Monthly Archives: December 2011

who am i? well, here’s a start:


i’m really winging it today; something is telling me to talk about this and something is telling me to not care if anyone reads it or likes it or relates to it. but i always tell people to tell their stories because we all have one and so how can i actually tell people to tell their stories when i still keep mine packed away? after all, my kids know the mom they experience and i am doing this blog for them too so they have a sense of who i am and why they are and so it’s a necessary part of the process for me to do this for all of us.

before you panic, chill. i’m not about to blow the cover off some sacred family secret or share my well of woes with you. that’s private and personal and while it’s part of the 21st century definition of my story, it’s really no one’s business but mine. i may watch YouTube but i’m not a lay-it-all-out-there-in-all-its-nakedness type of person. most of that is because of my breeding, i’m certain. and don’t go all “she’s totally repressed! busted!” on me because well, that’s absurd.

what i’d like to write about and sorta get off my chest is a feeling of disconnect that i often experience with people whom i actually love very much intellectually but feel ambivalent about emotionally. these people inspire me, they stir me, they throw mirrors in my face and they vex me but they are the ones who day in and day out, no matter where i am or the distance apart physically, they are on standby. and i dig that. i am blessed. these people know me deeply, they should know who they are and the safety i feel with them nourishes me. so it’s because of them that i’m here and i’m writing anything online. i hope they’re here too.

i’ve recently taken to having pen and paper near the bedside because i’ve been waking in the middle of the night for the past few months almost with an urging, tender but persistent, to get up and write. i wake with these fabulous ideas, give my muse, God love her, a pat on the fanny and tell her to go back to bed and that i’ll get on it in the morning. come the sunrise: the ideas are vapor.

i have faith they’ll be back, and while i don’t mean this to sound lazy, i just do have that faith because we are all creatures experiencing renewal all the time. if we forget that we have thrown in the towel. i woke this morning with the phrase: “i grew up with a fair amount of chaos.”

part of my story obviously involves my parents who made me and are still with us, thank goodness. i’m not the best daughter. i have bristle issues when it comes to my parents and i think the fact that i’m even admitting this shows a little bit of growth. there are things i’d like to do for my parents, be more a part of their lives but i’ve gotta get to peace with some stuff before i can really do it. helping them grows my heart, that is for certain. we had a situation a couple years ago where my brother and i were able to really assist them and it felt great to do. i didn’t like the circumstances that engendered the assistance, but we do these things when we can. so there is a part of me though, deep inside, that resists. and being a “couch time” veteran, i know that what we resist persists. so i’m trying to step into it a bit. babysteps.

so, i grew up with a fair amount of chaos.

i read with great relish about 5 years ago Augusten Burroughs’ Running with Scissors which reminded me at moments of my own days. but mine weren’t quite so woo-woo and despite the chaos and the real problems in that world of ours i was infinitely safer than Augusten and am thus slightly more stable. his writing is outstanding though so if you get a chance, read about him and try him.

i read some time later Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. that memoir also spoke to me. she’s fantastic and  inhabits a world with her parents (her mother survives; i believe her dad has died) that appeals to me: it’s a sort of “love them how you can and let them live they way they want” method and at times i feel as though i am exquisitely close and then intellect steps in and i’m out.

i read Broken by William Moyers, son of PBS journalist Bill Moyers. this book helped me from the standpoint of being an observer of what he has experienced and the gift it gave me is perspective and a modicum of patience for those circumstances.

if you know these books, you know their central theme.

my parents are brilliant people. i mean off-the-charts IQs and abilities that astound me even in their late 70s and almost 80s.

