The Happiest Birthday

Some days in parenting are just magical.  The air is clear of conflict, the kids’ spirits shine brightly, and the atmosphere hums with joy.  Ben’s birthday was one of those days—the excitement over his graduation from four-year-old to five-year-old was practically palpable.  Even Abby, whose own birthday is still months away, resonated with anticipation.  In fact, her sincere and heartfelt celebration of Ben throughout the day made this birthday the best yet.

Josh and I woke to Abby’s voice that morning sometime after 7:00.  From her crib, she called loudly to Ben through their shared bathroom door, “Ben, Ih’m soh happy ihs your birfday today!  Ben, Ih’m soh happy you were bohrn today!”  Ben, king of accuracy and precision, clarified with the patience of a wise, old sage, “No, Abby, I wasn’t born today!” but clearly enjoyed her excitement.  Abby, undeterred by his correction, shifted into a rousing version of “Happy Birthday,” her exuberant two-year-old voice leaving Josh and I in silent giggles next door. 

These are the moments parents dream of, the exchanges that sometimes feel like the stuff of parental fairy tales--until we wake one morning to find the fantasy has, in fact, invaded reality, that Love does exist on earth as it does in heaven.

The day continued as sweetly as it began.  Over lunch at the kids’ favorite pizza restaurant, Ben leaned over and kissed my head, saying, “Thank you that it’s my birthday.” Josh and I could only smile at each other.  It felt like we spent the whole day enjoying our children’s purest selves and glancing at each other in delight.

The highlight of the day, however, was taking Ben to see his first movie in a movie theater: Toy Story 3.  I had previewed it a few weeks ago and decided it would be appropriate for Ben, who we knew would love the story and characters and play and with whom we could discuss the darker characters and themes.  Abby, though disappointed she couldn’t join us, seemed to understand why she was staying home with a sitter to take her nap.  And so the three of us drove to the theater, bought our tickets, bought a box of candy of Ben’s choosing, and settled into our seats with our 3-D glasses in place. 

When the movie began, he sat on the edge of his seat, attending to every detail with absolute focus and concentration.  He laughed out loud in the funny spots; he whispered questions (“What does ‘selfish’ mean?”); occasionally, he reacted in his normal voice (“Is that the real Buzz Lightyear, the one with the real laser?!”), which we figured added to the authentic viewing experience of the grown-ups around us.  And when it was over, he asked, “Can we watch it again?”, his love of the experience clear.  As we walked back to the car, he said, “Buzz Lightyear is my favorite superhero ever, and he’s always going to be my favorite no matter what, even when I die and am under the ground and not alive anymore.  He’ll always be my very favorite.” 

He’s there, he’s arrived at boyhood—a lover of stories and adventures and daring rescues and bad guys brought to justice or demise, with enough understanding of the world to appreciate conflict and plot but with enough naivete, still, to adore a superhero, to believe in an unstoppable force of good and strength capable of vanquishing any evil.  Five-years-old ushers us out of preschool days and into the era of true boyhood.  And this new age sparkles with wonder.

Ben wanted to keep his 3-D glasses rather than recycle them and asked to take one of our pairs home for Abby.  He gave them to her as soon as we got home.  And though, by the end of the night after dinner and cake, both kids had reached the edge of their self-control, Ben still offered to let Abby open one of his presents as he had promised earlier in the week, “because I love her.”  

It was a magical day, full of everything good and right and true: love, gratitude, selflessness, innocence, joy, and enchantment.  Not everyday is like this. But this day existed, without contrivance or reminders or promptings or any other intervention. 

And I'm pretty sure I'll remember it for a long, long time.       

Don't Freak Out

...but I'm going to share the most important information I just learned about keeping our children safe from sexual abuse.

