Author: Kathie

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Last night, I was talking with a student in Australia and she brought up the Beverly Hillbillies. She couldn’t come up with the theme song. We meet in a chatroom and I spent the next several minutes, burning up my fingertips by typing out the entire song, all the way down to the “Hills, that is. Swimming pools. Movie stars.” Cue banjo solo.

After I mentioned this on Facebook, along with the fact that I couldn’t remember to go pick up a prescription at Walgreens that has been sitting there for a week, my brother asked if I remembered the theme song from Green Acres.

Yep. I typed it all out. No, I didn’t google it. It’s in my own personal google. My head.

The theme from the Brady Bunch. Gilligan’s Island. H.R. Pufnstuf. The Tra-la-la song from the Banana Splits. I can hum the song from all the Charlie Brown specials, though the song itself is actually called Linus & Lucy.

Good lord. You would think I spent my entire childhood in front of the television. I didn’t.

On Tuesday, and pretty much any other day of the week in my life, I ended up talking about The Waltons. To a class that had one student who had no idea who the Waltons were. She was too young. I mentioned that I owned the Waltons Barbie dolls.

Big eyes around the table. “The Waltons were made into Barbie dolls?”

Yes. Grandma and Grandpa, Mama and Daddy, John Boy and Mary Ellen. The rest of the family wasn’t represented, which likely means they didn’t sell well. But I have these, along with my Waltons lunchbox, board game (two copies), Viewmaster and reels, paper dolls, books (including a book of really awful poetry by Richard Thomas, who played John Boy), LP’s, and the entire series on DVD. I own the TV Guides that featured the show on the cover. And I have the Playboy that Mary Ellen Walton posed in, trying to shed her good mountain girl reputation.

And yet I didn’t start watching the Waltons until I was an adult, pregnant with my first child, and the reruns were on the old Family Channel on cable. But John Boy affected me long before then.

When I was in high school, I was always up in my room, writing. One Thursday night, I realized I was in my room, writing in my journal, listening to my family downstairs where they were watching The Waltons on television, where John Boy was up in his room, writing in his journal, listening to his family listen to Fibber McGee & Molly (I believe) on the radio. And I was zapped through with connection. With community. I was not isolated in my room, alone with my words and the story unfolding in my head. I was surrounded by writers, trailing all the way back through history.

John Boy was the first person to make me feel like what I was doing had any worth and any place of permanence. From that point on, writing became more than an activity to me. It became a life. And I belonged to a rich and wonderful community.

Now, I can sit down and watch any episode of the series, starting it at any place, and recite the script with the characters by memory. I’ve visited the real Walton’s Mountain, which is Schuyler, Virginia. I met Earl Hamner’s aunt – Earl was the writer of The Waltons, and he was the real John Boy. I corrected the tour guide during the Walton’s Mountain Museum tour, when she wrongly identified the quilt at the foot of John Boy’s bed. I’ve used scenes from the show in my lectures.

One of the big highlights of my life was the day Earl Hamner friended me on Facebook. I grieved when he died. I’ve grieved with the passing of the actors – Grandpa, Grandma, Daddy, and several of the minor, but no less fabulous characters.

But John Boy. My heart forever and ever belongs to John Boy. Because he let me know that whenever I sat down to write, the entire world’s history of writers stood behind me, looked over my shoulders, and thought what I was doing was worth doing.

Whenever I question if I am on the right path, which I’ve done a lot lately, I look to The Waltons. And I remember and feel again the saturation of emotion I had that night, in my bedroom, writing in my journal, while my family watched TV.

I won’t ever say goodnight to John Boy. I might sing him the theme from the Beverly Hillbillies, but I won’t ever say goodnight.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I thought seriously about putting off this Moment until tomorrow. I post the Moments on Thursday, but my whole self is focused on Friday this week. Friday is Spend-The-Afternoon-At-The-Cancer-Center Day.

It’s time for the mammogram again. And the bloodwork. And the visit with my medical oncologist. And you know, since June 20^th, 2017, the word “just” has been taken out of this type of routine appointment. It’s no longer “just” a mammogram, “just” bloodwork. And there didn’t used to be “medical oncologist”, as well as “radiation oncologist” and “breast cancer surgeon” in my vocabulary at all.