my mother can recite Shakespeare’s sonnets off the first two words if you happen to be quoting within earshot. and you best know your shit because she will correct the mistake playfully but with the confidence of a pit shark in vegas. she can play Gershwin, Porter, a little Beethoven on the ivories by ear… both hands. she can illustrate and catch the subtle nuances (which are super subtle, by the way, so they seem even more esoteric to many) of life’s inconsistencies. her two senses of five i suppose are what power her: hearing and sight. they fill her mind and imagination with the gifts she shares. they also can crowd her mind with darkness and fixations. she grew up in the 40s and 50s; a teenager by 1950. that black and white world we only see through magazines and old TV / movie clips. college educated, catholic and artistically gifted she was forced to use her right hand in her catholic school (how i got away with using my left in the same type of institution escapes me) and i believe all the stigma, crap and paranoia that surrounds left-handedness has also shaped her in an intractable way. she is the oldest of her siblings and like i am, the only daughter of her parents. she has survived two brothers’ deaths, along with her own moments of profound loss as a mother. in those moments however she is fierce like a lion and has a strength she pulls from somewhere deep inside her. i wish she would access it more often because i believe she has many more years in her and that strength could help her physically thrive. she has illuminating and flawless skin (i have more wrinkles than she) thanks to her collection of wide-brim straw hats and her physical beauty is without peer. her classiness tacitly reminds me that silence is always an alternative and usually the finest choice. she’s witty and charming too. but she thinks she can sing better than she can and to the expectant delight of many of my cousins and the curdling chagrin of her children she sings anyway with panaché at weddings and family events. she introduced me to “Auntie Mame” and many Judy Garland films and often calls when a good one is on TCM. she is a champion of anything i write (we’ll see about this one) and she taught me to not use parenthesis because if it can’t stand on its own, don’t write it. i agree with her on that, but i still like (). her softness, something i used to repel and have a hard time reconciling with, is her finest feature but has also been her undoing at times.

my father is a classic strong guy who is a prime example of the self-made man but whose weaknesses despite his many strengths prove the adage “we are only as strong as our weakest link.” despite all that, he’s really quite amazing as well and he inspires me daily with his bootstrap attitude. super bright, the product of a top-tier education whose tuition was paid by an unknown donor along with his recommendation to that school, he has an efficient no-nonsense demeanor save for his occasional and apropos lapses into his gift for mimicry, song and literature. his sense of humor is cultivated and ranks among my favorite things about him. many evenings as a child i would waft to sleep hanging on the notes from his tinkering on his classical guitar or piano meanderings, which he also taught himself.  masculine in his exterior but very tender hearted for those he lets in, he’s an example of trust then verify. he chose rowing as his sport although i recently learned that he favored baseball more but didn’t play it because of his size and abilities when interested. given that testimony and the fact that rowing was his default sport i can’t imagine how he would have excelled at baseball when considering the following: rowed in the ’56 Olympics in Melbourne (i’ve been corrected, i thought they were in Sydney… wonder who sent the correction?). i’m still not clear on the issue that brought his boat, a 4+cox, to its fate of missing the final races but true to his nature he didn’t let that end his love of the sport as he went on to successfully coach crews for many years. one of the spurs that comes along with a successful bootstrapper attitude however is the tendency to tell your own tales of greatness, of which he is often guilty. children love to hear about their awesome parents from observers. he is a writer of difficult and controversial things as he got started in investigative journalism and while i am proud of his excellence in that genre i can’t help but wonder if that world fueled a sense of extra vigilance and distrust in the bigger world as well as his need to break his own stories with the lede on A1. he has at least one fellowship under his belt and spent some time in the hippie heyday on the campus of a northern California university in the late 60s. as an emotionally conservative person honed from the granite of the new england education system being in California must’ve been quite a paradox for him. i relish to think mom rather enjoyed it being the free spirit she is. nonetheless, he and my mom made it back to the east coast with me and my older brother in tow without many effects from the hippies’ second-hand smoke….

i was born in 1967 in buffalo, ny. yes, it’s cold there. yes it snows in the winter. yes the springs last 4 weeks and the summer another 8 and then it’s cold again. but it’s a lovely town with eye-popping architecture, cultural outlets and history gilded by America’s explosive growth during the industrial revolution of the 1800s to the mid 1900s. people like my hero F Scott Fitzgerald and Mark Twain hail or spent many years in buffalo. Frank Lloyd Wright built a few landmarks there and many members of my childhood family are still there helping that place hum despite its economic straits. i sailed on the best lake in the world, Erie. i peed, nearly drowned, lost a mary jane (one of several lost i assure you), soothed a melted marshmallow burn, psyched the bejeesus out of myself after “Jaws” (which i never saw until i was much older), waterskied and frolicked in those beloved waters every summer. they are in my blood. during the winters i stood on the nature-made and wind-shaped ice sculptures that harken the “fortress of solitude” in the movie “Superman.” we could walk to get groceries, and often did. as we grew older we would walk to the penny candy store and get our fix of those spicy soft cinnamon coins, bittersweet non-pareils, shoestring licorice and fake gum cigarettes that emit “smoke” powder when you blow just right between the wrapper and the gum. our dog toby would pull a sled with our small brown paper bags, one of them holding chocolate for him that we didn’t know he shouldn’t have. i still refer to buffalo as home because my heart and blood and spirit are from there; i left when i was almost 14 and the effects of leaving that town was probably the hardest time my family has ever endured.

