What Gives?

I have been asking God “what gives” a lot lately. What gives with the economy? What gives with the election? What gives with all the rain?

The closest to an answer that I have been able to divine so far is this: “take care of the small things, and the big things will fall into place.” Actually, it was a middle school principal who said that to me but, under the circumstances, it seemed to fit.

Before I started writing, I used to think that if you had a good plot and a good outline then the rest would follow. A good story, no matter how poorly it is told, is still a good story. I now realize, however, that the devil is in the details: the turn of a phrase; the memory that is triggered, the feelings that are stirred. After all, the idea of an entire world existing just on the other side of the wardrobe door is an intriguing one, but it is the crunch of the snow under the children’s feet, the sweet and all too familiar taste of Turkish Delight, and the horrific sight of Aslan on the stone table--“still quiet, neither angry nor afraid, but a little sad,”—that moves us and changes us.

What does this have to do with the economy and the election? Just this: I may not be able to do anything about the big things—the plot that seems to be unfolding out of control—but I can take care of the small things. I can be more creative in the way I use the resources at my disposal by carpooling more or initiating a soup swap. And I can do my best to stay informed on all the issues and respect the opinion of those who don’t see things as I do.

As for the rain, there’s not much I can do about that except maybe listen to the way it sounds and remember the way it feels so that when it stops I can write about it in such a way that it moves and changes someone else.

Heroic Measures

A loved one recently asked me to serve as his healthcare proxy.
"Okay," I said, "but you have to tell me what you want."
"That's easy," he said. "No heroic measures."
"Got it," I said, as if I understood, but I don't. Not really.

Whenever I hear that phrase, I picture a doctor in a superhero costume, hands on his hips, his cape billowing in the breeze, a stethoscope around his neck. He is standing by the bedside of my loved one when I look up and say, "Oh. That won't be necessary," and he simply turns and walks away.

When my mother was dying, a doctor asked me if we had come to "a decision."
"A decision," I said not sure what he meant at first. Then, suddenly, catching his drift, I blurted out: "we never even had a conversation!"

"You'll know when the time comes," my husband assures me. "If the time comes," he adds. But I'm not so sure.

Labor Day

Labor Day always seems so much more like New Year's Day to me than January 1. For one thing, it signals an end: of summer; of carefree days living by the sun and the moon rather than the clock; of friendships forged simply because you happen to be in the same place at the same time; of long evenings spent outdoors.

It is also a beginning, however: of new routines; new ventures; new experiences to be created. Even Mother Nature helps to foster a sense of change in September, turning warm days cooler and hazy skies bright blue in contrast to the unending cold and gray of December into January.

On Labor Day, my kids are instantly a whole year older. I can no longer say “she was a freshman,” or “she will be in the 7^th grade.” After today, I must say “she is a sophomore," and "she is in the 7^th grade.” My marriage, too, ages on Labor Day. “Seventeen years ago today,” I remind my husband across a dirty breakfast table spotted with milk stains, “the honeymoon was over.” And, of course, it was in September of 2001 that a new world-consciousness--a new way of seeing ourselves and the world--was so violently and irrevocably thrust upon us.

Come January 1, I will probably join in singing “Auld Lang Syne” and I will make my list of resolutions. But, for me, the year will be half over and I will already be looking ahead to the next Labor Day and to the new year ahead.