So all of my attention (and nerves) is on tomorrow. And it’s a double-whammy mammogram now – I’m worried about if it will come up clear, of course, but the last mammogram, this past August, caused trauma to the affected breast and I ended up with a whopper of an infection in the surgical site. Cellulitis that landed me just outside the doors of the ICU. A drain stuck into my breast, which was a year and two months cancer-free. Six weeks of hardcore antibiotics. And a breast that no longer looks anything like it did, pre- or post-surgery.

So I worry. About the outcome. About infection. About if they are even able to do a mammogram at all, and what they will do if they can’t. And what that new procedure will cost.

So I nearly put off This Week’s Moment by a day. But then I told myself that that’s just not the mission of the Moments. The Moments are about finding a positive even when things are feeling not-so-positive. Even when things are feeling scary.

So. This week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Tuesday this week was gloomy and rainy and just bleh. Kinda like today, come to think of it, though we’ve had the addition of snow and ice and high winds and thunder and lightning. But that day, it was just rainy and gloomy. Michael needed to do the grocery shopping, so I dropped him off at the store.

Before I drove away, a bright spot of pink caught my attention. There was a man walking toward the doors. He looked like an old farmer, wearing a tattered barn jacket and baggy jeans and beat-up work boots. His shoulders were slumped from years of hard work. And over his head sprouted the most improbably bright pink flowered umbrella.

It was shaped like an old-fashioned parasol, with a tight ruffled circlet at the top, fanning out into a skirt of hot pink, dotted with fluorescent flowers.

In my car, I laughed out loud.

As a child, and even now, I hated (hate) umbrellas. They’re hard to maneuver, and they’re supposed to be bad luck if you have them open in a house. I’ve never learned the magic that allows you to slip inside, leaving the umbrella pointing outside, and manage to close it before you get wet. I always end up snarling and soaked, throwing the umbrella open in a corner, and then stomping through the house.

Somewhere around the third grade, the bubbletop umbrella came out. It was see-through, with a bright color ringing the bottom, and it was longer than most umbrellas, coming down in a protective bubble over your shoulders. You could duck under it and still see where you were going because of its transparency. It was all the rage and my umbrella-hate turned to umbrella-envy. I even had it on my birthday list. And I got one!

Once school started, I prayed for rain. Hoped, wished, rain-danced for rain. And then it poured. I proudly stuck the umbrella through the door, popped it open, and somehow stepped smoothly under it. Not a drop hit my little head.

But as I walked to school, a massive wind went under the umbrella, blew it straight up and over my head, turning it into a parachute. It flew over the ground, bounced once, landed in a creek, and washed away, never to be seen again.

I hate umbrellas.

But now, this old farmer with his pink umbrella. And it got better. He looked over his shoulder and, following about five feet behind him, was a little girl. She was stomping through the rain, her arms crossed over her chest, and the look on her face said it all perfectly. “Umbrellas are stupid.”

But her grandfather held her pretty pink one. And he was nice and dry. He held his hand out to her and she stomped up to him and plastered herself to his side, still with her arms crossed, still with her umbrellas-are-stupid face and without actually touching the umbrella herself. They went into the store, she ahead of him, and he, so help me God, managed to turn and close that thing before it crossed the automatic door’s threshold.

I smiled all the way home.

Tomorrow, I will cross the Cancer Center’s threshold. I will stomp. My arms will be crossed over my chest. Cancer is stupid.

But I’m going to hang on to the image of that grandfather. Hopefully, I will walk back out, smiling, not a drop on my little head.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

A student posted a meme on Facebook this morning that read, “Are there actually people out there who make their beds every morning, or is this just a myth?”

I’m no myth.

Yes, I make the bed every morning, though sometimes, it’s the afternoon. I make the bed when I stay in a hotel. As a kid, when I went on sleepovers, I carefully rolled up my sleeping bag in the morning and tucked it to the side. In college, I made my bed neatly every morning and lined up the stuffed animals that were tossed to the floor every night. On crazy-wild days now, on the rare occasion that it gets to be nightfall before I can get to making the bed, I make it anyway…and then I unmake it and go to sleep.

I thought about all this this morning, as I made my bed. I actually refer to it as dressing the bed. I got a new bedspread yesterday and I was looking forward to putting my bed in its new outfit. In my chaotic world, this was one moment where I could focus, start a job, and finish it, standing back to look at the fruits of my labor, in under ten minutes.

Maybe that’s what this is about. Control. Making the bed is something that doesn’t get away from me.

