Five. Two. Fifty-two. 52. Five decades and two years.

Now I'm 52.  A new number!  Bright and shiny.  Barely blemished it is so brand new.  So far, 52 has been waking up at 7 in a ball of dog fur.  It has been coffee at the 'Bean with Mer.  It has been Weatherspoon Art Gallery with the FYE class and Maia, lunch with Maia and writing time here at the 'bux.  It has already been happy birthday singing from my son, my friend, well wishes from Olivia in NJ, and loads of Facebook messages.  One of the FYE students asked "how does it feel?" to which I replied, "it feels like a big number."  But you know, I wish I'd said "it feels great"  because it does.  It feels great.  It feels like being afloat on a raft between the christening splash in the water (as I think today about my Mom becoming a Mom, and my grandmother becoming a grandmother...) and whatever waterfalls are ahead.  It's okay.  I'm grateful for this place where I can see.  Yes, I'm here on the shaky impermanence of a raft, but for now it's holding me up and moving me along.  That raft is giving me a pretty good vantage point.  I could get all caught up in guessing how big the waterfalls are going to be, but I have a feeling that would only cause this little raft to rock and roll so much I just might slip into the drink too soon!  I could also wrench my neck around to look back and see where I've been.  Why not around THAT tree?  Why not ride that rapid?    I'm pretty sure all that neck wrenching would toss me off that raft.  Nope, the idea here might be to stay on the raft.  Maybe I could even enjoy the raft and the ride.  I can groove it!  Feel it!  Ride it!  It'll be okay!  I've got to go where the river leads but I can also paddle or not, turn or not, stop or not, look around or not.  It's my raft.  Not bad for five decades.

Fire Sunday writing folders dogs I like Sunday

Warm Wilmington

It was warm alright.  But not just in the "I can take my shoes off and put my feet in the ocean" way.  It was "warm" in so many other ways.  First of all, how can a weekend playing in the state tennis tourney be anything but warm, and I mean on the inside of your ever-lovin' tennis heart?  Secondly, how can a weekend in a town where your best friend is also who can't wait to see you play tennis be less than super warm?  Third, how can it be sub-warm if you have man friends who are also there and also want to see you play (and who are dying for you to watch them play?).  But finally and most of all, how can your weekend be anything but toasty warm your heart kind of warm if you are there with the people you love spending time with the most in the world...your children.  My children.  I will never, ever stop relishing our moments in the sun last weekend.  Arm in arm, walking along the streets of Wilmington, my beloveds made me laugh, interested me with their stories and conversations, delighted me with their own beautiful relationship and gifted me with their full attention.  I snuggled in between them as we walked along, soaking in the sheer joy of it all.   I tried to soak it all in through my very through my very roots, consciously trying to absorb the moment.    At the same time, I could almost see us from afar, like a picture frame or movie we were in my mind.  I watched with immense gratitude and thanksgiving.   These two are more than my children.  They are the people who I want to be with, who challenge me, who interest me, who entertain me, and who love me.  

There was even more warmth.  I know, it is almost too much.  The weather was perfectly beautiful. Crisp but not cold.  Sunny.  I could do what I do best....bake on warm surfaces like a lizard.  I got to lay on the beach with my daughter, watching my son, tall and lanky in his wet suit, venture out into the surf.  I got to see his sheer enjoyment of those moments in the ocean, catching some of his first legitimate rides on a board.  I got to see his maturity and sticktoitiveness.  I got to see his enormous feet waving in the air as he paddled his board, my daughter and I cracking up at the sight of those two white "flags" in the sea.  I got to see how tall he looked as he unfolded from his board pop up moment to full height as he rode the wave in (insert his gigantic smile here).

Do you value moments more when you know they are fleeting?  Do you value them more when you eek out your pennies to make them happen, hoping you can make it to the next pay check?  Do you understand your life better when you know you are a "have" even though, compared to your past, you know you are viewed as a "have not?"  All the answers, for me, seem to be a resounding yes.

Mammals in airports

(This has been sitting in draft since late September!)

KCI, Kansas City International, is homegrown and small enough for me to be sitting, right now, at the end of the security check in area.  You know, the place where men and women put their shoes, belts and jackets back on, and where they put all those little 4 oz. vials of personal care products back into their suitcases, hoping that no one sees their toe fungus meds, rogaine or hormone replacement pills (are they pills?  I'm just too young to know yet!).  This is a great vantage point for me.  I'm am utterly fascinated by what happens to us at airports.  I mean, where else does all our mammal-ness come out both flamboyantly and sadly?  We trudge up to prove that we are who our little plastic ID cards say we are.  Last time I checked in, I had my glasses on.  I did not have those spectacles on in my photo ID picture.  The man eyed me up and down so I had to reassure him - "same gray hairs sir."  He nodded and allowed me to pass.  Then the de-robing begins.  I don't know about you, but I always feel sort of foolish when I start stripping my belt and shoes (and today I didn't even have socks on - my pedicure needs an overhaul, was anyone looking?), and start unloading my pockets.  I am certain that someone somewhere is keeping video footage of all this and is going to make the most hilarious and telling documentary about us to show to the people of the next century, or to folks on another planet.  (Side note - the most beautiful two priests are just putting themselves back together - white haired, collared gents who, if I was the security guard, I'd wave through and ask them simply to pray for me).  So I proceed, feeling like someone who is being duped by some big sister in the sky - "ha ha ha" she says.  "Do you really just do everything that you are told to do?"

