What about when I come home for vacations? The dialog continues. And the pile is shrinking.

My darling friend in Louisville believes that someday I will luxuriate on a weekend morning with a fabulous new lover and breakfast in bed. Don't toss my dream. Not worth the $2 each will bring. The desire and the possibility, priceless. So back goes the never used twin rattan and wicker bed trays on legs to support a lovely petit dejeuner of croissant, cafe au lait and figs. Just in case. Wouldn't want to jinx anything. Especially that! *wink, wink*

Even my mother is getting into the act. Remember the Pink Ladies that Bob and I used in Newton in the mid-seventies to get rid of Marcia's things before we moved to Chestnut Street on Beacon Hill? They whipped through the house and poof it was gone in a jiffy. We made so much money from the wannabe suburbanites. And I didn't have the heart to tell her that what was sold was as she so aptly said ... Marcia's ... and a bit tacky at that. Anyone with lime green shag in the living room accessorized a bit gaudy methinks.

You can probably get more on eBay. Don't sell anything for 50 cents. It might be worth more. A valuable find. I doubt it, but back goes the two George Forman grills, one large one small. The crepe maker from 1987. And the Pampered Gourmet pizza stone and stand still in the original box that I bought when a neighbor in Oklahoma had what amounts to a Tupperware party and I felt obliged (we always order pizza in anyway). And the madeleine pan I purchased in the early 1990s inspired by Cordon Bleu and magnificent desserts.

Second guessing filled my storage bin, my garage, Mom and Danal's barn, my basement and all my closets. Second guessing has kept me from paring down. Lightening up. I have lugged 15,000 pounds of my life back and forth across the country. Twice.

You know? I am ready to toss. So I say good riddance. Not to my dreams. Or the possibilities. But to way too many things I truly do not need. And besides some extra $$ would come in handy when I jaunt across the Pacific to southeast Asia in the fall. Even if only for a month. If I am flying light who knows what I might find?

Cheers to a lighter load! And to my dreams.

Noble House

She gracefully slid behind a few of the guests unnoticed and slipped through the fluttering sheer silk drapes to the terrace to catch her breath. And gather her thoughts. Immediately her liquid hazel green eyes glance upward searching the twilight sky for a trace of what was to come.

Hopeful, but not totally self-assured, she gazes deeply into the lavender horizon squinting as if that would help her see what was around the corner. In a few short months. But was transfixed at today. Unable to glimpse into what the immediate future might hold. Her heart skips a beat and a gentle lump forms in the base of her throat as her eyes fill with tears.

She manages to stop the flow by swallowing hard. Her mind's eye focused on a small tow headed boy smiling at the ducks wandering through the garden eating Ritz peanut butter crackers from his chubby hand.

It seemed as if it were the day after tomorrow. Her heart. Her joy. Her beloved son. He twin soul. Would gather his bags propelled by the loft beneath his wings and head overseas to commence his dream. Hong Kong. They had spoken of this possibility for several years. But here it was. Upon them. At summer's end.

Noble House. Tai Pan training with one of the early trading companies whose founders colonized the Chinese island in the early 19th century. A storied firm now spanning the globe conducting business across multiple industry sectors. A market leader. The utmost integrity guiding a principled trajectory. His dream. Her dream for him. Happening. Real. An achievement. The apex.

Her one wish is that this would be his noble house. His hearth. That it would challenge his intellect and inspire his path. She knows it will. This knowledge washes over her bringing a gentle inner peace. Her boy had become the man she envisioned over two decades ago in their Carnegie Hill apartment near the park. Cherished memories to fill a lifetime of dreams.

Cheers to my love. My darling son. Godspeed in a few months. With your mother's love, admiration and awe.

Stubborn Pioneer Woman

In my transition to becoming an adult I became not only self reliant but fiercely independent.

For those of you who know me well (and there are a few of you who do) ... or have endeavored to catch up through these highly honest musings (check out the blog from January 8th for a quick catch-up Bluegrass, City Lights, Cowgirl Boots ... and all that jazz) ... understand the whys and wherefores. How this came to be.

I am reminded all too frequently by my darling friends and neighbors that even when I am sick as a dog with beads of fever glistening my entire body and chills running up and down my spine ... or as in the past few weeks of this damaged right knee (which by the way feels oh so much better today so I think the sun shining into my home really has a magical, medicinal quality to it) prevents me from navigating gracefully, or at all, through the winding layout of my 160 year old home ... I do not reach out for assistance. Nope. Not even a "hey, when you go to Garden Street Market can you pick me up a ________ ?" [Fill in the blank with anything from a quart of skim milk to a small bag of peanut M&Ms to Charmin.] I can do it. And, do. Or be without.

