tomorrow

Spelled backwards it is worromot. I digress.

Today I am thinking about it - the day, the word, the concept. The hopeful song of a red-headed orphan comes to mind...

Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmmmmm.... tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow...

Yes, tomorrow's forecast is sunny and 62. It's only a day away.

It promises a bright, beautiful, bare slate - 24 hours of purpose, potential and possibility. It affords time to complete, to continue or perhaps to begin the tasks and work of today. It yields the fruit of yesterday and offers ripe soil for next week, for next month and for next year. It symbolizes and signifies hope and opportunity free of today's cobwebs and sorrows. You can bet your bottom dollar that the sun is coming.

Or can you?

Another song comes to mind. This, the resonant, tenor ballad of a blue-eyed cowboy in a black, ten-gallon hat.

My relentless hope in tomorrow is both my heel und mein kampf. I have looked ahead. I have held on and put my stock in tomorrow. Yet, I have also put off, held back and missed out all in the name of the same day. Spelled backwards, it is worromot.

And what of yadot?

Today, leafless winter trees sway in the breath of wind's whispers. They reach up and out against a cloudless azure sky. A symphony of birds chirp. A distant chime sings.

Tomorrow is a precious gift. It is cause for hope, for gratitude and for celebration. But the sweet, speckled girl in the red dress with the white belt and the black Mary Janes failed to mention that it is infinite except in its assurance. Tomorrow is everything but a guarantee.

Annie, meet my friend Garth.

We must always hope in tomorrow. And if it comes we may welcome it with love, thanks and open arms. But in so doing, we mustn't miss today. Today is an often overlooked and consequently undervalued commodity. It offers all the promise of tomorrow, but it is infinitely more valuable because it is within grasp. Today, it is sunny. Breezy. 70.

I look around today, and I see fields of good fruit and ripe soil. Yet, I hesitate to consider how vast a harvest this could have been but will never be because of yesterday's misplaced focus. I suppose that would be today's tragedy: to waste another moment of thought on the empty spaces in today's harvest.

Instead, I will open my hands and my heart and my mind to receive. I will take, eat and enjoy. I will taste and share the sweet splendor of today's fruit without regard for what was and what will be.

Yes, this harvest is ripe. There is far more fruit than I will ever be able to pick, to consume or to give away. But a far greater tragedy - one I have seen and lived before - is to stand overwhelmed (and hungry) surrounded by the firm, plump, crisp, juicy fruit of today and to let it fall and shrivel and die for fear of picking from the wrong tree or worse, waiting for tomorrow, which may never yield anything.

I mustn't delay. The harvest is ripe.

Yes, I may bypass the sweetest, choicest, tastiest fruit. But, I am of no value to myself, to God or to anyone else if I stand paralyzed by the possibility of choosing "wrong." I will listen and learn and I will be filled. Perhaps today will be the day that I pick the sweetest fruit of the bunch. And perhaps it will remain untouched. Perhaps it will shrivel up in the heat of today, it will fall to the ground and eventually, it will die. But I will continue to hope that the seeds of today's dead fruit will blossom into the cobweb-free harvest of tomorrow.

And if I awake tomorrow, I will gambol in the sun with a smile of my face, and I will eat and give of its bountiful harvest. And if tomorrow never comes, I will have dirtied my slate with the sweetness and stickiness of today's fruit. I will have lived and given my best, and I will be full.

playing the game

I absolutely LOVE Monday mornings.

I know this is not a sentiment often heard, but for me, it's the truth.

Long before the sun stretches from its slumber and warms the morning sky, I eagerly spring from my bed into uniform: one ribbed, power-blue, long-sleeved shirt, which swims beneath a lived-in, loved on Pepperdine t-shirt. I don a pair of used-to-be-black Capri pants, which loosely hang from drawstring at my waist, and two red-banded, stretched-out heather gray socks, which swallow my calves and limply pool around my ankles. Tightly tied around my head is a sky blue, paisley bandanna, which almost matches my undershirt and secures loose tendrils in place that threaten to escape from the coif atop my head. My feet are shod with house slippers that almost match the faded, muted, black(ish) of my pants. Finally, two tiny white pearls, which conspicuously stand against the ebony backdrop of my earlobes, accentuate a sporadic spattering of head-to-toe bleach stains and pull together the perfect outfit for one of my favorite occasions: cleaning day!

My Mondays begin with a tall glass of water and hearty bowl of oatmeal, and they proceed with a second precious commodity: time - time to think, time to write, time to read, time to pray, time to work out, and finally, time to clean.

Paul is on deck to hustle with the bustle of 7 a.m. (a.k.a. groggy, empty bellied, pint-sized, caramel latte kiddos longing to be loved, fed, groomed and dressed), so I – gloved from fingertips up to elbows with squeaky, yellow rubber and equipped with sponges, brushes, rags and an assortment of cleaning products – am carefree and poised to tackle another Monday as the sun and my children arise.

