Appointment with Peace

To say these are dicey times, is an understatement. I think we're all feeling it--some are tapping into the collective angst and adding it to their own, and, well, it's a lot.

Times like these accentuate our need to "do" something. It can feel counter-intuitive to stop, go within, and get still.

If you are looking for a helpful tool to use to quiet and focus the mind, I highly recommend this oracle deck by Sonja Choquette, Trust Your Vibes. Today, I drew the card, "Meditate." There is a guidebook that goes with the cards, that has short, helpful summaries of the cards. The guidebook ends the description of the "Meditate" card with the words, "It's your appointment with peace."

Book your appointment today.

Are You an Empath?

Took me 56 years to get the proper "diagnosis." Only after listening to the podcast, Enlightened Empaths, did I come to understand this has been what's "wrong" with me all these years. It's more than being "over-sensitive," it's actually picking up the feelings, energies, pain and suffering of others, and soaking it all up like a sponge. 

It explains the intense need to be alone. The tendency to get over-stimulated. The sensory system feeling bombarded and wanting to shut it all down. Things are too loud, too bright, too chaotic, too much input--enough to blow the fuses.

"Empaths filter their world through their intuition, and have a difficult time intellectualizing their feelings," says Dr. Judith Orloff, a renowned expert on empaths.

Here is a self-test to help you determine whether you, or someone you know, is an empath.

Regardless of whether you are or are not an empath, do yourself a favor and check out the podcast, Enlightened Empaths, available on all streaming platforms. You will love the hosts, Samantha Fey and Denise Correll. They are fun and easy to listen to, and have amazing guests and discussions. 

The Hole

I wake from a dream and it takes several moments before I realize it was a dream—it felt so real. I was driving my car to an old house I had once lived in. I had a lampshade that matched one we’d left there, and I wanted the new owners to have it.

In the middle of the wide street, is a gigantic hole in the road, big enough for a truck to fall into. There are no cones, blockades, caution tape, nothing at all to keep someone from falling right into certain death. That’s interesting, I think to myself, that wasn’t there when we lived there.

The new owners haven’t moved in, there is some construction work going on. The contractor is there but he’s watching TV and eating a snack instead of working. I go into the house and explain why I’m there, I have, as it turns out, not only a lampshade but a box of this-and-that: small wooden angels, bits of lace, it’s a box of heirlooms from my own life—things I was given or collected from my mom and grandmothers. 

As I sort through the box with the kindly contractor, we agree the new owners aren’t really going to want any of these things. Before heading back I sit and watch TV with the contractor, then look at my watch and remember I have to meet my family soon, I better be on my way. 

I drive carefully around the hole with my box of things in the backseat. Should I just toss them in the hole? That feels wasteful. I will take them to the antique mall and donate them. Perhaps there are things in there that the dealers will want, items they believe their customers are looking for. 

I know that I am done with the box, tired of lugging it around. I don’t need things to keep me connected to my ancestors—what they have left me is within.

Contemplation

Driving a car without brakes--stopping the card Fred Flintstone style, new year at college with new roommates, a house so filled-to-over-flowing, I will be required to share a bed with a stranger, these are but a sampling of my dreams of late.

Obviously, anxiety dreams, specifically about being asked to do too much, sometimes requiring super-human strength.

My husband often says that the hardest part about his job, is switching gears. If he can go into work and go from start to finish on whatever it is, it's easy. It's the constant interruptions, the putting out of fires, the pulls in opposite directions that require a hitting of the brakes, a shift of gears, and a revving up, over and over and over again, that is the most exhausting. Just like buying a used car--you want to find one that has mostly highway miles, and not a lot of town driving. All that town driving takes its toll.

Speaking of traffic, I recently heard Portland is the 10th worst city in the nation. Everyone I know is complaining about it. It's noticeably worse than it used to be, there are no more secret shortcuts, and it's become too difficult to avoid, it's bleeding into all day, every day.

The car without brakes.

The constantly shifting gears.

The traffic.

I think what I am feeling and experiencing is far from unique, in fact, I may be tapping into the collective.

Becoming contemplative, staying present, breathing. These are the antidotes. Those to whom I most often turn are: Eckhart Tolle: A New Earth and Richard Rohr: Another Name for Everything. They center me, return me to more of a state of equilibrium, remind me that peace begins within.