My mom was an obsessed bed-maker. Our beds had to be made every day, in all seasons and in all situations. Weekdays or weekends, school days or summer vacations, the beds were made by 9:00. Even on days we were ill, we had to get up and move down to the couch by 9:00. To her credit, she made the beds for us on those sick days.

I’m amazed I can sleep past 9:00 in the morning, after so many years of this being ingrained in me.

So I have this cat. His name is Edgar Allen Paw and he is a polydactyl – an extra-toed cat. He also has a kink in his tail, his head is too small for his body and he has depth perception and balance issues. His vet nicely calls him a genetic anomaly.  He also, despite being a shorthair, has the thickest coat of any cat I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. We brush several cats off him every day, yet he still dumps hair wherever he goes. The reading chair in my office is covered with towels as he likes to sleep there, and the towels are now Edgar-orange. He also likes to snooze on my bedspread. Which was red. And then red with a big orange blot on it. And I mean big. Edgar is approximately 18 pounds.

Did I mention that Edgar’s hair is sticky? Not to the touch – but wherever he goes, his hair clings like it’s coated with superglue. Every day, as I made my bed, I tried to remove the hair, and every day, I failed. Any sense of calm and control I received from bed-making was going haywire. In desperation last weekend, I threw the bedspread into the washing machine and then the dryer. When I smoothed it back out on my bed…orange. Everywhere. The hair wasn’t removed, but gunked like a paste across the entire bedspread. Into the grooves of the pattern. Across the flat parts. Impossible to remove, even with my fingernails. It was no longer a bedspread, but a sticky Edgarspread.

Off it went to the dumpster. The spread, not the cat.

This morning, I spent a little extra time reverently dressing my bed with the new spread…at 9:45, not 9:00, as I had an interview at nine. I smoothed and I tucked. There wasn’t an orange hair anywhere (though I’ve yet to figure out how I’m going to keep him off of the bed – I had Michael buy a heavy-duty lint brush yesterday and I plan on adding daily brushing to my bed-making routine). I adjusted the pillows. I straightened the afghan at the foot. I pulled my world back under control.

Tonight, I will just as carefully unmake the bed. When I crawl under the covers, the sheets will be smooth and cool to the touch, the blankets at just the right height to tug over my shoulders and under my chin. There is a definite difference in the feel of a rumpled bed and a made bed. The made bed provides safety, organization, everything in its place, all’s right with the world. At least in bed.

Yes, I make my bed every morning, no matter where I am, whether or not the bed is my own. I make a sanctuary.

Gotta get it where you can.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been asked, “But when do you sleep?” I used to answer, “I don’t.” Now I answer, “Whenever I can.”

I love to sleep. I love the feeling of falling asleep, I love being asleep, I love dreaming. Waking up isn’t always a joy, no matter how many hours of sleep I’ve had. The combination of fibromyalgia with the medication I take for breast cancer means my body aches everywhere, and it aches the most with my first movement. So when I wake, I often want to cling to sleep, to put off that first bolt of pain that brings me alert better than any cup of coffee.

I’m a lifelong insomnia sufferer. Except I don’t usually consider it suffering. It is, or was, just a part of who I am. Even in high school, I would collapse into bed around ten o’clock, but then rise at around one. While the rest of the house slept, I wrote at my desk or I prowled from window to window, looking out at the night and wondering what was out there. What was out my window, and also what was past the darker line of the horizon. Sometimes, I would crawl back into bed before my alarm went off, but most times, the alarm just meant it was time to get dressed for school.

Cancer changed all that. Or at least, radiation did. Partway through radiation and even today, over a year since radiation ended, I will get hit with a fatigue so profound, there’s nothing for it but to lay down and pass out. When that hits, it’s dreamless. A lot of times, I don’t even remember going to sleep or sleeping at all. I’m just suddenly awake again and startled that time has passed.

But beyond that, since cancer, I have been able to sleep. I’m still a night owl, going to bed usually between two or three in the morning. I try to keep my first morning clients at ten o’clock, but there’s a few now who are slipping in at nine. I meditate before bed and once I’m tucked in, I’m out. Usually.

This past weekend, I revisited insomnia. On Saturday night, I went to bed at three in the morning. So I guess I should say on Sunday, I went to bed at three in the morning. My eyes were still open at six, so I gave up and got up. This is different from before – when I used to be awake at night, I’d just get up right away. Now, I fought to sleep. I squinched my eyes tight, and I thought over and over, Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Which just left me agitated. So I got up and went to my desk.

Where the magic, pre-cancer, returned.

