Posted on by Victoria · 25 Comments

Look Forward

My best friend Linda has plenty of hard-won wisdom. 

My favorite “Linda gem”?  She has universally-applicable magic words, useful especially for anyone who feels low, in need of motivation or a pick me up – related to everyday sluggishness or the deeper, more entrenched challenges that life throws at us; the dilemmas that prompt us to say we surrender.  Wave the white flag.  I’m too tired, too cranky, too…everything.

Linda’s wisdom:

Look Up.  Look Forward.

No matter what you’re facing that you think you can’t get through, put it aside and focus on something to look forward to…even the smallest thing.

Linda’s advice to peek at the horizon, expand our view to pull us out of the muck of the moment is brilliant.  It’s her way of encouraging others to see beyond present circumstances and gaze toward possibilities.  Light, love and fun.  The places where joy resides.

Most of all, Linda’s advice requires contemplation and reflection.  When times are tough, I lose my sensibilities about joyfulness and her ‘look up – look forward’ works.  It just does.

But that’s only one of Linda’s trademark talents.  I often think of Linda as a ‘counterbalance’ in my life, ready to help me recalibrate when life is out of whack.  My Heart of the Matter post this morning provides a few examples and I’d love it if you’d pop over to read.  Not for me.  For Linda! 😉

Vicki 💓

Posted on by Victoria · 39 Comments

Love, Loss & 9 Percent

Photo by Emre Can Acer on Pexels.com

One of my favorite people in the world, a dear cousin, is facing his end-of-life journey.  When we spoke in February, he knew his time was short and given the geographic distance that separates us and his growing incapacity, communication (tragically one of his greatest gifts) has become infrequent.  A few text messages have been exchanged here and there but no more Zoom chats or extended phone calls. 

Two weeks ago my heart was especially heavy as I thought about his grown children and grandchildren, wondering how I might help. I felt hapless and helpless, seeking a way to cherish and celebrate my dear one in a way that might matter to him and his extended family. Now…or later. 

I sat down and wrote a letter to him, after I peeked at Ancestry.com to confirm a fact – the amount of ‘shared DNA’ between my cousin and myself.  It provided great comfort when I saw, a few months ago, that we had a blessed 9% in common.  You might think, “that’s all?” but if you knew him…you’d understand that 9% = magic.  He’s lived a life of service and achievement. I would’ve been happy if the number was 2% or 5%. 

Here’s a portion of what I wrote, editing a few details for privacy reasons:

“Some time ago while noodling around in Ancestry.com I realized I hadn’t looked at the ‘shared DNA’ info provided – the genetic match between the two of us.

I smiled when I saw the 9% shared DNA, thinking, “Okay – good enough.  Given a choice, I’d have taken more, but 9%?  Yeah, man!” 

I imagine the 9% consists of our love of dogs…not just beagles…our love of family, meatballs, and our willingness to share ourselves with others even when the bits at the surface are prickly and painful.  We do it anyhow, in part because it’s how we keep the memories of those we’ve lost, front and center.

It’s the 9% that reminds me that kids from immigrant families in downtrodden Ohio CAN make their way in the world.  We did, while we watched loved ones languish and decline…in the decay that’s held some captive in a small, sad town for their entire lives.  But not you – and not me.  We found our way out. You were an athlete and a scholar with charisma to spare, welcomed everywhere you went. That’s good DNA, I say.  And if I have even a teensy bit of that, wrapped up in our genetic, shared ‘soup’, I’m one lucky girl. 

I love you.  I’ve always adored and admired you but never more so than right now.  If I could do anything to change the course for you, I would.  You know I would.”

I’m feeling helpless, still, but I’m continuing to jot down memories when they occur to me.  It’s one way of keeping him close.  Now and always.

Thanks so much for reading.

Vicki 💔

Posted on by Victoria · 34 Comments

For the Love of Lily

The three-petal lily, also known as the fleur de lis, represents faith, hope and charity and lilies of all sorts are tied to symbolism associated with religion, purity, new life.  My maternal grandmother’s name was Lily but I never met her, but in small ways across the entirety of my life, I’ve felt her presence and I’m only now beginning to understand.

No one in my family knew until recently that we had French ancestry, tied to my grandmother Lily.  My dad, had he known, would’ve been gobsmacked for sure!  I begged and pleaded with him so that I could study abroad in France – not once, but twice – and I was entranced by old stone, scrollwork and images of fleur de lis wherever I found them in my travels.  Years later, I realized how strongly the imagery of three lilies – no matter how abstract or scrolly – figured into my home and hearth sensibilities.

I appreciate all types of interior design, but I’ve always been drawn to representations of lilies in traditional home decor.  To test my theory about their pervasiveness, I stepped away from writing this piece to snap a few random photos of things in our home which conjure “lily-like” designs.  Here’s the photo collage I created of the pics:  

What’s the point?  I had no idea how near my grandmother’s been – for years – in my head, heart…and it turns out, in my home.  Whenever I tried to explain the appeal of lilies to friends and family, I just gave some version of a “I dunno, it feels like home when I look at it lilies, fleur de lis or scrollwork” and that was that. 

When the hubs and I tackled a big design conundrum involving the relocation of three lead glass panels in our house, I was struck, once again, by the reminders of lilies and Grandma Lily.  Not because I’m a gardener (oh my, no – I’m not at all) but because lily imagery brings a sense of calm, and perhaps, a little smidgen of the grandmother I never met, sweet Lily.

If you have a minute to read about the lead glass “Lily” windows, take a peek at my post on Heart of the Matter today. 

Vicki 💗

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Crying in the Car

Yesterday while driving to an appointment, the Carpenter’s song, “Superstar” popped up on my favorite 70’s oldies station. (I know, I know. I do listen to other things, but music from that era is so full of feel-good moments, I can’t resist, even though I know dear daughter groans, still, at my choices.)

The DJ, introducing the beloved song, mentioned that yesterday was Karen Carpenter’s birthday, born on March 2, 1950.  Had she lived, she would’ve been 73 but, in my heart, she’s forever the songstress and chanteuse from my youth, a contributor to the soundtrack of my childhood. 

No song more than Superstar stunned me.  Even fifty-plus years later, her vocals, the arrangement of that particular song prompt tears.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s an example of Susan Cain’s ‘Bittersweet’ and the melancholy that can come from music.  I love ‘Superstar’, but I can’t think of a time that I’ve listened…really listened…without moist eyes.  Including yesterday, while driving.

When I got home last night, I picked a video from the array on YouTube to watch Karen Carpenter sing “Superstar” and the first one that popped was from a BBC concert in 1971.  Karen famously, and tragically died from complications from anorexia in 1983.  Despite reports and concerns about her health and weight loss prior to that concert, last night as I watched, tears came again – a mix of joy from the music combined with pain, so much pain, as I looked at her.  She was dying, right before our eyes.

My old album covers and memories of her are from earlier days in her career, times when she reportedly loathed herself for being ‘chubby’. Eating disorders scare me because of issues that ran rampant in my mother’s family but seeing Karen Carpenter in the video?  I’d forgotten how ill she began to look.  Were we all so mesmerized by her voice that we looked away?

For a few days this week, I’m going to remember her.  Listen to her music, lovingly and with my whole heart.  Her voice was a gift and much like early Elton John tunes, she’s tightly woven into memories that are more than a visual kaleidoscope.  I hear the songs…like Superstar…and they are evocative interludes of softer times.  

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 43 Comments

Authorship, Gratitude & Fear

Gratitude and fear got together and they came to roost.  At least that’s what my stomach feels like lately.  If asked, I might’ve paired the emotions differently.  Maybe gratitude with a side order of love?  Fear with positivity as a co-pilot?  But gratitude and fear?  That’s like a roller coaster ride…she’s up…she’s down…and the nausea.  Sheesh.

Despite the rolling thunder in my belly my friend Carolynn is in my heart.  We met to catch up and nosh over the weekend and I treasure time with her.  She knows I can veer off into ‘woo woo Vicki’ as I catalog and chronicle the goodness in my life that must be more than coincidental. There are simply too many examples, one layered atop another, across decades.  Is it a spirit guide looking out for me?  The universe itself?  A guardian angel…my father?  I’d love to know – in order to properly thank the source – but the mystery remains.  Carolynn smiles and tolerates ‘other worldly’ me, not joining in but also not disparaging my conviction, belief in the unknowable.  I love her for that.

But the ups and downs?  No, not recent developments.  There IS a running theme, a common denominator and it’s all about writing about my mom.  From the time I decided to gingerly place my fingers on a keyboard with mom top of mind, I took every detour I could to avoid, avoid, avoid.  Yet each time I turned away, I found myself navigating the same well-worn path where I’d greet the task, again and again.  Hello, mom.  Yes.  I want to write about you, but I’m scared. 

About eighteen months ago, I surrendered, thinking “I’ll just write 500 words and we’ll see what’s what.”  Those 500 words became 90,000 and I’m still shocked that I have a publisher…an editor…along with friends and family…who’ve cheered me on throughout.  Thank goodness for my friend Linda who continued to nudge me: “Don’t stop…keep going.”

But I’m still scared.  “Surviving Sue” is looking like a mid-summer release and the non-writing tasks are surfacing.  I’m told I need to begin thinking about promotion and “launch parties’ along with liner notes, acknowledgements…and more.  Most hilarious?  My friendly publisher encouraged me to think about celebrity contacts. The whole ‘Seven Degrees of Separation’ business, I wondered?  “Yes, yes”, he said.  Endorsements.  Book blurbs.

Enter Carolynn.  A communications professional…writer extraordinaire…she dispenses the best wisdom. We met on Sunday and some ‘other worldly’ forces were in play – even she admitted so.  I’ll explain…

As the hostess ushered us to a table, one side a banquette and one a chair, Carolynn asked which I preferred. In my head I thought, ‘Oh that banquette looks more comfy that the hard side chair…and my back is talking to me because I didn’t stretch enough this morning’ but I figured Carolynn was thinking the same.  One comfy seat and one hard slab.  Really not much of a choice.

I took the slab – just happy to see Carolynn and less concerned about my back or tush.  So we sat.  And as we began the mutual catch-up confab, Carolynn asked first about “Surviving Sue” and I told the truth.  I don’t know how to promote a book!  Quick to wave off my fears, she said, “My library network will be a great help.  Great people, they’ll love your book, and I can see you on tour in safe places doing promo work but also helping others…you need to meet my friend Amy, for starters.”

Because Carolynn sat on the banquette, she had a clean line of sight to the front of the restaurant and the hostess stand.  As she spoke, saying, …”my friend Amy….” Carolynn’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened.  “My God”, she said.  “It’s Amy.  Right there!” Carolynn bolted up in surprise to greet Amy and another library buddy, also a marketing director. 

Wild Thing #1:  If Carolynn had been seated where I was, her back would’ve been toward the door and she would never have seen Amy, or her friend Diane, before they were seated.  Maybe she would’ve spied them elsewhere in the restaurant – later – but unlikely.  It was a busy Sunday morning.

Wild Thing #2:  The hostess sat Amy and Diane next to us and I received a free, three-way marketing consultation over breakfast.  Did all three – Carolynn plus Amy and Diane share great ideas, allay fears, ask about the book, show excitement with and for me?  Yes.  So much so.

Me thinks my persistent, emotional combo platter of gratitude swirled with fear is a leftover from Sunday morning but I think relief is on the way as I process all that happened over coffee (and yes, again, pancakes). When we said goodbye in the parking lot, one hug was followed by another for good measure, and I felt Carolynn’s genuine excitement for me and the journey I’ve been on. She assured me, “You’ve got this and I’m here to help.” 

Most of all, her enthusiasm, despite her dislike for mystical me, came through. “I don’t know how you did it” she said, “But seeing Amy and Diane appear – just like that?  I’ll give it to you.  It was weird…and wonderful.”

I think I need to rewind to where my head was eighteen months ago.  Look at the tasks ahead related to finalizing and promotion as culminating, celebratory stages of writing about my mom.  My reasons for doing so are still hardwired within, with this Brene Brown quote ever-present in my head:  

“One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through and it will be someone else’s survival guide.”

I’m almost there.

-Vicki ❤

P.S. The pic is mine…a corporate portrait taken for my dad’s office…circa 1973? Lisa with the glasses, alongside me and our mom, Sue.

Posted on by Victoria · 33 Comments

Making the Effort…With Love

Two words…major impact if felt, if believed:  You Belong.  My dad had a super skill at inclusion.  No matter how disparate the group, he could pull folks together into a union of purpose, whether specific tasks were on the agenda or if shenanigans and celebrations were on deck. 

In my Heart of the Matter post this morning, I share a childhood story about my dad’s skill set in fortitude and love…involving a sweet girl and her ‘dirty socks’.  An unlikely tale, perhaps, but a lesson to eagle-eyed “Little Vicki” nonetheless that sidelining people and/or being judgmental is a no-go.  No, nope, never.  Arms wide, hearts open.  Differences ARE good. 

My father didn’t have the advantage of a formal college education, but I like to think he had a master’s degree in people skills.  He understood the importance of belonging and demonstrated, throughout his life, the five pillars that Dr. Angela Theisen wrote about in a Mayo Clinic article. 

We’re not so evolved that reminders of five simple things will offend, right?  I think everyone can benefit from a nudge, given how fragile each of us can be at any moment in time.  With gratitude to Dr. Theisen, here’s an abridged version of her “five things” to boost belonging that I often share with those I care about:

  • Make an effort.
    The most crucial ingredient to building a sense of belonging is effort. You cannot belong if you don’t choose to make the effort to engage with others. It may feel uncomfortable at first to meet new people, but give it time, as you may need to practice self-talk.
  • Be mindful of others.
    Think less about yourself while with others and make the other person or the group your focus. Making conversation is critical to increasing your sense of belonging. It is important to mutually ask questions, make small talk, self-disclose skillfully and listen to people’s responses.
  • Keep and teach an open mind.
    Try new activities and meet new people. Consider new ways of thinking. Lead by example so your children can see how it works. Put in effort to seek activities and groups of people who you share common interests with. You may need to make it happen to start. Encourage and support your children to get involved.
  • Practice an attitude of acceptance.
    Recognize that others have different ways of being, which don’t have to change you. Focus on similarities rather than differences. Similarities tend to increase bonding. If you feel that people are not like you, focus on a mutual goal, such as a volunteer opportunity. Teach children to validate the feelings of others.
  • Validate action.
    If creating a sense of belonging is challenging for you, remember it is likely challenging for your child, as well. Give them the encouragement you would give yourself. Validate them, just like you need to validate your own action.

Cheers and hugs from me to you…thank you for welcoming me into your world by reading.  I appreciate you. 

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 48 Comments

Fearlessly in Love

Photo by Oscar Gloria on Pexels.com

I know February is drawing to a close and I don’t know if it’s the month and all the forced Valentine’s Day lovey-dovey hooey but it’s been a rough ride for a few people I care about.  Is it a ‘thing’ to become more introspective in the winter about relationships?  Is it the hibernation that some of us endure in the gray haze of February? 

A friend asked me recently if I had secrets to share.  I thought she was prompting me for cooking tips, you know, because I make a fairly fab pumpkin bread (even without the heinously decadent cream cheese frosting).  When she continued and said “No, stupid – not your baking skills.  I wanna know how you’ve managed to be with the same guy for 40 plus…YEARS.  I can’t manage 40 days and nights.”  Whoa there, Noah!

Maybe I was influenced by the pumpkin pancakes in front of me, intent on enjoying a visit with an old friend without serious talk.  I frowned at her.  Then I chewed and swallowed, followed by a swig of too-sweet-and-too-creamy coffee, and said, “It’s an unspoken thing.  He knows my sh*t and I know his…we balance each other out.  That’s it.”

Our server, Janet, was standing by refilling water glasses and laughed, adding, “If you’re talking about how to stay married, I’d say that’s it.  Thirty-two years for me and some days I hate my husband so much…but I’ve learned to breathe and move on.” 

At this point I’m thinking three things:

  1. Maybe Janet – our server — should sit down and join us?  She’s got better advice than I do and she’s not talking with her mouth full.
  2. Just because I like referring to people by name, when they have a name tag on, doesn’t mean I’m a fast friend… JANET!  But still…I smile and nod. She means well and I brought my happy face to breakfast.  My fault.
  3. My damn pancakes were getting cold and I wished Janet had brought more syrup, less advice. 

Chewing and nodding, I used my fork as a pointer and mumbled to my friend, “See, even Janet knows.  You’ve gotta put up with stuff.”

Thank God my friend has loved me for-ev-er and doesn’t expect me to be “Dr. Vicki” when we hang out.  No, no.  Never with my friends.  I’m just me.  But still…I know her and in her wildest, 20-something dreams, she had a particular type of guy in mind.  A Mr. Perfect and despite my periodic cautions about her rigid expectations (only when she’s asked for my input) no one’s measured up to her wild list of qualifications.  She’s got a well-worn and established pattern…a chronic ‘fall in love…realize he’s flawed – duh – aren’t we all – and fall out of love’ sequence. 

Which got me thinking.  As she sighed and changed the subject, talking about the new boots she just bought, I realized I love her for her quirks and I know she’ll find her way, eventually.  We’ll enjoy breakfast now and then banter/fight like sisters and bid adieu for a few weeks.  Why? She always knows she’s just an inch away from provoking me, taunting me enough to summon my favorite Joseph Campbell quote.  She’s heard it a million times and somehow, she knows just when to pull back before I hit ‘play’.

Curious about which Joseph Campbell quote?  I’m being sneaky…you’ll need to saunter over to Heart of the Matter, to check out another love story.   Different friend…situation…but lovelorn nonetheless…and yet…ever, ever hopeful.  And worthy of some quintessential Campbell wisdom.

Is it March yet?

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 60 Comments

When You Crack Yourself Up: Colonoscopy Edition

Hmmm…because I’m using a five-syllable word, does that make “colonoscopy” humor any better than garden variety “potty humor”?  I think not…but still…I’m compelled to share.