in my awkward, confused and attitudinal 14-year-old female self: that moved really sucked.

we came from a fantastical victorian on buffalo’s west side. you couldn’t get more west really. the house had a turret, cedar shaker siding shingles (say that again!) and a tenacious ivy that mocked my father’s attempts at its extinction thriving on its south side, arabesque terracotta chimneys, servants’ bells, a pile of coal in the “coal room” in the basement and a photographer’s dream: a dark room in another basement room, tall big windows, a 70-foot wooden flagpole, a carriage house, inlaid wood floors, tiffany globe chandeliers, massive mahogany pocket doors, a back staircase, hand-turned cherry banisters and spindles gracing its open 5-foot wide main staircase, stunning architectural details and 4-inch thick doors bolstered by 1/4-inch brass chains and hasps facing my beloved, the greatest Great Lake that boasted Canada every morning. i wasn’t afraid of that attic.

i still dream about that house.

we moved into our next house, a “Kleenex box” as my mother described it. i have to say i agreed with her when compared to our fortress on the lake.

being a teenager i was just excited the new place was clean and orderly; it made sense in the era it was built as did the home we left. it had an ice maker, touch tone phones, a deck, a garage, a basement that wasn’t scary, a dishwasher and an in-the-house washing machine and dryer. in buffalo we sent out for a laundry service.

we moved in on a Monday. it was hot as hades because it was mid-June. i remember sweating as i stood still on that inward-sloped asphalt driveway of the house i’d never seen until that day. waiting for our giant Mayflower truck with all our belongings wrapped in musty horse blankets and humidity-leaching cardboard boxes labeled “PBO” or other codes i didn’t understand at the time to arrive. i remember being so, so terribly and weakly hot. how buffalo is cold in winter is how the DC suburbs are hot in summer. each near water but only one is built near a swamp.

we moved into that house on mom’s 47th birthday exactly. i still sorta physically waver and am overcome by emotional exhaustion when i recall that unfortunate coincidence. i don’t remember much from that day other than the heat and seeing my mother as a ghost.

i have to believe somewhere in my mind that my dad actually got my mom’s approval to formally install her person by moving her from: her parents, friends, the academic and civic relationships her family heritage afforded her and then her brothers, sisters in law, aunts, uncles and all those cousins we all loved on her actual birthday. i mean, couldn’t it have waited a week? this is a discussion or agreement or privileged treaty between them i may not ever know. as a child, i never really considered that fact: that we moved on her birthday. i mean i knew it was her birthday, that was sort a point of celebration for me actually. but now as a mother, in my 40s with a teenager actually (and as i write this i just realized that my mom and i had our kids at relatively similar times in our lives give a month or two difference) i think i would too have checked out emotionally as she did if that happened to me. i see this experience in my family now, with adult, maternal eyes and heart as a defining moment in my family’s history.

i remember the way i found out we were moving: i was watching TV and my father’s promotion / new assignment was announced by a broadcaster and the feed was live and he was being interviewed. i was standing in our little butler’s pantry amongst the golden oak and glass cabinetry with their brass latches and hinges. my left hip leaning on the patina’d handle to the flour bin beneath the built-in, slide-out cutting board my mother used for her illustrations. i can recall with clarity the awe of seeing my dad on TV but confusion from the announcement. i believe my mother was on the phone with one of her myriad cousins, one of the sisters of broad-smiled, auburn-haired, tall, smart and powerful dutch-irish beauties who would float in and out of my consciousness as a child.  

there was no dramatic pause. she didn’t gasp, i remember that clearly. it was january or close to it and the news being announced was that he would start soon and move after the school year ended. my older brother was wrapping up his senior year of h.s. and i would have begun my first, but apparently not in buffalo.

despite its clear indications for internal familial challenges, the move was a very good idea. my father started a new job in the same field; one that brought him to the center of it all: Washington DC. the axis of the political universe in the 80s or so it seemed and he was excited to meet new people. being in the army at the same time as elvis he says, traveling with his sport and all the doors it opened meant he had a different outlook. my mother lived in buffalo all her life, was educated there, learned her arts there and moved out from her parent’s house when they married. the schools we were leaving in buffalo were pretty good and private but in DC my younger brother and i’d be going public. the namesake of my eventual high school in Virginia was considered a traitor by any self-respecting yankee. 