Six o’clock in the morning on a Sunday in March isn’t the middle of the night, but it feels like it. It was still dark. Everyone, from husband to child to cats to dog, was sleeping. There was no sound. The buses from the bus garage across the street weren’t running yet. There were no deliveries at the Walgreens in our back yard. There was no traffic. There was only silence and dark and me, sitting in the light from my computer at my desk. My keyboard lights up and I pretended there were stars beneath my fingers.

And I worked, in absolute isolation, but surrounded by all that I love.

As I worked, the sun came up, slowly easing light into my room and introducing the day. By the time I crawled back into bed, it was full daylight and I was exhausted. But happy. It was a Sunday, so I could sleep more than a few hours.

When do I sleep? Whenever I can. And whenever my body tells me I absolutely have to.

But when do I stay awake? When do I rejoice in awareness, in alertness, in the ability to work without interruption, but also without loneliness, when am I most fully myself, with only my expectations to be met and not the expectations of others?

Whenever I can. And whenever my body tells me I absolutely have to.

And now it’s nap time.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

So before Today’s Moment started as Facebook posts, I had a reputation as a “dark” writer, a “disturbing” writer. “Edgy.” Edgy didn’t bother me so much, but dark and disturbing did. Of course, along with it came praise like “brave”, “honest”, and I have to admit, I like “in-your-face”. But that dark and disturbing – it made me wonder if I was dark and disturbed. I didn’t think so, but you know, there’s the world at large looking at you…

Just this morning, I spoke with a client about Oprah’s original book club. At the end of the first year, Oprah did a special show, with interviews of the authors, and she took questions from the audience. One woman asked, “Why do you choose books that are so depressing?” Oprah rocked back on her heels, and then said something along the lines of, “Why wouldn’t you want to read about redemption? Why wouldn’t you want to read about someone who survived something, came out the other side?”

I’m with Oprah.

In my own experience, my writer’s heart was broken with my novel Rise From The River. In that book, I tackled rape, abortion, and the Catholic Church. Not easy. And yet I witnessed women putting the book down as being too “dark”. And this was during the heyday of 50 Shades. I truly came the closest I ever have to giving up on writing. This is where the trip to Oregon and the sand dollar story came in (for those who don’t know the sand dollar story, it’s in the book Today’s Moment, under May 18, 2017). I fought my anger and I kept on going.

When In Grace’s Time was published, it was called “delightful”. I was delighted at delightful. What a change from dark and disturbing! And then Today’s Moment Despite The News hit, from Facebook posts to blog to book.

I can tell you the day I was asked to give a presentation about Today’s Moment and the Power Of Positive Thinking, my jaw hit the floor. Suddenly, I was the Queen of Positivity. Though I will say this – I always was. I don’t think you can write about the topics I’ve written about, still bringing it all to a redemptive conclusion, without being positive. I just wasn’t seen as positive…and suddenly, I was. Which was wonderful.

But now there’s book #9, a poetry chapbook called When You Finally Said No. Everything about this book caused me to hesitate where I’ve never hesitated before. When the #metoo movement began, I was profoundly affected. I watched as brave women stood up and raised their voices, often facing ridicule and disbelief. I applauded them. I looked back over poetry that I’ve written over a number of years and found many poems that covered issues brought up by #metoo. As I re-examined my own poetry, I saw a story. A redemptive one. From 13-year old rape victim to promiscuity to abusive relationships to finally gathering the courage and self-knowledge to say no, to the aftermath of that no. It was all there. Not written as a book, but spanned out over years of experience.

A story. But different. Because this is poetry. And because it’s my story.

But…dark. Disturbing. Me?

I hesitated as I put the book together. And I hesitated as I sent it off for its first submission. And then it was accepted on its first submission. Within weeks. With a handwritten note from the publisher. I shook as I signed the contract. But I signed it.

During the blurb search (where you look for people to read the book and write “blurbs” to appear on the back cover), I had three women who eagerly said yes and wrote amazing things. But I had a fourth that told me she couldn’t do it because of the topic. And later, she said, “I now know more about you than I ever wanted to know.”

And I very nearly pulled the book. But then I didn’t.

When my publicist suggested a launch, I wasn’t sure. It’s such a teeny book. 26 pages. But she checked around and a bookstore was interested in hosting it. And another bookstore is interested in doing a presentation in June. I relaxed a bit…and then the launching bookstore wanted to put up a “warning” on the door the night of the event.

And I nearly canceled the launch. But then some things happened.

