Half Baked Idea

So - can't seem to get that one out of my mind:

I want to fly to Chicago in the fall, bake a couple dozens of those life altering Chocolate Cookies and deliver them to as close to Oprah as I can get (her desk would be great), along with a copy of the "Oprah and the Chocolate Cookies" story.

Costa keeps telling me it's time she reads it and tells the world about my book and dang... he may be right; he often is.

Which means I need a couple of things:

- Any 6th degree of separation magic that could lead me closer to Oprah. We've to be able to do this on Facebook, no?

- Any contact in Chicago where I could stay for a few days and enhance the kitchen with the aroma (and taste) of chocolate cookies.

- Any reminder that this a fabulous idea!

Oh boy.

Conor

He stands by my book-signing table, bright blue eyes and not quite four feet tall as he tells his grandma of all the things he still wants to do at the fair, today.

Before I can stop myself, the life coach in me takes over and I am asking him if he would like a piece paper to write his list down.

To my surprise, he does.

I hand him my very special pink pen.

At the top of the paper, in the center, he writes: LIST.
In caps and underlined.

Next comes a column of four little check boxes, next to the names of four cool things to do.

As he finishes, his grandma reminds him that he had wanted to get an ice cream cone, also.

His eyes light up as he starts drawing his fifth check box.

But then he stops.

He looks up and says: “Oh, no, wait... I can’t. I’ve already had my sugar for the day.”

Conor is eight.

Pain and Joy

As I soaked up the warm joy of sitting in the midst of music, art and happy people doing a little bit both last night, I was very aware that three people I care for (two of which I birthed and would give my life for) were in deep pain, at that very moment.

Three different kinds of pain.

It felt strange to be aware of both the heaviness of the grief and the lightness of the joy living within me.

At first, I felt as though the grief would take over, almost as though it should. And then, it felt as though allowing the joy would not be a betrayal. So I let it.

And it made for a very ... “real” combination.

When a woman showed up and asked quietly if she could sing a capalla and then proceeded to fill the little coffee shop with beautiful, belting sounds of “let the light in”, I let my tears come up, reminded of how much life we can feels when we all joy and pain to cuddle up together.

Life is amazing stuff.

For The Love of Laundry Lines

I have a passion for laundry lines.

I love the way they tell a story, the real story of real people.

A little bit the same way as walking through an alley, in the back of a home, will tell you a real story, also.

Laundry lines share their information without words, without pretense, without shame.

Laundry lines show you sheets, trusting that most intimate bit of someone’s life to the sun, to the wind, to the eyes of strangers. Sheets where real people, sleep, dream, worry, make love, maybe cry too. Where else would you see your neighbors’ sheets? And even though you don’t “need” to see their sheets, isn’t there something special about doing so?

Laundry lines show you clothes, unadorned, unpopulated and unmatched. Socks, too. And towels.

One day, I am going to create a beautiful book filled with a collection of photographs of laundry lines, photographs I will have taken all over the world. From the bright cloths of South Italy, strung way high above narrow streets, to the super efficient Parisian clothelines, stretched over tiny bathtubs.

Tonight, as I walked around, I was blessed with happy news, straight from my neighbors’ clotheline.

Alex and SaraLou have been expecting her first baby and even though I have only ever exchanged a few words with them, it has been wonderful to see her belly growing at the same rate as her vegetable garden.

In the spring, as she planted her seeds in long straight rows, she barely looked plump. These past few weeks, as she harvested her zucchini, she looked beautifully ripe.

She told me that her baby was due on the 28th. She told me that she had ordered a birthing tub to be brought to the kitchen of their tiny house. I heard in her voice that she was a little nervous when she told me about “having heard a lot of scary stories.” She seemed genuinely relieved when I told her not to listen to scary stories, that she was going to make her very own story.

Over the past couple of days, SaraLou had drifted through my mind and I had wondered if the baby had arrived, if all was okay.

Walking by their home, there had been no sign of anything different.

Until tonight.

Tonight, as I approached Alex and SaraLou’s yard, I saw a tiny bright spot in the middle of their laundry line. Strung in between Alex’s usual mechanic’s jeans was the teensiest, sweetest little green t-shirt.

Just like that.

No words needed.