I went to a show last night... a dress rehearsal for a upcoming road show. The only info I had prior to was that it was 30 minutes outside of Nashville and show up at 6. Ok that was not quite all but I knew enough that this was an important event for a friend. My mantra of late has been to "keep showing up" to opportunities, to new things, to life. I'm working hard not to repeat the patterns of my past or those patterns that paralyze me. It's not easy but is getting easier. So I show up.

While I watched this production, I noticed a little girl sitting behind me wide eyed with wonder. She was maybe 5. We made friends at the intermission, over a game of peek-a-boo. As the second act started, I offered her my chair on the front row just by the stage. Her mom encouraged her and stayed right behind.  

I watched my new little friend watch big people sing and dance and live their dreams. The Sun Chips she clutched were her security blanket. They eventually just sat in her lap as she lost herself in the music. She tired in the second act and soon her brother started a meltdown so she was off to bed. With a pinky promise given and a high five. 

Today I ran and walked with friends who remembered their own dreams and some who need to be reminded of them. We talked of our 9 yr old selves or 19 yr old selves that still live in us and the little girls that need tending. 

Too often we think we "grow up" when instead I think we "grow away". Away from who we are or thought we were or even who we want to be. And it takes someone to invite us to the front row of our lives to help us see ourselves again. Older sure but still the little ones we were. 

I give thanks for those who are helping me put the pieces back. Some pull those pieces from a long long time ago. Some remind of my place here where I am. Some are reminding me of new ways to be. 

As we go along and re-member ourselves, I hope as we get tired, we continue to dream and hope and sit on the front row of life. All in the the thick of it. Together. We really can't do it any other way. 

Epiphany Kids

Yesterday was Epiphany. 

Traditionally celebrated as the day the wise men find the baby Jesus. 

It was also one of those whiplash days when I wonder where the balance of life can be found. They don't come often. 

In the morning, my family celebrated the day when a second parent adoption was granted for two little ones. We welcomed them into the world in June. For once in a long while, the state of Tennessee did a good job. The judge in the case had granted their big brother adoption 5 years ago. So all three children “get” two parents that they already had and already knew. A seal, if you will, on a family already made. 

That was the morning.

The afternoon was spent visiting with a little boy whose mother will die in the next month. He jumped into my arms as I got out of the car. We first met one warm summer day and in order to calm him down a bit, we did yoga. For some reason he loved it and we do it every time we get together. I taught him the motions to “YMCA”. We learned to read. He drew me pictures. We pray a body prayer every time I leave, gathering our arms to ourselves, raising them to God, receiving Gods love and sending that love into the world. His school photo is on my refrigerator.

I went to bed last night processing the day. A day of great joy certainly. A day of relentless sadness. A day I held held children in the hope I could love them.

 I realized more than anything, that while we pray over our children and pray they are protected and work as hard as we can to care for them, the world happens. Life happens. We can’t protect them from anything really. Hell, we can’t protect ourselves from much.

The best we can do is give them tools to get through. Safe spaces to cry. Listen to their lives. Hold hands together so we aren’t so small when the world is so big that we can’t get our arms around it.

Praying for the grace to see ourselves through. 

48 years 68 days

On Christmas Day I outlived my father by one day. He died at 48 years plus 68 days. On Christmas Day I was 48 yrs and 69 days. Don’t do the math…its likely wrong.

Its an odd thing to be on this side of life. 

Things I know now :

48 is young as hell. I knew that then because people told me. Now however, yes. Its young. For most of my friends, children are still elementary school or growing up. Careers are settling in. Life is a blur perhaps. 

He likely didn’t know anything anymore than I do. We all fake it sometimes. I can’t imagine he was any different, even if I did and still do think he knew all. I kinda like to think that now as I sit and wonder at my own still waiting on it wisdom. Makes me laugh really.

I'm told i live with ghosts. I prefer to think of it as a cloud of witnesses. Or better yet I'm an overachiever in the parental death category. (That can be funny. Its ok)  Knowing what I know now about childhood trauma and circumstances that change in families with the death of a parent, I have done pretty well. Yes I worry. More about being left than my own health issues. I'm working on that "left behind" part. Its a lifelong issue complicated by lots of things so…. I’ve got more to go. 

By all I know, Dad was a good guy. Likely with a long fuse, which once it blew, it was gone. I relate to that. I remember having an argument but couldn’t tell you what it was about 10 minutes later. A blessing and curse perhaps.

He played jokes.

He enjoyed his family.

He enjoyed his little girl…even as she called him a “male chauvinist pig” once. (I really did! and meant it and knew what it meant). I think I heard it on Maude. He walked out to the dogwood tree at the back of the yard to apologize to me for whatever he said. The dogwood tree was the “thinking tree” for me. It was my safety so he was most assuredly coming to my place for forgiveness. So there is some humility there. Even in the face of an angry 8 yr old. My mother told that story over and over and how hard he laughed at the “chauvinist” comment. 