First, a friend read the book. When I saw him, he held the book up and said, “I want my daughter to read this. This is important. This book is important.”

Then I went to another friend’s launch. She was doing a fundraiser for our local women’s shelter, as I will be doing too. A representative from the shelter spoke before the launch and she said the shelter’s new mission statement is to, among other things, “empower all those impacted by domestic abuse and sexual violence.”

My poetry book is all about empowerment.

And then I picked up a little rubber bracelet being given out by the shelter. Imprinted on it was “Your Voice Has Power.”

I slipped it over my wrist. And I am going to raise my voice high. Which is what I’ve always done. Always.

The When You Finally Said No launch will be on April 6, at 6:30 p.m. at Books & Company bookstore in Oconomowoc WI. You are asked to bring along a donation from the shelter’s wish list, which is diapers (especially sizes 5 & 6), laundry detergent (no dye, no perfume), and umbrellas. I hope you come. It will be a positive experience.

I am raising my voice. My voice has power. It was powerful in Today’s Moment. It will be powerful now. I am the Queen Of Positivity. I believe in survival.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

 

 

 

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

It’s been a long winter. A long, long, LOOOOOOOOOOONG winter. Even my granddaughter Maya Mae, who is six years old, is sick of it. Sick of it at an age when she should be delighting in making snow angels, snow forts, having snowball fights, sliding down slippery hills on sleds and toboggans and even her own snowpantsed bottom. But last weekend, she looked at me, shook her head, and said in the saddest of voices, “Oooooooh, Gamma Kaffee. I need the cold to become the warm again.”

Out of the mouth of babes.

This past Saturday, my day was supposed to be relatively simple, by my standards. Run errands. Get work done. Pick up Olivia at work at 3:30, drive her to Oconomowoc (about 20 minutes away) to see her boyfriend. Come back in time to grandbabysit Maya Mae. Pick up Michael. Go back to Oconomowoc, pick up Olivia, go out to dinner. Bring Maya home. Simple. But as I sat in the Starbucks drive-thru at 3:15, the clouds opened up. It rained so hard, I couldn’t see the car in front of me – in a drive-thru lane. It was 34 degrees. I knew what that meant. I knew it way too well.

What followed was the cancellation of Olivia seeing her boyfriend and dinner out. It meant white knuckles on the steering wheel. It meant swearing. And as the sheet of rain turned to sheets of sleet turned to ice turned to snow, it meant tears. Weather doesn’t usually unravel me, but it did.

It’s been a LOOOOOOOOOOONG winter.

And now it’s today. Five days later.

It’s fifty-five degrees.

And I have a car whose plates are up for renewal and who needs an emissions test. Semi. My Chrysler 200 convertible. Who has been sitting in my garage since November because no road salt will mar this car’s underbelly and no snow will ever warp his ragtop retractable roof.

But it was raining.

Still. The emissions test needed to be done. The license plate would expire in two weeks.

Grumpy, I took the car out, top up. We drove in the rain to the oil change place where I get my emissions tested. Semi passed – good boy. And then I drove out of the garage.

And I swear I heard the angels sing!

The clouds split. The sun came out. The sky was blue. I imagine my whoop was heard all the way up to Minnesota. I pulled over to the side and I hit the down-roof button as if I was pulling a parachute’s ripcord.

For the record, I think my car whooped too.

Oh, the air! The sunlight! Oh, the warmth that wasn’t really that warm, but sure as hell was a lot better than subzero (but hey, I have heated seats and that’s what the heater is for!)! I dug out a CD, threw it in, cranked it up, and hit the gas.

SPRING!!!!!

When I pulled into the drive-thru at Starbucks, where just five days ago, I couldn’t see the car in front of me for the downpour of about-to-freeze rain, I heard whoops that echoed my own from across the speaker. “Kathie’s got the top down!” one of the baristas yelled. “It’s SPRING!”

Then I ordered my cinnamon dolce latte iced, instead of extra hot.

To hell with the robin. There is no surer sign of spring than Kathie riding topless, an iced latte by her side.

The forecast for tomorrow? A high of 36 degrees, with a mix of snow and freezing rain.

But we’re not going to pay attention to that for now.

WHOOP!

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

On Tuesday, I returned for a visit to the female inmates in the Waukesha County Jail. I think it’s been a year since I was there – the last time it was scheduled, there was a “substitute captain” and he decided that I wasn’t vetted enough, even though I’d been there a lot by then. Talk about feeling ineffective; there was no one I could complain to, no one I could yell at. I just had to accept that I wasn’t going in that day, and the women who were expecting me would just have to talk about the book to each other and their instructor.