At a certain age, the “C-scope” is a rite of passage (wink!) and I promise I am not making light of the intense risks associated with colon issues.  No, no.  Too many loved ones in my life have dealt with cancers in that part of the body so I’m not making fun.  It’s an important and life-saving procedure.  But…if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that I will – one way or another – find my way to the lighter side of…even the most dismal things…if I can wrangle my way there.

Who’s the patient? The hubster. After a day of colon cleaning…vigorous as that is, my dear hubs, and his GI tract, were primed and ready for showtime this morning.  My sweet mother-in-law, Maxine, dealt with complications from colon cancer for years, often joking with her gastroenterologist that each visit to ‘peek and poke’ resulted in the most magnificent 8×10 glossies…proof positive that she was clean as a whistle and naughty polyps and lesions were swept away. It was our on-going joke for years with her Dr. and while I’m sure his staff hated us, we asked the Doc, each time, to sign her colon pics – all shiny and bright – with his autograph.  After all, he was an adventurer, of sorts, exploring the mysteries of Maxine…from the inside out.

Today was hubster’s day for colon fun.  Like a trooper, he managed to get through the day yesterday – the day of colonic prep but still…for a big guy – all 6’5” of him – not eating for a day and cleaning the pipes was A LOT.  By the time this morning came, we were thrilled to get on our way early.  In his case, given issues from last year, he was scheduled for both a colonoscopy and an endoscopy and when I joked this morning that his doctor’s goal was to ‘meet in the middle’ as both cameras did their work, I got a glimmer of a guffaw from him. Not bad, I thought, but I figured that was the end of colonoscopy humor for the day.  I was wrong!

Even though we arrived early, the office was bumping and bouncing!  I looked at each coupling – people checking in, two-by-two…the patients and the designated drivers.  It was easy to spot who was who. Patients looked grim and mostly wore sweatpants and slip on shoes and (understandably) had zero bounce in their step – or affect.  Somber. The driver/companions?  Whoa boy, they looked lighter – as if THEY (we?) were the ones who’d done the internal tidy-up.  Nope.  Not that.  We just felt lucky because the waiting room was our destination.  Our only destination. 

As the hubs and I sat and settled after checking in, minutes passed…then a quarter hour…then 30 minutes.  I could see the stress on his face, not eating for 24 hours and dehydrated – big time.  I patted his hand and whispered, “I’m sure you’re next” and he nodded.  After another 15 minutes where I pretended to read, for the fourth time “Coraline” (that’s another story – I can’t get through it and it’s a kids book, for gosh sakes) I sauntered to the counter and asked about the delay.  Nice.  Very nice.  Turns out, the other companions were thinking the same thing, feeling antsy for their loved ones who were also schlumping in their seats waiting to GET IT OVER WITH. 

I wasn’t trying to be funny.  I promise.  But when I rolled up to Jasmine at the check-in desk this flew out of my mouth: “Oh, gosh.  I know everyone wants to get this over with, but do you have any idea how much longer for my husband?  Seems like things are really backed up.”  And as soon as I said THAT…Jasmine laughed and said, “Well, that’s one way of putting it!” and then a sweet gentleman who was also a companion, there with his wife, roared and said, “That’s hilarious! Colonoscopy humor – backed up?!”

I turned to look at my dear hubs…the most introverted human I know…and his face? He wanted to crawl under his seat.  Yep!  That’s life with Vicki!  But the laughter in the waiting room gave everyone (I say) a moment of levity and you know what? As soon as that tension was broken, everything changed and zing, boom, bang…patients were being called in left and right. 

The kind gentleman who chuckled at/with me – and got everyone else in the waiting room giggling?  After both of our loved ones were in process, he said, “I know not everyone appreciates humor the same way but that was funny, and the best part is that I know you weren’t trying.  It just happened.  Backed up for a colonoscopy!”

The rest of the visit was uneventful, but I noticed the smiles.  More consideration from the companions as folks moved their belongings to make room for new arrivals…those fortunate souls who missed my silly stupid moment but still, I think the lift from the laughter lingered and it was good. And I promise. No more colonoscopy humor from me again. Ever. 😉

Xo,

Vicki ❤

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Blogging Buds: Writing About Fathers

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My friend, Brian from “Writing from the Heart with Brian” wrote about his dad’s love of flannel shirts.  I loved that piece – and it became a podcast, dropped this morning and available on your favorite platform – Apple, Amazon, Spotify and Pocket Casts, or listen by following this link:  Episode 5:  Fathers, Sons & Flannel to listen on Anchor.

I don’t think I’ve met a blogging bud yet who chose to write about memories of his father, according to an apparel item – a shirt! My own papa had a fondness for crisp, white button-downs and when I wrote about him a few months ago, the story began…with a shirt.  Magic!

Maybe you’re into apparel stories? 😉 Maybe a podcast full of heart string moments is pulling you in?  Either way, I think you’ll enjoy my conversation with Brian.  Remembering those we’ve lost in endearing ways gives my life meaning…Brian’s too.  Hop over to Heart of the Matter to read more…and take a listen. 

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 53 Comments

It Happened at Walgreens…

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Have you been lucky, as I have?  Along the way I’ve met some unforgettable people…giving, loving, smart and witty humans who, while brilliant and academically accomplished, were equally gifted, big-hearted beings of love. Quick to laugh, quick to forgive, recognizing that every person they meet is carrying an unseen burden of some sort.  Best to be generous, less judgmental.  Light whenever possible because the world sets so many hurdles before us.  Just say NO!  No to furrowed brows and rigidity!

If my friend Phil had been with me yesterday when I stopped at Walgreens to grab Valentine’s Day candy for my sister and her disabled housemates, I wonder what he would’ve done in response to a nasty lady, berating a cashier? 

As I scanned the overwhelming array of heart-shaped confections – primarily searching for sister Lisa’s favorites – Reese’s peanut butter hearts – I overheard a woman snarl, “Then get a manager, stupid.  You’re slow and dumb.” 

Radar up!  I only needed to turn my head a tad to take in the scene.  Angry lady yelling at an older gentleman behind the counter…she…waving a receipt and gesturing in his face…and he?  Trembling.  Even from twenty feet away, he shook and I could see it.  Couldn’t she?  Oh…right.  Rage blindness.  She saw nothing…except herself…and her anger about allegedly being shorted.  She screamed, “You owe me nine dollars and twenty-one cents more, you idiot.  It’s right here on my receipt…see….my rewards points!?” 

I had no idea whether she was right nor not.  Maybe the poor guy DID make a mistake, but her delivery and name calling of a clearly disabled employee…sitting on a stool, I suspected, because he was less than ambulatory?  No, no, no!  I grabbed my candy and hustled to get in line, instinctively I think, trying to be near the cashier, maybe to give him a nod or consideration with my eyes.  Support without intervening?

As the manager joined the fray, Mrs. Nutball rewound her rant and began again…torturous for the man who still trembled behind the counter.  I watched the manager…she tried to figure out the rationale for the refund but I could see the waving and flailing and nasty, high-pitched tirade made it impossible for her to comprehend what Mrs. Nutball alleged…so she went to the register and pulled out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to the women.  Payment to make her disappear…on her broomstick or whatever.

The manager turned to the cashier and gave him a gentle shoulder tap.  A familiar ‘there, there’ motion.  I appreciated that and wondered if she’d suggest he take a break.  She didn’t, so I was his next customer.  His hands shook as he scanned the candy, slowly and delicately bagging each piece, making sure the Gatorade I bought for the hubster was in a separate bag, and then gently, he lowered the candy into another bag. 

Was he slow and methodical?  Yes.  And as he took care with my purchases, I thanked him for bagging things separately and he looked up, cautiously, to meet my smiling face.  Was I another tyrant, he must’ve wondered?  And then, thinking about my friend Phil who was fearless and driven by compassion in all things, I added, “I’m so sorry about what happened before.  I heard what she said to you.  I’m so sorry.”  I heard Mrs. Nutball lambast him using trigger words wrapped in anger.  Slow and dumb?  No, no.  We do not speak that way…thinking of the countless times sweet sister Lisa, developmentally disabled and different, suffered as nasty comments were spewed in her direction.

The cashier.  Even though there were plenty of customers behind me, he stopped, with tears in his eyes and leaned in, whispering, “Thank you so much.  She scared me and I was only trying to help.  You are very kind.”  Oh my.  The trip to Walgreens?  I wasn’t expecting to cry…but it was okay.  My friend Phil?  He would’ve done the same…maybe more…acknowledge….be brave…worry less about yourself whenever you can.  Think about others…lead with kindness. 

My friend Phil is a man of many talents.  His compassion and finesse with people? Life goals, right there, but he has another, trademark superpower.  Self-deprecating humor…turned into teachable moments.  I’d love to introduce you to him with a fun story.  One of my all-time favorites.  Take a peek – here’s the link – to today’s Heart of the Matter post for more on Phil and why he’s a hero, my exemplar.

Love and hugs,

Vicki 💕

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Pieces of Me

Long before I knew what “RBF” meant (slang for resting bitch face) I exhibited the expression frequently as a kid.  One of the best things about teaching and being around ‘the younger’ is the potential for keeping up with the latest acronyms and text-culture witticisms.  When “RBF” was thrown at me the first time I needed the explanation…and what followed was this:  Holey, moley, guacamole!  A name — for the trademark Vicki look of disdain going back…well…decades.  Evidence?  That’s me on the left:

Why?  I hated the forced revelry when mom would pull out a camera and command “Smiles!”.  Even as a tyke I understood the incongruence between actual events and mom’s performances – her attempts to capture/manufacture happy family moments. 

Left with no defense other than a scowl, scowl I did in soooo many photos.  They’re fun and laughable to look at now, but I also understand that my behavior, facially, was just the front door to what simmered within. 

In today’s post for Heart of the Matter, I explain a little more.  I’d love for you to pop over and take a peek.  The teaser?  What do bridges, coping mechanisms and gratitude have in common?  Let me know what you think…and as always, thank you so much for reading.  It means a lot. 

xo,

Vicki 😊

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Loving Meghan

Today, our dear daughter says a final, heart wrenching goodbye to her friend, Meghan. The call came that it was ‘time’.  No amount of medical intervention – well intended and miraculous – would delay the truth, the end.  When a loved one approaches the end of life with blinding swiftness, there’s little opportunity to process, to understand.  Untimely doesn’t begin to describe the magnitude of the loss.  Just a day ago, the family had hope, thanks to glimmers suggesting possible recovery. 

For those who’ve had the unbearable task of finding strength amidst the chaos, the nightmare of wondering…could I have done more?  It’s like a prison cell.  The ‘what ifs’ and the pain of second guesses?  Horrific. If I could relieve those burdens for a few dear souls today, I would.  I’d take every bit of the heaviness and pain and carry all of it…for as long as I could…to offer relief.  Sweet relief.

Instead, I feel helpless, reflective and sad.  Worrying about those who sit bedside, saying goodbye for the last time.

One of my dear blogging friends, Erin/Esoterica recently included a Leo Buscaglia quote in one of her posts.  It shook me because I was once oh-so-familiar with his work, but I’d lost track of the simplicity and power in his words:

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which has the potential to turn a life around.”

Most days, I live my life remembering that the ‘smallest act of caring’ CAN be a guiding light.  Dr. Buscaglia was a central, inspirational figure when I was a wayward, ignorant undergrad. His words – in lectures and books – helped to frame both my personal and professional life.  Grounded in goodness. I realized after reading one of his most famous quotes in Erin/Esoterica’s piece, that I’d lost track of the foundational nature of his wisdom. The brilliance and love that drew me in decades ago.

Inspired to re-read and remember, this morning I rummaged through my stash of old texts, copies of Dr. Buscaglia’s books and read again, his words of humanity and love.  And then…I recalled a quote that I’ve shared many times with those in the grip of grief and wondered how I might share these wise words with Meghan’s loved ones – who at this very moment, endure the unthinkable as gaping holes in their hearts are torn open by final goodbyes.  I wonder…and worry…

For how long, will they suffer?  As they reconstitute their lives, minus precious Meghan, I wish them hope, love, resilience, and the ability to avoid the rewinds and tortured thoughts about what they might have done differently.  Dr. Buscaglia wrote:

Love, accept, forgive – oneself, especially?  Those are words that rumble in my head and soul – on repeat, like a refrain.  A song about withstanding pain, my plea to the universe, for the brokenhearted today.

Although Dr. Buscaglia died in 1998, today I honor him, remembering how his life’s work helped to carve and craft my journey, reminding me that life without love, no matter how much pain we’ve suffered, is the biggest loss of all.  

And perhaps that’s the greatest gift.  Reminding a family overwhelmed by grief that remembering Meghan, the love, the light, the sprite that she was?  It is enough.  And in the days ahead, it will be everything.

Vicki 💕

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Books That Inspire…Instill Hope

Every now and again I read something that I can’t shake off, arriving at the perfect time for reasons only the cosmos knows for sure. I love sharing these “pondering moments” with you…thank you for reading and being a part of my community of kind, insightful souls. ❤

Something magical happened when I found Wynne Leon’s book, “Finding My Father’s Faith” – all about her father and their twin journeys.  Her father, Dick Leon’s journey as a Presbyterian pastor, his life of service and Wynne’s remarkable journey as a mom, an entrepreneur and a mountain climber. Father and daughter, both seeking enlightenment, opportunities to love and live authentically and wholeheartedly.

My own father passed away many years ago and as I read Wynne’s book, I felt flooded with memories of how unique and powerful the relationships between fathers and daughters can be.

Wynne’s book reads like a love letter from a daughter to her papa, abundant with gratitude while also offering wisdom on multiple planes of thought.  Family? Yes! Relationships?  Yes! Spirituality? Yes! Life Goals? Yes! And most of all Honor.  Honor in how Wynne lovingly told her dad’s story…honor in how she drew connections between his goals, his path, and the realization that while their destinations were the same, their paths could be different in order to remain true to themselves.

This morning, the Heart of the Matter launches a new podcast, all about Wynne’s book. I hope you’ll hop over to listen and let us know what you think.

Friday hugs,

Vicki 😊

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Heart, Mind & Soul

One of my dear ones, my friend Linda, shared a brilliant, ancient, Anglo-Saxon word with me recently…and I love it: 

BREÓST-HORD

This new word? It literally means ‘breast treasure’ according to Mental Floss.  One lyrical word used to describe the blending of heart, mind, and soul – the ethereal pixie dust which renders each of us unique and marvelous, while providing fuel and navigation as we journey through life.

After Linda shared, I did a little sleuthing and learned that many Old English words have been sidelined across the years, along with an abandonment of once common letters like þ (known as “thorn”), ƿ (“wynn”) and ð (eth or thæt).  I had no idea!

Like many others, the power of Ancestry.com has driven me to explore family history and the discoveries are delightful, puzzling and revealing.  Linda’s known for years that her mother was a first-generation immigrant to the U.S. from the UK – a war bride – and her affinity for Anglo history, coupled with travels to visit distant cousins?  It adds heft to her bread crumb trail of ‘who am I?’

Me?  I picked up chunks of intel about family lineage and roots in Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales – thanks to nuggets strung together from recollections and oral history from my parents.  But – so much of what I heard was so lightly and gingerly strung together, it was hard to make sense of it all…yet I couldn’t ignore the feelings (my own BREÓST-HORD?) that permeated.  A push, a pull, a tug? I can’t quite describe it, but my body told me, from the first time I traveled through London, that the UK was ‘homeland’.

I’ve learned over the past few years that my blogging friend,  Esoterica’s, recent reference to ‘ancestral knowledge’ is no joke:

“Lately, I’ve been thinking about ancestral memory, the idea that memories of our heritage live in our genes, in our blood, and in our bones, but it also lives in our minds, our cultures, our communities and in our unconscious, intuitive drives.”

Without “knowing” I’d navigated my life with deference toward my cloaked history – including the name we chose for our daughter (turns out it was a family surname…going back three hundred years) and my love of ‘old stone’ and Gaelic swirls?  More than just artistic admiration. 

Another example? Almost five years ago, before the ancestry.com confirmation data dump and a bit on a whim, my dear one Linda and I took the leap to get ‘sister’ tattoos.  She’s not my blood relation, but in all the ways that matter, she surely is.  We were on a work trip – presenting at a conference – and decided (okay, with substantial prodding on my part) 😊 that it was time to bond with a swirl of ink, tattoo-style:

 

Whether our matching tats are symbols of ‘new beginnings’ or ‘strength’?  It didn’t matter but the significance of the Gaelic swirl, on each of our right wrists?  A reminder that we both relish knowing where we came from…while treasuring the bond we’ve had for decades. 

So I say…if that’s not an example of ‘heart, mind & soul’ in motion, in beautiful, BREÓST-HORD fashion, I don’t know what is.

Ready to take a break from reading and tune into more?  😊 Hop over to the brand-new Sharing the Heart of the Matter podcast with my friend Wynne Leon…all about ‘heart stories’…or BREÓST-HORD! ❤ 

Smiles and hugs,

Vicki ❤

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Finding the Funny Bones

No, no. This isn’t a Halloween late-arrival.  Nope, not a post I forgot to…post.  Can’t a girl share a skeleton image, here and there, without provoking All Hallows Eve imagery?  😉 I haven’t made my point yet, but trust me, these skeletons are good time girls…maybe boys?  I can’t tell from here.  Just the same, there’s no downer drivel here, just good stuff, courtesy of George Bernard Shaw.  Well, yes, he – the famous author and me, just me.

Shaw wrote, in his 1930 novel “Immaturity”:

Some of you know I enjoy unpacking family history, sometimes bringing discomfort to light because that’s where I’ve made meaning from bucketloads of drama.  I don’t mind the muck and the mire, I’m an emotional adventurer and I’m down for the duty. The dirty duty. Spelunking with the ancestors, uncovering bits and pieces that, singularly, mean little but smooshed together?  Oh – portrayals of truth, triumph, and peeks into the lives I cannot touch, at least not directly, with many loved ones long gone.

