Waiting for Christmas

2012 Word Press 100 Word Challenge  "Waiting for Christmas"

Her 3^rd  year, excitement popped in her head like tiny firecrackers. She surrendered to sleep quickly... Santa was coming!

Her 7^th year, rockets burst in her brain.  She forced her eyelids tightly shut… and slept.  Santa demanded it.

By year 10, it was nuclear explosions and her head spinning off to the moon.  She feigned sleep.  Luckily, Santa was too busy to notice.

‘Twas the night before Christmas.

Her 102^nd year, excitement again spun in her head, but this time, as her weary eyes closed, Santa invited her into this sleigh, and off they flew into the eternal starry night.

 

Beware of Flying Beagles

8-17-12  For those who might read this and not know about my grandchildren (and you really do NOT know me at all and have never met me or looked at my blog or visited my Facebook page if you haven't heard about my grandchildren), the following conversation with 2 year old Savannah and 5 year old Sebastian took place with them both securely strapped in their car seats in the back of my daughter's car.  Mawney is the name Sebastian came up with trying to say Grammy when he was just starting to talk - and it stuck.

Sebastian :      Mom, there’s a bee in the car!

Mom:             It’s just a fly.

Sebastian:       No, it’s a not a fly – it’s a beetle.

PAUSE

Savannah:       The beagle is gonna get me.

Mawney:        There’s a beagle flying around the car?

Savannah:       Yes!  The beagle is going to get me Mom.”

Mom:             Well, let’s open the windows and see if it will fly out.

PAUSE

Mawney:        Is the beagle gone yet?

Savannah:       No, I think it’s still here.  I don’t wike doze beagles.

Mom:             We’re here – let’s get out and maybe the beagle will get out too.

Savannah:       Go away beagle!  I weally don’t wike doze beagles!

Happy Birthday To Me

Today has been the 59th anniversary of my arrival into the atmosphere of this planet. It has been a glorious day here in Rochester MN where I am visiting – high of 63 with light rain off and on - a surprise breakfast of gluten free chocolate cake personally baked by my lovely daughter – and decorated by 5 year old Sebastian and 2 year old Savannah with melted peanut butter cups and no less than a pound of sprinkles! Then it was off to the playground at the school where Sebastian will start Kindergarten in September (how can he possibly be old enough for that??) Lunch at Famous Dave’s with a huge family platter of ribs, chicken, pulled pork , corn on the cob and fries gave me a Bountiful Birthday Buddha Belly – and spending the afternoon with my awesome grandchildren was…. AMAZING!! On top of that, I spent Friday with my daughter Autumn celebrating both of our birthdays with lunch and an afternoon of ceremic glazes and bisqueware, AND she came home from work at Trader Joe's tonight with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers – who could ask for anything more??

So, on this auspicious occasion, what wisdom do I have to impart from my 59 years of living on this planet? It’s pretty simple really. Start loving and taking care of yourself NOW. It’s so easy to think that there will be plenty of time for that kind of boring stuff when we’re older… when we have more time… or when we actually start to have some kind of problem. But if I had it to do over again – believe me when I say I would definitely find a way to consistently exercise, eat healthy and healing food and do some kind of meditation in my 20s, 30s & 40s. It is 100 times more daunting, more exhausting, more painful to start doing these things in your “almost 60s.” (how can I possible be old enough for that??) My body hurts all the time… I am so tired… I am so overweight and out of shape… and I am making changes, but believe me, it’s a HUGE challenge to undo half a century of poor choices!

On a more esoteric level, the greatest wisdom I have or ever will have is LIVE IN THE PRESENT MOMENT. Most everyone knows what that means, but how many of us actually do it?? When I ride my breath into the moment, everything gets better. Anxiety is better – panic is less – fear dissolves. When I hang out back in the past or run forward into the future, I start getting sad, scared, depressed… and I begin to suffer. Suffering does not serve anyone. Suffering just makes you miserable – and it can make the people close to you miserable too. Why waste your time on it? So, when the panic or fear or sadness come, I try to notice my breath and come back into this very moment. It almost always works, when I remember to work it.