***Because the statistics show that a third of women and fifteen percent of men are survivors of sexual abuse, it is possible that some of you reading this blog are survivors. I want to acknowledge that though this material is sensitive, there is information here you can use to keep your own children safe.***

(For more information, please visit Feather Berkower's website: www.parentingsafechildren.com.  There you'll find statistics, resources, articles, and information on upcoming workshops.  She also coauthored a book that will be published in the next few months: Off Limits: A Parent's Guide to Keeping Children Safe from Sexual Abuse).

In high school, I learned that sexual abuse happened to people I know.  In college, I became aware that it was not a rare exception but an alarmingly prevalent issue for countless children.  Ten years later, I look around my life and find it hard to know off the top of my head which list would be longer: that of friends who escaped childhood unaffected by sexual abuse or that of survivors I know.  Child sexual abuse is real.  It happens every day to kids all around us.  And it is not selective: socioeconomics, degrees, Pottery Barn homes, and loving parents do not make a child immune.

Yesterday, however, I learned information and skills that will increase the odds that my children will reach their eighteenth birthday without experiencing it.  And I feel compelled to share this resource and just a few of the things we took away yesterday with anyone who will listen in hopes that more children will become "off limits" to sexual offenders.

After two years of missing this parenting workshop due to scheduling conflicts, I finally had the opportunity to attend Feather Berkower's "Parenting Safe Children" class on Saturday, a workshop designed to educate and empower parents--and other adults or caregivers--to keep kids safe from sexual abuse.  I'd heard amazing reviews about Feather's presentation from everyone who had attended previously, and I knew I needed to invest this time for the sake of my kids.

This is not your average parenting workshop.  Feather addressed with tact and empathy and poise and clear, thorough information an issue many people are afraid to even acknowledge.  Though the content, by nature, is difficult and, at times, uncomfortable, Feather managed to lead us through our time together without leaving us queasy or paranoid.  Rather, Josh and I left confident, feeling empowered that we had the information and skills we need both to empower our kids and also to "filter" the people and places in their lives to give them the best possible opportunity to be safe, to become "off limits" to sexual offenders.

The statistics around child sexual abuse are staggering--I'll share just a few of many. From her thorough presentation we learned:

*1 in 3 girls and 1 in 7 boys are sexually abused by the time they're 18
*40-50% of offenders are juveniles (this includes teenagers as well as young children sexually offending other children)
*of adult offenders, 95% are married men with children
*by an overwhelming percentage (80-95%, depending on the study), most offenders are known to children: offenders are relatives, neighbors, family friends, babysitters, coaches, etc.
*these statistics are based on incidents that are reported: imagine how many more go unreported...

Though most child sexual abuse is committed by males, the stereotype of the dirty old man lurking in the playground bushes is a far cry from reality.  It is far more likely that our children will encounter offenders on a play date or at school or in their very own homes in the form of friends or loved ones.  Remarkably, Feather described the types of individuals likely to offend with compassion, many of whom learned their behaviors when they themselves were abused (it should be stated clearly, though, that not all who offend were abused and not all who are abused go on to offend).  Still, the familiarity of most offenders is what makes this problem so insidious.

But we are not powerless against it.  Feather reminded us several times that we can equip our children to make them significantly less vulnerable to abusers.

After leading us through the statistics around the incidence of child sexual abuse and the characteristics of abusers, she outlined the qualities of children who are vulnerable.  She described the "grooming" process most offenders use to gain the trust of children and their parents so that we could recognize warning signs or red flags, and she described the qualities of safe kids and safe homes.  Did you know that one quality that makes a child more vulnerable to sexual abuse is not knowing the anatomically correct terms of their "private parts"?  We've chosen to teach our kids the names of all their body parts, but I'd occasionally had nightmares that they would blurt these terms out in the middle of the grocery store or school or a dinner party, embarrassing all of us.  Now, I realize that this knowledge, whether it leaks out in public or not, is a gift and may even communicate to the ill-intentioned around us, "I'm off limits.  Someone's talking to me about things that matter."