That not being allowed to do something I so wanted to do – pretty much the epitome of jail and prison life.

I started doing this a couple of years ago, beginning with a visit to the Eastern Oregon Correctional Institute in Pendleton, Oregon, a maximum security men’s prison. I was invited in, because this prison is also the home of the last clock-making and repair school in the United States, and, of course, I wrote The Home For Wayward Clocks. The experience was life-changing in a way that I still can’t articulate. When I wrote about it, a reader here saw it and invited me in to the Waukesha County Jail. I know many writers lead writing classes for inmates, but I didn’t want to. Not everyone is a writer, believe it or not. But everyone can benefit from reading, and I wanted to connect through my words, not my teaching. It’s been amazing. I’ve learned something every time I’ve gone in.

This time was no different.

While the women were told to focus on In Grace’s Time (Today’s Moment was not allowed in because the captain decided the cover was “too graphic”), they were also encouraged to grab anything I wrote. All of my books (except one) are in the jail library. This resulted in the most comprehensive discussion of my own work that I’ve ever been party to.

For a writer, this is just a mind-blowing experience. You always wonder if your work has any impact, if you’ve made any difference. All around the table that afternoon, surrounded by the plain white walls of the jail, I saw the difference. I saw the impact my words and sentences and stories were having. Each of my books (but one) was held tightly in eager hands.

I made a difference. Holy cow.

Though I suppose you could say I had a captive audience too (someone had to say it…it might as well be me).

But then there was this. My liaison said, “Oh, did I tell you what happened after you left last time?” No, she didn’t.

The Correctional Education Association of Wisconsin sponsors a yearly creative writing contest, open to people currently incarcerated in the prison system. They publish the winners every year in a book that is also filled with artwork created by the inmates.

When I left last time, four of the inmates could not wait to get to the computers they only have access to when they’re in class. They wanted to write.

They wanted to write.

And they made it into the collection.

I was given the little magazine. The pages were marked so I could find the works by the inmates I’d met. My liaison told me of one woman who sat at the computer and wept the entire time she wrote.

Oh, the words!

Where do I go when I can’t see them anymore? Did they notice I left at all?

Trial…I AM SO SCARED.

The most beautiful smile is marked in/the heart/like a tattoo made in the soul

In the prison system, healing is as hard to find as natural light. But there are ways.

One of them is reading. And another…is writing.

I made a difference.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

On September 12, 2010, Michael, Olivia and I spent a sunny afternoon at Mount Mary University’s annual outdoor festival, the Starving Artists show. Olivia was a month shy of ten years old. She was agog over everything, the people, the art, the food, the music, the sunshine. As we walked through, I kept a watchful eye on a young girl who was still compulsive, zipping everywhere her attention blipped, talking with strangers, reaching out to touch. Just wanting to embrace everything.

We were seven years in with dealing with an autism diagnosis. In seven years’ time, we whiplashed from devastated to outright amazed at our daughter’s abilities, versatility, persistence, and determination. At three years old, when we were given the diagnosis, Olivia was basically nonverbal, filled with expressive sounds and syllables that were words to her, but not to us. Then she went into a parrot phase, where she memorized complete scripts from television shows and commercials and attempted to use them in everyday conversation. On the day of the art show, she was fully verbal and had the vocabulary of a college kid. There were challenges, so many challenges. Body language, facial cues, social interaction remained as foreign to Olivia as words used to be.

But oh, did she want to learn. Unlike what you typically hear about autistic kids, Olivia threw herself into social activities and groups. As harried parents, we often lost her in a crowd, chasing after the streak that was our daughter, only to find her deep in conversation with a stranger or a group of strangers. Once, at an antique show, we found her with her head in the lap of an old gentleman, who gently stroked her hair. “He’s a grandpa,” Olivia said. “I wanted to see what a grandpa was.” Both of her grandfathers passed away before she was born. The man smiled at us and gave her a hug before we moved on.

Olivia has a knack for finding generous, genuine people.

On the day of the art festival, we finished our shopping and went in search of a labyrinth I’d been told was on the grounds. I love labyrinths and walk them wherever I find them, and often use them as a teaching tool. We found the labyrinth in a quiet spot by some trees. Michael stayed in the car, but Olivia and I got out to walk.