I was hoping when I sat down to write that I would have a lot more deep, crone-type wisdom to share. I guess not. Truth is pretty simple when you don’t complicate it. “Live in the moment and take good care of the body, mind, and spirit you've been given” is not exactly rocket science, but then, I am definitely NOT a rocket scientist. That would require math… (shudder). But I think that’s the best I can do right now. Live in the moment and take care of yourself. Honor the Divinity within you... and within everyone else. What more is there to do?

Namaste.

Dandelion Whine

I once saw a weed-killer commercial with a dandelion talking to another dandelion as it dies. It says "my roots are really hurting" and it keeps calling the other one’s name - "Hank... Hank, are you there??" - but Hank's already withered and gone to that big meadow in the sky. I wanted to cry when I saw this commercial.

I personally think that dandelions are one of the prettiest flowers around. When I had a lawn, I refused to weed a portion of it because I thought I might accidentally pull up a dandelion. What is it that makes people call a lovely yellow Chrysanthemum a flower while a lovely yellow Dandelion is a weed? Does a plant require a retail receipt to qualify on the list of official flowers? Apparently Mr. Webster thought so. In my Websters Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English Language (which requires a crane to lift from the book-shelf) a weed is said to be, "a valueless plant growing wild, esp. one that grows on cultivated ground to the exclusion or injury of the desired crop... any useless, troublesome, or noxious plant, esp. one that grows profusely." (Weed is also defined as "a marijuana cigarette...a thin ungainly person or animal... a mourning band of black crepe or cloth, as worn on a man's hat or coat sleeve," or simply "mourning garments." All of these are irrelevant to what I'm writing about, but I just thought it was interesting...) So what are the criteria for deciding that a dandelion is a "valueless plant?"

In Phoenix, Oleanders grow almost like wild to the exclusion of all grass and plants that try to grow near them. The poisonous leaves of this plant are dangerous to animals and humans, and once they settle in, it takes a nuclear blast to get rid of them - but still, they are considered “valued” plants, because you can purchase them at any nursery. Bermuda grass is really a weed, and it definitely grows wildly and profusely, but some people cultivate it while others want it gone. Who makes these value judgments, and why?

Returning to Mr. Webster, his two-ton volume defines the word flower as “…a plant considered with reference to its blossom or cultivated for its floral beauty.” Well, Noah baby, I’m starting a dandelion farm. I’m going to cultivate dandelions for their floral beauty. What’s wrong with a bouquet of petite golden dandelions for your dinner table? All you need is a very short vase and you can have a glorious piece of sunshine in your home. Move over roses… the dandelions are coming! I’ll sell them at roadside stands and call them Dainty Dandies and no one will know they’re paying $7.99 a bunch for “weeds” because they will be purchasing them for their floral beauty! What do you say to that, Mr. Webster??

Do you know what happens to a $40.00 bouquet of tulips when it starts to turn brown and wither? It goes directly to the dumpster. Once its original beauty has faded, it’s worthless… but not so with the amazing dandelion. Autumn comes... and the lovely yellow petals magically turn into whispy white angel wings - the courier of our dreams and wishes. One strong puff on a dried dandelion and you can send 30 or 40 or 50 exciting aspirations out into the universe. Puff… “I wish for a new car.” Puff… “I wish for a new house.” Puff…” I wish for the end of poverty.” Puff… “I wish for world peace.” Puff…” I wish for my mother-in-law to become a mute.” Big stuff, small stuff, noble stuff, petty stuff… it doesn’t matter. The magical dandelion wish machine makes no judgments but simply does its job of carrying your dreams toward the stars.

An unassuming little plant, the dandelion. Short stature…sturdy roots… a strong head… and the ability to withstand almost any climate. It offers us a lesson in its unconditional acceptance of its place in the world. It does not try to convince anyone that it’s a lily or an orchid. It doesn’t try to pretend it’s a Dogwood tree. It is proud to be exactly what it is… even if it is all alone, growing up through a crack in the asphalt. Talk about overcoming hardship!