Feather also discussed helpful and unhelpful responses we could provide to our children should they ever disclose that they have experienced abuse.  In this case, calm, loving reassurance is key: "Thank you so much for telling me.  I love you no matter what.  This isn't your fault.  I'll do whatever I can to keep you safe and get help."  In fact, the mantra of the afternoon, whatever the situation, seemed to be, "Thank you so much for telling me.  Let's talk about it" or "Thank you for asking--that's a great question.  Let's talk about it."  Though the thought of facing this situation has always terrified me--creates a pit in my stomach that just aches when I think about it--I now feel  better prepared to handle it in a way that would allow the healing process to begin right there and hopefully not exacerbate an already difficult situation.

In giving us tools to protect our children, Feather gave us tools to be better parents in general.  She encouraged us to really listen to our kids, to hear beyond the words they use to what they might be trying to communicate, to ask questions that invite discussion and to respond in ways that show our children we are available to talk about whatever they may be processing in their worlds.  She gave us permission to be truly honest with our kids--at age appropriate levels--when asked difficult questions about sexuality, our bodies, and other topics we may be tempted to put off until later.  And she gave us principles, "Body-Safety Rules," that we could take home and begin using with our kids immediately.

We had our first conversation with Ben about "body safety" that night at dinner (Abby had gone to bed early, but we will share with her as the opportunities arise).  We shared with Ben where we had been and told him we had learned some important things about keeping him and Abby safe.  Over the course of dinner, we reinforced concepts he already knew ("You are the boss of your body," "You are allowed to have privacy when using the bathroom or getting dressed"), clarified rules we've implied or assumed he knew by talking about them openly ("No one is allowed to touch your private parts unless they are helping you get clean or unless your private parts are sick or hurt and a doctor needs to help them," "You are not allowed to touch anyone else's private parts," "You have our permission to say 'No' and disobey if a grown up ever breaks a body safety rule"), changed some rules in order to make our home safer ("We don't have any secrets in our family, ever.  We may have surprises like birthday gifts or special events, but if anyone ever tells you not to tell Mommy or Daddy something, then you need to tell us right away.  There shouldn't be anything you can't tell us"), and assured him as much as we could in one setting that we will always love him no matter what, that he will never get in trouble for telling us something related to body-safety rules, and that he can talk to us about anything.

Ben, our rules- and boundary-lover, embraced these new tenets.  "If someone ever tells me not to tell you something, I'll say, 'No, we don't have secrets in our family,'" he told me.  We began playing "What if" games as we got ready for bed.

"What if a babysitter tells you you can stay up and watch a movie way past your bedtime but only if you don't tell Mommy and Daddy?" I'd ask.

"I'd say, 'No, I can't do that,' or I'll say, 'Okay,' but then tell you the next day," Ben said.

I don't harbor illusions that he is now immune to the grooming ploys of an offender, but if we continue to have these kinds of conversations; if we continue to talk openly about our bodies and these body-safety rules; if we take advantage of the "teachable moments" in a day related to privacy, secrets, and body safety; if we foster closeness and provide plenty of attention and affection within our family--I am hopeful that if a situation arises--and I pray it doesn't--but if it does, our kids will have a gut reaction that tells them something isn't right and will feel empowered and entitled to say no, to communicate overtly or perhaps even unknowingly that they are "off limits."

I highly recommend Feather's workshop.  There was so much more information than I could possibly include here.  If you are local, I will be hosting one of her workshops sometime in the next few months for neighbors and friends and would love for you to join us.  If you do not have the opportunity to attend, you can find more information and resources at her website or you can order her book, which we will be adding to our collection of parenting materials as soon as it's out.

We spend so much time teaching our children about safety: to stay away from hot stoves, to wear helmets when riding bikes, to wash their hands before eating, to be aware of "stranger danger."  But the body-safety principles we learned yesterday may be the most valuable "safety"instruction we ever provide them.  At one point, Feather asked, "What if every parent, every adult engaged in a child's life, had access to this information?"  It's a fascinating question.  Could we virtually eliminate child sexual abuse?  Even if we didn't eliminate it, how many more children could be protected?