Besides feeling dumb, something else happens to me when I'm baring the soles of my feet to strangers - the strangers suddenly feel like friends.  I often imagine bubbles above our heads with thoughts like "WHAT are we doing?"  and "let's go rogue!" and  "I'll make sure you don't leave your phone or your belt in this plastic container-I've got your back" and "please don't look closely at my personal hygiene items," or "wow, we all brush our teeth and we all know to put the toothbrush and paste in  the clear plastic bag."   Oh, you could go on and on wondering what we are all collectively thinking.  It feels sort of intimate doesn't it?  I mean, it's kind of interesting when a handsome man is next to you, taking off his belt, and is in his sock feet - makes you wonder things. Ok, it makes me wonder things.

I think of the elderly folks who are going through this rigamarole.  Really?  You are going to make that 90 year old, dignified woman take her shoes off and dismantle all of her bags?  Do you know how long it must've taken her to pack and organize those bags perfectly for this journey?  Ok, maybe I'm wishing they would consider that when I come through!  Maybe, just maybe, I'm identifying more intently these days with older women.  I digress.

After we strip ourselves bare, proving to be worthy of going to the next step...there is the NEXT STEP looming in front of us:  the passage way to the giant, metal tube that leaves the ground.  I tell you, if that doesn't bring some mammals together I don't know what does.  We've all made it through security, and are experiencing a sort of "ahhhh" moment, celebrating the fact that we passed.  And then, like lambs to the slaughter, we realize we made it through to ....this????   Again, I feel duped.  I jumped through hoops and followed the rules, but my reward is that I get to put my mammal self on this crazy ass large metal thing that someone is going to fly in the air?  I look around at my fellow mammals.  I kind of feel sorry for all of us.  I don't care what anyone says, this is scary stuff.  We have relinquished all of our control.  We have no idea who is driving this bus.  Did they just have a fight with their significant other?  Are they gasping for air from a broken heart?  (Neither of those two comments have anything to do with me by the way.)  Did he or she party all night?  We all ask these questions in the deep recesses of our minds - they are too scary for the forefront.  So, we all are standing there - it doesn't matter if we are doctors, lawyers, or Indian chiefs - we are all in the same boat literally,  at that moment.  Sweet and sad are these airport moments.

One by one er trudge forward, cattle- like in our movement through the gate.  I can almost hear the mooing sometimes.  Once on, the battle for space, comfort and pure perseverance begins.  This part of the trek is about posturing and decisions.  Will I be able to coordinate my overhead storage moment with my carry on bag that I keep at my seat?  Will I knock someone unconscious as I sling my bag up over my head?  Will I luck out and be the first one on my row, or will I have to do the aisle dance with my row mates?  The big decision for me is about small talk.  Am I going to engage the person next to me or not?  You'd think I would take advantage of these opportunities to have an encounter with fellow traveler, after all we've just been through together in the terminal.  Also, in my line of work (as if I have one) which is discovering stories, you'd think I'd go after the one right next to me - the one practically, but hopefully not literally,  in my lap.  But most of the time in these situations, my introvert wins.  She wants to hunker down deep into the pages of book or magazine.  Beyond that, my defense mechanism of narcoleptic- like ability to pass out on planes kicks in most of the time.  I can be in a deep sleep in no time on a plane.  It is a nice buffer to my phobic separation anxiety that I started experiencing once I became a mother.  It usually kicks in before we're off the ground, for which I'm grateful.  I get to miss all that trauma about leaving the earth and all.  Don't get me wrong, I can do the meet and greet and make nice with my seat mates, but it is short lived most of the time.  I did meet Harold from California years ago.  He was an older gent and we talked for hours on a plane from somewhere to Denver.  He was a gift at a terribly confusing time in my life.  So, I don't want to look opportunity in the face and write it off.

...Over a month has passed.  I made it from sky to ground, one more time.  I am so grateful.  I am always grateful to get home to North Carolina.  I love North Carolina.  I love my home.  I love my momentary home of the Dripolator coffee shop in Black Mountain.  I'm on a trip to play connector person with beloved friends.  Now, I've been inside too long an a perfect November day writing..  Gotta get out there before it gets dark.  Today's mission:  absorb beauty.

Who is in Black Mountain today?