You can have your long stemmed roses and hot house orchids. Their days are numbered. Trade in your Roundup for Miracle Grow. Dandelions are the cash-crop of the future... bless their mighty and glorious golden spirits!

Autumn Noelle

There’s Something About a Daughter

There’s something about a daughter…
A connection… an ability to relate unlike any other.
I guess it is because we are so much alike
And yet, we are so very different.
You are your own person and you always have been.
I am learning, by your example,
To be my own person too.

I have tried to model unconditional love
Acceptance of differences
Tolerance

I have tried to teach you
To care for yourself first
So that you will have resources to draw from
And can share yourself with others.

I have tried to show you
That caring is better than indifference
Love is better than hate
Spirit is always with you
And life is a magnificent adventure.
I have encouraged you
To find your dreams and follow them with passion.

All these things I wanted to share with you
Because I love you so much
And will always urge you
To make the most of the time you have here.

I see you doing so many of these things already
And I am deeply impressed with your inner strength,
Your courage, your humor and intelligence...
And all the lessons you learned at such a young age.
You have a bright future in front of you, my love
And I will be here to support you
Encourage you
Laugh and cry with you
And be your biggest cheerleader.

Most of all I will love you
Forever and for always.

To Autumn Noelle -  my Shortcake/Momo!

Tears & Tupperware

Tears and Tupperware

Anyone who has ever had young children around their house knows the wondrous entertainment value of a lower kitchen cabinet filled with Tupperware. Now days, it is most likely also filled with Rubbermaid and other knock-offs, but for the sake of simplicity, we just call it all Tupperware. If you have the courage and open mindedness to let your cabinet be in a perpetual state of disarray… your children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, etc can have a world of fun with those convenient plastic containers and matching colorful lids. Throw in a couple of plastic cups, a spatula, a large plastic spoon, a funnel and a turkey baster, and you have the makings for hours of play.

At 9 months, my grandson would open the cabinet (the only one that wasn’t safety tied up or locked), throw as many things on the floor as he could reach, and then settle in for some real baby fun. He would bang the containers together – try to put the lids on - turn the larger ones upside down and beat on them with the spatula. Squeezing the turkey baster and feeling the air come out the end made him giggle. He was completely and joyfully engaged in the process of destroying my kitchen.

As he got older, he began preparing meals for me – using the big pitcher for imaginary apple juice or milk and pouring it into a cup for me – proudly serving out pretend pizza with a large spatula - and bringing me homemade ice cream and a gigantic plastic spoon to eat it with. So many delightful meals of imaginary peanut butter sandwiches, hot dogs, and delicious invisible cake. So many smiles each time I told him how yummy his food was. So many good times with my own personal chef and "Best Beau."

By the time his sister was old enough to stand by herself, Sebastian was more interested in the dragons that lived in my yard and the dinosaur eggs we found hidden among the river rocks in my planters. But his sister took over the care and service of the Tupperware cabinet. Savannah loved the plastic containers, and assumed Sebastian’s place on the kitchen floor. She was just over a year old when their family moved to the Midwest, so we never ate the imaginary meals I shared with her “Bubby” – but still, my Tupperware cabinet was blessed by her energy.

Yesterday I needed a container for some Greek salad left over from lunch with a friend. The cabinet that holds my “Tupperware” was in pretty much the same shape it was in when the grandkids moved away 9 months ago. For all those months I had kept the pieces I used most often toward the front of the top shelf, so I could just dig in quickly to find what I wanted, promising myself each time that my next project would be to organize those storage containers. But yesterday, I was hot and tired, and I couldn’t find a lid for the container I was holding in my hand. I got frustrated by the disarray – and next thing I knew, I was throwing containers and lids and everything else out onto the floor in frustration, tears running down my face. At first I thought it was just because I was aggravated with the mess, but then I realized my tears had deeper roots. Emptying that cabinet was just another affirmation that there would be no more grandchildren playing in my Tupperware. There would be no more meals cooked for me in pretend ovens or removed from pretend refrigerators with small sweet hands. There would be no more “Here Mawney – I hab a peanut butter sammich for you – and some ice cweam too!” Emptying that cabinet was another step in my grief process about becoming the “far far away” Grandmother. I was undoing what they had done – and it would never be done that way again.