A Year

Our sweet Flicka was put "up" a year ago. We continue to miss her. When we look through old pictures, she is in so many, always by someone's side, quietly holding space. She was a true angel in the form of a black Lab, and she continues to be an angel in all our lives.

When she was buried, we made a little memorial area for her. Yesterday, on the anniversary of her death, I refreshed the planted flowers, cut some fresh ones, and lit her Mary candle for the day. When we went outside in the evening to have a little toast to her, Honey came, too. After we sat down on the patio and gazed upon the memorial, we noticed Honey repositioning herself, as though she wanted to be right next to Flicka. Yes, the spot she chose was in the sun, but there were lots of other sunny spots in the yard--she picked that one.

A year ago, we swore we'd never get another dog. No way. Wouldn't even consider it.

Some of my life's greatest blessings fell from the sky, showed up out of no where, with no effort--and often resistance--on my part.

Thank you for all your work on both sides of the veil, Flicka.

Great

Went to Trader Joe's on Sunday, and there was a man selling Hermiston watermelons on the corner of the parking lot. He had a white van, a couple Costco tables, and a huge box full of watermelons. On the tables were selected watermelons, their ripeness visible from the way he'd turned them. Along the inner edge of the tables was a row of homemade corn muffins.

I parked my car, and walked over to the man. He swallowed whatever he was chewing--presumably a corn muffin--wiped the crumbs from his face, and extended his big, warm hand to me. He was several inches shorter than me, and I noticed a walker pushed up against a nearby tree.

"I'm Gray," I thought I heard him say.

"I'm Carrie," I said.

"I just lied to you, my name is not Great, my name is John. I'm 91 so I get to say and do whatever I want."

"Nice to meet you, John," I said, noticing his smile full of original, white, straight teeth. His eyes looked 91, but the rest of him belied his age.

"Which one do you recommend?" I asked, pointing to the watermelons.

"They're all good--guaranteed. I been doing this for 76 years, in six states," he said, again flashing me his incredible smile.

I grabbed one, and referred to the crudely made sign, to determine the price. "$7.99/each, 2 for $13."

Handing him a $10.00 bill I said, "Keep the change."

"Well, now you gotta take a gift," he said. "I work for that guy," he said, pointing up at the sky, "He told me, 'John, you gotta give people a gift, when they buy one of your watermelons.' I said, 'But I'll go broke!' He said, 'No you won't, John, you gotta give people a gift.' So I made my grandmama's corn muffins. Take your gift."

I took my gift.

First Day of School

For me, the day after Labor Day, will always feel like the first day of a new year--much more so than January first. First as a student, then as a teacher, then a mother of students, there are a lot of first days of school in the rearview mirror.

I miss back-to-school shopping. I miss getting a classroom ready. I miss the organizing and newness, the fresh start with new supplies and a ready attitude. Good thing I have a friend that's an elementary teacher, and she lets me come in and write names on name tags, mail boxes, folders and notebooks.

Portland Public Schools actually started last week, so the school right down the street from me, had all that eager energy a week before I was prepared for it.

Today is the day I am ready to start again.

This 2019-2020 school year, I am vowing to waste less time--especially with my phone. If I have five minutes here, ten minutes there, I will pick up a book. Or, I will take one of the 78 Tarot cards I've always wanted to understand, and study it, learn its intricacies, with the hope that end of this school year, I, too, will have been a student. I will keep a journal, and jot down my thoughts, ideas, gratitudes and concerns. I will not settle into a laziness, but continue to strive, grow, challenge and expand.

Off I go...

Big Questions of the Day

Had a dream last night that I was in the house I'd grown up in, and intruders entered. Several of them. Six? Eight? More? Men and women, non-threatening, but in they came and they wouldn't leave, despite me asking them to, repeatedly.

I reached for my phone and called 911. The operator said, "I can't find a pen right now, can you call back?"

I woke up.

But I can't shake it.

We had recently been in Eugene visiting my brother and his family, and they live in my childhood home. They still have the four yellow chairs we bought in the 70s, to go with the groovy coordinating, yet not matching, floral and striped wallpaper. Two walls each as I recall, but I can't be sure. Two orange chairs and four yellow.

My nephew didn't know the history of the yellow chairs, so when I got home I searched through thousands of unorganized photos on my laptop, to find one with a yellow chair. Found one, but it only had the tiniest tip showing. Just enough to give you proof, but not enough to really satisfy.

