Who He’s Been

Piictu ran a weekend contest entitled “The Four Moment Story.” @martha (that would be me!) submitted this piece, and it was chosen as one of the eleven final winners. ‘Twas a nice bit of creative acknowledgement to start the week.

About Joy

This is about joy.

Not the – it’s Christmas morning, and Santa came last night, and you’re sure you’re getting what you want this year – kind of joy. Not the – your favorite football team just won their big game, and you saw the whole thing from the fifty yard line (with a beer and a hotdog!) – kind of joy. Not even the – I just had a nice massage, and then my lover made me dinner – sort of joy.

This is about joy that you have learned the hard way to pay attention to. It’s the small stuff that you have to dig a bit in unyielding and rocky soil to uncover. And when you finally get your fingers on it -– it’s tarnished and maybe even dented or cracked, but it’s basically whole and more importantly, it’s actually there – in the palm of your hand.

This is about acknowledging that bad things happen, have happened and may come again, and that taking stock in what is precious in this moment is the way to find hope.

Last February, my son had a relapse with cancer; today he is whole and vibrant and in remission. Seeing him walk through the front door is my joy. I have dear friends whose aging parents are struggling these days; my own mom and dad are slowing down, but their minds are sharp and their humor is whole. Listening to them laugh is my joy. Over the years I have disrupted my children’s lives with selfish choices by dragging them along on rollercoaster marriage rides and turbulent career risks. And still they turn to me for guidance, hope and inspiration; their unflappable faith is my joy.

The sleek black cat purring in the window seat, the folks at work who make me think more creatively, the ten-year old car that is rattling like a haunted house yet still gets us where we need to go, the friends I know who smile when we see each other, the safety I feel in the arms of my beloved….these things are my joy.

It’s true, school wasn’t canceled today because of the snow. And it’s true, children throughout town were disappointed and grumbling. And it’s also true that it’s lightly snowing again now, and it’s beautiful to see from this warm spot.

This is about joy. It’s not so complicated.

School's still in session...Snow Day (m.l.p. 2012)

Sundial Perspectives

 

She sleeps

For David, November 2011

During the summer of 2005, David Grubbs was one of several young high school interns that I hired to work and play with kids in a local fine arts camp. He was wonderfully patient with the younger children, respectful to his peers and cohorts, and whole-heartedly kind to everyone.

Because he was so composed, David was frequently assigned duties that included guiding some of the more rambunctious students throughout their activities. He would quietly step up, grin at the kids, and engage them in whatever task was at hand. The young campers adored him.

Like every intern, David brought many skills and a particularly special talent to camp that summer. His bass fiddle showed up by his side each and every day, and he stood ready to accompany younger musicians whenever called on for a good beat and reliable backup. Between the relaxed, humble, yet “cool” way he would rest against his fiddle like it was an old pal, and his solid good-nature, David was easy to admire and even easier to care about and genuinely like.

The day that the spontaneous lunchtime jam session occurred, with all the kids resting in the shade under big pine trees, I knew we were a part of an indelible memory moment: summer sunlight, live jazz, inspired musicians, a rapt audience and peace.

Today, in the wake of David’s death, I am both saddened and deeply honored to have been able to see him shine in such a special way. My heart goes out to his family and the friends who knew him better. David was a tender spark of light, and he will be missed.

Simple Steps to Save a Life

Ready?
Set…
Please click this link to a short BLOG for a quick read.

Next, please click the links in the blog. (Or click HERE)

GO!! Become a donor.

Note beautiful young man in photo below: leukemia survivor, lucky un-related matched donor stem cell transplant recipient. My son.

 

 

Not just another version

Used to be – that the Sunday morning flow of life was just another version of something that happened last week. Like folding laundry or dishes to wash, there was a sameness and redundancy that sadly, I had resigned to. Rather than remembering the rhythm and potentially peaceful meditation of the “chores” that I was blessed to have before me, all I saw and felt was the burden of what I foolishly had come to believe were tasks – not blessings.

And then we got turned upside down by crisis. And now, we are slowly – carefully – finding a new balance that includes joy born from grief, courage despite fear, faith more determined than cancer, and learning to celebrate the small chores – because they are the stuff that awake hearts are made of.

Sunday morning. The house is quiet. My lover is  off watching his favorite football team with a buddy. My two older kids just tossed their soccer boots on the front porch and grabbed their little sister to go out for a bagel. Dishes are in the sink, clean towels are piled nearby – waiting to be folded, dough is rising for homemade pizza later; this life is full, messy, deliberate and real. Thank goodness.

 

Chain Mail

For those of you who have recently received a recent chain email….

Here’s what I would invite you to send to whomever sent it your way, as well as encouragement for the sender to “re-send’ this letter to their contacts:

Dear Friend,
1) Regarding the poem “Slow Dance.”  It was written and is copy written by David Weatherford.http://www.davidlweatherford.com/slowdance.html

While I’m sure Mr. Weatherford is flattered, he’d probably also appreciate being accurately credited for his lovely poem with its wonderful message.

2) Regarding the story about the girl dying of cancer and the donations that the American Cancer Society will make – IT”S FICTION.

Check your facts, folks. Especially before hitting the send button.
http://www.snopes.com/inboxer/medical/slowdance.asp -or- http://www.breakthechain.org/exclusives/slowdance.html

Finally, as a mother of a child who is surviving cancer, I’m pretty disgusted – but hopeful that this response might actually spark a FACTUAL difference.

If you want to donate to the American Cancer Society, try this:
https://www.cancer.org/involved/donate/  -or-

(“our family’s” cancer) The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society:
http://www.lls.org/#/waystohelp/donate/  -or -

The place where my son has spent so much time for the past two years, Oregon Health Sciences University:http://www.ohsu.edu/xd/health/services/cancer/how-you-can-help/make-a-gift/index.cfm -or -

COUNTLESS other hardworking, dedicated, full of heart and integrity, REAL organizations who are working every day to help people survive this monster disease.

If half the people who were sent this chain mail would actually donate or volunteer in the fight against cancer, imagine how beautiful just sending this to everyone in your contacts would be.

Please pay more attention. Life is short.

Martha

Skid in Broadside…

“Life should not be
a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely
in a pretty and well-preserved body,
but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke,
thoroughly used up,
totally worn out,
and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”
~Hunter S. Thompson

How Would You Live Then?

How Would You Live Then?

What if a hundred rose-breasted grosbeaks
blew in circles around your head?  What if
the mockingbird came into the house with you and
became your advisor?  What if
the bees filled your walls with honey and all
you needed to do was ask them and they would fill
the bowl?  What if the brook slid downhill just
past your bedroom window so you could listen
to its slow prayers as you fell asleep?  What if
the stars began to shout their names, or to run
this way and that way above the clouds?  What if
you painted a picture of a tree, and the leaves
began to rustle, and a bird cheerful sang
from its painted branches?  What if you suddenly saw
that the silver of water was brighter than the silver
of money?  What if you finally saw
that the sunflowers, turning toward the sun all day
and every day — who knows  how, but they do it — were
more precious, more meaningful than gold?

~ Mary Oliver