Sorting through this odd collection of containers, lids, spoons, and other odds and ends is a bittersweet exercise. Here is the blue wine glass Sebastian used to serve my pretend “appa juice.” Here are two of the plastic containers from Savannah’s organic baby food. Over there are two of the small rectangular cups with red lids that held Sebastian’s gluten free animal crackers, and next to that, the red plastic funnel that made such a funny hat. And sticking out of the big blue pitcher is one of Sebastian’s drum sticks - in the form of a white plastic spatula with the half-melted handle from falling on a burner many years ago. I would never ever part with these precious memories – no matter how wet my eyes get as I look at them. How is it possible for your heart to laugh and cry all at the same time?

Some people may think that crying over Tupperware is pretty sappy. Maybe it is. I really have no reason to worry about my grandchildren. They have creative loving parents and plenty of people in their Minnesota family who care for and adore them. We talk on the phone at least once a week - I send them little gifts and cards “just because” – and we are still part of each other’s lives. This is just one of those “Mawney” things. It’s just me, coping with missing them - missing the sound of their laughter - the excited look when they see me - the feel of their arms around me - the joy of their presence in my daily round.

Life does not always feel fair. Have you noticed? Sometimes it seems pretty merciless as it metes out day to day challenges. Sometimes all you can do is grab on and hang on for dear life. And sometimes, the best you can do is to remind yourself over and over that everything is happening as part of a much bigger, better and smarter plan laid out by a much bigger, better and smarter God ... no matter how wrong it seems from where you are right now... and no matter how many tears you cry over the Tupperware.

Daddy Dearest

Fathers are human. We usually wish they were more than that. I wanted my father to be truly as wonderful and happy and loving as the man he showed when he was singing in the church choir – the man he seemed to be to his Sunday School class – the man he was when we had a church picnic or a family reunion. He was a highly intelligent man - who took care of his family – provided well – and was a part of his kid’s lives. He was a deeply religious fundamentalist Baptist, who studied his Bible from cover to cover, with a particular love for Revelation and the end times. The Bible was interpreted literally… and legalistically. There was no alcohol in our house – no tobacco – no rock music or swearing… no going to dances or movies or doing any of the other obvious sins. My father needed to have God and the church be the center of his world… except when he had another need, which he first met with me in the basement cushioned by a pile of dirty laundry when I was 6.

So – my father was a pedophile. Not a very cheerful topic for Father’s Day. It went on until he moved away for work when I was 17. Icky… so icky, it seems, that I pushed it completely out of my conscious mind until I was 33, when the memories began crashing in. My father was a child molester. He denied from beginning, and never changed his story.  But I knew the truth. My father was a child molester. Damn, damn, damn…. 

Let’s imagine I have given you all kinds of gory details and told you about the years of insanity and addiction and therapy and pain and rage and on and on and on. Let’s pretend that is all out and done with… because a lot of it is.

Since this is an essay about Father’s Day, let’s talk instead about something that does not come naturally for me - the good that came out of my relationship with my father. If you had asked me about the good 10 years ago, I would not have been able to tell you much. I was still too entrenched in my unresolved issues with him. But time (and our Source), if we allow it, can bring a change in perspective. So over the last few years, I have set out on a journey to find good memories about the man that I always called “Daddy.”

At heart, my father was a good man. He laughed a lot – he loved music and sang all the time – he whistled almost constantly (which drove me crazy at times). He was a morning person, which I was not, so he would often wake me for school by pretending to be playing Reveille at my door. I was not amused. Wait… wait. It seems I’ve segued into teenage aggravations instead of good memories – let me get back on track.

My father bought me an upright piano when I was 6 so I could start piano lessons, and surprised me with a gorgeous cherry wood Howard grand when I was 13. Recitals, choir concerts and musicals would always find him sitting in the audience. He took me to a good Baptist church, where I was very involved and a leader. A nice home, nice neighborhood, nice clothes - all good things for a kid growing up. Thanks Dad.