For every bit of unseemliness that I discover, there are joyful aspects.  My family had plenty of skeletons but darn it all, they also knew how to make the most of the madness and dance.  We were the ‘fun house’ no matter where we lived, party central, because my parents knew that laughter was magic.  It didn’t make the turmoil disappear but from their examples, I learned that ‘dancing it out’ was a remedy in and of itself because it lessened the magnitude of the heavy stuff, even if only for a while.

As my parents grew older, the best part of family get togethers were the memory lane moments – the unplanned yet consistent after dinner traditions of ‘telling tales’ about one another’s mishaps and goofy adventures.  There were so many…and because everyone was ‘dancing’, there were no arguments, no insults – just laughter at, with and around one another. 

From me to you…okay, and a little bit from David Bowie… Let’s Dance!

Vicki 💕

Join us for more fun…inspiration and stories from the heart…at The Heart of the Matter! 🤍

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Extending Ourselves

I learned by example to lead with kindness.  My mom, despite the challenges she faced in life, always had room in her heart for anyone in need.  She was a die-hard volunteer and champion for the developmentally disabled – in part because of my sister’s circumstances and the compounding of physical and intellectual disabilities.  But more than that, mom knew she herself was broken and relished opportunities to serve others.

Coming from a family of dysfunction, she nearly raised her siblings – out of necessity – but as I look back on her life, I realize there were tandem motivations.  Obligation?  Sure.  When your own mother can’t mother, the eldest often steps in.  Mom/Sue did just that.  But I also believe she was motivated and driven by her genuine, tender-hearted nature that became a theme throughout her life.  Not just as she navigated hurdles for my sweet sister, Lisa, but how she was keenly attuned to hurt in others. 

There are days when I recognize that my intuitive nature came from mom.  She was a master at identifying unspoken pain (largely because she carried so much of her own).  Whether it was a gentle hug or a smile, Mom/Sue knew how to brighten the lives of friends, family…but most of all, strangers.  Or as she often put it “friends she just met”. 

As she grew older, addictions clouded her innate desire to help and dementia jumbled up the details, but everyone she met was a ‘friend’.  I believe her cantankerousness was perceived as an endearing quirk, which kept people close to her – less alienated – longer than otherwise likely.

Even toward the end, mom relished the opportunity to tell a bawdy, dirty joke.  Her repertoire was well-worn, but we laughed as if we heard each story for the first time…as she time traveled with humor.  Years on a barstool?  Highlights in her life, no matter which side of the bar she was on. 

Today, as I think about inspirations of kindness and caring, my mom is on my mind but so is Booker T. Washington.  Different as they were, they shared a life perspective that serves me well.  It’s all about ‘lift’.  Take a look and hop over to The Heart of the Matter to take a peek and share your thoughts in comments. 

Friday hugs,

Vicki ❤

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Enough

No…not the Lady Gaga “Shallow” song – but let me be clear!  I love that tune! 😊 No, this shallow reference is about someone I care about who had an epiphany this week, one that provided me with insight of my own. 

You know how it is when a thunderbolt arrives, but not in the splashy, I command the sky and your attention kind of way?  This was one of those subtle revelations tucked within a lengthy conversation.  A story about family turmoil where the unspoken question was this:  Have I done enough?  Can I give up now?

When we try to reach someone we love and they’re not ready, or not interested, it’s a special form of hell.  Especially when we feel, deeply – at a molecular level – that our mission is true and just.  A closed door, the indifference can be crushing, even if it’s been the relationship undercurrent for decades upon decades. 

I like being the sunny one, the encourager, the champion, the spark to help both myself and others problem-solve and summon tactics and ideas to prompt longed-for interaction and connection.  Yes…but. Know what I’m learning?  Our well-intended pursuits need to fall away, at times. Carrying the disappointment of ill-fated attempts, while lugging embers of positivity?  Too much, I say, and yet I don’t like to give up, give in. It feels like retreating. 

As I talked with my dear one, I realized I’ve changed, in response to indifference. I can’t be the one to do all the work, nor should my friend.  As much as I enjoy introspection and the opportunities to mull and consider ‘big, bothersome questions’, on my own, it can be transformative to take the time to sound out issues with a confidante, allowing the external processing of life’s conundrums to unfold. The conversation, sharing, commiseration and confirmation that we’re not alone — as we tussle with relationships and navigational challenges can be enough.

And this. I love a good summation, a wrap-up moment when these magical exchanges occur.  My dear one sighed toward the end of our conversation and said:

“I see it’s not me.  What I want to talk about isn’t on his radar at all.  I can’t get through because he’s in the shallows and I’m looking for depth.”

And for now, that was enough.

Vicki ❤

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You Belong

I’m a grateful person, generally, but every now and again, an unexpected gift arrives, shaking me to my humble core…a reminder of the power of humility, the importance of service and simple acts of caring. 

If you haven’t yet moseyed over to The Heart of the Matter, please do.  I’m honored and privileged to join wholehearted colleagues, my fellow writers, as we consider ‘what matters most’ and share our perspectives on living our best lives. 

This morning on HoTM, I posted a story about a former student.  A magnificent, recent interaction that brought tears, yes, but also reminded me that we are all fragile and the simplest stuff in life – like knowing someone’s name – is a starting place to build meaningful, caring connections.

Take care!

Vicki 🤍🤍🤍

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

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See the Good

“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” — Marcel Proust

I have a dear colleague whose professional life is a stressful whirlwind, sweeping her off her feet daily.  It came with the territory – she’s a first-responder and knew what she was in for.  She has little capacity to direct the flow of her days but still, she summons the energy and finesse to serve others, dutifully, soulfully, even when she has nothing, nada in reserve.  Fumes.  Just fumes.

As our friendship grew, I learned from her and adopted one of her healthiest self-care rituals.  So simple, yet restorative in that it helps me close out one day and settle in for rest, setting the stage for slumber, which is essential for me, one of the chronically sleep-deprived.

What is the wizardry, you wonder, the magic that I commandeered?  Well, it starts with this:  Create a bedtime routine and treat it as sacred, first and foremost.  And then, take the time to consider the day that was — the good, bad, and otherwise.  Especially the bad and the otherwise. I know what you’re thinking!  Whaaaa??? Focus on the negative?  Yes, yes…here’s why!  Lest you give those needling bits their due before you sleep, their end trails may plague you, creating restlessness thanks to the heaviness of unfinished business. 

Those heavy bits? You might see them in your ‘replay reels’, the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘if onlys’ as we consider how we might’ve done better.  Don’t dwell and linger, just acknowledge the pesky vermin by deploying a little imagery…Roses and Thorns.  Those negative nuggets?  Yep. They’re the thorns.

After addressing the thorn-y bits, dismiss them.  In…and out. Maybe your thorns included interactions with insensitive, unkind people.  Maybe you returned fire.  Maybe you wish you hadn’t.  Maybe you overlooked an important task, let someone down.  Maybe you snapped when you shouldn’t have and forgot to apologize.  Whatever the thorn-y array includes, remember that a new day is on the other side of sleep along with fresh and abundant opportunities to improve.  Then you can get to the good stuff…the roses.

For my friend, the ‘roses’ are the wondrous moments, the glimmers of good that punctuate every day.  Even our lousy days.  They’re there – we just need to keep our peepers open.  As a bedtime ritual, I find myself whirring through my highlight reel.  The more I mull over my day, the more I can summon those glistening moments.  And the recall relaxes me, makes me smile.  And, truthfully, some days ARE stinkers and my ‘rose’ recall might be sparse, but I don’t mind.  I don’t need a bouquet.

Which brings me to this.  The quote from Marcel Proust.  “Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”  Oh, indeed.  The past several years have taught me that some of the most powerful and positive “gardeners” in my life are dear friends who lift me up, receive me as I am, join me in the pursuit of better days.  

I can’t think of a better way to sum up the intention of my latest passion project with Wynne Leon and our amazing team at Heart of the Matter.  If you haven’t yet checked out the hub, the community we’re creating, please do.  I can’t wait to see you there as we listen, learn, and lift one another up, heart and soul.

Vicki 😊

Photo by Oscar Gloria on Pexels.com

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Every Picture Tells a Story

There is one photo of our dear daughter that brings me such joy that I literally swell and puff up with emotion, pivoting from almost crying to feeling a warm wave of blessings, like a fever dream, wrapped in abundance.  How DID I get so lucky? 

Sure, other photos have come and gone over the years, especially now that our ‘baby’ is no such thing.  She’s grown and smart and accomplished and being near her, still, renders her sweet papa nearly speechless.  

She’s the best of both of us and we see it in the lovely adult she’s become.  Thoughtful and kind?  Absolutely!  But she’s equal parts savvy about the world and the people in it. With a tendency toward trust, she’s been burned a bit, but manages to dust herself off, shoo away the ashes and messy memories and move forward. 

I don’t know whether she gets the stamina and resolve from the hubster or from me.  Maybe she received a double dose?  No matter.  We’re just grateful.

Every now and again, I ponder the idea of starting a project where I caption endearing family photos — daring to use my imagination as I meander and crawl into the head and heart of loved ones, memorialized forever in a photograph.  Just for today, I’m going to give it a whirl and play my very own game of “caption me”. Tell me what you think…

Look closely at our DD, dear daughter’s expression.  Based on that, and how her hand is gently touching the scruff on her papa’s face, I hear her thinking, “Hey mom.  Life is pretty good from where I’m at.  I love my papa, but I see you.  I love you, too.”

Wednesday hugs, from all three of us,

Vicki 💕

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Big News…

Big news, dear readers!  Wynne Leon of Surprised by Joy and I have created a shared blog space along with a team of incredibly talented contributors and thinkers. It’s called The Heart of the Matter and it’s a blog about what matters most, celebrating connections and the power of community.  

Thank you for the support you’ve shown Victoria Ponders.  When I reviewed the stats from 2022, I was overwhelmed and humbled by the kindness I’ve felt from readers who give of themselves – time, energy, wisdom and heart — to read and respond with comments that demonstrate the magnitude and power of staying connected, sharing, commiserating, and celebrating all that life entails.  It is that propulsion, the power of kindness and caring that drives this new, collaborative venture.

We have a tremendous team of wholehearted contributors and we’re launching right now — at the start of 2023 — with all the goodness we can muster, in the most inspirational, empowering way possible. Coming soon? Podcasts…and a full resource library…nuggets of goodness, curated from all of us, just for you.

My first post for The Heart of the Matter is Depth Matters and I’d love it if you’d mosey over to take a peek and follow our team in our new forum.

Victoria Ponders isn’t going away – you’ll still see me here, posting regularly about home, family, relationships and more. What’s new is this fun Vicki two-fer 😉. Victoria Ponders, where I’ll keep mulling and pondering, and The Heart of the Matter where our hearty band of blogging buds are linking arms to welcome you. Yes, you. ❤

Smiles and hugs,

Vicki 😊

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Happy Birthday, Mom

This week my troubled marvel of a mama would’ve celebrated her 84th birthday.  Despite the challenges in our relationship and the years of turmoil, I choose to ‘remember the good’.  There was so much good – fun and frivolity, charm, and charisma.  Mom was a beacon to anyone in need and I can’t deny that my genetic soup includes her spirit of service. Sometimes I see her when I look at myself in the mirror.  There are undeniable resemblances in both spiritual and physical form. 

In some ways I’m an only child.  My older sister Lisa is a perpetual 8-year-old in a grown-up wrapper because of her intellectual and physical disabilities. She was a miracle baby, surviving when no one expected her to.  I’m her guardian now with mom and dad both gone and while I feel the weight of the responsibility, it’s also a privilege.  Lisa’s reminiscences and recall of family history, silly tidbits are comforting. Even when she mixes up details – sometimes hilariously so, like her funny recall of Elvis trivia that I wrote about a few weeks ago. 

When mom died, I became the family archivist, by default.  I’m surrounded here, in my home office, by bins and boxes of photos which chronicle our family history.  Well, parts of it anyhow.  The darkness and despair aren’t photo-worthy…no Kodak or Polaroid moments, and I’m grateful.  My memories of challenging times don’t require visuals.  They’re present – nestled within me – but I try to temper the dark with light, however I can.

The photos I treasure?  Some of these – the pic of mom, wearing only a hotel towel, when she went to New York as a high school senior to represent her hometown at a future business leaders conference.  Remarkable? Yes!  It was the first year EVER that girls were permitted to attend.  Mom’s roommate snapped this photo and took many others that were more formal and staged, but this one speaks to me. Mom in an unguarded moment.  She looks happy.

Just a year later mom met dad and things got complicated…resulting in the arrival of little Lisa.  Fragile little Lisa.  The pic of the three of them?  A reporter from the local newspaper took a photo of the happy family as Lisa got her polio vaccine.  I guess they looked photo-worthy – a good visual to accompany the reporter’s column about polio prevention.  What no one knew yet?  Just a month later, Lisa’s pediatrician began to deeply chronicle her vision and motor problems.  Failure to thrive.  Not meeting milestones…and their journey of pain and loss with her began.

I need to leave you with a smile. Mom was a party girl at heart.  No matter where we lived or what the occasion, she found reasons to celebrate and had mountains of energy to contrive costumes…to pull people together, and not just for Halloween. (If you missed it, check out this post about her Halloween handiwork!)  Party planning was her superpower.  In the last pic, mom is the stunner in the middle…thrilled that she managed to coerce/encourage her lady friends into a Hawaiian luau-themed fund raiser for disabled children, like Lisa.

I remember the party…the pig roast…the music…and the trail of raffia from the grass skirts all over our house – for weeks.  Oh, that and the remnants of hand-crafted floral leis.  Such a mess, but it was a happy mom mess.  So much better than messes of other sorts that often accompanied her bad days. 

Thanks for reading.  Thanks for joining me in reminiscing about sunny moments. Remembering the good.

Vicki ❤

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Finding Better Days…Together

Do you know anyone who’s burrowed so deeply into their storylines, their beliefs, that it’s as if they’re in a trench?  One of their own making?  Every year, holiday time and extended interactions with family members can provide unique opportunities to love or shun some with whom we share DNA. One wonders how siblings who were brought up by the same parents, in the same house can have vastly different outlooks on the world and their place within it.  And yet they do, confoundingly so. Nature? Nurture? Both? I love that we humans are maddeningly complex. I hate that we are, just as much.

Life’s journey provides offramps and pathways for do-overs – routes we can take, should we choose to, to mend old wounds.  Even when the mile marker says, “Opportunity Ahead” pointing to an off ramp, beckoning us toward “Better Days”, the allure of the well-worn path feels safer.  More familiar.

A recent, extended conversation with a dear one who’s struggling with her sister provided a glimpse into the choices and decisions we make, sometimes irrevocably, if we lack the courage to intervene.  My friend hoped that Christmas this year would be family reunion-like.  She and her siblings are aging, feeling the weight of illnesses and diagnoses, some serious and life-threatening, many pesky and perturbing as joints and limbs begin to talk back with aches and ailments. 

My dear one?  She’s staring down the ultimate challenge. Despite sailing through life as a healthy person, she’s been dealt a blow she can’t dismiss with nutrition, exercise, meditation, and self-care.  Her body has rebelled against her, allowing cancer to overrun her organs and migrate, shamelessly, destructively into her bones.  “It came out of left field”, she said, when she called to share the news.  Yes, she has treatment choices to make, but the prognosis is sobering.  Time is short.

She looked forward to family time last week and hoped she might find an opening to have “the talk”, a long overdue heart-to-heart with her sister.  For years they’ve been at odds and my friend hoped to uncover the origin story, the reasons behind her sister’s intense vitriol toward her.  Whatever IT is, she thought, might we put it to bed now, once and for all? 

Explaining her game plan to me, she acknowledged that she may have unknowingly hurt her sister.  A slight or oversight, so large (and yet imperceptible to her) that it’s stood between them for thirty years.  “I’ll apologize, but I need to hear from her to understand”, she said. 

After an awkward dinner and the forced revelry of two rounds of ‘white elephant’ gift exchanges, my friend figured the time was right to ask her sister to take a walk with her – around their old neighborhood.  No one in the family knew about her diagnosis yet; she’d been delaying, living in a shroud of secrecy, fearful about sharing her devastating news at a festive time.  This is my friend in a nutshell – forever putting others first.

And yet…my friend’s nature includes frankness and fortitude as descriptive characteristics, too. In her head and heart, she felt compelled to mend the rift with her sister as job #1…the long overdue task.  Secretly, she hoped her sister might morph into an ally to help her as she broke the news to their parents, who aren’t in the best of health themselves…older and fragile.   

Remember the trench I mentioned?  The well-worn paths we create through our choices and the tendency to cling to realities…those that feel protective, safe, and warm? Despite her savvy awareness of her sister’s tendencies, my friend, the perpetual optimist, said she felt hopeful when her sister said yes, a walk would be great.  But as they wrapped themselves up in winter gear – hats, boots, scarves, and gloves – my friend caught a rush of intuition, an omen that “nice” wasn’t on the menu for their sisterly stroll. She was right.

Crunching down the snowy driveway, her sister bluntly said, I know what you’re doing and it won’t work.  I know you’re looking for a smoking gun…you want me to tell you why I don’t like you, provide a moment, a memory so you can spin it, massage it, and make it better.  There’s no moment.  There’s no reason, other than you’ve always been the favorite and everything’s easy for you.  I guess I hate that about you.  You’re the one – the pretty one, the smart one, the accomplished one – and I’ve always felt less than, because you exist.

For my dear one, her sister’s rant, the torrent and tumble-load of arrogance, sounded rehearsed. Practiced. The words flew out of her mouth with ease, and yet her voice cracked as she spoke.  As they approached the end of the long, sloping driveway, my friend paused, turning toward her sister/stranger as if she saw her for the very first time. 