I usually encourage quiet and introspective walks on a labyrinth, but for Olivia, the curving certain path just meant joy. She danced and sang her way in, sat quietly with her head bowed in the middle for all of five minutes, then danced her way out. I took photos of her and at one point, teared up when my camera lens caught her in a refracted sun shower. She was just aglow. When I posted these photos in an album on Facebook, these are the captions I wrote:

Olivia, of course, is not one for quiet and thoughtful walking. Her journey is joy. Her dance is delighted.

Most children would probably jump the stones, head straight toward the goal of the benches and the exit. But Livvy finds joy in the journey and she follows it through. I don’t know what she offered up when she reached the benches. That’s for her to know, and for Whomever was listening.

Livvy skips through the labyrinth, calling, “I can make it, Mama! I can make it!” Oh, yes, she can.

I remember whispering that final sentence out loud in the labyrinth as she called to me. Oh, yes, you can, Olivia. Yes, you can. It was a prayer. It was a promise.

I didn’t take a photo of the moment Olivia suddenly spun toward me, flung both her hands in the air, and sang, “I’m going to college here, Mama! I’m going to college!”

But I remember saying again, Oh, yes, you can.

Olivia is now 18 years old. She is a senior in high school. She applied to four colleges, one of them Mount Mary University. She was accepted at all four, offered scholarships at all four. She wants to be an art therapist. She wants to help others. One of her college essays was about a shirt she wears. On the front, it says, “I can and I will.” On the back, “Watch me.”

I’ve watched. I still watch. I will always watch. With so much belief in this child in my heart that at times, I am sure it will burst.

This past Tuesday, Olivia made it official. We took a final tour of Mount Mary. And that’s where she’s chosen to go.

I’m going to college here, Mama! I’m going to college!

I looked out the window at one point during the tour, and I believe I found the labyrinth, buried under the snow. On August 21^st, 2019, after helping Olivia move into her dorm room, I am going to take her by the hand and we will walk out to that labyrinth. We will walk it together.

And then I will let her go. It is at that point, I believe, that my heart will finally burst. With pride for this young woman. With joy, with love. With the full understanding of the supreme blessing she is in my life.

Oh, yes, you can, Olivia.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

About a year ago, we adopted our dog, Ursula LeGuin Giorgio. She came to us when we were hurting; our two beagles were put to sleep a few weeks earlier, both on the same day, side by side, with Michael, Olivia and I standing by, our hands on each dog. Blossom was fifteen and very ill with advanced kidney disease. Donnie was thirteen and had cancer, which spread faster than any of us expected. I didn’t want to get another dog. All of our hearts were broken, twice over.

And then one of our humane societies sent me a picture of a dog they called Mama. They thought she was around three years old. She came from Louisiana, driven up here by another shelter in a truck with three other dogs. She was called Mama because she clearly recently had puppies. The humane society said she was a “hound/terrier mix”, but we could see she’s a pitbull. And as soon as I saw that face, I was smitten. We went in to see her, and we wouldn’t leave without her. When she walked out the door of the shelter, she was no longer Mama. She was Ursula LeGuin Giorgio, named after one of the strongest women writers I know.

Soon after we got her home, it became clear that Ursula wasn’t the quiet dog in the shelter because she was calm and confident. She was quiet because she was terrified. For this first year, we have struggled with her through fears of the refrigerator’s ice maker, the microwave, things sizzling on the stove, the television, the fireplace, the piano, the Christmas tree, the vacuum. We can’t take her for walks around the block because she’s afraid of the traffic, the buses, the flags flapping in the wind, a door slamming. She prefers concrete to grass, which leads me to believe she was a kennel dog.

And yet…she wasn’t afraid of us. 45 pounds of dog on your lap is a challenge. She curls up by whoever happens to be there. During the day, she is typically by my desk chair, laying her concrete head from time to time on my lap, letting me know she’s there. She doesn’t know how to play – we’re working on that. We throw a ball and she gives us a look that says, “So what?” But she does know how to ask for what she needs: close human contact and a safe place to be. We give her that.

When we lost the beagles, I said I didn’t want another dog. Then, when we met Mama, I said I didn’t want a project dog. Well, somehow, here we are.

So the moment of happiness. Over the weekend, Michael was in the hospital (no, that’s not the moment!) with a bowel obstruction. This meant that the late night (figure two in the morning) walk before bed was up to me. Sunday, it snowed all day. When I took Ursy out, the parking lot next to us, which she prefers, was transformed into a snowy moonlit field. It sparkled. It was quiet. We could have been out in the country instead of in the middle of a sleeping city.