Okay – now that the obligatory appreciation is over – what is the truth about my father’s legacy to me? I have agonized over this for a long time… and here is what I think I know. My father lost his mother in a car accident when he was 8 – was raised by an alcoholic father - and I suspect his childhood was very painful. Still, he managed to educate himself, find good, steady employment, and be responsible in providing for the financial needs of his family. When my mother became ill again and again, he stayed. When my brother and I had challenges, he stayed. He embraced his spiritual beliefs, drew strength from them, and I think, eventually, found release from many of his personal demons through his trust in his God.

My father suffered from the same thing we all suffer from – human frailty. Our frailty demonstrates itself in so many different ways – some more appalling than others. But in the end, even though he had deteriorated physically and mentally, my father continued to model his faith and his humor. After not speaking for 15 years, I called him on what turned out to be his last Father’s Day. I had no idea he was ill – Spirit just moved me to overcome my fear and dial the number. I opened the conversation by saying that I was willing to try starting over from that moment forward, and see what would happen. He seemed pleased with that. Probably the next thing he said was “Have you found a good Independent Baptist Church?” It was an old old joke between us – and we had a good laugh. We went on to talk about my kids, and my life, and in this, our last conversation, I was able to hear the voice of a man who loved me... my Daddy. His love may have been flawed, but it was still love.

Forgiveness found a small foothold for me in that conversation. 6 months later I had a call from my brother telling me that my father had passed. I grieved more than I expected to – and my willingness to forgive continued to shift. Something about my belief that my father understood everything now - and had found forgiveness for himself… released me to see things more clearly.

Daddy, I wish things had been different – for me and for you. I wish there had not been so much pain… that things had been easier. But some of the best parts of who I am today are there because of the role you played in my life. I am beginning to believe that you offered to come and play this role because I asked to learn forgiveness in this lifetime. You were an excellent teacher. It could not have been easy for you. So I am going to say something I never thought I would say. I forgive you. I forgive you… and even more important, I think I am starting to forgive myself.

Happy Fathers Day Daddy. I love you. I hope you are in a heaven that is everything you ever imagined it to be… and I hope you’re singing tenor in the choir.

A Letter to Savannah’s Guardian Angel, April 29, 2011

Dearest Angel,

I don’t know your name, but I have seen you. I had a glimpse of you over Savannah’s crib in the hospital one time –folding your magnificent wings around her – blessing not only our precious girl, but everyone else in the room. I know you are with her this instant – watching over her - and that she is never outside the safety of your wings.

She’s had a rough road for her short 19 months. But what I believe right now is that our sweet Angel Girl understands. If it sometimes seems like she is confused, it’s only because she has to deal with so much from her physical body right now, so she gets distracted. But the Truth is that with her young child clarity she can hear her old soul wisdom. She knows that she has been sent here to teach as well as to learn, and she is willing to be both the teacher and the student. I know she is learning – her family is learning - and every life that has touched hers through this journey has been changed for the better.

There seem to be more questions than answers right now, so I am going to trust you to keep her safe without understanding why this is all happening. I am trusting that sweet Savannah is experiencing your presence whenever she is feeling separated or in pain – and that she is embracing the truth of you without question. I know that you allow her Mommy and Daddy and the people around her "with skin on" to love her and meet her needs… and then you fill in the cracks and take up the slack when things get bigger than humans can handle. I believe she sees you clearly when she feels alone – hears your soothing voice singing to her when she is upset – knows with everything in her that you are a channel of goodness and comfort to her in every moment. I suspect that sometimes, when she seems distant and detached, it is because she is sitting in your lap, enfolded by your wings, completely focused on soaking up all the love, light and peace that come directly through you from her Holy Creator. Her mind is not cluttered with all the craziness and suspicions that we adults carry around… so she can accept that you are there without questioning – or wondering if you are real. She can believe in you in the pure childlike way she believes in God and in herself… unconditionally, with no doubting. She is a perfect representation of Good, as are you… and she knows it is okay. Everything is okay.