It's a worthy goal.  Will you join me?

(To find sources for this information, please visit Feather Berkower's website: www.parentingsafechildren.com)

Summer

Today is hiking narrow trails through tall grass,
holding little hands and kissing scraped knees.
Today is wildflowers of purple and yellow,
 inviting small voices to say,
"Look at this, Mama!  Do you see this one?"
Today is hot sun and quiet shade,
chuckling creek and hushing pines.

Today is growing boy wielding sticks,
protector-child fending off invisible bears.
Today is little sister following brother's footsteps,
scaling slopes too steep with resolve to keep up.
Today is puppy legs climbing hills,
bounding ahead and coming back.
Today is muscle and exuberance,
finding strength and receiving joy.

Today is fresh air and a mother's brand of tranquility:
small bodies, big smiles, excited voices, and time to stop or go
or breathe deep or look around,
all around.
Today is nowhere to be and no one to see.  

Today is summer.

A Small Town Story

Da Kind Soups here in Evergreen is small town business at its best.  Sample any of their two hundred homemade soups and you'll know: they're here to provide excellent food to the community they live in and love.  In their first year, Denver's premier magazine, 5280, named them "Top of the Town" in Soup, an accolade not easily won but clearly deserved.

Their menu is simple: each day, they offer ten of their homemade soups alongside five sandwich choices.  Dustin and Ariane Speck, the owners and chefs, are warm and welcoming, greeting their customers by name and providing limitless samples of the day's soups to aid the impossible decision.  They are careful to offer soup options that are vegan, vegetarian, gluten-free, or dairy free for those patrons on restricted diets, though taste never suffers from the omission.  In the spirit of small town warmth, they celebrate the store's anniversary by giving away their soup and bread for free all day.

Above all, they value their customers.  They once forgot to give me a sandwich in my to-go order, and  when I returned the next week for another meal, they gave me the entire meal for free: soup and sandwiches for three on the house to make up for an innocent (and rare) mistake.  I hadn't said a word about the missing sandwich.

Though I was never a soup person before, I've converted.  The kids and I frequent Da Kind almost weekly.  It has heart and soul, ingredients missing from many enterprises these days, even other places in Evergreen.  They operate by their motto, "Live a kind life."

This is a place you crave for the flavor but return to for the community.

It was crushing, then, to learn that Dustin, who creates every recipe and makes every batch of soup himself, suffered from subarachnoid hemorrhaging (bleeding on the brain) a few weeks ago.  Beyond the  chef at the store, he is the father to the couple's two elementary-age boys.  I looked up the term on-line and found the statistics grim: in half of cases, the bleeding results in death.  Of the half who survive, many suffer significant loss in physical or cognitive facility.  When I heard the news, he was still in ICU and though his prognosis looked good, things were still touch and go.  Risks of additional bleeding or other complications kept him under the close eye of doctors and staff.  My heart was heavy--for him, for his family, for the store, for the town.  They are at the heart of Evergreen.  Their loss is everyone's loss.

The shop closed for a few days around the event, but then reopened with a message on their billboard announcing, "Soup man's down but spirits are high."  The shop's employees, who are loyal to the shop and its customers, worked hard to carry the extra burden of work while Dustin remained in ICU and Ariane attempted to take care of him and her boys and the store's responsibilities.  The billboard was updated occasionally with messages indicating Dustin was doing well or offering gratitude for people's support.

When I went in yesterday to get dinner, I'll admit it was as much to find out how he was doing as to bring home a tasty meal.  Before I could ask, Ariane, who seemed to have stopped in briefly but been roped in to help with the dinner rush, told me Dustin is coming home today.  More remarkably, he returns home without a single deficit.  There will be no physical therapy, no occupational therapy.  He has no memory loss, no mental compromise.  He comes home as healthy as he last left.  It is the very best news.