# # #

that’s it for now. i’ll write more later. i hope you enjoyed it. let me know. but i’m gonna do more even if you don’t like it.

thank you.

babysteps and flinching


so i’ve been reading an ebook called “The Flinch” which talks about facing fears / reluctances and when you feel the instinct to flinch you are to not give up; rather to do the opposite. if you do nothing else, look at the cover art.

the author, julien smith, talks any number of goals that people might have for themselves: getting a new job, waking up earlier, asking someone on a date, trying a new food, having The Talk in a relationship, losing weight, training for a race; anything that requires growth and very likely hard change.

it gives homework. the first assignment is to daily walk into a very cold shower for a week. i presume without clothes on. the objective of this exercise is to know on a visceral level what a flinch feels like and to get over any projected fear that you might have about something that could be uncomfortable, but intellectually you know is completely harmless. i chickened out on that. i’ve had the sniffles lately. i mean, really… it’s december. the ground water temp is probably 45˚.  if i’m gonna subject myself to supah-cold water, it’s gonna be on one of those geriatric polar bear swim club things… and i’ve got time.

the second assignment is to take a mug from the kitchen and drop it to the floor / ground in hopes of smashing it. the goal is to show you that you gain more strength by letting go. if the cup was too easy, the author suggests smashing a smartphone. (“but i play Cut the Rope on that!” screams Thing 3; no worries, i won’t smash my smartphone.) i also won’t smash a cup because well, i think it’s a stupid thing to do and i clean up after enough ceramic accidents around here that the thought of cleaning up an “intentional” is uh, dumb. i don’t think the author has kids.

the third assignment is really up my alley. talk to a total stranger. i do this all the time. it’s not a problem at all. i tell people i don’t know they look nice or that i like their jacket or their haircut (usually a woman) is awesome(r). before you start getting uncomfortable, don’t worry. my comments are always made in broad daylight and in nice neighborhoods. one of my favorite times is when i saw a mature woman about a year ago who looked so beautiful i had to tell her. she said she was meeting someone on a blind date; her first since being a widow. whoever the guy was, he had better be hot, i told her and she blushed. i don’t flinch from speaking to strangers but i don’t take candy from them. public speaking is also not a big deal for me. i can work a room.

the fourth assignment is so @$&*^@_ crazy that i don’t know where to …  … the author proposes getting punched in the face. or putting yourself in a boxing ring and then allowing yourself to get punched in the face.

i decided at this point that the tome is self help meets fight club. but bear with me.

why am i reading this book? it was free. i read a lot of what turns out to be crap because it’s free. it’s the allure of the Kindle. download anything in less than a minute and see if it stinks. if it does, you just delete it and it just gooooes awaaaaay….. some of it i finish, most i don’t. but this book isn’t really crap and i’m reading it also because seth godin (a best selling author and a vocal ebook champion) recommended it, but i’m beginning to think that as much as seth likes to talk the talk about “doing The Work” and “changing the world” and “re-revolutionizing everything…” and his favorite, “poking the box” he also is basically a businessman who must cross pollinate and engage in partner marketing or he will perish. eh… he’s human and he’s got bills.

i truly dislike the work of “selling” myself or authors or artists having to sell themselves and play the game. it’s not that i’m so hot that my work should speak for itself; it’s that to me, it’s sorta … well, fake. i see some people on fb turning themselves INSIDE OUT for attention and it’s sorta pathetic. i’ll chat more about that in a later post. i need to do more so-called research.

back to the boxing ring for a sec. smith goes into as much detail as he allows himself to discuss the physical reactions of flinching and how if in a fight (club) the way to overcome the flinch is to actually step into it. hmm. so, step into what you fear. does the flinch ever go away? not if we’re lucky. i like and hate that. i suppose if it goes away, then we’re dead inside.

while the book is not bad, some of the ideas are a little wacky and it repeats itself a bit but maybe that’s part of the “therapy.” i honestly flinch when i prepare to read it because i know it’s right! i’m reading it because i’m really trying to get over my fear of writing for the sheer joy of writing “publicly.” y’see, every time i’ve written, it’s been for someone else: teacher, boss, client, professor… so it’s a new stage for me.  and i started this supposed “blog” about a year ago and i’ve written mostly about other people and i wonder if my randomness that i’ve allowed myself in this blogging capacity has sort of been my undoing; i have no “plan.”