But today I am stymied. Baffled. Been on the screened porch trying to maneuver. UNCLE. I simply cannot carry anything that weighs more than a few ounces or is fragile while hobbling from door frame to table to chest of drawers. I need my hands for balance. Not ballast. I need to ask someone for help. The indignity!

So imagine Deb's surprise this afternoon when I emailed AND phoned her at work to inquire as to whether she or her sweet husband would mind dragging my very heavy, overstuffed recycling bin to the curb in the still pouring rain and while you are here grab the 45 pound of Bailey food from the back of the car and bring it into the closet. They jumped at the chance.

Amazing. I could get used to this ... hmmmm, what's it referred to? Being pampered!

Cheers to luxuriating on the sofa, cold glass of iced tea with a spring of mint in hand!

Canes, Walkers, Crutches ... Oh My

Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

Not even close. I was so used to skipping along rock strewn paths. Dancing in my big girl shoes at milongas. Or two-steppin' and line dancin' in my tan suede cowgirl boots across floors covered with saw dust and peanut shells. Not this week. Or next. Or apparently for the next 3 to 6 weeks. Fingers crossed it won't be longer.

Throbbing knee twisted to and fro, up and down, in and out. Nope. No break. No torn cartilage. Not even the arthritis I was expecting. Just severely sprained ligaments. Injuries sustained on the dance floor at fuchsia light show, disco popping Club Izzy. Delayed reaction. And I was having so much fun. Twirling effortlessly to a Latin beat. Then a bit of soul. Followed by some vintage rock and roll. All fueled by a few too many gin martinis. It brought me to my knees. Literally.

No x-rays required. Just the same ol' same ol' that I have been doing for the past ten days. Ice. Advil. Naproxen. And ... to beat the of-the-moment band that rocked the house ... drum roll ... crutches. Noooooooooo. Then a cane. Noooooooooooo. I am not gonna take it anymore. I've got to get outta this place. If it's the last thing I ever do. I don't want to grow up.

When did I navigate with fellow sojourners along the yellow brick road through abundant poppy fields into the strange new world? Was it just this morning? I am still dizzy from my travels. So this is what it is like rounding the bend. Nearing the proverbial six oh. I swear. I am not going to take it laying down. Nor any other way. Just click my ruby slippers. Turn back the hands of time.

Bring on the magic potion from the font of youth. This girl needs some cheer!

Back to the Future

Rewind the clock. Backward. Glimpse into what might have been. The 'if onlys'. Not the regrets. Nor the shoulda-woulda-coulda insights. No. None of that. Just select the Reset button. Double-click on Restore Defaults. Defrag the hard drive so to speak. Shake it out. Clear my head. Polish the rose colored glasses. Sand the cracking lens. Refocus. Swallow to remove the persistent lump in my throat.

These past few months have been doozies. In fact the prior half year. Winter blahs. Flooding basement. Shrinking wallet. Feigned smiles. Energized only by my writings. My musings. My dreams. Not quite knowing how I will pull it off. Reaching deep inside for the energies to refashion my life. Quiet the storm. Reimagine the possibilities.

Now my right knee is crippling my daily strolls with my beloved Bailey through our village neighborhood and climbs up the curved stairs with very narrow steps built by out of work ship carpenters in the mid 19th century to my bedroom. My spirit is also crippled with the inability to perambulate freely in or out of the house.

The good news? That proverbial silver lining I seek in every life trial? I cannot get to the kitchen as often! I have dropped ten pounds. No exercise!

Weather.com forecasts sun for tomorrow. With mild breezes in the high 50s. Now that lightens my mood considerably. Anyway ... too much introspection makes Alice a dull and tiresome girl.

Thursday will be cheerier. N'est-ce pas?

Sump Pumps, Wet Vacs and a 4.4 Quake

Bummer. Pots of gold? Luck of the Irish? Hardly. More like pots and pots and pots of ground water seeping from every crevice and crack in my 160 year old cellar. Five more inches of rain soaked the already saturated earth. Sump pumps humming. Wet vac working overtime. I really didn't need this. Not now.

Arrived home to a starry mild dark blue night. The gorgeous off the chart week of sunshine, my darling sister's celebration week brilliant in my mind's eye. Perfectly orchestrated. Paradise. All of it. Sister time. Niece and nephew time. Extended family and childhood friends. Picture perfect in and out. Through and through. Newport Beach cloudless azure skies. Snow-capped San Gabriel mountains In the distance. Rocky Catalina Island just a waitin' for me!