Walking back in this now familiar town, it turns out that I brought many of the selves with me.  Do they all fit together to make one nice Karrie, or are they competing with each other, lost in the wilderness of identity?  Crisp air, bright sunshine, leaves that are hanging on to orange, red and gold is the backdrop of my wandering. First to the outdoor store, and the allure of functional clothing with it's clean lines and built in warmth.  Fabric to surround myself with that will embrace me and care for me.  Today, it was a hat purchase that had me fired up. Me and hats - we have an ongoing argument.  The hat wants to take away all distraction from my face, and my mind doesn't want to gaze at that face.  Hats give me no choice.  There it is, the 51 year old face with crow's feet and skin that is settling into the middle part of my next in a very relaxed sort of posing, big teeth that for some reason also seem to be migrating a bit leaving a sneaky new little gap in the middle, squinty eyes, prominent nose and then the ever-absent chin.  "Hello FACE" as I snatch 99% of tried on hats off my head as quickly as possible.  But today, in the comfort of the sturdy outdoors store, I found a fleece hat that I think I can work with.  It seems to have some simple and forgiving qualities, and, the older I get, the more I appreciate  a comfortable body temperature.   Next stop, the consignment store.  Big dogs and little dogs are around with their people, and I miss mine.  Couples and women with their shopping companion bffs are all also around.  Do I feel lonely?  Am I lonely?  I don't think I have time to be lonely, yet.  I'm too busy thinking about how I used to feel on trips to tourist villages.  I see remnants of my former self in the young women who ooooh and ahhhh about the lovely little Christmas decorations they could mount on their shiny, well dusted surfaces back home.  Are they thinking about how their homes will look and feel during the holidays they way I used to?  I'm not going to beat former, over the top, consumer self here, because I think I have always been on a quest to create a hospitable, warm, comforting environment around me but I just didn't know how to get at it the right way.  Are purposes shaped by your environment?  Could my hunger to provide nourishment of all kinds around me and the people I care about have been born from my Mother's introversion and fears?  I think she was fearful of being discovered.  I think she carried a great deal of shame and wanted to do the opposite of feathering an attractive nest that others would want to curl up in.  I don't know the answer, but this calls to mind my first "real" vocational job at Lutheran Ministry in the Fenway.  My job was to create just such an environment in the campus ministry apartment.  Art von Au actually explained "hospitality" to me as a gift and a skill and a function.  After all these years, I'm still trying to figure out if this is my gift and calling and if I can believe that it's legitimate.  Any fantasies I do have of the future, come to think of it, do involve a smoking fireplace kind of atmosphere where some folks from some unknown "where" are wanting to be.  Are they students?  Are they alumni of a small liberal arts college?  Are they art therapy clients?  Are they farmhands?

Back to the consignment store.  I was still looking for warmth and comfort and found a little piece of it there:  a large, fleece! pancho.  It is the perfect color, slateish brown, and a great size meaning big.  It envelopes me and I love that.  At this life moment where I should not be making any purchases, I have now purchased two fleece items, for myself.  Well, at least I've found a way to fill the "guilty" requirement on this trip.  Otherwise,  I might not have been able to tolerate the beauty of this day and the circumstances that could quite possibly unfold with this dinner event I've planned for tonight (Keisers, Patti Digh, Laura Collins, Cyndi Briggs).

As I walked slowly through the other shops and down the streets of Black Mountain, I am an observer, mostly of myself.  I remember how I used to feel drawn to trinkets and gifts.  I remember the short-lived thrill of buying a card, a scarf or a mug even, or especially, when it was for someone else.  I remember not worrying about the bank account while at the same time the intense guilt after considering or purchasing anything.  This created a long standing dilemma of being a" have", but feeling like a" have not. "

In some ways, today is similar to recent days with tennis friends.  Now, when I spend any time with the tennis ladies, I have such an odd self-concept.  I wonder, do they see me the way the used to, or, has my change in status (marital, economic, employment) changed their perception of me?  Can they see me straddling my self that awkwardly navigated her way into the country club life and my self who has found her way (back?) to being a richly impoverished single woman?  How would I be treated if they saw my house, my dogs, and my bed when I lay my head down each night between Jack Russell and Pyranees!?  And honestly, even moreso, how do they see me without a husband, or a boyfriend?  How do I see me?

Last night, I saw "The Help" with Joseph.  It was great to see it a second time and now with him.  The sad reality of the culture I was plopped into at birth is important for the kids' sense of history.  It was not lost on Joseph.  I wish they were both here today.  I love being with them more than anyone in the world.  Last night when he was getting out of the car, he asked me to do him a favor:  "would you Ask Beth if she would still consider editing my book?"   It is moments like those that that leave me satisfied and so grateful.

How is this all related?  It has something to do with how I am going to choose everyday to be in this tiny part of the world.  Maybe it does have something to do with 'fractals."