Funny what words do...

I have noticed that oftentimes, when people mean to say or write the word "Meditation", they often say "Mediation" or "Medication."

That's all.

Joining the Circus

Over dinner, tonight, my friends tell me about friends of theirs whose son, Casey, wanted to be a pro skateboarder.

After high school, he packed his board into his car and headed down to LA. His parents were skeptical about the validity of the plan but knowing the little bit that I know about them... they sent him  some love to take along.

Within a short time, his car got stolen.

Many could say: "Well, that was that. Time to come home and get a job."

He hung in there.

This is where he is today ...

Wintuk by Cirque du Soleil MEET THE CAST: Casey Rigney, performing in the Act Charivari as a Skate Street: He has been skating for 17 years and this would include 7 years pro. Casey won first place in best trick in 2002 at the Slam City JamV (one of the largest skateboard contests in the World)

This story makes me very, very happy.

Early AM walk

Whoever had the idea to drop deep shiny red leaves onto the bright green grass and then add a layer of fog to the whole thing is a hell of an artist. Thank you.

Blame?

When we "blame" - ourselves or others - we automatically subscribe to the notion of "something wrong." (If there is not the assumption that something is wrong, then there is no need for blame, right?)

But, can we know for sure that something is wrong? Something might be inconvenient, contrary to our plans or even painful ... but intrinsically wrong? Can we know for sure?

If if we cannot know for sure that something is wrong, then how can we blame?

Strange Night

Last night was Homecoming. Well, pre Homecoming, actually.

I told Tanissa to "have fun and be safe"

I fell truly asleep after having heard her walk up the stairs and crawl into bed.

A short few hours later, my mommy radar wakes me up from a deep dream and alerts me to once again, the sound of feet coming up the stairs.

Chris is next to me,  and I am not sure what is going on. Wondering if Tanissa went out again  - which would not have made me happy at all - I get up and look in the hallway.

A guy is standing there - petting Roxy.

I say: "What are you doing here?" (fair enough of a question, right?)

To which I hear Tanissa, annoyed that I would ask her such a stupid question, answers :"Nothing Mom. I am sleeping." Duh.

Then I hear Chris mumble: "It's just Marco, baby."

Well, Marco it is not.

Marco is asleep at his Dad's and sure as heck, this is not Marco.

So I ask "Who are you?"

To which he answers : "I am Cal."

Well, now we know.

By now, Chris and Tanissa are up and we are all standing in the hallway.

I request that we move the party into the living room where I ask an obviously intoxicated Cal  what is going on.

Roxy is still at his feet, supremely pleased with the ongoing petting.

This is so weird.

Part of me is alert to potential danger but the biggest part of me knows that we are safe. Chris' large presence holds the space for me to tap into a fearless place in me, the one that reminds me that this kid is someone's son and that kindness is the best tool, right now.

So, I ask him a few questions. He says that he is sorry to invade our space. I ask him if he wants a glass of water. He says no thank you. He gets up to leave. Chris asks him if he wants us to call someone for him. He turns around and asks US if we want him to call someone for us.

He gets to the door.

This is so weird.

He leaves.

I lock the door - a new habit for us to hone.

I guess by then it is actually Homecoming.

Gravy Lava and Celery Generals.

Sunday afternoon. Chris and I are waking up from a sweet nap, sun streaming through the window.


I look at him and he seems pensive, a slight smile on his lips.


Because I am a woman, I ask: "What are you thinking about?"


Because I am a woman, I know he must be thinking about how wonderful this moment is - possibly even about how much he loves me.


He turns to me and answers.


"I am thinking about a mountain of meat."


Yikes.


Maybe to appease my puzzled look, he adds:


"You know, with gravy lava coming down the sides."


Within minutes, he is up and on his way to the grocery store.


Then in the kitchen. For quite a while.


And then, as we all sit,  ready for a great Sunday dinner, he and Marco gently set ... a volcano in the
center of the table.


I am talking about a deliciously seasoned meat volcano. With rich gravy lava trickling from the top and down the sides of the volcano ... all the way down to a sea of buttery mashed potatoes.


And because I always want us to have vegetables ...  five celery-and-cherry-tomato-generals look on, celery feet firmly planted into the mashed potatoes.


Life is good.