Until she told him I was right. 

So today, I wonder what he would have been at 86. But not for long. He remains a 48 yr old bespectacled bearded Dad (who had a goatee long before it was hipster). Who laughed and loved and kissed me goodnight. Whose last words were "Khette, its going to be ok."

Perhaps the adventure continues in a different way. He’s here somewhere.  

Doing Some Jesus Stuff

Last night, I was in Memphis on a “girls weekend” with friends. Friends who work with me and friends who have seen all of us through a world of hurt and wonder. 

We had spent a day with Elvis at Graceland…hilarious in a variety of ways that left us sore from laughter. We had dinner at a spot on Beale and were headed to the Peabody Hotel when the protesters were spotted. 

I shouldn’t say spotted because really they were already there and we were headed toward them. They were on the corner of 4th and Peabody Place. A handful with placards reading #Icantbreathe and #blacklivesmatter. I had to stop at their corner because the light was red. We couldn’t cross yet. 

I felt a little awkward standing there with people behind me, mostly folks of color, with placards pleading for justice and for their lives. My back l was turned to them, literally. 

I am weary from the recent events of Ferguson and New York. Shocked and weary and deeply disappointed.  I really have no idea where or how to help….if there is any. “I look to the hills and from whence does my help come?”…..yeah….its supposed to come but feels like its taunting. I post things to Facebook but  what does that really do other than seem to make my less left leaning friends mad. (which is ok actually but still)

So really, I wanted a 24 hr period of peace, fleeting though it is. 

Did I mention,  my back was turned. 

I didn’t really like that. I didn’t like that I was literally not seeing what was behind me.   I’m the person who sits with her back to a wall so I can see up front and see what’s coming and yes…to people watch. I'm nosey like that. So this was uncomfortable. 

Oh, and I’m a white woman…with my back turned. 

I turned around and looked at who was behind me. 

A bearded white dude put a flyer in my hand. It was for a vigil to be held next weekend. I told him we were from Nashville and thank you for doing this, I said. I noticed a news crew interviewing an African American woman. She had on a pink t shirt and there had been a marathon that day…maybe she was discussing that… and to her left were folks holding the placards. 

My back wasn't turned.  

I looked at my friends and said “I got to do some Jesus”….they knew what I meant and thankfully stood patiently. One said later she knew exactly what I was about to do and whispered to our other friend, “she needs to pray”. I said "do some Jesus" to be funny. I wear the Reverend card irreverently some days. I know the weight it carries and its heavy. 

However, I needed to do some Jesus. For myself, for something bigger than me.  

I looked at one of the folks there…a young woman maybe in her 20s. I said “I'm from Nashville visiting. I am glad you are here doing this…I know this sounds odd, but could I offer a prayer with you all? I really don't know what else to do. If its too weird I won’t….I understand you have no idea who I am.”  (Read "I know you think I'm some crazy red headed white woman")

Unquestioningly, she welcomed the prayer, as did a few of her friends who gathered there with us. We held hands in a circle. I thanked God for the ability to be able to gather like this, to ask for justice and peace and made some lame-ass reference to justice rolling ( I DID get an amen however), and prayed for protection for the folks there and for my black brothers and sisters who live in fear and anxiousness everyday. And I prayed for forgiveness. Forgiveness for perpetuating myths and power structures that keep others from flourishing.  I'm not sure whose forgiveness I was asking. 

I said Amen. Thanked them.

I crossed the street wondering what the hell I'd done. 

I am not an activist. I don’t hold signs. I don’t stand in the line of fire. I'm not made that way. And I have long wondered how I can be supportive of lives I know nothing about besides giving my black friends a hug and a kiss. Sometimes I think that's trite even. Sincere because they are my friends for goodness sake, but trite.  What happened in that moment of “doing some Jesus” was something I CAN do. I can pray. I can witness to folks. 

God blesses drunks and fools and I God knows I can be both. 

Sometimes “doing some Jesus” may be being ourselves.

I am after all, the “never meet a stranger Khette” who makes living praying for dying folks. 

Surely I can pray for other dying folks to LIVE. 

Back to the Future

The last blog post had me running and declaring I was BACK! Well maybe so but a lot has changed since then.

But I am running again. And know I am and will for awhile now.

I am on the cusp of my 48th birthday.

My father died at age 48. If I follow any of his trajectory I will live until September 1, 2015. If I follow my own, it will be well past that...I hope.

I have thought and will think a lot about this likely until the year is up.

I have also been in a place where the old ways aren't working anymore. So I have tried to reach back to those things that have fed me at one time or another in my life. As an only child, the outdoors, my dog, and books kept me sane. So I've begun practices that incorporate these same things.