They'll have to keep his activity-level low for a while as his body continues to heal and recover, but it sounds like he'll be back behind the counter, every bit himself, in time.  I left overjoyed for them, for their family, for the store, and for our town.

In two short years, they have become fixtures here.  We feel that we know them, that they know us--to the extent that it's possible over the exchange of warm soup and a smile.  We have come to depend on them not only to feed our bodies but to feed our souls in their simple, kind way.  By all accounts, they have experienced a miracle.  And their miracle is everyone's miracle.

Sunday Morning Reverie

You get up with the sun on a Sunday morning. Normally, you'd put on something nice for church. Instead, you get dressed in bike shorts and a jersey with pockets on the back.  You pack up your things and load into the car with a few friends to drive to the start.  You eat breakfast, wondering if this food will provide enough fuel for the day ahead.  You fill your water bottles.  You rub in your sunscreen.  You fasten your helmet, adjust your sunglasses, secure your iPod, and check your bike.  Then you clip in.  And you ride.

Your muscles feel tight from the day before.  You wonder how long it will take your body to warm up and find its rhythm.  You smile at the volunteers on the corner cheering you along the course and pointing out turns.  You thank the officers directing traffic at the busier intersections.  You make note of every sensation in your body, wondering if it is a temporary ache or an all-day companion.  You see other cyclists.  You pass some.  Some pass you.  You read the jerseys of the folks near you and wonder where the teams come from, who started them, how they got their names.  You think how nice it would be if the seventy-five miles you rode the day before were it.

You reach the end of town and see the long line of cyclists stretched out before you like ants, ascending the mountain.  You grab a drink.  You shift once, pedal.  Shift again, pedal.  You shift, shift, shift until there's nothing left to do but grind.  You hear your breathing become shallower, faster.  You find a rhythm for your pedals and hang onto it, pushing one, then the other, and again.  You pass some.  Some pass you.  You feel strong.  You wonder how to become stronger.  You hear a man thirty years your senior say, "Do it for Dannette," as he passes, having read the tag on your back that says, "Riding for:".  And you think, It is a gift to push my body like this.  You feel grateful for this second seventy-five miles.

You feel the morning sun, already high, blazing on your shoulders.  You watch the city stretch out behind you, the mountains before you.  You wipe the sweat from your lip.  You inhale.  You exhale.  You push one leg, then the other.  You near the top and you hear someone say, "It's a beautiful morning," and you think, Yes, it's glorious.

You enter the cool shadow of the mountain as you pick up speed on the back side.  You shift, shift, shift, pedaling, and then you coast.  You grip the handlebars tightly, searching the road for any tiny rock or seam or crack that would take your velocity and redirect it skyward--and then ground you.  You get a chill from the wind as you reach the bottom.  You appreciate it, knowing it won't last long.

You round the bend and shift once, pedal.  Shift again, pedal.  Shift, shift, shift until there's nothing left to do but grind.  You settle in again for another climb.  You move your hands down into the drops of your handelbars.  You bend closer to your legs, willing them to work harder.  You find your rhythm: push, push, push, push.  You feel your lungs begin to fill.  You feel your lungs empty.  You wish you could breathe deeper, wish you could satisfy their demands for oxygen.  You inhale again.  You exhale.  You pass some riders.  Some pass you.  You grab a sip of water.  You feel strong.  You wish you were stronger.

You near the top and see a young woman walking her bike the rest of the way to the top.  You notice her gait is uneven.  You look more closely and see that her right leg is prosthetic.  You glance up and notice her jersey: "I ride with MS."  You inhale.  You feel more reverence and respect for her than you can hold.  You exhale.  You think, It is miraculous what the human spirit can overcome.  You breathe. You pedal.  You swell with gratitude for the blessing of your own health.  You wish you could do more than just ride a bike.  You wonder how much closer this ride moves the world toward a cure.