man plans God laughs. that’s one of my favorite phrases of all time. perhaps i like it too much.

oh…. plans. i titled this blog “babysteps and flinching” because this is exactly where i am. i realized a few months ago with great relief that the term “babysteps” can apply to anyone at any stage. previously i had always understood it to mean just very small steps, on tippy-toes even. like those taken with archless four-inch feetpods within a very short distance between said feetpods and narrowly placed and slowly.

but upon greater reflection, i remembered that babies don’t flinch. they just go for it. and they fall down all the time.

so i always assumed that when adult people said “taking babysteps” that it obviously meant that whatever they were doing was probably mastered (because they are adults). they were just choosing to walk slowly to adapt.

well, what i hand’t quite fully appreciated (and i mean “appreciate” in the sense that it’s a gift) is that in order to take the babysteps and master them, one must fall down. a lot. i mean, like all the time. have you ever really watched a pre-toddler child navigate on foot? we used to call all our kids “drunken sailors” (no, i’m not making fun of alcoholic seamen, so all you pro-alcoholic seamen advocates better stand down, people can be so PC lately). a baby’s gyroscope is spinning furiously, his brains are firing synapses at a blistering rate and his enormous head (especially in the case of Thing 1… that kid had a HAAA-UGE head as an infant, almost like Charlie Brown) resting atop his fleshy one-inch neck is the supposed ballast making everything gonna be alright. right? well, not so much… look, there’s something bright and shiny.

>WHUMP< baby fall down go boom. and do they cry? not really… not unless we as observers gasp.

in my parenting i had the huge benefit of Dan’s older sibs who had kids already. they showed me to cheer when a baby lands on her puffy fanny from all of 10 inches above. so we cheered when our Things fell down and went boom as they learned to walk and so they never really cried unless they bumped their ballasts and if they did that, well truth be told: we usually waited for them to decide if it hurt or not.

if they did get hurt, we cuddled them until they started squirming like feral cats to get back to the business of falling down. Thing 2 for instance was nicknamed “Fling” from almost the moment he came home from the hospital by a dear friend (i preferred “der fledermaus” but Fling stuck) because he was constantly.on.the.move. he started walking on Inauguration Day for W; he wasn’t even a year yet. talk about “Mission Accomplished.” wooooo sorry.

so now i’m learning to not be afraid to fall down and also to be my own cheering section to get me back up. it’s tough. i flinch all the time. today as a matter of fact; i decided to send a friend a note to let her know i’m in the market for p/t writing work if she needs it. i was afraid to upset the balance of our friendship but then i realized that flinch flew in the face of my “you can’t win if you don’t play” mentality which embodies a lot of how i approach life — at least it’s the advice i give to friends…  so i sent the note anyway. i wouldn’t be offended if i received a note like that and it’s doubtful she would be offended. i have to learn on a cellular level (flinch-wise) that risk is its own greatest reward.

so what are you flinching from? are there things you’re trying to do that require babysteps? know that you will falter. guaranteed. but consider the question posed by Alfred to Bruce Wayne in “The Dark Knight“: “Why do we fall down Sir?” “So we can learn to get back up,” replies Bruce. Alfred never gave up on Bruce. so you don’t give up on you.

full circle moment: if we always cheered when wobbly kids safely fall down, why don’t we cheer ourselves when we try something we’re interested in knowing the risks needed for success and knowing we’re very likely going to fall down? for me as i said it’s about writing publicly, purposelessly and just for the joy of it. i know i’m gonna fall down, that’s not where the flinch comes in… the flinch comes in right before i even start and right after i click “publish.”

here goes…

thank you. have a wonderful 2012.

update: crazy but true department: i finished the book about 5 minutes after posting this on 12/21. i had no clue because i was at “35%” of the book which i’ve since learned includes samples of other books on the same seth godin train / imprint. the book is having a benign effect in that it’s getting me to think about how i do things and i suppose i’ll have a hard time ignoring when i’m flinching.

just finished a book


i just finished a book this morning that i’m pretty sure will affect me for the rest of my life.

i hope it will anyway.