Thank you for being with our Savannah Angel – for faithfully seeing her through everything that happens. Thank you for always being right there beside her, your lovely face and kind eyes smiling into hers, radiating God’s pure Love. I am grateful for you… and I thank you for doing all the things I cannot.

In loving gratitude,

Savannah’s Mawney

PS - could you please pass this along to the other Mielke and Elward Guardian Angels? Thank you!

Happy Birthday Momma

Today would have been my mother's 80th birthday. I shared about her in church today - talking about hope versus hopelessness - and taking the risk to speak of her choice to end her life when she was 45. She is strongly on my mind... which led me to look at the chapter about her in the autobiography that I wrote many years ago. I am going to quote myself here - from the unpublished book "Don't Fall Off the Edge"

7/30/90

Letting go is such a frightening thing for me.
I think it's because people and things I've loved...
sometimes the most cherished parts of my life...
have evaporated, even as I held on with all my might.
What will happen if I don't hold on at all?
So I have desperately grasped and taken into my heart and gut
things that do not belong there.

Letting go is such a frightening thing for me.
Last night I let go.
I let go of the gut wrenching horror, and the terrible guilt,
and the twisted pain of my mother's choice to die.
It still hurts, and perhaps there is yet unfinished business,
but I am okay.
For now I am okay.
And last night I looked at the Colorado stars,
And felt my mother's presence for the first time in many years.
Sometimes letting go is the only thing left to do.

My mother was difficult to live with. She did many things that hurt me. She was often unable to give me what I needed from a mother. But this volatile moody woman was the same gentle person who taught me to love Chopin, and poetry, and musical theater. This unpredictable person showed me how to see some of the wonder and beauty in life that other people often miss. She was so very funny, and gave me the gift of humor that has been such an important part of my survival. No one will ever be quite like my mother. No one will ever take her place. I don't know if I will ever stop missing her. I do know now that she will always be a part of me. I will always, always love her, and I know she will always love me

Once there was love
And she would sing to me about her little girl
Pink and white as peaches and cream
And she would stroke my hair.

Once there were Saturdays
Filled with the sounds of the Metropolitan Opera on the radio
Being lifted above mundane chores
on the magnificent strains of La Traviata or Madame Butterfly.

Once there were pretty dresses
Each one unique and beautiful
All made with love by my personal dressmaker and mother
Just for me.

Once there was ballet
The Nutcracker, second tier
Seeing nothing but the tops of heads
But sharing the wonder.

Once there were concerts, recitals, musicals
The Sound of Music, Cabaret, No No Nannette
Some of my happiest times
and she was my fan club.

Once there were surprises
Coming home from a week at summer camp
To find my room redecorated
With the door wrapped like a giant birthday gift.

Once there was love, imperfect and flawed
But strong enough and loud enough to break through the chaos that was life
And leave me aching to once more hear her song
And feel her stroke my hair.


I love you Momma. Thank you for loving me in the very best way you knew how - and for accepting my love in return.

For Love of my Grandchildren

I don't do rhymed poetry - except in jest. It all sounds like Dr Seuss to me. But the first part of this poem came to me shortly after I found out my daughter and grandchildren were moving to Wisconsin... and after they left, this just unfolded. It's a bit sappy - but I have been crying for two weeks now, so my brain and heart are very soggy.


Mommy took you on a plane today
She took you oh so far away
And I know you both will be just fine
Your hearts are happy and strong... but mine
Is broken in 200 places
Not to see your lovely faces
Big brown eyes and dimples too
I don't know what I'm going to do
To fill my hours and my day
When you are so so far away

Savannah, Mawney's Angel Girl
You are such a constant whirl
Of life and sound and toddler joy
And then there is my boy
My Bastian, whose voice I hear
Even though you are not near
"I wuv you Mawney - I your Best Beau"
"I talka you Mawney - Hewo, hewo?"
I can't count your freckles from this far away
Or read you the story of Eeyore's Big Day
I can't go to the park and feed all those whales
Or make up those magical whimsical tales
Of dragons and pirates and Darth Vader too
What will I do with my days without you?