Almost immediately, I am swept away on the tides of a to-do list through the paradise of Pine Sol to the universe of my thoughts. I frolic through lush landscapes of laundry and get lost - in audiobooks and dreams and gratitude. I wash and rinse; I get down and dirty, and I have grown to love it. High on life (and fumes), I feel thankful for toilets to scrub, carpets to clean, clothes to fold and the time and space in which to get it done. As I complete tasks, I delight in the simple pleasures of productivity, efficiency and teamwork. Awestruck, I get to witness the systematic transmutation of chaos to temporary order – of night sky to morning sun - and it is beautiful.

This particular Monday, as another outstanding morning of cleaning neared its conclusion, I ascended the stairs enveloped in my thoughts with a growling vacuum in tow.

SSssssWWHHHOOoooooooshhhh.

I was stripped from my ethereal Eden and wisked back to Westminster, as a red blur whizzed by my face and brought me back to the present.

Screams… the thunder of running feet… discord… my son barrel rolls over the back of the couch and lands to the floor with a thud.

Just then, another projectile – orange this time (I think) – is launched from the lower level of my house over my head, and strikes the ground with a second thud.

Chortles and giggles squeak from behind the couch.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maya, with the grace and silence of a jungle cat, slink across the living room from the coat closet to the shelter of the TV hutch. Immediately behind and in contrast to her, Cole bellows a tribal roar as he springs from his hiding place and leaps back onto the couch. This time, he is struck squarely in the chest with a black, foam ball. He shrieks, clutches his chest and drops to the cushion below, as a chorus of hearty belly laughter erupts from the couch, from behind the TV and from the family room.

Aha… Dodge Ball. The only rule is that the game is over when somebody cries.

As I watch the game play out from the stairs, still delighting from another delicious Monday morning, my cup runs over. I can’t help but to join in the chorus; I laugh until I cry.

The vacuum drones on.

On this particular Monday, I feel especially thankful that the Monday mornings of old – dreary, bleary and drab – are long gone. Today they are a colorful, creative, chaotic… and clean. I am thankful for the one-sided world in which I delight - of cleaning days and quiet times and story times and quality time, of sunshine and good nutrition, of museums and parks, of bike rides and of long hikes. I am equally thankful that Paul periodically rescues us with moments of commotion and clutter, of adventure and dance parties. He brings peanut butter and jelly and side ponytails and dodge ball to Monday mornings, and they are just beautiful.

Shortly after I climb and clean the last few stair steps, I emerge triumphantly on the landing. I look down just as my teammate - my husband, my best friend and my partner - assumes his pitcher’s stance, and looks up. I grab hold of his gleaming baby blues on this particular Monday, and I hold on tight. He smiles, and my heart races. I am in love.

I smile back, round the corner and head for the showers.

dawn

Arise, you who slumbers.
Oh you who sleeps, awake.
It is dawn, oh silent one.
Let your voice be heard. Let your light shine.
For a new day is born.

Dormant dreams, find wings.
From ashes, rise up.
From death, arise.
Fly. Soar.
For a new day is born.

From pain. From dust.
Oh, pearl. Come forth.
Rise up. Choose life.
Hope and dream and love once again.
For a new day is born.

Yesterday is gone. Today is anew.
Dream. Dream again.
Hope. Hope again.
Love. Love again.
For a new day is born.

Hear not that which you once heard.
See not that which you once saw.
Let that which was spoken be your guide
Then feel and burn and breathe once again.
For a new day is born.

Arise.
Awake.
Speak up.
Shine bright.
Rise up. Rise up.
For a new day is born.

shampoo

After years of damage, of trying to make my hair something it was never purposed to be, it was broken.

I pressed it. I curled it. I straightened it. I processed it. I cut it. And then came the ever important moment: the decision. Eventually I had no choice but to capitulate, to give my hair some room to breath and to heal and to be what it was meant to be. The salve followed: first Cathy, then Ed, then L'Oreal Professional Absolut Repair.

For the last few years, I have used my product faithfully, and my hair has been nurtured back to health. It has been redeemed. Restored. Transformed. The damage of the past is in the past, and it has been replaced with brilliance, vitality and hope. Yet, I have continued to repair.

I have committed to health. I continue to make good choices. I am willing to do the necessary work to sustain and maintain. I visit Ed every seven weeks, and I invest in my product - Absolut Repair - when the time to restock returns. Still, I have continued to repair.

But when I visited Ed last October, he, like I, was out of Absolut Repair. I knew I couldn't leave his chair empty handed, so I sought his counsel for an alternative. I was open, and he provided. L'Oreal Professional Age Densiforce.

I hadn't purposed to procure Age Densiforce, but thankfully Ed was out of what I went to receive. Thankfully, I had determined to receive. I was unable and unwilling to leave empty-handed. I needed more shampoo, so I have washed my hair with Age Densiforce ever since.

As I digested the words on the bottle of my "density-enhancing" shampoo for the first time this morning -- "this shampoo leaves hair feeling renewed with more body and radiance for a more youthful appearance..." (and that's just the shampoo! Don't get me started on my conditioner... ahem... density-enhancing masque) -- that my hair has never looked or felt or been better. My new shampoo is not designed to repair, but to fortify and to give body, color and shine.

This is not about shampoo.