Where did the two orange chairs go?

Why the intruders? What part of me is intruding?

What part of me "can't find a pen" ?

What part of me doesn't match?

What part of me got left behind?

Figurative Fasting

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday - the beginning of Lent. Forty days with a focus on fasting, praying, and giving. I had been thinking about what I wanted to fast from, for many months, and had come up with being negative/critical/complaining. I was hoping I could make it to lunch without breaking my fast.

I am teaching a small group of kids at church, preparing to be baptized at Easter. With ash crosses marked upon each of our foreheads, we discussed what we'd learned at Mass earlier that day: the meaning of Lent, the symbolism of the ashes, and what we were going to do during our own individual Lenten journeys.

One of the older students, a sponsor to a younger student, after a group discussion about giving up Xbox, iPods, candy, sweets, etc., said she was a going to do "more of a figurative fast." It's not my place to publish her personal decision on what to fast from, but suffice it to say, I was blown away by her maturity, wisdom, perspective, and approach. It gave me both hope for humanity, and raised my own bar. She shared that she'd made this same journey a few years ago, but had decided it was time to bring it back around again, now that she's older and sees it differently.

I am listening to Eckhart Tolle and Oprah's Super Soul Conversation podcasts on A New Earth: Awakening to you Life's Purpose. I've listened to each one at least twice already, and many years ago when they did their webcasts, I listened and re-listened over and over again throughout the years. It seems to take repetition to break through to any kind of deeper understanding. Even then, the tendency to "forget" is strong.

And so with the help of Eckhart to become more conscious, more in alignment with my inner purpose, to be in the Now, I step forward into Lent. More mindful of that from which I am fasting.  More prayerful. More giving.

Amen.

Annual Needs Assessment

Yesterday was Wil's annual needs assessment. Oregon has moved away from the ANA, and is now conducting the Oregon Needs Assessment, which, thankfully, only needs to be done every five years. "Unless that changes... you know how things are always changing," Wil's Personal Agent said.

Yes. I know how things are always changing.

What doesn't change is the PTSD the needs assessment activates. Because of the new tool, and new rules that come with it, Wil's PA came as support and for advocacy, but a second person came to administer the assessment. Through emails with the PA, I was well-prepared for what would happen, how long it would take, and what was expected from Wil. For the 100-minute appointment, Wil was asked to partake for 30. Much pre-paving and elaborate scheduling to assure he was well-fed, under-scheduled, etc. took place.

The PA and the assessor, in 30 minutes, got that. And more. They really saw and heard and gathered and gleaned. The three of us were able to finish the assessment without Wil, and there was a sense of teamwork, Team Wil. AND, Team Care.

If anything, the convincing was on their part. They could tell that there are a million-and-one ways I personally support Wil in a day, many I am not even aware of, because they've always been there.

This is my first experience in nearly 23 years, of being accurately, and fully seen and understood by an outsider.

It is empowering, humbling, liberating, validating, and a little unsettling. It's Brené Brown-level vulnerability.

I highly recommend it.

56

It's been awhile. Sorry about that. I've been working on a "new" memoir. "New" can only be said using quotation marks, as it's been many years in the making, but has been started and re-started, many times. I haven't quite landed on "it." I will know when I'm there, but the path is that of a maze: the dead ends are many, and the way through, not obvious.

Turned 56, yesterday. Closer to 60 than to 50 brings with it mixed emotions, mostly good. Our nest is full. Woohoo lives here again, and we are once again, a full-time family of four.

Been listening to Eckhart Tolle and Oprah's new podcast on A NEW EARTH: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose. I went through the original series they did together, many times. Life and times have changed, and it's almost like hearing it all again for the first time, but with a twist -that stir of remembering.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, that Wil does not have a Pain Body, nor an ego. He is not triggered. He does nothing because it makes him look/sound/seem good. He holds no grudges, no anxiety about his future (beyond what we're doing on Monday). He lives a life of presence and consciousness. He vibrates at a higher frequency than mere mortals. To have the opportunity to live with such an example, is an (exhausting) honor.