The Zen of Crayons

Generally, when we are trying to be mindful and centered, we are told to seek quiet and stillness. We get settled somewhere and breathe – and try to clear our minds of all the “yada yada” of daily life. One exception to this is the act of coloring with crayons. It is an activity that evokes mindfulness in its very DOING. Pressing that little stick of color against paper and seeing the result brings us into the moment unlike few other things.

Life is like a box of crayons. I’m not the first person to say that, but it’s true. Some people never let themselves be more than an 8 crayon box. Nothing wrong with that. I’ve done some amazing coloring with blue, red, purple, yellow, brown, black, green, and orange. Having only 8 crayons can limit you – or it can make you try creative things – like mixing them together to make other colors. Problem is, crayons don’t blend very well. Not like tempera paint. If you give a toddler a paint brush and 8 little puddles of color on a paper plate, 9 times out of 10, the paint will end up blended together perfectly to make a unique and wondrous color I refer to as baby poop brown.

Paint likes to blend. Crayons do not - a lot like people, I guess. Some of us like to blend in – and some of us like to stand out. The stand out people are more like the boxes of 24 crayons. I remember when I graduated to that. Now I had things like red-violet, scarlet, and indigo. There was also yellow green…… and green yellow (which were always kind of a puzzlement to me – but some things you just have to accept as a kid.) And what about orange, yellow orange, and red orange? If you ask my 3 year old grandson Sebastian what color it is, he says orange. They’re all orange. The subtleties may be wasted on a lot of kids… but not on me.

The leap to a 64 count box was like the earth had split open and incredible rainbows had come pouring out. My first experience of the “Magnificent 64” was when it came out in 1958. I was 5, and it was kind of like Christmas, Birthday, and 4th of July all rolled into one, rectangular, gold and green magical cardboard box. You opened it – and the smell hit you. Probably one of the most well known smells on the planet. Eau de Crayon.

The assortment was mind-boggling – aquamarine, chestnut, plum, raw sienna and raw umber (as opposed to cooked sienna and cooked umber – I used to wonder about that). It was incredible… and you would color and color with midnight blue and mulberry and cornflower… just so you could get those little pointy ends off and have a reason to use that special secret crayon-only sharpener on the back. Wow. It was like having a secret decoder ring or a magic wand. You wore those points off your favorite crayons, and then you enthusiastically shoved lemon yellow in that little hole in the back and turned it hard to the right – and the crayon broke in half in your hand.

Disaster strikes in the crayon world.

So, being the resourceful 6 year old that you were, you took the bigger of the two pieces and, a little more gently this time – tried to stick it in the sharpener and turn. The lovely colored wrapper, which had been torn in the earlier disaster, spun around in your hand – but the crayon didn’t move.

“Okay,” you thought. “I can do this. I do not need to call Mommy.” You removed what was left of the wrapper, and stuck the now naked partial crayon in the hole, twisting it as you went. It spun around, but nothing happened. You pushed harder. Nothing happened. You pushed harder… and the box went slid across the table and went crashing to the floor.

20 minutes later, when you had tried unsuccessfully to put all 64 of the scattered crayons back in the box so that the colors are lined up like they were before, you realized there was one gaping crayon sized space. You spotted a nugget of lemon yellow on the other side of the table, but where was the… 

Oh no.  There – under your PF Flyer – waxy bits of bright yellow ground into the carpet. So now – you were not only in deep doo doo with Mom, but there was a hole in your box – like a missing front tooth. You dropped in the small rescued yellow piece - but the space above it just mocked you and served as a reminder of your shame.

Eventually we all learned how to peel back the wrapper and sharpen our crayons. We learned to deal with the slowly deteriorating collection as one crayon after another broke, or disappeared under the back steps, or melted in your pocket in the dryer. It didn’t take that long for the shine to wear off, but we still loved them. It made a new box that much more exciting - like Christmas in July!