What once was is no longer. Yet, I... you... we continue to repair; we are trying to fix that which is no longer broken. Yesterday's manna will not suffice for today. Yesterday's manna will not suffice for today. It is time to move forward, to move beyond, to move ahead. Yes, we will always remember. We must ALWAYS remember the lessons of yesterday, which were instrumental in shaping who we are and who we will become, but we are destined to become stagnant if we continue to live on the milk of our infancy.

Today is a new day. Stop repairing, and move on. Do away with the product of the past and be renewed. Open your mind and your heart and your hair to receive a fresh, new density-enhancing, Omega-6 enriched shampoo. And then, radiate.

tiny threads

This has been one of those days. It has been one of those months.

December began where November left off: with a broken dryer and wet laundry strewn about nearly every surface of my house. Thankfully, a high-rolling co-ed spent two full days and nights out on the town and generated some much-needed income for 303 Sedan. The unfortunate thing is that he paid with a stolen credit card. Yeah.

It's been COLD lately. I mean high temperatures in the teens cold. Not the best time for the heater to break in Sally (one of the town cars). Well, as you may have guessed, it did. Then last week, after we received news from down the street of another lay-off and from California of yet another untimely death, the fuel pump in Mabel (my truck) - the fuel pump we have put off fixing for nearly a year - it died too. Again, not great timing with bills to pay, mouths to feed, Christmas around the corner and virtually NO money coming in.

Nevertheless, I've kept my head up. I've tried hard not to be distracted by what isn't and to focus on what is. I've been optimistic, creative and resourceful. I've had faith. I've believed. And I've watched God provide.

Then today, I lost my wallet.

After two-and-a-half hours of hoping, retracing and obsessing - on an empty stomach in December's bitter cold - the perspective, the optimism, the resilience - it all went out the window. I returned to Betty (our last-car-standing), and I cried. No, I sobbed.

"Lord, I'm all done. I can't do this any more," I wailed through tears and snot and sadness. "I want to believe. I want to hope. I want to persevere. But what else? How much more?"

I can't believe I lost my wallet. I can't BELIEVE I lost my wallet.

I have to believe there is goodness, right? I have to continue to have hope, don't I? If I don't, what else do I have? So in the depths of me I've been clinging to the tiniest of tiny threads. Tonight, I haven't been making and wrapping the last of our Christmas gifts as I had originally planned. Instead, I've been talking to God (and to bankers and to creditors and to customer service folks). Deep down I've been wishing and hoping and praying for a miracle.

Well, about an hour ago he showed up at my front door.

With my wallet.

and while we're on the topic...

I decided to devote some time yesterday to writing... yeah. Well, now it's today and here I am with thirty minutes, a tall glass of water, a desktop computer and my thoughts - my random, precious and constant thoughts...

Oatmeal.

That's what's on my mind; that's what you get.

Now, this is no meaningless post about a bland breakfast food. To the contrary, this is a post about one of the greatest rediscoveries of my adult life. I'm serious. I hated it too when I was a kid, but thankfully I threw those instant, brown, sugar-laden packs away, and I gave it another shot. I encourage you to do the same.

I had a bowl of Oatmeal for breakfast today. Again. And a good bet is that it will likely accompany whatever I decide to eat tomorrow... and the day after that. I literally have to force myself to eat something else every few days; I absolutely love the stuff. LOVE it. It is warm and hearty and healthy and tasty, and it is an exceptional way to start the day. Almost every variety tickles my fancy - thick oats, rolled oats, steel cut oats, Irish oats (oh my!). Just steer clear of the instant, one-minute kind (it's a texture thing).

Boring? I think not. I just change up the company. A half grapefruit and a hard-boiled egg. A mandarin and two veggie links. Plain yogurt with mixed berries. Ricotta with strawberries and bananas. A little turkey-bacon and fresh melon... I could go on.

And then there is the oatmeal itself. The possibilities are endless. Lauren likes to add canned pumpkin. Throw in some nutmeg, pumpkin seeds and a touch of honey (yum!!). My kiddos are big fans of applesauce and cinnamon or peanut butter, milk, flax seeds and raisins (cranberries... not so much!). Paul periodically enjoys a trail mix blend with raisins, nuts and seeds, and my absolute favorite (write this down) is a half-cup of good ole' Quaker oats, a cup of water, a good shake of cinnamon, a pinch of Celtic Sea Salt and two and a half minutes on high in the microwave (make sure your bowl is big enough). When it's all steamy and dreamy and cooked, add two tablespoons of raisins, a tablespoon of flax seeds, a tablespoon of Udo's oil blend and a little more water. OH MY GOODNESS... I'm salivating.

Now, I love scrambled eggs as much as the next girl. Cereal? Yeah, I'll do that on occasion too. And believe you me, I make a mean breakfast sandwich or breakfast burrito. But Oatmeal? In my humble opinion, it is the true breakfast of champions - good for your heart; good for your soul. I'm definitely sticking to it.

Two minutes left, and now I'm hungry. I think I'll go. But for all you cereal-devotees out there, who gave up on oatmeal long ago or who insist there is not enough time, may I urge you to give it another try? FIVE MINUTES is all you need.

Here's to breakfast. Off to make lunch...