What else? Honey. Honey is the best. We believe Flicka brought Honey into our life, and we couldn't love her more. She is easy. Apart from the shedding, she is perfect. Woohoo recently took her to the Oregon Coast. If you're in need of a pick-me-up, watch this:

It Counts

TOP 10 THINGS THAT COUNT AS WRITING:

10. Reading books about writing

 9. Reading great writing

 8. Signing up for a writing class

 7. Listening to podcasts with great authors

 6. Combing through old writing for snippets, ideas, threads

 5. Writing in a journal

 4. Blogging

 3. Talking about writing with another writer

 2. Reading what you've written from the day before

 1. Writing



TOP 10 GRAY-AREA THINGS THAT SORT OF COUNT AS WRITING:

10. Cleaning your house

 9. Yard work

 8. Going through photo albums

 7. Ironing

 6. Sleeping

5. Recording dreams

4. Listening to an inspirational song, in a continuous loop

3. Staring into space

2. Meditating

1. Walking, alone, in silence, while the writing sifts and sorts

Honey

"Don't wait too long to get another one!"

"When are you getting another one?"

Variations on the same theme and message: you need another dog, ASAP.

"We miss Flicka, but we're enjoying being pet-free," was our response. We didn't miss the hair, the rigid schedule, the expense, the obligation.

We were in no way considering another dog. That was our story, and we were sticking to it.

STM and I had been hearing Woohoo talk of Honey for months. "Don't get any crazy ideas about bringing Honey home with you," we cautioned.

When we landed in Puerto Vallarta, it was only a matter of hours until we met Honey, Pickles and Nova, favorites of Woohoo's from the dog rescue shelter at which she'd been volunteering.

Woohoo played it smart. She didn't push. She understood when we told her we thought Honey was adorbs, but that we were not considering another dog.

Long about Day 3, Honey came up in conversation again. "I'm considering it," I told her.

"I know you are," she said, adding nothing further.

You all know where this story ends.

And begins.

Tomorrow, we will go to PDX and pick up two honeys: Woohoo and Honey.

Welcome home, Woohoo.

Welcome to the Link family, Honey. We think you'll be very happy here.

Flicka Link

January 26, 2004 - September 4, 2018

Three weeks later, and it's not much easier to talk about. 

My dad used to say, "I don't get a dog because I want to be free to go, but the truth is, nobody 'goes' less than I do."

That was not the truth. The truth was, he could not bear to put himself through the inevitable loss he would one day face. The loss he'd experienced before, and knew he could not do so again. 

That never made sense to me. He needed a dog for companionship, for purpose, structure to his days, for the unconditional love a dog would offer, and he craved.

It makes sense to me, now. 

I have never been with another soul as the veil got thin, and they passed right on through.

I have never been the one to choose the date and time of another's passing.

I will never do it again.

The time was holy, unifying, and beautiful. The days leading up to it, I sat with her for hours, praying, petting, and trying to make peace. I shuffled my Mother Mary Oracle cards, pulling one I had not ever pulled before: Our Lady Who Sends the Angels. I prayed that Claire, who had brought Flicka into our lives, and had passed a few years ago, would be there to greet her. I prayed that those whose names I knew, and those whose names I didn't, would escort her lovingly to the other side.

My husband and I had candles, music, tears and time with her. Flicka lifted her head off her bed and alertly looked towards the door of the living room. Her cataracts had prevented her from seeing much of anything for years, but she "saw" something. She put her head back down, rested comfortably while we petted her, then again, raised her head and "looked."

"She can see them waiting for her," I said to my husband.

"She certainly can," he said.

Soon, the waiting was over. She was one with those ascended souls with whom she belongs. 

I do not cry easily. I tear up, but to actually cry? It had been years since I'd lost myself to tears. I cried more in the days leading up to, and following Flicka's death, than I have in the last 40 years, combined. When I tried to sort out why, I came to understand it was because her death was 100% sad. All the other deaths I'd experienced had other complex emotions, chaos, crisis. This had none of those things. There was no drama, nothing complicated. Just pure sadness.

"Remember, you're putting her 'up,'" my friend, Ilonka Michelle O'Neil, told me, as I shared with her the struggle to make the decision of when, not if. 

There is no doubt in my mind that she is "up." If one can continue to ascend from the other side, and I believe that to be so, Flicka went straight to the highest ascension possible. Our Lady sent the angels, and now, Flicka is one of them.

Something Right

Took the sheets off our bed, and started the laundry. Wil looked at the threadbare mattress pad we've probably had as long as we've been married and said, "There's something wrong with that one." You know how you look at the things around your house so much, you stop seeing them?