Wouldn't you know it? Just as the calm spread like silk through my being, fury was erupting on the other coast. A heads up that anyone can be thrown out of paradise. Doesn't take much. A bite from an apple. A rejection from the big apple. The apple of my eye.

A spring Nor'easter churned the clouds again. Poured rain by the foot. The weather gods and Mother Nature angry. Very. Flexing their muscles. Conspiring and cajoling. The Los Angeles ground shimmied at 4:30 yesterday morning. The harbinger. The alarm to get out of bed, get dressed and move, girl. Don't miss the flight. Not the BIG one, mind you. But most assuredly a wake up call to get my ass in gear. A creaking realignment by the psychic omniscient chiropractor. The atmosphere fraught with subliminal messages. My inner peace at risk. Shaken. Not stirred. Olives banging me on the head. Zapping me to reality.

LLBean duck shoes. My nightgown wrapped around my waist. Middle of the night treks to the damp, now mildewing basement to suck the water oozing through the cracks. Tears mixed with streams of water lapping at my feet. Need to dry it up. Bring on the vermouth.

Forecast for tomorrow? Drier with less puddling. Cheers to the lemony crocus peering out of the soggy earth!

Changing Closets

Lump in my throat. During the 90 minute drive home this afternoon. All the way from Cambridge up I-95. Snizzle wetting the windshield. Tears in my eyes. It's almost over. An era drawing to an end. Happy-sad. My boy is growing up. My darling Charlie.

Wasn't it just last week that his long graceful yet still chubby fingers wrapped tightly around mine as he nervously clutched his yellow plastic lunch box in the other hand? A teensy navy and green backpack monogrammed of course held an extra pair of undies and Madison ... just in case. First day of school. He was two. One day a week. Mondays. Mothers' Day Out. For me - Mothers' Day In - For a few weeks I waited the several hours as he dealt with the separation. First on the comfy bench outside his classroom. Graduating to the sofa in the director's office. Until finally I could go do some errands before picking him up after lunch. We both managed beautifully. The days have melted into one another. Years zipping by, smiling. Laughing. Learning. Experiencing.

Yesterday he finished the eighty-eight page draft of his honors thesis on the decolonization of Hong Kong. 88. Double infinity. An auspicious number for the Chinese. Symbolizing fortune and wealth. The luckiest of all numbers. The year of his birth. The month of his birth. His first night sleeping in his crib yellow and white chintz, Madison and Monkey Doodles at his side, at home. 8/8/88. The sun shines on my baby. He is blessed. The fortunate one. It has been a most delicious dream dripping love. Discoveries. Adventures. The most profound pleasure ... these past two decades. The 'dynamic duo' imagining the possibilities.

He graduates from college in May. So today marks the end of our annual ritual. Switching closets from winter corduroys, wool cable knit sweaters, scarves and boots to the pastels of spring. Since he schools away from home, and has for six years, this is not your typical up to the attic or down to the basement. Uh-uh. It involves me, my station wagon, many LL Bean bags and a 90 minute trek down I-95. The mid-March drive to Massachusetts. Back of my Volvo filled to the brim with Charlie's spring clothes and warm weather gear on the way down; winter woolens and down parkas on the way home.

Next year he might be in Hong Kong or Singapore. No need for seasonal changes of clothes. Summer year round. Or in Moscow. Yes. There he'll need to switch from winter warm and cozy to summer lights. Or in London. But the Volvo won't be making the trek. No longer. C'est fini. Obsolescence. The mama needs. My sweet boy will be changing before someone else's eyes. All grown up and out in the world. Rooted. Loved. Cherished. No matter the season.

Cheers to my heart ... his journey ... and him knowing I am always here at the ready. Always!

B and J: Textured

I don't even want to go there. A crone? Bah humbug. Marginalized. Cast to the side. Barren, unfruitful, disagreeable. A hag, no less. Well! I know better than most. That my mothering days are drawing to their rightful conclusion. A mama, yes. Just not needing to fuss. To nurture. Not nature. To love unconditionally as I puff his wings and give them loft.

But a dried up ol' prune? I am indignant. What happened to 'the new 40s'? That I was getting into. Really looking forward to ... reliving my forties with wisdom and a sense of adventure. Maybe that's it. The wisdom part. Not the disgruntled, wizened part. That's what I will glom onto. To raise my glass in good cheer ... a protective figure advising the young travelers of what lies ahead. A woman of the mist. Leading the way to good fortune. Wisdom. Yes! I'll buy that.

Even Tarot concurs. The High Priestess. My reading this morning.