You reach the top and grab your water bottle.  You drink long.  You shift, shift, shift, pedal.  Shift, shift, shift some more until your speed exceeds your ability to pedal in your highest gear.  You begin to coast.  You straighten one leg on your pedal and bend over the bars, lifting yourself slightly from the seat.  You enjoy the momentary relief.  You watch the road carefully as your speed increases.  You see the rest stop ahead, full of bikes and riders and volunteers.  You see hundreds.  You know there are thousands.  You think, This is better than church.  You revise your thought: This is church.

No stained glass.  No pastors.  No sermons.  Just three thousand people riding their bikes.  In love.

You pull your brake handle toward you.  You slow down.  You unclip your right foot from the pedal and continue braking.  You guide your bike into a gap in the crowd.  You hear someone singing show tunes.  You stop, put your foot down.  You unclip your other foot and get off.  You set your bike in the gravel and grab your empty water bottle.  You head toward the line of people waiting for the port-a-potties.

And you think, There is much good in the world.

The Longest Day of the Year

(Written June 21st, 2010; Posted June 22nd, 2010 at 1:29 a.m.)

Today is the longest day of the year.

Five years ago today, I had my carpets cleaned.  I stood in the kitchen--my belly eight months swollen--enjoying the breeze through the open windows and wondering how long it would take for the carpets to dry and for my feet to return to their normal size and for this baby to come.  I cleaned and put things away and generally kept moving to avoid the stillness that reminded me of my discomfort, physically.  And then the phone rang.  And it felt like time stood still.

On June 21st, 2005, my sister Dannette called after an appointment with a neurologist for a number of inexplicable and sudden symptoms.  I had been waiting for her call, wondering what explanation they would offer for the numbness in her hand and the loss of strength in her leg and the spasming of her muscles.  When I answered, she said hi, and I must have asked her something like how did it go--I don't remember.  What I do remember is her answering, "Not good," so casually it was almost wistful.  "They told me I have MS."

I remember feeling the need to hold it together, to remove any trace of panic or despair from my voice while I asked her for more specifics of the appointment.  I remember sitting down in a chair in the kitchen, staring at the base of the phone on the counter.  I remember her saying they would start her on IV steroids to treat the symptoms and then explaining how the degree to which her symptoms went away or remained would determine which stage of MS she was in.

I remember hanging up so she could make other calls--though I desperately wanted to keep talking to her because talking about it was easier than thinking about the implications--and then weeping with the phone in my hand, wondering how I would ever feel joy again, wondering how I would enjoy the birth of my son.

The only experience I'd had with MS was through a family we knew casually from our former church.  Chris, a husband and a father to three young children, already lived his life from a wheel chair when we met him.  We watched his body deteriorate over the course of a year until he passed away, leaving his family bereft.  When I hung up with Dannette, I didn't know his death was the rare exception, didn't realize the disease takes remarkably different courses in each person.  All I knew was that my sister, thirteen months younger than me, was facing a life far different than the one we had envisioned for her, and I grieved that life like a death.

I called Josh at work, and we cried together.  And then I began hours and hours of research: into the pathology of the disease, into treatment options, into resources and specialists and every piece of information that might offer some hope for her prognosis.

It was the longest day of the year.

Dannette turned 26 the next day.

Benjamin was born one month later, nine days late.  I've often wondered if God provided that extra time to recover from the shock of her diagnosis so that I could feel the exhilaration of his birth rather than the persistent sorrow that lingered for weeks after the news.  Within a few weeks, my body--full of its pregnancy-induced discomforts and inconveniences and frustrations--returned to normal.  Dannette's did not.

To say the next three and a half years were hard is an understatement.  Some of her original symptoms resolved, but she wrestled with new ones, invisible to the eye but ever-present in her day.  She relapsed often, took multiple courses of steroids which, though useful in reducing the MS symptoms, caused unbearable side effects.  She learned that only peanut M&M's could relieve the metallic taste in her mouth.  She modified her car so she could drive left-footed, giving her the freedom to go to work even when her right leg refused to function.  She managed to live life, to maintain her independence which she clung to with fierce determination even in the worst days of her disease, and to remain graceful in the midst of seeming calamity, but she wrestled with her body in a seemingly endless, uphill battle.  She fought hard, every day, for a sense of normalcy, and we who could do nothing watched in awe--and tried to hope.