Wondering if words would come, she looked at a face that mirrored her own in so many ways.  Same nose, dark eyes.  Except for the differences in color, thanks to Clairol, their hair was the same, too.  Curly and wayward, forever poking out underneath winter hats like corkscrew filaments of static and frizz. 

She saw her sister tremble.  First the bottom lip and then her chin, prompting my friend to embrace her, in a wave of love and insight.  In that moment, she understood. While she may have been a target, a focal point for her sister’s frustrations for many years, the source was her sister’s self-loathing, her lack of confidence and compulsion to compare.

What happened next?  An expansive exchange about their shared histories of hurt?  No. They just walked.  From the end of the driveway and around the block.  Not speaking, but moving in cadence, shoulder-to-shoulder, guiding each other around snowdrifts and icy patches. 

As my dear one told the story to me later, she shared this: “It was enough.  That walk? It was the best Christmas gift.”  She didn’t tell her sister about her medical news.  Not that day, she said, but soon.  Their plan is to spend New Year’s Eve together at the family cabin.  Just the two of them, pulling each other out of their trenches, to higher ground and hopefully new, and more loving territory.  Together.  I think it’s an excellent start and my friend’s trust in me, allowing me to be near to listen and love her? That’s her gift to me.

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 32 Comments

Comfort…In My Hands

I have a sweater that my dear Aunt Betty knitted for my dad when he was in high school. It weighs about ninety pounds 😊 because it’s made of heavy weight wool yarn.  Dad loved it and kept it in a special box in his closet, but I only recall him wearing it once.

The sweater is remarkable to me because my favorite aunt touched it…created it…and she chose unique horn buttons that were fashionable at the time, but very expensive.  Maybe I love the buttons more than the sweater?  They’re fabulously rough and smooth, displaying gradations of brown, beige, tan, black – and no two are the same.  The photos don’t do justice to the sweater or the buttons, but I wanted you to see for yourself.

I’ll hold one potent memory of dad wearing the cardigan in my heart for the rest of my life. He sat on the edge of the bed, across from his closet and the box and tissue that held the sweater were on the floor by his feet. His head was lowered – I thought he was staring at the box, until I realized he was crying. Softly – no heaving. Just slow tears dripping from his face and falling to the floor. Feeling I was intruding, ten-year old me thought I should leave, but I was transfixed, cemented to the doorframe, looking in.

Aunt Betty died the week before.  She had cancer and it spread quickly, giving everyone insufficient time to spill the contents of their hearts.  Dad’s heart?  It was full when it came to his only, sweet sister.  She was his champion and cheerleader, his soft spot and rock, all in one. I imagine he was the same for her, remembering the affection they displayed for one another. 

Family photos are treasures, but they’re slick and one-dimensional.  Not so with the cardigan.  It was the warm hug Aunt Betty could no longer provide and as I watched my tall, dark, and often stoic father break down, flooded with loss and love at the same time, I knew the sweater was magic.  I watched as he pulled the right sleeve toward his face – at first, I suspected it was a move to wipe away tears – but instead he inhaled deeply.  The sweater – the sleeve – it smelled of her and I saw him comforted by the cozy rapture of her handiwork. 

Still wondering if I should approach or tiptoe away, I decided to creep in.  I recognized the private moment he was having and didn’t want him to stop…but I also want to join him.  I needn’t have worried.  He saw me and beckoned me closer, patting the bed next to him, motioning for me to sit.  As I did, he unbuttoned the cardigan and pulled me toward him, wrapping both of us up in the expansive wool warmth.

He cried, I cried…just as I am right now.  No words were spoken.  How long did we sit there?  Maybe five minutes?  Long enough for him to know, through our embrace, that we both missed her like mad and craved the closeness that was now forever out of reach, short of wrapping ourselves up in the beautiful honey-colored cardigan. 

I kissed his wet cheek, he squeezed my hand, and I stood to smooth out the tissue paper, knowing it was time to put the sweater away. At least for that day. 

Decades later, when dad died, mom was ready to donate the sweater, maybe forgetting that Aunt Betty made it for him?  I don’t know, I just remember how grateful I was to be in the right place, at the just-right-time to scoop it up.  It held magic that my mom knew nothing of. 

I found the cardigan treasure recently, tucked away with other keepsake clothes – my wedding dress (made by my mom-in-law, Maxine) and sentimental baby clothes from the fleeting days when our darling daughter was a tiny bundle of love.

Just like my dad, I felt compelled to take the sweater out of the box and smell it. I suppose it’s way past the time when a trip to the dry cleaner would be in order, to properly preserve it, but I wouldn’t dare part with it, nor would I trade the dusty, musty smell…that must also contain remnants of both dad and Aunt Betty…for any fresh-and-new aroma. Not for anything in the world.

Cardigan hugs today…from me and a very vintage sweater.

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 19 Comments

Holiday Hugs

“The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice.  Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.” -Ernest Hemingway

There’s so much symbolism at this time of year, no matter what holidays you celebrate, if any.  The end-of-year rituals of ‘taking stock’ might provide inspiration for the year ahead but could also trigger heartache in the form of endless rewinds about the ‘year that was’.

I think this is particularly true for those of us who veer toward the melancholy, prompting an irresistible urge to look over one’s shoulder, contemplating months of missed opportunities or losses. The new year beckons…but the vulnerable, those who need extra love, encouragement and support may not reach out for it in ways you’ll recognize.

When in Doubt? 

Be the one to extend your hand and heart first – with a quick text, a phone call or a smile.  Although no family is perfect and holiday time brings out both the best and worst in some of our clans, those who are alone, but perhaps not by choice, might fall prey to romanticizing the ‘home and hearth’ of others. 

Be the one, to share a silly story about holiday madness, or better yet, invite the person you care about – who might be flying solo – to join you, either physically or virtually in a short FaceTime or Zoom call. 

Holiday hugs, from me to you, and all those you care about.

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 19 Comments

Holiday Hijinks!

I don’t recall the ‘why’ but I’m learning that’s my least favorite query.  When, what, where and how tend to spur a drilldown with a payoff, but ‘why’?  Not so much.  I think it’s because some things in life just happen…the inexplicable, the magical, coincidental, the maddening.  Exploring the reasons, the why?  Unnecessary adventures that often yield little insight.  (Bad ROI for my business-y friends.)

That’s where I start with this silly remembrance.  I don’t know WHY the dear hubster was a prankster with my mom.  I suspect it was because mom pivoted between tragedy and comedy – daily – and keeping her on the funny side, as much as possible, was good for all of us.  I should remember to thank him for his service!  😊 His best bit ever? It involved holiday hijinks with M&M candy…

Late one Christmas Eve, not long after we were married, the hubster took mom’s gigantic brandy-snifter (something that normal people would use as a terrarium or a goldfish bowl but to mom, it was ‘just a candy dish’) and he painstakingly sorted five pounds of those tiny M&M candy discs – by color – and layered them back into the bubble-shaped bowl.  It looked like geological layers…rock formations…chocolate-coated candy-style. I think the order was brown, yellow, green, blue, red.  I wish I had a pic…but I don’t.  Can you picture it in your mind? 

Back in those days the hubs was a night owl.  Less so now…we like our sleep more than shenanigans…and this little escapade was nearly an all-nighter.  The next morning, mom was the first one up but she went straight to the kitchen to get little quiches ready, make the coffee and put cinnamon rolls in the oven.  Our Christmas morning routine was to nosh a little, open presents, nosh some more, complain we were full, take a walk around the block and by that time we were ready for more – presents and nibbles.  Oh my, the holiday excesses! 

Given all of his hard work, the hubster was disappointed when mom didn’t react to his M&M masterpiece – for hours.  She walked past the hall table where the big bowl sat, not giving it a second look.  Later, my dad saw it and busted out laughing…a spit-take with his second cup of coffee.  He knew immediately it was his dear son-in-law’s handiwork and wanted to linger in the room to be there…to catch mom’s reaction. You know – the payoff.

Finally – and only because mom needed to fetch some doo-dad from a nearby cabinet – she noticed the bulging bowl of striated M&M’s and just stood there. Frozen. Hubs thought for sure she would pin the caper on him – immediately.  Nope!  Instead, she screamed, “Holy shit!” “Someone’s been in the house – we’ve been robbed – see what’s missing!”   Why on Earth she thought the M&M display was the dastardly deed of a burglar, we’ll never know.  Her first reaction was about trespassers??  Evil, no-good bandits staking out the house just to play with five pounds of candy?

After a few seconds she realized we were laughing…unable to contain ourselves.  She looked at the hubs with a fun, narrow-eyed twinkle and said, “Oh YOU!  I bet you were up all night doing that!” (true) and then, “You’ll never know what I might do to retaliate…you know, when you’re sleeping!” This was one time when mom was all bluster and bravado.  She loved the attention, the time and energy that went into the joke. For years afterward, she regaled others with the story, “He got me…he really got me!”

Every birthday and Christmas afterward, mom gifted the hubs with hefty bags of M&M’s, typically disguised, or snuck into other presents as a loving reminder of the M&M caper.  It was their thing – their sweet inside joke.

After our daughter was born, I found a holiday recipe for cute reindeer cookies (see pic) and began making them annually, as a tradition.  The only hitch?  We’ve established that M&M’s don’t come in bags by color, right? The reindeer cookies require only a single red candy for the nose and two brown for the eyes.  You know where I’m headed.  Yes, for at least twenty years, as our DD (darling daughter) grew up, we continued the sorting madness, by necessity, in order to ferret out the brown and red ones – essential to make our Rudolph cookies.

In conclusion:

  1. If you play a prank on someone, be aware that it might set the stage for years of associated silliness, like the endless tiddly-wink fiddling and sorting of slippery candies.
  2. Buckle up.  Traditions are inescapable.  If I had to guess, we’ve made ten dozen batches of reindeer cookies every year for 20 years.  Carry the one, add the two, divide by nine…I think that means we’ve sorted enough M&M’s to bake 2400 cookies. 
  3. I don’t care. I’d do it all over again…and there’s a batch in the oven now.  Come on over, wash your hands. I’ve got a fresh bag of M&M’s on the counter and could use your help.

Merry, Happy, Everything – from our house to yours!

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 26 Comments

Loving Lessons from My Papa

If he’d lived, my dad would’ve celebrated his 87th birthday this week.  He’s been gone for 25 years and I realized this morning I’ve lived more than 1/3 of my life without him and yet he’s never far from my head, heart, and thoughts.  Recalling his characteristic good humor in the face of life’s high hurdles gives me courage when I need it, patience when I’m running on empty.

A few months ago, I wrote about how deeply I benefitted from his pointed guidance in my growing up years, particularly when I was under stress.  Take a peek…it’s sweet and will help you understand why I feel so very blessed to share DNA with him…my all-time favorite human. 

This year as his birthday rolls around, I’m musing once again about the gifts that keep on giving – loving life lessons from my papa.  It’s a short list of four things and in celebration of him, I think they’re worth sharing:

  1. Laugh at Yourself First, Agnes Gooch:  I was a quirky, awkward, and uncoordinated kid.  I liked books more than people and left to my own devices, I’d hide in the metaphorical (okay, sometimes literal) shrubs, just to be a voyeur.  I didn’t understand it for years, but whenever Dad saw me hesitate and hide, he’d call me his favorite “Agnes Gooch” and cajole me out of my funk.  Mom enjoyed shaming me for mistakes, for being overly introspective.  Dad?  He’d turn on the charm to yank me forward, remind me I was worthy.  “When in doubt” he’d say, “Laugh off what bothers you…and move on, Agnes Gooch.”  I was too little to understand Agnes was an actual character.  The first time I saw the Rosalind Russell version of “Auntie Mame” I understood dad’s wisdom…really understood it…for the first time.  Agnes Gooch?  Yes, often, that was me!
  2. Service First:  Dad was famous for telling me to ‘be the helper’. He had a keen awareness of the importance of kindness, and I think that trait amplified with my disabled sister Lisa’s arrival and mom’s mental health issues.  He often looked at me as the capable one in the bunch, his compadre in the face of loony business. I realize now it was part of our bonding, daddy-daughter glue.  I knew the look – he didn’t need to speak – my cue to step in, step up – either with mom and Lisa or with strangers in need.  Because of his routine of buying an extra sandwich to share with homeless folks, I do the same thing today when I’m out and about and I see people in need.  It feels natural but it’s because of him.
  3. Love the Ones Who Are Different:  Dad looked out for the underdogs and his best friend in high school was a dear man, named “Slats”.  I never knew his given name, but it didn’t matter. “Slats” was a term of affection, a nickname dad gave him because Slats was long and lean…he could disappear, Dad said, if he turned sideways.  Which explained why Dad was forever feeding his buddy…Slats with the high metabolism, the original ‘bottomless pit’. Over the years, I learned why he and my father referred to each other as ‘brothers’.  Slats was abandoned as a kid because of his birth defect.  His left arm didn’t develop in utero and throughout his childhood and adolescence, he wore a sling to disguise the deformity.  Dad knew Slats was a terrific baseball player – despite his disability.  He saw it when they played catch…as if his right arm made up for what his left lacked.  Slats said dad was the one who encouraged him to play and ‘screw the looky-loos’ by ditching the sling…to be himself.  He was the best (only?) one-armed pitcher their high school ever saw.  Years later, dad helped Slats navigate bigotry with employment prejudice…just as any big brother should.
  4. Two Strikes – Not Three:  Dad was a ‘trust your gut’ kind of guy. If he liked you, he liked you.  If he didn’t, he might pause to see if you were worthy…withholding judgment…but unlike his beloved baseball where you get three strikes before you’re ‘out’?  No, no. Two strikes only in his book – that’s all you get.  Off the field, out of his life, no looking back.  I realize now he did that to protect himself.  As I grew older, I understood who the people were who hurt him, alienated him.  Always the ones who are closest – they can strike where it hurts the most and you never see it coming.  Despite how loving and caring he was, he taught me you can be both – kind to others AND to yourself.  You shouldn’t choose one over the other.

Four things…gifts that resonate over the years. Thank you so much for reading. I’m sending hugs and smiles to you…from me and my papa.

Vicki ❤❤❤

Posted on by Victoria · 32 Comments

Three Pines? Who Knew!

This is worth a take-two! We’re enjoying the series, “Three Pines” on Prime Video and it’s partly because of my dear friend Linda’s reminder that our familial love of trees…in threes…has its roots (wink!) in immigrant history. We had no idea! When I posted this piece in September, Linda shared:

“If you haven’t already, you must read the Gamache series by Louise Penny, especially the book ‘The Long Way Home.’ Penny writes about a Canadian village named Three Pines in which three tall pine trees, planted centuries ago, soar over the village and the community. These pine trees were originally planted as a code to signal those loyal to the British Crown who headed north during the War of Independence that they were safe in Canada. It was seen as an act of kindness for weary immigrants.”

Enjoy!

My husband descends from a pioneering family that settled in the small village near our current home.  Immigrating from the Alsace region of France and Germany by way of Canada, they were part of a small pack of persevering souls who established the quaint town that’s now more tourist destination than residential.  A haven for those who relish the opportunity to travel back in time, shop, nosh and recall simpler days.

We knew snippets of family history from my mother-in-law, Maxine, but believe the surface-level storytelling and limited sharing was the result of embedded, gender norms – favoring the retelling of patriarchal tidbits of family history much more than the matriarchal.  Sigh.  It was his mother’s family – not his father’s – who literally blazed a pioneering trail but her legacy and history were sidelined as less important.  How irksome; but that’s not the point – at least not at the moment.

Maxine’s great grandparents arrived on the plains and brought traditions from their wooded homeland.  Evergreen trees were plentiful in heavily forested Alsace and one of most endearing stories was the tale of the painstaking transport of three small evergreen saplings across the Atlantic. I can imagine some arguments about this – a sentimentality vs. practicality tussle – but how lovely that sentiment won, I say.

We often wondered if all the human travelers in the family made it to North America safely, because the ‘tree tale’ was more vibrantly recounted.  Records are spotty, at best, even with the dynamic search engine tools like Ancestry.com.  At least three family members – the husband and wife and one child – arrived safely and a few cousins, it seems, settling in Canada. 

Piecing together facts from decaying photo albums and journals, along with the family Bible yielded one fantastic find.  A simple red frame home that still stands in our tiny community was the homestead.  Built by the grandparents and identifiable for years as theirs because of the three stalwart and regal trees that stood in their modest front yard. Evergreens.

Maxine, before she passed, acknowledged the ‘little red house’ built by her distant elders but she never mentioned the story behind the trees.  A local historian helped to fill those gaps using records long forgotten about the family.  The sweet crimson structure still stands – now converted into retail space.  Sadly, only two of the three trees remain.  One wonders what happened to the third. 

Discoveries about family history can come in large lumps or in tiny waves.  Learning about the house and the trees was like the latter – ancestral echoes that, once summoned together, created a spectacular story.   If only we’d drilled down more with Maxine to better understand the oral history, to supplement the archival tidbits stitched together. 

Time was not on our side; she passed AND years passed, and it wasn’t until we bought a nearby home that the a-ha moments arrived.  Of all the remarkable aspects, one especially stands out and it’s about the three trees.

Across many years of married life, we’ve lived in several homes – fixing them up and moving on – but with heavy hearts each time.  As much as we knew we’d miss certain features of each home, the greatest lament always involved saying goodbye to beloved trees. 

Without knowing it (at least in any conscious way) every home we’ve ever lived in was improved upon, landscape-wise, with the addition of three or more trees. 

Every home. 

Most received a cluster of three evergreen trees for decorative screening, shade, or wind control.  Often we planted more than three but always three together, somewhere on each lot. 

There’s more.  When our daughter was born, we wanted to instill a love of nature and conservation and decided an annual tradition of planting a ‘birthday tree’ (yes, an evergreen) would do the trick.  And we did.  As she grew, we finagled and fretted every spring…where will the next tree go?  An homage to family, in ways we never suspected. Three trees, please.