Ursula did her business. I took care of her business. And then, she looked up at me…and suddenly threw herself down on her belly, front legs extended, tail in the air, like a dog about to pounce. “What?” I said. That was all she needed.

She began to prance, to bounce, to play in the snow. She leaped, she rolled, she ran in circles as far as she could get as I let the extra-long leash out to its full length and ran with her. This dog did fast-paced yoga in the snow, a zippy downward facing dog, then an upward facing dog, her nose to the moon, a silent “Arooo!” clearly coming from her throat. Boing, boing, boing.

My god, Ursula PLAYED. She became a DOG.

I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in months.  I hope I didn’t wake my neighbors. If I did, I hope we entertained them with this cavorting crazy dog.

And then we came inside. She looked at me and grinned and if she could have talked, she would have said, “How was THAT?”

I answered out loud, “WHAT was that?”

This morning, Michael found Ursula sleeping on the loveseat in our bedroom. Curled in her tail was our little gray cat, Muse.

Oh, welcome home, Ursula LeGuin Giorgio. It took about a week short of a year, but I think we’re finally getting somewhere, puppy.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

Over the weekend, as I drove into the grocery store’s parking lot, I saw a man helping his wife into one of those motorized scooters provided by the store. With our snow and ice, this was not an easy feat, and I admired him and his hard work as I found a parking space.

But then I was startled when I got out of the car. The man looked back at his wife, gave a dismissive wave, and marched off for the store. She maneuvered the scooter herself, going around snow chunks dropped by cars, sliding a bit through the slush. I followed a bit behind, just in case she needed some help.

When we went through the automatic doors, I breathed a sigh of relief. She was inside and safe. I went to get a cart, and then I heard the woman exclaim, “Oh no!”

Her scooter was jammed to a halt. There were rugs laid out for people to wipe their shoes when they came in from the snow, and the scooter just wasn’t built for rugs. When the rug passed under the front wheel, it curled up into big loops before it hit the back wheel, and the back wheel couldn’t get over. No matter which way she steered, the rug just bunched up more. I glanced through the second set of doors into the store. Surely her husband was somewhere close by.

Nope.

Hurrying over to her, I patted her on the shoulder and said, “Let’s figure this out.” First, I tried to pull the rug out from the front, thinking it might unfold. It didn’t. Then I got behind her and tried to push and lift the scooter up over the blockage. I couldn’t. Then another woman came up to us.

“Let’s try this,” she said. “You hold on to her handlebars and seat, to keep the scooter from tipping, and I’ll try to pull the rug out sideways.”

And so we did. I held the scooter – and the woman – steady, and the other woman yanked the rug free. By then, five or six other people gathered in the vestibule and when the rug was released, they all cheered.

The rug-yanker and I high-fived and the woman in the scooter thanked us several times and then scooted her way into the store. As the other woman and I picked up our purses and she prepared to leave and I got ready to go in, yet another woman came up to us. “That was so nice of you,” she said. “That was really wonderful of you to help.”

The rug-yanker and I looked at each other, both of us, I believe, feeling a bit bewildered. But then we smiled our thanks and went on our way.

In the store, I saw that the woman on the scooter caught up with her husband. She was sitting quietly while he loaded the little basket with produce. I wondered if she told him what happened. I wondered if she asked where he was, why he didn’t come back to look for her.

And I wondered why anyone would think taking the time to help someone is an exceptional thing.

I thought about saying something to the husband. I really did. The woman turned and smiled at me then and mouthed, “Thank you.” There was something in that silent, careful gratitude that moved me forward, just a bit. I went to her and patted her on the shoulder. “You have a good rest of your day now,” I said. Turning to the husband, I said, “Take care of her. Please.”

I wandered through the store, picking up what I needed, and pondering. Wondering about a husband who would oh so carefully put his wife from their car into a scooter on a snowy slippery day, but then leave her behind to handle the elements and bunchy rugs herself. Wondering about being thanked for helping someone, when helping someone should really just be a normal, everyday thing. Wondering about my own caution in telling the husband to take care of his wife.

By the time I headed for home, I felt pretty settled again. I stopped to help someone. And when I couldn’t do it by myself, someone stopped to help me. We were there for her, this time. In our own small way, we helped to set her free. I hoped it was enough.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.