I decided he was right, so the next time I was at Target, I treated myself to not the RE, dormitory-level quality, but one up. $35 later, and one mattress pad richer, I decided to run into the bathroom before heading out to do the rest of my many errands.

"Mommy?" a little voice from the stall next to me said.

"Yes?"

"After we wash our hands, will you put your hands over my ears, before you turn on the hand dryer?"

"I'll try."

I came out of the stall, washed my hands, and decided to forego the hand dryer. The woman next to me, without a word, without a glance, did the same thing.

I'm sure that mommy and that extra-sensitive-hearing-kid of hers are in for a ride, but I hope along their route, they are surrounded by extra-sensitive souls.

Let it Be

I recently watched the Carpool Karaoke with Paul McCartney that's being shared all over Facebook. I loved it, and every thing about it. I giggled. I teared up. I sang. I hummed. I tapped my toe and snapped my fingers. I was into it.

I didn't realize the backstory on the song, "Let it Be," which has always been a favorite of mine. I didn't know it was about a dream Paul had after his mother, Mary, died, in which she comforted him by saying, "Let it be." All this time I thought it was about the Mother Mary. Does it even make a difference? Words of wisdom, are words of wisdom.

While beginning this blog post, my friend Kathleen texted me a picture of what we call a "Mary tree." She didn't know her timing would be perfect, but she knew, you know?

And when the broken-hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be.

All Just Goin' Home

Tracy Grammer’s song, “Good Life,” runs through my head. Could be because nearly every time I get in my car without Wil, I turn on the CD player and press 7. Before I knew she’d written the song about her dad, it spoke to me.

Our fathers’ stories are different. Her father was 20 when she came along, mine, twice that. Her father dreamed of a one-level ranch, fishing with the dogs, a quiet, country life. I guess I'll never quite know of what my dad dreamed. Twenty-two years ago today, he left the physical world as a mystery, and remains one today.

Eventually, her father got “sober as a mountain and his river turned cool.” I am not sure how sober my father ever got, or how cool his river ever became. 

Her father called her up and they “cried themselves clear.” I don’t think it was within my father’s capabilities to do so. I don’t know that it was within mine, to cry myself clear during the time he was alive, even if he’d tried. Chicken or the egg? 

What strikes me most about the song, is Tracy’s ability to write it from his perspective. There is such love, understanding, and healing that comes through in her lyrics and voice. “It’s forgiveness and grace and I wish you were here.” 

“Let it all go now and wipe it all clean, ain’t no time for regret in the great in-between, it was a hell of a ride and I wish I had known, you can worry, you can wander, but we’re all just goin’ home.” 

My father worried. He wandered. I hope he is in the great in-between, free from both. I hope he feels it was a hell of a ride. I hope that he knows that although we didn’t cry ourselves clean on the phone or in person, or even with actual tears, the process took place. Bit by bit, year by year, memory by memory, wiped clear. No regret. Just love. 

Fortunate

The most fortunate are those who have a wonderful capacity to appreciate again and again, freshly and naively, the basic goods of life, with awe, pleasure, wonder and even ecstasy.

ABRAHAM H. MASLOW

This is Wil to a T. The basic goods of his life are appreciated again and again, with pleasure, wonder and (loud) ecstasy. They say that ignorance is bliss, but what is truly bliss, is naiveté. His first delight of the morning is climbing back under his covers after being awake for awhile, and telling me what he wants to wear that day. "Ice cream sundae and pomegranate juice." I pull out a pair of khakis, show them to him. "No, that is Italian ice." The game goes on until I've pulled out a combination neither he nor I had any idea he wanted, and both knowing it doesn't even matter.

We laugh.

Similar games go on throughout the day around meals, outings, shows he plans to record and watch. He gets a new cell phone, one that would be considered an antique these days, a simple sliding-front LG I got for $59 on eBay. He names it Larry, short for Lawrence. Customizes the wallpaper, adds six contacts giving them all a nickname, and using only capital letters. I am KIWI. Timmy is WALDPORT. Someone named TUESDAY is added.

"Listen to Larry's ring-tone," he tells me with glee, "call it and listen. You will love Larry's ring-tone."

I loved Larry's ring-tone, made me think of a fiesta, and left me wanting a Margarita.

"Text me, I'll show you how Larry vibrates," he bosses.

"How cute is Larry?" I text.

Larry vibrates, scoots around on the counter.

"DORBS," he texts back.

We laugh.