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 20 Comments

Bubblegum & Sister Love

I love this photo, taken the day after a chaotic drama at home when Lisa and I were little.  I’d forgotten entirely about the ‘bubble gum incident’ until I found this pic a few weeks ago.  It’s a ‘sister love’ story worth sharing. I promise. ❤

Lisa is my older sister with developmental and physical disabilities. Growing up, we knew how to take care of each other – even when, or especially when our mom was on the warpath.  Through thick and thin…we stuck together. (Oh – that will become funny in a minute…read on…”stuck”…that’s perfect!)

Mom often wanted to blame me for mishaps because she assumed I was unkind or thoughtless with Lisa.  Maybe I was, on occasion, but mostly I looked out for her.  The extent of Lisa’s disabilities unfolded over time but I always knew she needed me.  As she grew, we learned she was legally blind in one eye and her challenges with mobility became obvious.  The combination made her wobbly, even on good days.

When mom wanted to assume the worst in me, Lisa tried to come to my defense, but she also knew when to back down for her own safety.  Taking on our mom in an argument never ended well.

I don’t recall the year of the bubble gum incident, but using the photo as a guide, I’d guess I was five or six which would mean Lisa was about seven.  The striking thing in the photo is Lisa’s hair.  The day before, she had shoulder length, dark blonde curls – thick and full.  Twenty-four hours later?  A buzz cut that made her look more like a little boy than a sweet girl. 

Mom hated it when we chewed bubble gum, so Lisa and I were sneaky.  We’d enjoy gum only when we watched tv and knew how to shove a big wad to the side of our mouths to avoid detection.  I taught Lisa how.  Mom’s hardline stance?  Not about dental worries.  No, she hated gum because it was a pisser to remove from furniture and pillows and Lisa and I had habits of leaving wads of chewed-up gum on nightstands and bedposts, instead of using garbage cans.  Fair enough.  One point for the mom.

But on the summer day in question, Lisa was a dare devil as she practiced stretching and swirling maneuvers with her gum.  After chewing several pieces, she began whipping long strands around her fingers, feeling like she’d accomplished something magical.  I’m not sure why, but Lisa could never master the art of blowing bubbles and it drove her crazy because she couldn’t copy my monster-sized efforts. The next best thing in Lisa’s mind?  Twirl, baby, twirl.  And she did.  And then it got stuck in her hair.

I don’t know where I’d gone but when I returned to the tv and Lisa that day, she was crying as she tried to extricate sticky pink gum from her hair.  The more she struggled, the more mangled the mess.  My sweet sister started to tremble – not just about the predicament but the rage that would follow from mom. I tried to help, but poor Lisa’s curls sucked up the sticky, rubbery gum with a vengeance.

I knew Lisa.  She wasn’t worried about her hair.  She was trembling as she anticipated mom’s rage.  So, I did what made sense.  I told Lisa it wasn’t her fault.  We’d tell mom I was playing around, and MY gum got in LISA’s hair.  MY GUM.  Lisa nodded and through her tears, she understood.  “Are you sure?”, she asked.  “Yep.  You didn’t do anything.  It’s my fault and I’ll go tell mom.”

I did – tell our mom – and the punishment wasn’t great for me, but Lisa was spared and that was good.  Mom grabbed kitchen shears and began chopping off hunks of Lisa’s hair, all while screaming at me…which was unpleasant, but better than having her take it out on Lisa. 

By the time mom was done, Lisa’s hair looked like it was shorn by a weed-wacker.  Evidence in the photo.  For good measure, I guess, a few inches were lopped off my hair and my bangs were hacked a bit, but the more mom cut, the less angry she was, so I didn’t complain.

The next day mom took us to a beauty parlor and Lisa got her hair trimmed a little more. I don’t think Lisa needed to go, but mom wanted an audience to tell the horror story of what ‘awful little Vicki did’.  Fine, whatever.  I remember sulking in order to fit the description mom spewed to the gossip gals in the ugly pink palace…the ‘salon’.

Playing the part of demon child, I stared out the window and noticed one of those fun, pint-sized photo booths on the sidewalk.  As mom paid and finished blathering about how hard it was to raise ‘little hellions”, I told Lisa she looked pretty with her short hair, and we should take a picture together. Her vision was poor because she wasn’t wearing glasses yet, so the picture of us became a memento she loved…about a bad time that turned sister sunny. 

Lisa still remembers the ‘bubble gum day’ as a feel-good but she never chewed gum after.  Ever.  Most important?  It’s what you can’t see in the photo — Lisa squeezing my hand.  She did that a lot that summer and I didn’t mind one bit.

Love to you, from me and big sis Lisa!

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 22 Comments

Happy Is…as Happy Does

My paternal grandfather’s given name was Daniel but no one ever referred to him as Dan, Daniel or Danny.  Nope.  For his entire life, he was known only as “Happy”.  As a toddler I didn’t question names – I just hoped I could get the words out of my mouth.  So many in our family had complicated, multi-syllabic monikers that were tongue-twister tricky.  Thank goodness nicknames were the predominant family tradition.  We had “Butch”, “Gus”, “Loulou”, “Magpie”, “Myrtle” and “Slats” in the wackadoodle roster of kinfolk.  For some, I have no clue what their actual names were.

But Happy – my grandfather?  I don’t recall the moment but my dad said I asked him once, when I was just a tot, where Snow White and the other dwarfs were – if Grandpa’s name was “Happy”.  I must’ve figured Grumpy and Dopey were nearby – aliases for the aunts or uncles?

The only credible reasons I’ve found for Grandpa Daniel’s “Happy” nickname is that he was, as a young man, happy. All the time.  As a second-generation immigrant, he rejoiced in hard work and was a laborer at a rock quarry.  Whenever the opportunity presented, however, he was on a golf course. Whether it was Scottish roots or just his calling, he loved golf, as did my dad. 

I’m sharing two photos of Grandpa Happy that I adore. I wish my dad was still alive so I could pepper him with questions.  Photos are divine…but as I stare at the young Happy, I know his life unfolded to include incapacitating grief.  That’s when I knew him, after Grandma Lily passed away.  The name “Happy” didn’t fit by then.  Ten-year old me learned lessons about irony when I compared his behavior and demeanor with his name.  He was loving, but always shrouded, never smiling. That’s how I knew him.

A friend and I detoured into a silly conversation about stupid, slapstick movies recently and she confessed that she really likes silly Adam Sandler flicks, especially “Happy Gilmore”.  I think I knew about the film, but must’ve missed it, given it debuted at an ultra-busy time in my life in the late 90’s.  Childcare and elder care were top priorities which meant Vicki had no time for silly – especially in the form of a two-hour sit-down to enjoy a goofy comedy.  Those were pragmatic, push-thru days. 

BUT – my friend’s admission about “Happy Gilmore”?  Yep – made me wonder about the film’s title and the “Happy” backstory.  Whether entirely true or not, one account is that Adam Sandler had a childhood friend who kicked his butt in golf.  A fun-loving, ‘happy’ friend…and Sandler’s character in the film is loosely based on his childhood golfing buddy.

When I look at the pics I’ve snipped in here of Grandpa Happy, all hip-checking swagger on a golf course, I smile.  He had very little in his life as a hard-working papa and spouse, but golly – the man knew how to pose – whether on a golf course or in that stunning fedora.  The combo of finding fun pics of my grandfather, mixed in with goofy movie trivia is a feel-good for me.  So, I thought I’d share. 

If Grandpa Happy lived a little longer, he would’ve been disappointed in me.  My “golfing” claim to fame?  Being booted off countless courses by the rangers…as I drove carts for my dad over the years.  Once I tried to caddy.  Oh, big mistake! Golfers don’t like onlookers who don’t know how to hush up.  I’ve never been the hush up type…but maybe if Grandpa Happy was putting, out of respect, I would’ve quieted down for him.

Thank you for reading…and big happy smiles to you!

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 8 Comments

SAYING it Doesn’t Make it So…

My dearest friend, Linda, provided a wonderful nugget of wisdom recently.  Free of charge – isn’t that what friends are for? 

What was the revelation?  I suppose it’s just this – repetition of ‘facts’ doesn’t make them true, but our glorious ‘catch up call’ conversation navigated toward the broader topic: realities.  Those we perceive, those we create and those we’re accosted with – through our consumption of words, thoughts, ideas that slide into our awareness.  Daily.  Relentlessly.

I’d like to think I let the drivel and less-than-helpful chatter and imagery roll by, but Linda made an excellent point. Negative, mean-spirited nonsense can scoot through if we’re not vigilant.  Guarding the gate to head and heart makes sense from a wellness perspective. Avoiding exposure to nastiness – whether manufactured in television or film – or encountered through daily living is a perpetual goal. My radar picks up on heat in the form of unkind thoughts, deeds, words. Even nasty looks and while I hope I dispense with the unsavory, I see Linda’s point.  There’s still a trail. 

As we talked, I relayed a situation involving my sweet disabled sister, Lisa. I love Lisa and she was my first-ever roommate and best friend. The pic I snipped in above is of the two of us in 1972, happy as clams showing off our new bedroom and our brand-new bedspreads (fully flammable, I’m sure). 😉

I’ve shared that Lisa has a unique knack for patching together bits of real life with fictional accounts snatched from her favorite tv programs. Mostly harmless. Recently, however, I saw Lisa spinning a tall tale that, if believed, would negatively impact someone’s life and livelihood.  I’m talking about one of the staff members in Lisa’s group home. 

I gave Linda the backstory.  One of Lisa’s roommates (let’s call her Darlene) experienced a health emergency recently, feeling lightheaded as she got up one morning and nearly fell.  The day of the incident, Lisa shared in-depth details with me as she was a first-hand witness. I’ve learned that Lisa’s accounts of events – immediately after they occur – are the most accurate and in this case, what Lisa shared aligned precisely with the summary I received later that day from her case manager. Lisa’s roommate Darlene was dehydrated and wobbly and fell into a table, knocking over some dishes but a staff member (we’ll call her Caroline) caught her before she fell.  Tricky and nuanced, but the situation was tended to with care.

The problem – what I shared with Linda? Over Thanksgiving, Lisa unveiled, with gusto, a brand-new and highly dramatized version of the incident.  The new story was this:  As Darlene writhed in pain, doubled over at the kitchen table, she knocked everyone’s breakfast to the floor as she fell, creating a horrific mess.  Lisa, all high-pitched and excited as she described the scene, said Caroline responded, as she looked at Darlene on the floor with this: “Just get up already and clean up the mess!”  

I don’t think Lisa comprehended that the new, more inflammatory tale…was a tall one, putting Caroline in a terrible light.  One that suggested malfeasance and negligence….and abuse.  Lisa didn’t intend harm, she no doubt thought she was simply spiffing up the story.

I also wondered, as Lisa retold her version, if Lisa was channeling an event from our childhood.  Suffice it to say the details fit.  Lisa’s portrayal of Caroline’s rage?  I don’t know if Lisa felt it, but the entire scene, including Lisa’s tone as she said, “Just get up already and clean up the mess!” could’ve been a mixed-up memory of her own, courtesy of our mom.

Still — I worried – how do I correct Lisa?  As I listened to her colorful, edited and made-for-tv version, I expressed concern that it seemed she was adding new details.  Exaggerated details. Lisa responded swiftly and said, “Oh no – that’s how it happened.  All of the other ladies and I have been discussing it.  It’s just like what happened on NCIS.  Just the same.”

And there we had it.  Lisa, by sharing the parallel to a favorite television program, ‘outed’ herself – and her housemates – as factoid philanderers…adding in tidbits from a tv show to the story of Darlene’s dizzy spell.  Sometimes I can tell when Lisa knows she’s embellished.  This time? She dug in – facts were facts to her  – no matter how they flew into the story.

The best I could do – worried that Lisa and her lady friends would continue rumor mongering to the point of putting Caroline in jeopardy – was just this. Lisa, I said, “I don’t remember hearing about it that way. Maybe you just mixed up some details? Not on purpose, but I think Caroline helped Darlene and isn’t it great that Darlene’s feeling fine now?”

Lisa gave me a half-hearted nod, still assessing to see if I was angry.  I wasn’t – but golly, I was shocked and motivated to provide some sort of corrective guard rail.  I hoped I shut down the chatter between Lisa and her housemates, but I didn’t know for sure.

As I shared all of this with Linda, she did what great friends do.  Acknowledged the concerns, the danger in Lisa’s fluid re-telling and said the most perfect thing: “You did the right thing…before you know it, Lisa and her housemates will believe their version.  A good reminder to all of us…repetition of ‘facts’ doesn’t make them true.”

Goodness.  Yes.  Just because we see it, hear it, consume it…allow it in our presence…doesn’t make hurtful nonsense real. 

Thanks so much for reading. I love Lisa, but she keeps me on my toes!

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 20 Comments

Granny Squares & Love

Somewhere…in a mound of disorganized photos sits a pic of me, wearing the same “Granny squares” scarf, vest and beanie as worn in this sweet pic of our “DD” (dear daughter) when she was six years old. One day…I’m gonna organize family photos into some digital order.  But still, I remember the day DD and I found these pieces and she couldn’t wait to try them on.  Camera hog or model? 😉 I’m not sure, but it was fun to see how excited she was to try on mom’s ‘old stuff’.

The ensemble DD has on is a very vintage knit set, gifted to me by my talented “Grammarie” in 1972, I think.  Her name was actually Grandma Marie but as a kid it was too much of a mouthful, so sister Lisa I shortened things up to the run-on “Grammarie”. She didn’t mind.

I’ve learned that ‘granny squares’ made a comeback as fun, nostalgic fashion fare.  Fabulous, I say! I hadn’t thought about the design for years until I found the pieces in a bin of family treasures, long forgotten. In addition to the set you see in the photo, Grammarie was famous for her doilies.  They were everywhere in her house. If she wasn’t crocheting dramatically intricate, white, lacey doilies, she was knitting sweaters, mittens, hats…or making granny square items.  Her hands were always busy. 

I’ve written before about my incapacity for crafting and lack of coordination with sewing, knitting – textile arts of all sorts.  Maybe I should try harder, just as a tribute to Grammarie?  As much as I love and miss her, I don’t think I have the patience.  But I have the memories – evoked by finding these sweet granny square pieces.  Marie was a treasure…even without considering her crochet talents.  I’ll explain.

When my parents fell in love, they were both married to other people.  It was a horrible, awful, terrible scandal in a small town.  The only thing the warring factions of families agreed upon? Ostracizing my folks.

Sister Lisa was born as a preemie during this challenging time and while the magnitude of her disabilities wasn’t apparent at first, there were concerns. I often wondered if more knowledge about Lisa’s frailty might’ve tempered the venom my parents endured from friends and family.  If not for Marie, mom, dad, and Lisa would’ve been homeless…as my dad recalled years later, “without so much as a pot to piss in”.

Marie wasn’t an actual grandparent.  She became one, by choice, because she “adopted” my mom and dad.  Lisa, too. When they had nowhere to go, she gave dad at job tending bar at the small-town watering hole she and her husband owned.  Marie also offered mom and dad an attic apartment, to live in rent free above the bar.

If not for Marie’s generosity, I’m not sure my parents would’ve made it.  The financial and medical hurdles related to Lisa’s care were overwhelming and the strength it took to summon the courage to deal with the loss of their support systems?  I can’t imagine it.  It takes hearty stock to navigate those waters.  But they did it and despite other hurdles in their future, I suspect those early days of riding out storms served as relationship cement – bonding my parents together. Forever. 

When I think about the scant keepsakes I have from Grammarie, I realize how precious the lovingly handcrafted granny square items are.  Symbolic, tangible artifacts of one woman’s kindness to a little family in need.  Mom and dad always thought of Marie as family and for thirty years while Lisa and I grew up, we never questioned her role in our lives.  She was family in every way that mattered.

Someday our DD will decide who these precious, handcrafted items belong to. Grammarie’s kindness and love lives on in them and the fact that granny squares have made a comeback? How awesome is that? I think she’d love it…and I can almost hear her say, “Glory be…I never knew they went OUT of style!”

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 16 Comments

Not Here…But Near

My mom-in-law passed away suddenly in 2009 and her birthday is coming up this week.  I love nothing more than remembering those we’ve lost by continuing to celebrate and remember them on their birthdays.

We’re fortunate to have fond memories and delightful photos – gosh, those help.  Maxine was the loveliest woman on the planet.  Smart and savvy…and gracious…especially when confronted with the sideshow attraction that was my family. 

A photo like this one…of our dear daughter curled up in her favorite loving embrace with her grandma …reminds me that the goodness of my mom-in-law pulses within our girl. What a gift that is. 

Maxine was chock full of kindness and an ability to think before speaking, and I see those qualities flowing into another generation of wonderful womanhood – in our now grown-up girl.

You’re not ‘here’ but you’re near.  Just a memory away.  Happy-Almost-Birthday, Maxine!

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 30 Comments

Forget with Generosity

There’s a quote from poet Pablo Neruda that speaks to me this morning:

“Let us forget, with generosity, those who cannot love us.“

I think I know why I ripped through my quote stash this morning…looking for those wise words.  I’d paraphrased the thought in my head but wanted to find the source. Side note: I really need to organize my inspirational tidbits – suggestions welcome – but let me provide guidelines… 

No – don’t offer a spreadsheet.  I won’t do that.  Too techy and cold.  And I don’t scrapbook.  Oh geez…I tried, once or twice and it was a colossal failure and I got kicked out of the crafty mommy clique.  I don’t generally intend to offend but the level of seriousness associated with grown-up cutting, pasting, and lauding our creations bordered on something Stepford-Wives-ish.  Sometimes it’s okay to get booted out of a group.  I never looked back, even when ‘crafty moms’ gave me holier-than-thou looks at recitals, gymnastics, etc. 

Which brings me to Pablo’s quote.  More than once my fragility got the best of me.  My invisible driving force.  You know the one – the part of our DNA that pushes us to be LIKED?  I learned – as a result of many moves as a kid – to morph and tailor my personality, as needed, to suit each new audience. New home…new school…new peeps and adults?  Survey the terrain and adapt…adopt the prevailing behaviors of the alphas, the pack leaders.