i won’t mention the title right now because i’m sure there are people out there who are familiar with this tome, but who have either biased opinions of it due to the nature of its content and its message.  for those of you who grace me with your faithful reading of this little and inconsistent blog, i will tell you at the end. like dessert.

the writer chose words and phrases that painted pictures of an austere, spartan post-apocalyptic world. it didn’t matter where, but i inferred it was America, the beautiful, bountiful, abundant, mighty America. reduced to ashen shadows, dry creeks, leafless forests, relentless murky skies and loamy seas.

the wonderful irony however in the construction of this book is that while the words depicted desolation, they were so perfectly poised and used that not even apostrophes were wasted. to overuse them would be callous.

the author, a master, is my current hero but not because he’s such a great story teller, it’s because the route of his work touched just about all my senses. fitzgerald does that for me too, but in an entirely different fashion: FSF wrote in the modern world’s most glamorous and flagrant times, the roaring 20s. a time which i often wax romantic as being The Best Era in which to live. so FSF’s usage was decadent although precise as well. this author’s usage is not decadent, but just as precise and it’s definitely not about the 20s.

one of the greatest gifts this book gave to me was that my tears were spared until the end. i got this feeling from the author and his characters that crying and emotional anchoring would be indulgent and cowardly. that we must press on. get the cart. look for food. press on.

i have friends who have suggested to me that they couldn’t read the book; others that couldn’t finish the book, that it was too much. for me, i had to press on. the characters pressed on, despite challenges that would only be defined by our worst nightmares, i mean really bad nightmares, they pressed on. they kept their heads up looking forward, staying the course no matter what.

i checked on my children in their beds each night i read. feeling for their breathing, their warmth and thanking the fates for my fortune. it doesn’t matter if you have kids or not, if you can read this sentence, what you have is worth thanksgiving.

i visually checked the front door to make sure the deadbolt was locked. at times i wished we had a gun in the house. it made me care about China again and consider Iran. it made me hate Target and Walmart and their reckless promotion of consumerism and waste. so in a way, it made me suspicious.

but you can’t live in suspicion. the protagonist in the book reminded me that despite any devastation, we mustn’t live selfishly and angrily at our situation. that we always have something to share or give to those who have less — even if we think we have nothing, we have a smile or a kind word or simply a kind thought. even giving ourselves a kind word or thought is not wasted. try that sometime.

it’s fiction, for the most part. but it really isn’t because despite the book’s setting there isn’t one person in this world past or present or future who won’t feel apocalyptic at times about their own situations: the health might be compromised; the finances are in shambles; the spouse is estranged emotionally or physically; the children are floundering; the job is aimless; life seems pointless; the ambition is gone; the self pity is ABUNDant… these are all parts of The Human Condition and man, if we get to feel these things in our lives, we should realize just how lucky we truly are. because it’s not worse.

what perspective!

perspective is a gift. and i realized viscerally after reading this book that we are lucky because we have been given a second breath which is a second chance every moment. and what must we do when we have those second chances? press on, my friends, press on.

but pressing on does not mean doing the same thing day in and out. it means reinvention of ourselves and adapting, engineering and thriving. it’s not easy, but it’s really the only way to press on.

i am one who has fears. insecurities and shames just like everyone else. sometimes i don’t know what keeps me pressing on. but something does. is it my children? my outside reputation as being a go-getter, hard charging, driven, loyal to the end, my own worst critic, eternally vigilant and cautiously optimistic (all of which are true)? i don’t know. i could spend hours wasting time trying to figure it out, but in the end and after reading that book, i have learned that thinking about it is not wasteful, it’s just not always useful.

i have learned however, that self-pity is an indulgence that the industrial person needn’t allow, and we are all industrious. i’ve heard about that, that “just feeling sorry for yourself” is wasteful and all that, but i never connected with it because whenever i felt it, ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time.’ but i get it now. whenever i feel sorry for myself i will think of The Boy and Papa.

the tears i finally shed were sincere. i feel the author gave me permission to weep, gently, privately and briefly. i was proud to tear up and i was proud of the point at which i wept. we had come so far, these people and i. it was time to let down our guard because we were “the good guys” who had “kept the fire.” but when the tears were over, it was time to bootstrap, to remind ourselves of hope.

thank goodness for those old bootstraps. they’re always there.

thank you.

(the book is “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy and well, i can’t recommend it enough.)