I still think a new box of crayons is a miraculous thing. Millions of mindful masterpieces have come from those gold and green boxes since they first came on the market in 1903. Sadly, lemon yellow, mulberry, and raw umber no longer show up – they, along with 10 other magical colors, have been “retired.” You will no longer find a peachy looking crayon called “flesh” because of course, flesh is not all peach colored. New wonders have been added, like Electric Lime, Fuzzy Wuzzy and Mango Tango. There are actually 133 colors of crayons, not including specialty crayons such as Silver Swirl, Gem Tone, and Metallic FX. There are also some crayons called Magic Scent which smell like Baby Powder, Daffodils and Pine trees. Blasphemy!  I am categorically against them. It would ruin the whole effect. I will stick with the original amazing waxy scent, thank you very much. It’s part of the mindfulness of the whole crayon experience. The smell, the choice of color, the feel of the crayon in your hand – the creation that starts the moment the crayons come out of the cabinet.

The minute you are old enough to scribble with one of those big fat crayons in your chubby little baby hand, you can begin the art of crayon mindfulness. And until you are too old to hold a big fat crayon in your withered old hand, you can continue the art of crayon mindfulness. Buy a box today. Buy one for a friend. You can now buy a mindboggling collection of 120 lovely crayons in one gold and green cardboard container – can you imagine the creative works and opportunities for mindfulness that could come from that?

The Zen of crayons.  Experience it today.  And don't forget how essential it is to frequently color OUTSIDE the lines!!

Stars, Stripes & a Sesame Seed Bun

November 2002
I step off bus #1, remove my bike from the rack, and commence my wait for bus #2. As I guide my bike to the sidewalk, I see an amazing portrait. Two homeless men are sitting at the blue-canopied bus stop, each holding a partially eaten Big Mac. The two men have the look of so many men that you see around town this time of year… shaggy beard, ragged clothing deeply layered for warmth, knit cap, worn shoes and tattered gloves. One man has a cast on his left foot. A shopping cart stands nearby, containing a walker, a beat-up old gym bag, and a cardboard box. As I lift my gaze, I can see the huge red and gold McDonald’s sign above and behind the bus stop, with its accompanying American flag fluttering in the breeze.

Homeless men at a blue bus stop eating Big Macs under the Stars and Stripes. What a perfect representation of the times we live in. The incredible wealth of a conglomerate like McDonald’s contrasted to the incredible poverty of others in this country. The flag, our symbol of freedom, contrasted to the imprisonment of need. And as for the Big Macs – the fact that a large percentage of the most affluent country in the world subsists on a diet of white flour, dead cow and fat-soaked potato chunks is an incredible metaphor for this nation’s willingness to close its eyes to obvious problems.

Don’t get me wrong. I think McDonald’s French fries are the food of the gods. I delight in a Big Mac in a real moment of weakness. I turn up the volume on my denial about what I’m actually putting in my body, and gustily inhale “two all beef patty’s, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame bun.” For someone with no home and no food, I’m certain that a #1 Combo Meal is Heaven wrapped in a paper sack. This is not about McDonald’s. It’s about the inequities of wealth in America. It’s about the judgments people make when they see a ragtag person pushing their shopping cart down the road. And unfortunately, it’s about my own need to reprogram the judgmental thoughts that run through my mind before I rethink my automatic responses.

I’ve gotten better with time and awareness. I’ve gotten better since being inches away from homelessness myself a couple of times. I’ve become wiser with age, and less quick to judge about many things in life. But I still need work. I’m an enlightened, card carrying, bleeding heart liberal who believes the government should spend whatever it takes to help citizens in need, but even I occasionally slip back into the condemnatory and hypercritical mind-set of my youth. If it can happen to me, is there any hope for all those "just let 'em get a job" right-wingers out there?

Two homeless men sitting at a blue bus stop eating Big Macs under the Stars and Stripes. Norman Rockwell would probably have enjoyed painting the scene. Hang it next to "American Gothic." Title it "American Travesty." Enjoy your lunch, guys. It might be the last one for a long time.