At the time?  I had no idea I was doing that – the shapeshifting, I mean.  I’d change my hairstyle, pick up whatever was trending with the social group in charge.  Not quite “Mean Girls” but I was a keen observer of what might add to the “Vicki list” of potentially ostracizing characteristics.  I was already packing a crazy mom, disabled sister, and a tendency for extreme sarcasm.  If I didn’t modify and seek to blend in, the odd girl label would stick. 

Why did I care?  I’m not sure…but I think it was this:  We never knew how long we were staying in one place, so I assume the frightened girl inside me was fervently hoping we’d anchor for a bit…in which case…putting max energy into making nice with the locals was an essential task. Crossing fingers and toes.

As an adult who’s processed most of her garbage 😊 I see the behavior and wish I’d devoted less time to pleasing, more time toward releasing.  Releasing what?  The people who were never going to care…had no capacity to like/love/admire…but I still pursued them, in order to be accepted or acknowledged. 

NOW I know.  Not everyone will like/love/admire me and it’s okay to roll on by…with more consideration for myself than others.  Many of the people who offended me did so without a shred of awareness.  It wasn’t their job to fill me up.  That was my task – to choose well.  Too much futzing and putzing to ‘make it work’?  My problem.  And I think Pablo Neruda was right.  A generous heart allows us to forget those who never mattered in the first place. 

That’s my Saturday morning pondering…thank you for reading…and oh – yes! If you have suggestions about better ways to curate and organize quotes, I’m interested.

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 27 Comments

Loving Lisa – Elvis Style

My sister Lisa is a developmentally disabled adult in her early 60’s.  She’s a delight in so many ways – a savant when it comes to family memories (good and bad) and she’s quite the connoisseur of pop culture and trivia.  Don’t test her knowledge of classic TV from the seventies or eighties…her magical brain is like a lock box of celebrity this-and-that.  But still…given her intellectual challenges (born with brain damage at birth, surviving as a preemie when no one thought she would) Lisa can get a little mixed up with details from time to time and I’m learning I need be aware of her emerging tendences to creatively (but not maliciously) swap and pair details from TV-land with real life.  I’ve written about Lisa a couple of times, if you want to peek into more of her story but that’s the shortest summary I can offer…as a prelude to something silly.

While prepping our Thanksgiving feast last week, Lisa and I decided to watch the latest epic “Elvis” film…the Baz Luhrmann hot mess (sorry, I should’ve said “spoiler alert” first) that rendered me nearly helpless in the kitchen.  Is THAT Tom Hanks…really Tom Hanks?  At first, I was mesmerized by the fat suit and then…his bizarre Dutch-Southern U.S. accent in his portrayal of Colonel Tom Parker?  I needed to wander closer to the screen – more than once (dare-devil style with biscuit dough all over my hands) to confirm what I saw/heard.  And apologies again if you watched the film and loved it.  Parts of it were cool…who doesn’t love period set-design and costuming?  Austin Butler as Elvis?  Pretty amazing…but the story?  I’m not sure how Baz wrapped it up because Lisa and I bailed with about 30 minutes remaining.

Lisa nodded when I asked if we should say adios to Elvis and quipped, “Yeah, I don’t need to see the end.  Elvis dies on the toilet, right?” 😉 So we swapped in holiday music and said goodbye to the oddball movie and turned it off.  Now THAT was a rare occurrence.  Lisa and I love films, generally of all sorts, and I can’t think of the last movie we ‘walked out on’ – whether from the comfort of the family room or in a theatre.  We stick it out…you know…our mutual admiration of creative efforts, if not the finished product.

As we settled back into the mess in the kitchen, I was still processing the potpourri of Elvis factoids that flew out of Lisa as we started the film.  Here’s where I need to be careful.  My sweet sister – functioning at the intellectual level of a forever eight-year-old – can be incredibly reliable and accurate with fun facts and celebrity trivia.  BUT, if she’s on a roll, she can pillage and pilfer “facts” that only exist in her head.  On occasion, she’ll embellish and/or pick a detail from one story and attach it to whatever the current convo is about.  It’s hard to explain…am I making sense?  (Nod if yes.  If no…it’s okay to stop reading here.  I won’t be mad.)

One of those fun-facts-offered-as-Lisa’s-very-own-Elvis-trailer-preview-reel was this: “Vicki, did you know Elvis had a twin?”   We were setting up stations in the kitchen for biscuit-making, stuffing, and pie prep and maybe I misheard her, I thought.  Color me dubious…this was a tidbit I’d never heard about.  I gave Lisa a look and said, “Are you sure?”   And she replied with a little defiance and pride, “Yes, yes” she said, “I know lots of things other people don’t pay attention to.”

True enough, I thought, that’s my Lisa and dontcha know a few minutes later, the movie tended to the topic of Elvis’ twin.  I might’ve missed all that was shared – I think it was a scene with Elvis and his mother. I should probably go back and look again but I know what I heard.  Lisa was right!  Feeling vindicated despite my doubting look, Lisa shouted, “See – see – they just mentioned his twin in the movie.”  I was gob smacked. 

Lisa did it again!  I paused and gave her well-deserved praise.  “That’s awesome…you’re right…you pick up on fun facts that a lot of us miss!  Good job, Lisa.”  She was pleased as punch with herself…I could see it as color rushed to her cheeks.  Flushed with pride – literally.

Maybe she figured she was on a roll? After that ‘twin win’ and the good vibes she must’ve felt, Lisa jumped into kitchen duty with gusto, especially enthusiastic as she mixed the stuffing…adding the butter into the dry bread. More landed on the floor (to pooch Sadie’s delight) than remained in the bowl but I didn’t care. The hilarious part was Lisa’s monologue. “Yes” Lisa repeated several times, “Elvis DID have a twin! And did you know he named his daughter Lisa Marie after me? I think mom knew Elvis and they both liked the name.”

Lisa’s rosy cheeks were more crimson than flushed at this point…I wondered if that was a ‘tell’ that she knew she was telling a whopper?  I’m not sure.  What I do know is that our mother never met Elvis…but Lisa’s feel-good moment, attaching herself to Elvis’ life and his daughter was fun for her.  Rather than wreck her vibe I just said, “Wow…that’s hard to believe…but it’s a good story.” 

And Lisa? She knew I knew she was playing fast and loose – embellishing real life with fabricated fun. She smiled and said, “I know, right? I think I’ll tell Rosie. She believes all of my stories.” God Bless Lisa’s bestie, Rosie. They’ve lived together for years, and Rosie doesn’t give a rat’s patootie whether Lisa’s “stories” are fully factual or not. The “Lisa Show” can be great entertainment for Rosie…and sometimes for me.

Hugs to you – from me and from Lisa!

-Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 13 Comments

Swoopy Wave of Fun

“Your Song” by Elton John is one of my all-time favorite tunes and it will be…forever.  There’s a lot of hub bub about Sir Elton’s final tour and even if it was reasonably possible, I wouldn’t try to attend a show.  I’ve got too many delightful memories of Elton from my youth.  Privileged is how I feel when I think about being a child of the 70’s with a soundtrack that included the Eagles and Elton John, most of all.  (Well, Jackson Browne was a fave, too…but if I start down the road of naming secondary ‘favorites’ this post will be far too lengthy.)

One chunk of “Your Song” continues to speak to me, across many decades, including an odd flash that occurred this morning – involving this verse:

If I was a sculptor…but then again, no

Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show

I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do

My gift is my song, and this one’s for you

At the literal crack of dawn, I found a leaf in the shape of a heart (pictured above).  I wasn’t looking – it was just THERE – on the back step as I took Sadie pooch out for her first potty call.  If the lovely little leaf had been even slightly ‘left of center’ I would’ve missed her altogether.  Instead, the sweetest bit of morning sun, combined with dewy frost, created a coppery shimmer, demanding that I take a closer look. My pic does a lousy job of capturing the sparkle. Use your imagination. 😉

Just a few days ago I remarked to Wynne Leon that I never find leaves as picturesque as those she snips into her fun posts…especially heart-shaped specimens.  Hmmm…never is a big word.  Now I figure I wasn’t looking closely enough to see a beauty when she’s right before me, coppery glow, and all.

As I picked up the delicate specimen and brought her inside, along with Sadie, of course (who…side note… was giving me a look that screamed ‘What the heck – let’s go! I pooped!  Time for breakfast!’) a variation of “Your Song” popped to mind:

If I was a sculptor…but then again, no

Or a GIRL who makes potions in a traveling show

I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do

My gift is this LEAF…and this one’s for you

Heaven only knows why THAT song in THAT moment popped to mind and the tiny twist with two words?  The silliness of it had me humming the whole “Your Song” tune as I moseyed about, making coffee, and feeding Sadie.  It was fun and weird – but I’ll take it ‘as is’.  When a swoopy wave of fun rolls in…especially on a Monday…I say don’t investigate further.  Just enjoy.

-Vicki 😉

Posted on by Victoria · 17 Comments

Blogging Ripples…

I’ve noticed something and I’m wondering if you have, too.  One of the things I enjoy about blogging is the rippling of thoughts and ideas between and amongst bloggers.  I don’t think we have club meetings and there’s no secret handshake…or coded lingo.  Am I right? 😉 Just awesome humans sharing thoughts and observations, often with humor, consistently with insight, often for the greater good.  If there is one, I missed the mission statement, too.  You know, the sort of thing that extols team virtues and highlights goals and intentions.  Still, my blogging observations brought me to this conclusion: Helping one another feel less alone through spirited comments and positivity is a broadly accepted ideal. No framed mission statement required.  

Before you say it, I will — blogging also serves singular purposes.  Yes, I see that.  Getting words…reflective of our thoughts and feelings…into plain sight is pretty darn satisfying.  It’s nice to have readers who chime in with, “Hey, me too” or “Oh – did you know…” as they offer snippets of their own experiences.  Super cool…but blogging-as-journaling and allowing a free flow of expression, regardless of any assumed audience is also pretty darn awesome. 

More than once, I’ve seen sparks and connections between bloggers and their posts.  A fascinating tidbit shared by one, begins a churn of reflective thought for another. Inspiration at work. Interlocking and interwoven threads, like ripples on water.

More than once…with no perceptible, prearranged intention, I’ve seen fellow bloggers share heartfelt posts on strikingly similar topics.  No interval existed – no gap – to read, reflect, write…as a result of a friend’s blog…it seems they were written simultaneously.  Fabulously coincidental, magically parallel…pointing at the same thoughtful target. (Again, if y’all are having secret meetings and I’m missing out, fill me in…I’ll Zoom in, hop on a call…whatever, but I don’t think that’s happening.)

So, what’s going on?  I chuckled…to myself…sitting here at my desk…about notions from sociologists and Carl Jung about ‘collective consciousness’.  The concept’s been hotly contested…for years and there’s some tussling about the origin.  Was it posited first, this theory about “constellations of beliefs and values” by sociologist Emile Durkheim, or was it Jung?  And the dark side of the theory leeches into fearsome territory – cults, for example – where ‘group think’ is desirable, to the detriment of the individual.  I don’t want to link to lengthy articles on the topic, but this resource is helpful as a primer if you want to peek.

But that’s not the point.  What is?  I think bloggers are cool and for the sci-fi fans who love a little retro Star Trek fun, I must confess this:  My musings about ‘collective consciousness’ and blogging this morning reminded me of the “Borg” – those nasty aliens who assembled into a hive by hijacking humans to create….wait for it…a collective consciousness!  I wonder if either Jung or Durkheim were credited with the inspiration?  No matter…it was a Sunday morning smile, worthy, I thought, of sharing with you. 

Here’s to more rippling waves of inspiration.  No implanted microchips required!

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 8 Comments

You’ve Got The…

I suspect I might – on a very, very, good day – be capable of conjuring an anthem-worthy sentence, similar to Alice Walker’s (below).  Other days?  I think, ‘Fool – you can’t convey what she did in sixteen succinct words!’  I’ve got the quote tacked up on my wall along with a piece of writing from my own archives, circa, I dunno, the first millennia? 😉 The combo makes me think…and from time to time, I pause to read and let both Alice’s thought and my own sink in:

The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.

-Alice Walker

Life can be hard, when we seek softness.  Like can be maze-like when we seek straight, navigable paths.  Life can be joy-filled, yet stingy, especially when we long to linger in the light.  Life can be a snare, enticing us to drop down rather than rise.

-Me

Holiday time is here for some of us…several weeks from here to January that, despite festivities of all sorts, can be laden with emotional potholes.  Staying strong, facing forward while finding ways to be resilient and resourceful?  Tricky business and there’s no ‘one size fits all’. What helps? Remembering to marvel in our talents, our gifts.  Gloat a little…it’s okay.  We’re not going to please everyone around us and hitching our happiness wagons to others is a sure-fire way to slide…and feel less-than.

Alice Walker provided one of many antidote-inducing boosts. We have power, if we claim it, and reveling in our ability to be poised under pressure…while surrounding ourselves with people, practices and ideology that guide us toward strength? Life goals for me, right there.  That’s how we ride out the cloudbursts, the messy, the maddening and the melancholy.

So go ahead…be a force…be fully YOU. Getting there might involve being a little choosy about who and what we allow into our heads and hearts.  Me? The older I get, the more I believe in Alice’s sixteen words and the reminder that not everyone and everything in front of me is worthy of my time and attention.  I’ve got the power…so do you.

Vicki 😊

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Mountain Magic

The year was 1998 – just a year after my dad died and something unexpected happened.  My first-ever Rocky Mountain adventure.  Looking back, I’m not sure how I navigated the high hurdles with my mixed-up mom so that I could go. Selective amnesia can be a good thing…some memories belong at the curb, not in the heart.  When the opportunity came to escape…just a little…for a work trip to Denver, I was ecstatic and so were my conference-presenting partners.  On a whim, we’d written a proposal to present at a research-oriented annual convening and truth-be-told, no one was more surprised than moi when we received our acceptance notification. Okay, then…off to Denver we went!

When you’re a mom of a toddler and you’ve got extraneous, dangling family duties of other sorts (crazy mother, disabled sister, and a plate too full of professional aspirations) the notion of flying the coop into a four-day adult experience is both thrilling and fearsome. Added into the milieu was the timing…flying to Denver in November, in a year when Mother Nature chose to bring substantial snow – early snow — to the Rockies.  Dare devils, we were.  Dare devils…of the fluff ball variety. Not a single one amongst us was any sort of risk-taker.

But we went and it was fun, fun, fun.  So much fun that we decided a little escapism was in order.  Only one in our crew had ever been to Estes Park and the allure of the Stanley Hotel was powerful.  Honestly, the appeal of visiting the venue associated with “The Shining” gave us shivers, just thinking about.  Unrelated to the weather. 

The prospect of daring to ditch the conference (only after we’d presented, of course) made us giddy like a bunch of teenagers. We rented a car and made a road trip of it and silly me…I was more excited about stepping foot in The Stanley than the beautiful drive from Denver and the picturesque qualities of Estes Park itself.  You see…that year, I was a mountain novice.  Other than a trip once or twice to the Smokey Mountains…driving thru to get elsewhere, mountain magic eluded me.

Spoiler about “The Stanley”.  Ho hum, ho hum.  Smaller than expected and no weird willy moments.  Nada.  Except for the stellar group pic from the front porch (snipped in above), visiting the supposed inspiration for Stephen King’s super spooktacular “The Shining” was boring.  So, we decided to split up, do some exploring elsewhere in Estes Park.  Trinket stores and fudge shops were everywhere and the opportunity for do-it-yourselfer walking tours sounded great.  Fresh air…and time for a few of us to reboot our introverted souls with a bit of solitude.

Me?  I ambled down some side streets and realized one was a dead end…delivering pedestrians to a park and a hiking gateway.  I’m no hiker, and as you can see from the pic, my version of ‘adventure wear’ was an Icelandic-looking reindeer sweater.  A favorite from Eddie Bauer that I wore to shreds…so comfy…but still, not hiking gear. 

I had time before the meet-up with my friends, so I followed the path, and without another soul in sight, I happened upon a hollowed-out tree, turned into a bench and a resting spot.  The weather up until then had been overcast, but stunning glimpses of the elevations around Estes Park were slightly visible but obscured by clouds.  As I sat on the bench, I enjoyed the solitude and unexpectedly, the clouds shifted, providing me with a stunning peek of a peak.

I’d forgotten about the high altitude in Estes Park, given the cloud cover, and after my short baby-hike, I unknowingly ventured higher than I imagined.  (Thank goodness for gradual grades on a path, right?  So gradual I didn’t know I was ascending.)  As I sat and took in the view, my breath escaped from my body – one big outflow in a way that I cannot describe. Not just a ‘take your breath away’ moment but a full body shiver and shake.  Like I was in the presence of something…requiring my full attention.  The something?  That blessed peak in front of me.

I didn’t know how far away I was from it, in reality, but to my eye, if I extended my arms, my fingertips would’ve touched the snow cap.  So close.  When the sun added a glimmer, enough to make me squint, I realized I was crying.  My dad’s nickname was “Sonny” because his mother always referred to him as her ‘little sunshine’ and in that moment, my papa who’d passed – about 18 months before – was right there with me.  I felt overwhelmed and the only thought in my head was “mountain magic” and then his voice saying, “Remember there’s magic in the mountains”. 

I’m still not sure what to make of that experience but it’s a keeper.  When I rejoined my friends my bestie Linda could tell I was ‘off’.  She and our other pals stocked up on treats for the ride back to Denver – tons of fudge and some mixed nuts – and as we walked back to the car she just asked, “Are you okay?” and then “Where’d you go?”  My answer was pretty cloaked because I wasn’t sure what to say.  What I recall thinking…but I don’t know if it came out of my mouth…was this: “I think I found magic in the mountains.”