[I know. I know. Throw the mystical deck far, far away! Seize the moment. Not the card. But somehow I cannot. I love the intrigue. Fitting the interpretation into this journey. Day by day. So shoot me. Or ignore me. Just know that I am gonna keep up with the occult. You just never know! And today's? Well it is a dead-balls accurate assessment of moi. And these, after all, are my musings.]

Anyhoo, it goes something like this: Feminine wisdom encompassing three stages of the life cycle - Maiden, Mother, Crone. Wisdom that considers all things, all religions, all viewpoints. Openness to the world view without judgment. Divine truth. The letters B and J represent two columns, one black (Boaz), one white (Jachin), in the Temple of Solomon, the wisest man of his time. Nothing is completely black or white. All things must be considered equally. A strong and wise female presence. Trust in intuition or gut feelings.

And ... I am not only trusting of my gut, my innermost analysis, but am a study in contrasts. A walking paradox. An oxymoron. Yin and yang. You know that about me. No need to elaborate. Been set forth multiple times since this wild ride began with the new year.

The I-Ching. Yin-yang. Composed of two Chinese characters. The second character means a book, a profound book. The first character means ease or change. "The Book of Ease" or "The Book of Changes". Nothing is easy for me except change. I relish it. Seek it out. Celebrate it. Life in chapters encompassing both sides of the coin at different times. Navigating the peaks and valleys with relative facility. I am happiest and most at peace in flux.

Rich coffers. Empty wallet. Highest honors. Underemployment. Masculine. Feminine. Unchanging rules within the cycles of the sun, the seasons. One cannot live without the other. One cannot experience the joys of life without knowing the depths of misery. Hand in glove. Seamless understanding. Shades of grey. Black as night. White as the brilliant stars shining.

Cheers ... to the dichotomies within each of us!

Recipe for a Steel Magnolia

Prep Time: 59 years
Serves: Graciously

• In a cast-iron cauldron stir some spicy confidence mixed with a touch of southern grace.
• Blend in a schtick of northeastern sophistication and a pinch of sass.
• Add a soupçon of irreverence, a splash of wit and sprinkle generously with a sense of self.
• Gently fold in a mixture of humility and compassion letting the mixture soften.
• Place in a temperate oven overnight to infuse the nuanced flavors.
• Serve this warm dish with a splash of soul and a dollop of sweet confections.

A delicious accompaniment for friendly buffets, dinner parties extraordinaire or a casual, intimate affair. Also stands well on its own.

Cheers to an old favorite tried and true. Bon appétit!

Lesson Learning

The teacher has arrived chez moi. Textbooks opened. Pencils poised. Calculators charged. I am abuzz with learning. Need a reality check every so often to spin things back into perspective. Provide a new path. Renew plans.

Well by now you, gentle readers, know that I am in the process of re-imagining the next steps. Who I want to be when I grow up. Don't want to be whooshed into the funnel cloud. Time is a'wasting. The runway is shorter. My wings need loft. Or I need to change aircrafts. A Bell helicopter will navigate the abbreviated tarmac better than a supersonic jet. Lifting straight up. No straight-away needed. Up, up and away.

I need to elevate. Rise up. Float above the clouds for a wider view of the magical possibilities out there. An expansive glance at the array of opportunities. Wow. My goggles unsteam and I peer through the cracked lens. Mother Earth offers up some exciting and innovative options. Contributions await. New memories to create.

But first I need to reflect on the lessons learned. The bits of me that might have been sucked out by the vortex of a waning client base, a transcontinental relocation and a shrinking economy. The bandwidth is limited. Very, very crowded for card-carrying AARP members. Twentysomething whipper-snappers chomping at the proverbial bit to replace seasoned experience with high octane energy and newly minted graduate degrees. But this boomer is not quite ready to acquiesce. Nope not yet. The passion rises up. My heart races. And no, it is not fibrillations!

So in preparation (drum roll) the requisite review of lessons learned in the 21st century just as the window of opportunity falls all too quickly from sashes unbraiding and worn. Gotta pull my fingers away from the sill before it comes crashing down. My timing is good. Always was. No worries here.

Ten things realized:

1. I have surprised myself by how well I have coped.
2. I possess a wellspring of enormous resources, inner strength and a strong sense of self.
3. Even when things are dismal, they are not as bad as imagined.
4. I am in control of my life ... always.
5. Humor is the one character trait I cannot live without. Integrity the other.
6. Fear is double-sided: one motivates; the other paralyzes.
7. I give of myself regardless.
8. Disappointment is inevitable. Manage your expectations.
9. My family and friends surprise me with their generosity.
10. Dare to imagine the possibilities.

To my darling family and dear friends, and to my twin souls (you know who you are), cheers! Always.