"I will go to bed at 8:02," he informs. "We will start the process at 7:57, and at 8:02 we will look at the Links."

At 7:57 I join him as he brushes his teeth, swishes with anti-cavity rinse, puts in his retainers, and climbs into bed. The scoreboard clock on his wall flashes 8:02. "Look at the Links!" he exclaims.

"Do you want to say a prayer?"

"Just a tiny one. We pray for Jesus, God is good. Amen."

We laugh.

Good fortune all the way around.

Universal

Catholic Rosary

Buddhist Mala

They say many artists recycle the same theme(s) throughout their body of work. The creative process allows the artist to wrestle with whatever subject(s) they find most compelling, perplexing, illusive.
If the title of "artist" is given to those that create, then writers are artists that shape concepts and quandaries, and try and make meaning - at least for themselves.

One concept I continue to turn over and over, is what is universal? What ties us together? The word catholic means all-embracing, wide, broad-based, eclectic, diverse.

At mass we pray the Nicene Creed. "We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church." We believe in that, a church that is all-embracing, wide, broad-based, eclectic and diverse.

In January, my dear friend, Ruth, and my sister-in-law, Sonam, both lost their beloved fathers, one day apart. In March, I was able to gather with both of them, as they shared their experiences. Ruth's dad, Larry was 90. He had eight children, and so many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, I've lost count. A devout Catholic his whole life, a quiet man of faith and service to others. His wife Virginia had died five years before, and as he lay in his Hospice bed in their master bedroom, it was obvious to the 30-plus loved ones holding vigil, that he was catching glimpses of Virginia from the other side, and was peaceful and joyful to reunite. During the last few hours of his life, while in a coma, twice his eyes flew open, with his arms outstretched, a smile on his face. Virginia.

The last words he uttered were, "I am not worthy." Part of the Catholic mass, right before communion, we say, "Lord, I am not worthy to enter under your roof, but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed." Then, he entered under his Lord's roof.

Sonam's dad was living with his wife, and his wife's mother and brother, in a Tibetan refugee camp in India. He went outside and sat in his favorite chair, and was doing his nightly prayers, using his Tibetan mala. Only when he became too still, did his wife realize he had passed, quietly, peacefully, prayerfully.

These two men from opposites sides of the world, completely different backgrounds and experiences, shared that which is universal.

Hash

I've been doing a ton of writing lately, almost all of it in my head. Writing while I'm driving, writing while I'm walking alone, writing while I'm showering, sleeping, eating. Sometimes, writing while I'm listening.

At a party, recently, someone made a tiny comment about her husband, and the other women in the conversation, all laughed in solidarity. The woman loves her husband. He's a good husband. She knows it, and every one else knows it, too. A woman whose husband recently died said, "The hardest part of losing my husband is not having him around to complain about." That brought down the house. I came home, wrote down that line to put somewhere, later. Wasn't sure how, or if, it would fit with anything else I had, but knew it was too good not to save.

My dad taught me how to make hash as a child. We slid out the wooden cutting board from under the counter, and clamped the grinder into place, turning the clamp until it was good and tight. He put in leftovers from the fridge: pot roast, potatoes, carrots, onion. He got it started until it got a little easier, then I gave it a go. Turning, turning, turning, the mushy mess landing into the green ceramic bowl - the medium-sized stacking bowl that had been his mother's. Yellow was the big bowl, blue the small.

We took the hash and fried it up in a cast iron skillet, filling the house with cooking odors that took days to fully clear. I don't remember eating the hash - can't pull up a memory of the taste, only how it looked, felt and smelled.

How old was I, then, eight? Nine? My dad moved out when I was eleven, so it was before then. How many times have I thought of that before right now? Zero. Didn't know it was even a memory. The stacking bowls sit on the lower shelf of my lazy Susan. I use them all the time. I used to think if ever there were a fire, they'd be what I grabbed before running out the door. They are precious to me, all that I have from that grandmother I didn't meet. A part of her story that was part of my dad's, and now mine, and my children. Generational.

Memories stack up, there are large, medium and small ones. Sometimes they fit together and make sense, sometimes they get out of order and don't. Sometimes, we pull out one and use it with another, and only after a new order is created, see where the others fit.

Memoir writing is like that. Memories, events, emotions, experiences, words said and remembered, feelings resurrected and revisited. Chopped up, run through the grinders of time and memory, they make hash.