Thanks so much for reading.  It’s Thanksgiving today in the U.S. and this memory…of my moment in the mountains…was the first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning.  I figured it was my dad’s way of saying hello.  So, from him…and from me…sending hugs and reminders to look for magic…it might be right in front of you.

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 31 Comments

Blogging Buddies

I’m a returning blogger…back in the saddle for a few months only…with years and years in between and even then, my previous efforts were professional posts, with just a soupcon of Vicki tossed in for fun. 

When I decided to give WordPress a whirl over the summer, I had low expectations.  No – scratch that.  I had no expectations.  I figured, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I hoped the daily practice of writing – spitting out words, ideally in a cogent manner…ideally helpful…sometimes funny…oh – and endearing…I hoped for endearing…might help tone and tighten my writing skills. 

I also know myself. I’ve adapted to academic writing when I needed to (dissertation and all) and writing textbooks…but letting my essence, good bad (and often) otherwise, free flow from fingers to keyboard is nirvana. Heaven…for me…but I know I may not be everyone’s cup o’ tea. What rolls out may not be of interest to all but still…it’s ME…and any errors, omissions, bad syntax, or grammar? Not intended to harm the hearts, eyes, souls of readers who are better writers. Promise. After a few weeks, I was pleasantly surprised when sweet fellow bloggers received me, encouraged me, inspired me. More than I’d hoped for.

Blogging for enjoyment was the goal. I left my day job behind and launched headlong, about two years ago, into my consulting business, which I Iove…because my clients are terrific and whether I’m working with individuals or groups, it’s a rare experience when I don’t benefit as much or more than those who pay me.  How’s that?  Well…forgiveness for the repetition, but connection in life is everything to me.  Allowing ourselves to be known, “seen” and when combined with opportunities to serve and lift up a fellow human?  Best.Stuff.Ever.  The feedback from clients, specifically about blogging was unexpected and affirming with nudges…Vicki…keep writing…blog more, please.  So, I pivoted to WordPress and here we are.

As I’ve balanced blogging with other projects – helping others and getting a book ready for my publisher – I’ve seen a shift in how I use my time and it’s because of you.  Yep, you – the person on the other side of the screen reading this. I’ve fallen into a comfortable cadence of WordPress writing, mostly in the morning, interspersed with other duties. I enjoy reading and commenting on the posts of fellow bloggers.  Fellow bloggers who are smart, wicked-smart, and funny.  Fellow bloggers who are insightful and knowledgeable on a range of topics…teaching me about music, art, literature, philosophy, and technology while expanding my worldview of cultures and history.  I love the person-first stories, the photography, the poetry, the tips, and tricks. I’m in awe.

While out with a dear friend for breakfast last week, I forgot to turn notifications off on my phone.  She knew I was dabbling with blogging again and asked, as I apologized and silenced the WordPress app, my two email accounts, text messages and IG, “How’s the blogging community?”  She’s seen the lively comments and caring tone in exchanges with fellow bloggers and was curious.

She’s right about the caring tone.  So many lovely acquaintances…dare I call you friends? The blogging relationships are unique in my life but no less endearing, just because they’re virtual.  I laughed at my friend’s question, “How’s the blogging community” and replied, “It’s richer and more rewarding on an interpersonal level than a lot of conventional, you know ‘brick and mortar’ friendships.”

It’s a bad habit to laugh at my own silliness, but the ‘brick and mortar’ phrase tickled me.  “Oh” my friend said, “That’s how it is…I’m brick and mortar, eh… so what do you call the blogging friends?”  I didn’t have a witty answer for her…I dunno, I thought.  They’re magical, insightful, thoughtful…and ‘real’ in the most important sense and the fact that they’re slightly intangible, physically, doesn’t diminish the depth or positive regard.

I shared that explanation with her, while shoving pumpkin pancakes in my mouth and she nodded, following my train of thought, and said, “That’s so cool. It’s that thing you always talk about…meeting people where they are or in this case…wherever they are.”

Yep.  She’s got me…this tried-and-true, ‘brick and mortar’ friend.  Sharing, caring, demonstrating to each other that we matter is the stuff of a life well-lived.  If you’re a new friend reading for the first time…or you’ve popped into my blog here and there, know that I look forward to getting to know you, too. And for those who’ve supported me in the blogging world thus far, I’m grateful for your kindness, your good humor and your big hearts. Blessed to call you ‘friend’.

Vicki ❤

P.S. The puppy pic is not mine…I don’t know who deserves credit… but how cute, right?

Posted on by Victoria · 17 Comments

New View

holiday tree with white lights

I love a little trompe l’oeil in the morning…or anytime.  When you peek at the pic – at first – does it look like the tree’s inside?  Maybe your peepers are more finely tuned…at 5am..than mine. 

I know we’re not quite at Thanksgiving here in the U.S., but it’s the hubster’s tradition to do exterior lights and holiday decorating before we experience full frozen tundra.  And…given the shenanigans going on inside, with remodeling and all, we decided we’d enjoy the “deck tree” as if it’s inside the house.

Instead of placing this year’s evergreen near the railing and away from the door, hubs (dear man that he is) indulged me a bit when I begged…pleaded…fussed…about MAYBE trying something new…by centering the tree …still on the deck…. but just outside the door.  “Maybe” …I said…” it’ll be like an inside tree and will bring some cheer from the outside in.”

Oh, baby.  That was a tough sell.  I heard him thinking when his face contorted into a full frown, “Okay, we’ll get TWO deck trees then…one where I want it…where a tree ALWAYS goes…and one for you.”  Before he could express his thought, I was shaking my head…no, no, no.  “Let’s just try it my way…and we do NOT need two deck trees!”

He relented and what you see is the outcome.  But wait – there’s more! 😉 I completely forgot that at this time of the year, pupster Sadie I need to wrangle a new place to plop in the morning.  The sunny spot…the place we park for morning coffee in spring and summer…is anything but…. sunny. Right now, it has no redeeming features…sitting there in the morning is akin to peering into a dark hole…no glimmer of sun for hours.

So, Sadie and I moved (gasp!) and ambled into the family room and into a comfy chair across from this image…this year’s tree.  All of which reminded me of how simple it is to change ONE thing…and poof – I gain a bit of perspective.  As Sadie and I sat down this morning, this year’s tree came to life because the hubster knew I’d love it if the timer was set to turn the lights on…not just at dusk but also at dawn…so I could enjoy the lights as I try to get both eyes open.

Here’s to new views…however they come our way…and from me to you…all the best if you’re celebrating Thanksgiving or just enjoying the shift in seasons…wherever you are.  Sending hugs…just because…from me, the hubs, Sadie pooch and, of course, the twinkling tree.

Xo,

Vicki ❤😊❤

Posted on by Victoria · 22 Comments

Let the Sunshine Swivel Your Way

It can be hard to ascertain…how our light and humanity impact others.  Maybe it’s a smile, maybe it’s an unexpected kindness. Simple stuff. Do those little things add up? I think so and I think it’s okay to hope that we’re contributing to a more positive universe when we extend ourselves.  Is it too much to ask – to be ever hopeful that our bits of love and light might turn the tide or balance the challenges in life for someone else?  It’s aspirational, for sure. But we don’t get to follow every trail because doing so would reduce the energy we have to stay in the moment, ready to encourage and support those in front of us…or those we’ve yet to encounter. 

I’m pondering this today because kindnesses which occur in happenstance encounters can be fluid and fast…unlike those we experience in relationships where discernible ripples are more evident, providing opportunities to see the unfolding.  What happens next?  You’re right there, front row and all and it’s a balancing act.  How much do you give without losing yourself in the process?

Someone I care about thought she was being kind-hearted and giving and made a massive sacrifice for someone she loves.  It involved a life-altering cross country move – not just for her partner but for her as well.  Was it a stellar opportunity for the woman she loves?  Yes.  The kind of offer you dare not turn down.  And so, the choices for my friend were few and obvious: Move – go with her partner… OR…stay put and attempt a long-distance relationship…OR…the scariest proposition of all?  End the relationship. She chose to move…but not without substantial heartache and anticipatory stress about sacrificing HER career for her partner’s. 

The move occurred several months ago and despite an ‘eyes wide open’ decision (or so she thought) my dear friend is miserable.  She misses her friends and family and while her partner’s career is soaring, she’s struggling to find work in her field…so much so that she’s picked up some self-soothing habits that are contributing to the demise of their relationship…fueling her passive-aggressive barbs.  She doesn’t want to be angry, but she is, and she knows her target isn’t, truly, her partner.  Nope, she’s the one wearing the bullseye – as a result of her decision to move. 

Maybe this is you…when you’re at your worst (I know it’s a behavior I fall prey to).  Do you keep score? My friend figured her substantial sacrifice earned her a lifetime of grace…you know, those ‘bonus points’ we tally in a relationship as we anoint ourselves with the title ‘consummate giver’.  I’ve earned the right to be a hell-raiser if I want to…except it doesn’t work that way.  She’s not owed anything…she made the choice to move and regrets it now. 

Wanting to be the git-along girl got her into the pickle barrel she’s in and there’s only one way out.  Sooner, not later, she needs to name her frustration and be honest with her partner.  I suspect the smart woman she loves already put the pieces together…people in a pickle can be easy to read…sour, sassy and all.

Me?  I’m the listener, the neutral party trying to help my friend find her way. I think she’s almost there, but the message she needs to receive more than anything is that she’s not a bad person.  Her decision to move came from a caring place and even once all is resolved (one way or another) she can reclaim her sunny side…it’s still there…and it’ll guide her forward.

Course correction is my preferred term for what comes next…as I try to help her move away from her maddening fixation on the word MISTAKE.  It carries a heaviness tinged with failure, like weighted chains.  I have faith in her and believe her hallmark traits of kindness and love will swivel her way – so she’s the intended beneficiary for a change.  No mistakes.  Just a course correction.

Thanks for reading…I’m sending sunshine and smiles your way…soak it up or spread it around. You know best.

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 17 Comments

Ladybugs and Motherhood

There are two women in my world at the moment, one a client, one a friend and both are struggling, and the topic is motherhood.  I’m grateful that my circle of wise women spans a few generations and ages.  Such a gift.  I’ve realized recently that the thread of motherhood – what the identity means for women I love – is rich and varied and often perplexing. Sometimes painful.

Some are in the thick of doing…parenting and balancing all that being a mom entails and others are seeking – wondering if the powerful desire and calling to become a mom will ever occur.  Mixed in? Wonderful women who made peace that motherhood wouldn’t be a facet in the lives – because nature had other plans or due to unpredictable relationships…or…by choice.  I adore a few strong women who always new motherhood wasn’t for them.  I could go down a trail right here, right now about Roe v. Wade, but I won’t.  Just know I believe in choice.  Always.

One woman I care about longs for motherhood and she just experienced a loss, a miscarriage at eleven weeks. And it’s not her first round of grieving…feeling the heaviness of what could have been…this was miscarriage #2 for her.  As she’s navigated the hurdles of infertility like an Olympian, I’ve cheered from the sidelines, wishing I could do more.  She knows my story about pregnancy losses, even though I’ve learned to share selectively…because my story did (and does) have a happy ending.  My path, eventually, resulted in motherhood but mixed in were two losses prior to the DD’s (dear daughter’s) arrival and one after. Just the same, I never suspected I’d be a mom of an ‘only’.  I never imagined that my long-held, expected identity of “mom” might be out of reach.  It nearly was.

I believe the desire to nurture and love, the yearning for motherhood can, and often is, realized in other ways.  Children – whether natural or adopted – are a gift, but the instincts to love other life forms (fur babies especially) or causes – is celebration-worthy, too, as we choose where we focus our heads, hearts – our gifts and attention.  I believe “mothering” morphs in countless caring relationships, – being a wonderful cousin, aunt, uncle, or family member by choice (if not by blood).  What is a family, anyhow?

As an only and coming from a small family, our DD’s circle included dear ones who lovingly accepted the titles of ‘aunt’ and ‘uncle’ – not because they were card-carrying members of our wacky troupe but because they mattered. No blood oaths and lineage required.  Broadening our circle made ME feel better because I knew, at an early age, that DD longed for siblings.  I can’t offer you that…but let me ensure you’ve got a solid social circle and warmth from our family-by-choice.  Still, she was a smart cookie and wondered when she would become a big sis.

When she was in preschool, even as a four-year old, DD was encouraged to journal.  We loved the Montessori experience for her…our little nugget was writing sentences, albeit simple ones, with loving encouragement from progressive teachers.  Words were her friends – both then and now.

One of her sweet “stories” was about a ladybug (see pic above) and it leveled me.  When I glanced at it for the first time, the heavy rush of emotions drove me to the bathroom at her Montessori school.  I sought privacy and a hiding spot, just in case a full breakdown was in motion.  Thankfully episodes like that didn’t occur often, but when they did, they did, and the ladybug story knocked the wind out of me while simultaneously opening a painful portal. Our wee one was working out her confusion about babies and siblings by writing about a bug.  At four.

I know it might be hard to read the story from the photo, so I’ll add it here – funny spelling and all:

Ones upon a time ther

was a ladybug the ladybug

likes to crawl on

grass and her friends

do to! One day the

Mommy ladybug had a babby the babby was brand new!

And they

love her.

Dear daughter had babies – of all sorts – on the brain. That spring, a few months before she turned five, DD turned up the heat on her investigative super sleuthing – from her car seat perch.  I’d pick her up from Montessori and she’d ask…the whole way home…when her baby brother or sister would arrive.  Like a package. From the UPS man.  She’d watch me closely, eyeing me as I drove, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror.  “When, mama, when?”, she’d ask. 

I thought it was cute at first and talked to one of her teachers about it, learning that DD loved helping the younger tykes in preschool, forever wandering into the classroom for the smaller kids.  If DD was missing, they knew where to look and if not with the two-year olds, they’d find her sneaking into the ‘baby room’ to giggle and play with the infants.  A little fixated, but harmless.

When the car queries didn’t net the answer DD sought, she began asking at other times.  Especially bedtime, during stories and prayers.  “God bless my baby brother or sister because I know they’re coming soon” she’d whisper, hands folded, eyes closed, except for the side-eye peeking to watch my face.  The hubs and I figured it was a phase and we continued to detour around DD’s one-track baby mind but gosh, the ad libs and improv in her prayers? Precious.

How do you tell a four-year old about miscarriages?  How do you explain there were two losses before she arrived and even after, there was another loss?  The hubster and I knew our third miscarriage put punctuation at the end of our ‘should we try again?’ conversation.  And DD knew, somehow, that asking her papa for info wouldn’t help.  She knew her baby quest was mama territory.

Not long after, I summoned all the mommy courage that I could muster, and decided to cut DD off at the pass, during a car ride home from Montessori.  I liked the idea of DD not seeing me, full-face, for the conversation.  Car convos are so good for that, aren’t they?  Before she could launch into her ritual of… ‘Baby…when?’ I shared I needed to tell her something.  Something very important.  So important that I KNEW she was ready.  She was a big girl and I had “baby” answers for her. 

She was sucking on a ring pop in the back seat.  (I hated those things then…and now.  Like a candy pacifier.  Why? But one of her Montessori friends celebrated his birthday and those were the take-home treats.  Ick.) Putting that wayward thought aside, I said, “Hey, I think you’re ready.  You know, to hear more about baby brothers and sisters.”  We were at a stop light, and I watched as she pulled her ring pop out of her mouth – so quick it almost flew into the front seat.  “Yeah! “DD screamed and then “When, when, when!” 

“Well…” I replied, “You know how Grandpa went to heaven?  It’s like that.  The babies went straight to heaven…and even though we wish they were here with us, God had other plans and it’s okay.”  My hands and lips were trembling, and I wondered if she could see it.  I expected her to ask, “Brothers or sisters?” or respond with anger or frustration or ask if they were sick like grandpa.  Instead, our DD, wise in ways that I can still scarcely fathom, just said this, “Okay.  That’s good that grandpa has company, mama” and she went back to her ring pop.  A minute or so later she asked, “Can we watch Blue’s Clues when we get home?”.  End scene. 

Years later, DD and I have discussed the ‘car talk’ that day.  She remembers parts of it and enjoys the reminiscing about the ladybugs and her baby fixations.  As hard as she pushed to get an answer, once she had one, she moved on.  No more ladybug baby stories, fewer trips into the baby room at Montessori.  How her little girl brain processed what I shared, about babies, heaven – all of that?  I’m not sure but the car ride that day was a mommy moment I’ll never forget.

And for those I care about who are finding their way, moving through losses and questions about identities and what life has in store, I can only share that as much as I’d love to wrap you all up in a loving hug and make your dreams come true, I know I can’t, but I’ll be here in any way I can to provide support and a virtual hug.  Not quite the same, but remarkably satisfying, especially when we know we’re not alone.

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 14 Comments

Frosting with My Morning Coffee…

I’m not an ardent fan of winter…I don’t enjoy snowy sports and I detest driving in the icy conditions that accompany this, my least favorite season.  Still, it sure is pretty, isn’t it?  Especially the first snowfall of the season and the scene I’ve snipped in from our backyard.

For today (and today only – I make no promises about receiving snow with a sunny disposition from this point forward), I’m going to curb my urge to complain and enjoy nature’s frosting.  There IS something magical about the quietness of snow.  It’s as if the world is being hushed, just a tad.  And I love it.

Happy Tuesday…no matter the weather where you are.

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 10 Comments

You Choose…What Matters to You

Einstein

I’m so bummed.  It appears that a quote that I’ve loved for decades is a fraud…at least some think so. 

“Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”

-Albert Einstein

Apparently, Einstein paraphrased or ‘adopted’ language that, at the source, seems attributed, first, to William Bruce Cameron. According to the “Quote Investigator”, Cameron authored a textbook in 1963 with the title “Informal Sociology:  A Casual Introduction to Sociological Thinking” and within it, sits this passage:

“It would be nice if all of the data which sociologists require could be enumerated because then we could run them through IBM machines and draw charts as the economists do. However, not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.”