In August, I started a trail racing program. 12 weeks of Saturday morning runs and Tuesday night hills. All for some reason that I am only now realizing.

I ran in high school. Track and cross country. I enjoyed it but can't say I loved it. It was a sport I could do. I was never fast but my mother declared I could outlast anyone. With the proper mix of stubbornness and perfectionism, I managed well.

The first Saturday was a little intimidating.. Several folks were training for ultra runs and distances that required metric conversions. I didn't know anyone. And it was hot. At 47, I produce enough heat on my own thank you. However, as I began to run --for a time, not a distance-- I forgot all of that. I was in the woods where I love to be., doing something I enjoyed for the most part. We were "given" permission to hike,walk, or whatever we needed to do to make the run good for us. Good for ME.

Permission to do something for me.

That's what I needed at that time and in that space. I'm not good at that part. And I so much needed that. I spent the downhill part of the trail flying almost out of control and feeling like I was 8 again. It had been a long time since I had that much fun.

I was hooked.

Fast forward to today. A damp Sunday with 30-40 folks, many of whom I had spent those 12 weeks. I have run 5ks and a 10k. The last 5k was great. The 10k was close to awful. Six miles still feels long to me. An hour plus on my feet is still a challenge. But I knew I would get it done.

We started the first mile waaaaaay too fast. Even for my best 5k it was terribly fast. And I was in the back! I took a water break. Stopped totally (permission remember?) and reset myself. The next 5 miles were steady, sometimes solitary, and comfortable.

My friend Kim and I finished together. We spent most of our training working hard with what we have. It was good to be there. My other friends had finished. Some folks got lost in the woods. Lyndsey hugged me knowing what this meant.

I don't pretend to think I will ever win a race or even finish topsin my age group. For me at this time, it's something to be proud of and know I accomplished something, I've learned a lot about myself. I've needed this in more ways than I knew.

Sometimes those things we leave behind, can be reused in new ways. The joy of childhood pursuits are now lessons of comfort and care for the child carried in me.

And that's just fine with me.

Back at it....

I ran last night. Ok I walk/ran but Lyndsey tells me I RAN! So I'll go with that.

Let 's back up a bit. I am 45 yrs old and as the Indigo Girls like to say "heavier by the year and heavier by the load". I am struggling with this aging idea. Mentally I feel 16 most days. I laugh I cut up I enjoy life mostly. Yet in the last year or so exercise has been hard for me.

I love to walk. I could walk all day long and am frequently excited by a long 5 mile trek. No problem. With the brown eyed boy, I like it even more. As predicted he is not allowed to walk at the moment and I a joining him in a life of sympathetic sloth.

The kicker here is that I have signed up with a bunch of friends to do a Color Run in October. Mostly we will run some per- determined distance in our tennis whites and have chalk thrown at us and come out looking like Neapolitan ice cream I think. It'll be fun. I have to get into shape.

The issue is this. I used to be 16 yrs old and weigh 102 lbs. Yall can fuss at me all you want about that but
I was. I was captain of the track and cross country team. Ran my butt off in August heat and proudly puked at the top of a hill in a fancy neighborhood in Knoxville. I was never fast but I could outlast anyone. I ran at least 8 miles of a half marathon two years ago. I trotted through it and it was fine. I did it and got the t shirt.

I am competing against that 16 yr old and losing badly.

Now? Ack. I need to do this so I won't collapse on this fun run with a bunch of friends watching. It hurts. Ok running is supposed to hurt? I know that mind over matter crap. My knees hurt. My toes hurt. It is hot as hell and I am in peri menopause. Basically that means do not stop me from getting into a cold body of water ASAP at the end of any physical activity.

I have tried the "your patients would give their eye teeth to get up and run" thing. That doesn't work. Frankly I think they would rather feel good enough to sit with their grandkids on their porch.

Yes I am healthy but it still sucks. I have tried the "oh who cares if you're 45, this is good for you!" Whatever. And don't even give me the "body is a temple" speech.

I don't want to feel middle aged....and based on good genes in my family, I am smack it the middle. I just got hearing aids and I need new glasses.

I'll go run tomorrow I guess. I needed a day to rest today.

It will still suck out loud.

Week 3 and a new appointment

We have completed week three of four for the first heart worm shot.

I think there may be a countdown calendar for the next leg of the treatment. Thanks to good friends who have agreed to sit with him at various times, we have managed. And likely managed well. I think he's high maintenance but then again it's probably me instead.

Our evenings have consisted of sitting on the porch instead of walking. So my activity level has reached one step above sloth. He has turned the living room into Lewis dogcave.

Our next shot is July 30. I actually consulted Lyndsey for the date so I actually don't have that nervous breakdown I came close to the last time. Since I am going off meds, it's best for all of us.

We'll make it I believe.

He still won't mow the yard though I bet.