Then, a year and a half ago, she began a new treatment.  Though proven effective, this drug is not available to everyone since it carries the risk of a devastating side effect.  Fortunately (or not?) for Dannette, the severity of her disease tipped the scales of her risk-benefit analysis in favor of trying it.

And it worked.  Is working.

She has been free of relapse for a year, free of steroids, free of the heavy weight of dread that she might wake up and lose something, like her mobility or her cognition or her freedom.  She lives, now, lighter and less burdened and more inclined to use her body skiing or cycling than to wish it away.

This weekend, while Josh and I ride 150 miles to raise money for the National MS Society, Dannette will ride the 25 mile course on her recumbent trike.  Her three wheels eliminate the problem of balance.  Her clip-in pedals keep her feet engaged no matter how numb they grow or how much they spasm.  This feat was unthinkable a few years ago.  But now she sees the possibility in the former impossibility and seizes it.  With joy.

Today is the longest day of the year.  Dannette and the rest of my family joined us for dinner tonight.  We laughed like children, struck silly by the memory of her training ride a few weeks ago when she rode strong for nearly fifteen miles before bonking, having run out of food, fuel for the body.  She and my youngest sister recalled through giggles how slowly she moved: slower than the little kids on their bikes, slower than the pollen blowing through the air, slower than the old woman with the cane.  We could laugh at this because it wasn't so much about MS and the tragic hold it has over her life.  We could laugh because she is living, and in the living, she is reclaiming herself.  She bikes now.  And eats peanut M&M's on her own terms.

According to Wikipedia, "solstice" is the Latin term for the astronomical event it describes: "sun-standing."  The summer solstice is the day the sun reaches its northernmost position, appears to stand still, and then changes direction.

Five years ago today, while the sun stood still, so did our family as we grappled with the unknown of Dannette's future.  Today, the sun stood radiant, bright, full of promise--and I couldn't help but notice Dannette did, too.  Her course, our course, seems to have changed again, but this time, the future shines with hope.

To the Writers of Room 177

It's funny how a group of people who begin a week complete strangers can feel so familiar by the end.  I bid adieu to my fellow writers this afternoon, feeling a genuine pang of sadness to leave this group I've come to know both through the conversation and through the writing we shared this week.

There's something about the anonymity of getting to know people you'll likely never see again that opens the door for exchanges more intimate than some have with closest friends.  Over dinners and lunches, in always-changing combinations of us, we talked about spouses and religion and sex and family and race and addiction and geography and travel and childhood and war.  We asked questions about writing accomplishments and aspirations, sought out advice from those more seasoned, wondered at those who can spin a tale with seeming ease and grace.  We spoke candidly, freely, feeling no need to censor ourselves for people we'd leave a few days later.

In class, we learned even more--from the words and phrases we selected to convey the characters and places and events we discovered and remembered and created in Room 177.

And somehow, through all this unedited dialogue and coexistence, we came to understand each other, to appreciate each other in all our apparent strengths and quirks.  That which at first annoyed or distanced grew endearing as we waded past first impressions to the layers beneath.

I spent my driving time tonight reflecting on my week's companions and their backgrounds, turning over our interactions, remembering the moments of hilarity and poignancy.  Already, I feel nostalgia for our time together.

As important to me as the writing I completed this week is the time I spent with these people: parents and grandparents and engineers and designers and lawyers and farmers and teachers and students and librarians and comedians and sales folk, some still working and others retired, some married for forty years and others three times, some from the coasts and others from the middle and one from across the world.  But all writers.  And all an unexpected gift to me for the week.

Here's to you, fellow world observers and storytellers.  Thank you for sharing your lives with me.  May you enjoy every success to which you aspire.