My noodling got messier.  It seems Cameron himself may have blended two thoughts together, “borrowing” from, potentially, four other thinkers:  Hilliard Jason, Stephen Ross, Lord Platt and George Pickering.

Ruh-roh…that was my first thought.  My second thought?  I knew it!  There was no way Einstein was responsible for one of my all-time favorite quotes.  He was too smart and I’m too…you know, ME…a little dim and definitely not a scientific intellectual.

That quote?  It might’ve been the only pearl attributed to Einstein that I can grasp.  Not because he was lacking in brilliance…no, no…quite the contrary.  The brand of brilliance that I think of when I hear “Einstein” is of the untouchable variety.  Concepts and truths that I’ll admire…from afar, on the other side of a vast intellectual void that separates great minds from my simpler mind. 😉

No, I’m not trolling for a compliment.  I’m just speaking the truth.  I don’t have the bandwidth or capacity to grasp even a smidgen of Albert’s intellect.  Maybe folks who are more science-oriented can connect – approaching status that might be peer-like. In the same gray matter ethos. Not me.  I’ll be the one in the stands with pom pons…expressing gratitude with enthusiasm…borne of admiration, not understanding. 

Why the big dust-up about this quote? The first time I read it, it felt like a heaven-sent message, just for me. And then I thought – Einstein? This meaningful morsel came from Einstein?  I feel a tad vindicated now, because I was skeptical, dubious before – thinking it must’ve been inaccurately attributed to him, simply because it resonated so easily for me, on a soulful level. 

Those fifteen words? Life changing wisdom, if we can let it in.  Years ago, upon discovering the quote, I celebrated — look at me! Inspired by Einstein.  Instead, according to the Quote Investigator, I should direct my admiration toward a hodge-podge of dudes who pilfered a bit, here and there, passing around a couple of cool phrases about “what counts” like a football.  Shame, shame, shame.

Still, I dig the concept – regardless of the hemming and hawing about the origin story. I’m the person who tends to hyper-scan for nastiness…especially behavior that might be a veiled threat, a slight, an emerging insult.  I think it’s related to my past, my childhood and experiencing enough unpleasantness that being on guard and ready to retaliate was a posture I clung to. Longer than I’d like to admit.

Ever evolving, the quote still speaks to me, no matter who the smarty pants author truly is.  Just because I see it, feel it, expect it, dread it, assume it…doesn’t mean I need to attend to IT or even acknowledge IT (whatever the “IT” of the moment is).  Nope.  I can ignore and dismiss, because Einstein (or the other dudes?) was right.  Not everything is worth counting and some of the most important things are entrancing and intangible – so much so that they defy enumeration.  Yep.  I’ll take a tattoo of that, please, to remind me forever.  Like a branding.  Too much? 😉

I’m a gatherer at heart – hungry for all the wisdom I can wrangle (rogue or otherwise) to encourage my selective attention.  I don’t need to acknowledge everything and it’s okay to keep my bumpers on, my buffers up, but my dukes down. Better for all concerned, really.

What “counts” the most?  For me, love, magic wonder.  Sending all of that your way this morning from me…with a little credit to Einstein.

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 9 Comments

He Wore Pink…

Yep, he wore pink, before it was fashionable…for men of his generation.  My dad grew up at a time when, at least here in the U.S., men tended to wear more muted tones.  Shades of brown, navy, beige and variations, sure, and his closet was a neutral palette.

When life took him to California in the 80’s, he found his vibe…and it was pink.  Rosey tones, corals, blush hues and yep, an occasional floral (gasp!).  Paired with his beloved Birkenstocks, my previously buttoned-up papa (learn more about him – his helping heart AND his fashion sense in this silly post) renewed his soul with color. 

My mom? She was shocked and referred to him as a ‘show pony’…to which, he’d just smile and say – with a wink: “If you’ve got it, you’ve got it.” 😉

That’s my Sunday morning rewind smile – from my Miami Vice wannabe papa, smirking and smiling from behind those shades, just for you.

-Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 17 Comments

Forty Years…Plus

Yup.  The hubster and I are officially into our fourth decade…plus a smidge.  Where does the time go?  We met on a snowier-than-normal November evening, as I was stuck in a parking lot with my car battery dying a slow death (due to an interior light being left on for two hours, unbeknownst to me).  Future hubster?  Fresh from a construction job helping his sister build her first home in Alaska, he looked like Paul Bunyan, come to life, saving me and my car that snowy night.  I don’t know if it was the full beard or the plaid flannel and Frankenstein-like hiking boots, but he loomed large – all 6’5” of him, but casting an even more imposing shadow as he stood, backlit with swirling snow and buzzing, blinking overhead parking lot lights. 

The pic of us? It was two years later, celebrating our six-month wedding anniversary. I don’t know if the men in my life will ever understand, but throughout my twenties, thirties…and beyond, every couple of years brought new hair styles. Ladies, are you with me? In the mid-eighties, this particular hairstyle rocked…the punkier and spikier the better. Sometimes my natural color (yep, brown, but I’ve taken to ‘heavy highlights’ for years because being a blondie makes it easier to cover copious grays).  But back then?  I morphed colors every year or so (deep burgundy was a favorite).  Now? Middle age drove me to love a little length and peroxide…and God bless a dear friend who’s done my hair for thirty years…I just let her do her thing.  But enough about Vicki’s hair – that’s not the point. 😉

What IS the point?  Hubs and I have had our ups and downs and challenges.  No doubt…and while plenty of people in our lives have wondered about secrets to relationship longevity, I have no secret sauce. But – I’m forever reminded that little things matter and if left untended, without a bit of nurture, they morph into big things.  Stinky things that swell and take over, eclipsing the good stuff. 

Have you heard of the Gottman Institute?  Every now and again their work is highlighted anew, despite the fact that their ‘love lab’ has been featured everywhere – including in Malcolm Gladwell’s “Blink”.  I’m a fan of their quick take podcasts which offer relationship advice and wisdom in nifty, digestible nuggets.  No big commitment – just five minutes or so.  Like a booster shot.

The article I found yesterday pulled a few threads of “Gottman goodness” together into one feature and brought forward one of my favorite practices:  The daily check-in, the lean-in, the connecting – no matter how busy.  Like most things in life that are healthy and wholesome, they’re simple, too. Literally leaning in and being available to your partner – maybe at distinct times during the day and/or remaining open and ready to attend to him/her, as life rolls along? Impactful.  Yes – quick text exchanges “count” and yes, the hollering from another part of the house?  Yeah.  We all do it.  Communication, of a sort, is better than nothing. 

What I love about the article is the research-based reveal that leaning in and having an engaged posture – both physically and emotionally – conveys connection, attachment, LOVE.  Eyes down, multi-tasking and doing the ‘uh-huh’ routine, while our attention drifts ever-elsewhere?  Unavoidable, at times, but the Gottman’s research highlights the importance of fully focusing on our partner, our loved one.  Maybe it’s impossible to do all the time…but doing it, as much as we can?  It matters. 

Long ago the hubs and I established a practice of morning check-ins and hilariously, in our current home we have a wacky little ‘bump out’ off the kitchen. Maybe (and I’m being generous) it’s 7 x 6 foot. Tiny – but ample enough for two of our favorite chairs, positioned so they’re tilted inward, but also face our deck and yard. 

Who loves the space the most?  Given the windows on three sides, our puppy mama Sadie thinks of the space as entirely hers, but she does give way, most mornings, as the hubs and I exchange quick thoughts about the day, what needs to be done, what’s left over from the day before and highlights – what we’re looking forward to and how are we dividing up the never-ending ‘to do’ lists.  Oh – and meal planning.  We love the ’what’s for dinner’ conversation first thing in the morning. 😊

If we miss a day for one reason or another, we’re “off”.  Me? I pick up an edge in my voice, oh-so-easily and become impatient, expecting that the hubs finally – and magically – acquired mind reading skills.  What does he do?  He disengages.  Prone to extreme introversion, he’ll be happy as a clam doing his own thing which is okay for a while…but inevitably, the part of me that’s driven and task-oriented rises, looking for dialogue, which I need more than he does, to navigate the day.

And laughing whenever possible?  Oh, that’s good, too. And…leave it to Lisa, my adorable, savant sister who, despite her disabilities, can be counted on to cut through — to the heart of what matters most.  You see…Lisa loves the little room, too.  She knows the hubs and I adore the nook, but sweet Sadie loves it even more.  When we bought this house Lisa hilariously told her girlfriends that our main reason for buying it was because it had a “tiny sunroom for Sadie and for chit chat”.

Yup.  I guess that says it all.  So, here’s to chit chat and tending to our loved ones, as much as we can, without distraction.  Lean in…just lean in.  If we can wrangle a sunny spot, so much the better.

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 20 Comments

If Houses Could Speak…

I love stories that are ‘unexplainable’.  You?  I’ve never been much for facts, figures, and rational thinking, which explains why any science or math teacher – bless their souls – who encountered me along the way should’ve received combat pay.  It’s not that I don’t accept data and singular answers.  I can, I do.  I just don’t like finite things.  No room for the welcoming cushion of doubt. 

Before your brain wanders, launching a lecture about laws of physics, matter, and the universe itself, let me just ask for your indulgence, for the sake of the story I want to share.  And lest you think of me as a total crackpot, I’ll admit that while I DO appreciate measurement and precision, I prefer to live my life with softer edges, more mystery, less reason. 

With that out of the way, let’s talk about the house that hubster and I bought several years ago.  I’ve shared it’s our ‘fixer upper’ and remodeling is afoot.  Yes, I’ve been a whiner and yes, I’ll survive.  Being privileged enough to own a home and undertake improvements? A blessing and I’m grateful.  Ever grateful. 

Every now and then, a well-meaning friend will ask why we bought a house that, while I touted its ‘great bones’ needed so much work.  Windows?  Yes.  New flooring – everywhere?  Yes.  A new roof?  Yes – and soon (patching only takes you so far).  Yes, there are decorating conundrums, too – things I don’t like that I’d love to focus on first, but functionality always wins in the war between “lovely” and “livable”. 

We didn’t want to buy the house.  We tried to ignore “her” after making her acquaintance on a summer Saturday when an open house sign beckoned.  “Let’s peek”, we said.  So, we did. On a quiet, tree-lined street, we found a brick beauty.  Constructed from something unusual – a type of brick referred to as “reclaimed” or “seconds”, her exterior was nubby with texture, unlike any masonry house I’d ever seen.  Hubster knew the materials.  “These are unusual” he said.  “Can’t find these anymore – look at all the gradations in color, light and dark.” The uneven-ness was captivating.  Some bricks were bumpy and bulging, others smooth and straight.  The overall façade? Georgian-like, I suppose, with the symmetrical window placement.  Windows that cried “Save us…we might look pretty but we don’t open and the house needs to breathe!”

We met the real estate agent, who became a friend.  Oddly, other than one other couple who breezed through, we were the only lookey-loos that day…at the open house that nearly became a sleep over. 

We arrived at 1pm and at 4 o’clock, we were still loitering and wandering – chatting with the realtor, learning about the house, discovering interesting quirks and details…but not everything (as we’d learn much later).  Those three hours felt like, I don’t know, maybe 45 minutes?  We were entranced, yes, but the magnitude of the work loomed large. This stately lady needed deep pockets and our affection alone wouldn’t make her shine. 

Flash-forward just a bit…as a week went by and the agent called, curious if we would put in an offer.  We wanted to, but the push-pull…loving the house, yet forecasting homeowner horror gave us pause. The only prudent path was pitching a low-ball offer…not so low as to offend but informed enough to account for the urgent repairs needed.

Despite our agent’s efforts, the homeowner wouldn’t budge on price.  Okay then – it wasn’t meant to be.  Sad?  Yes.  But the hubs and I felt we made an excellent ‘head over heart’ decision, despite the affection we had for this odd, brick beauty. 

And then…after six months passed, our realtor friend called again.  “Have you noticed”, she asked “that the price came down – on the house you love?”  Of course, we noticed.  We’d driven by a few times, still processing our decision, noticing the ‘for sale’ sign, still in place.  We noticed the price drops, too.  Not once but twice.  Walking a fine line, our realtor let us know that the owners needed to sell – and soon.  They were carrying two mortgages and regretted not taking our offer from six months prior. 

Now we’re talking, we thought.  The TLDR version? (Yes, yes, I should’ve offered that option earlier, I get it.) We negotiated our way back to our starting offer, rejected out-of-hand months prior and whittled a few thousand off for good measure.  In the end, a better deal for us.  Not so great for the overextended sellers, but at least they lightened up – one mortgage is plenty. 

Are we happy?  Yes.  We love the house, despite how needy she is.  So, you might be thinking, “Okay then, that’s the story?  You bought your quirky money pit?”  Yes, we did (she said proudly, if not stupidly) but the story – the magical, mystical, “unexplainable”?  Coming up.

We have lovely, charming neighbors.  One couple in particular – let’s call them Art and Caroline – were original owners in the area and knew the family that built our house, about 40 years ago.  Invited to our first neighborhood New Year’s Eve party, we met Art and Caroline (considering that waving from the mailbox doesn’t count as ‘meeting’).  This was actual conversation time, holiday festivities and all. 

The hubster and Art began chatting about how unusual our house is.  Yes, funky brick and all.  “No, no – not just that”, Art said.  “What about all the odd electronics and wiring in the house – especially the basement.  Didn’t you wonder about it, why it was there?”  The hubs was excited now!  His electrical engineering and patent-holder brain kicked into nerdy-nirvana.  “Yes!”  he told Art.  “I worked in engineering – for an electronics company for years and I noticed the wiring in the basement, yes, but it’s throughout the house!  Like I’d done it by myself, for myself, you know, for all of my equipment and the shop in the basement.” 

Art nodded, enjoying hubster’s enthusiasm, and as he leaned forward from his perch on the sofa he added, “Oh, I can see that.  The original owners, Pete and Glenda – they built the house. He was a nutty professor type – maybe like you – and he worked for a big company nearby, also as an engineer.”  Then Art casually mentioned the name of the company.  The same company the hubs worked for as a newbie engineering tech – right out of college. I watched as hubby’s mouth gaped open, finally asking “Wait – the Pete you’re talking about, the first owner, was it Pete Granger? He built our house?”

“Yep” Art said.  “But how did you know Pete?”  As I stood by watching, I added nothing other than my astonished look.  What is happening, I thought?  Just then the hubs grabbed my sleeve and said “Oh my God, oh my God…the first VP of Engineering I ever worked for – it was Pete – Pete Granger.  Vicki – a man I admired so much – he built our house!”

It explained a lot.  All the wacky wiring, for sure, but I’d like to think the house was waiting for new owners who would appreciate, not only her unusual exterior but her purposeful, if not, uncommon wiring.  Hubs and Art continued to chat, swapping stories about Pete.  Hubby knew Pete retired, maybe 25 years earlier.  Art lowered his head a bit and said “Yes, Pete and Glenda moved to Florida, and it nearly killed him to sell the house. We stayed in touch for a few years, but they both died in the early 90’s.  They were great people and I think Pete would love knowing someone who worked for him, back in his hey-day, owns the house now.“

We shared the story with our realtor who wasn’t surprised one bit. “Mmm…makes sense”, she said “The house was waiting for you.  Just you.”  Whether true or not, we’re inclined to feel the same and seven years later, we’re still sprucing her up and regret nothing.  Home is home.  And no, Pete and Glenda don’t haunt the house.  Not that we know of anyhow.  Still, their love of the home?  We can feel it, wacky wiring, and all. 

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 9 Comments

Heart Songs

“Don’t grieve.  Anything you lose comes round in another form.”

 – Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

You know the old adage, “What goes around, comes around”, right?  I love gathering pockets of wisdom which demonstrate just that – karma at work.  I’m a believer but I’m also impatient.  When, exactly, will the reset, the payback, the cosmic correction occur, I wonder? 

As much as I love these notions (they ARE my heart songs) the unpredictability of karmic wonder…my inability to tame and control the flow and natural order, despite my single-mindedness?  Annoying.  I confess it. 

Still, I’m a subscriber.  I’m down to do my part, knowing that my voice and intentionality alone won’t navigate nor drive the bus.  What fills me up while I’m waiting – for goodness to surprise me in fresh forms?  Like-minded caring souls, readers and kind people, just like you.

Here’s to you – and hopeful positivity – always. 

-Vicki 🤍🤍🤍

Posted on by Victoria · 6 Comments

Good Morning, World!

I love it when sweet messages from my long-departed father nestle into my brain, waiting for me as I rub sleepy eyes first thing in the morning.  That very thing happened a while ago, a powerful remembrance as I stood and stretched, reconnoitering my limbs with my torso before launching into a busy day. 

As I stood and sighed, I looked outside at the brilliant sun, just peeking from behind the trees in our backyard.  I didn’t bother to take a picture – use your imagination. 😉 Reaching for my phone to capture moments?  My reflex… but instead…I just stood at the window, feeling a sense of gratitude…just for morning light.  And that’s when my dad’s voice echoed in my head. 

No matter what was going on in his head/heart/world – and often, life was uber-messy, my papa greeted every morning the same way, no matter the weather or his mood. After his bathroom routine – shave and shower – he’d do a pleased-as-punch commanding loop of the house, declaring “Good Morning, World!”, not caring who was sleeping or waking. 

It was his thing – his ritual – prompting me to pull a pillow over my head as I tried to tune him out. Even so, his ‘seize the day with sunshine’ routine made me smile – every time. Once he’d done his lap, he’d proceed to coffee time and settle in with his newspaper…but never before greeting the day, his way. 

So – from my sweet papa, and I suppose from me, too – Good Morning, World!  Whether your day’s just begun or it’s winding down, thank you for reading and letting me share.

-Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 10 Comments

When You Crack Yourself Up: Owie, Owie, Owie Edition

Man with Groucho Marx glasses on

Happy Friday, all!  I can’t help but share one more dear daughter (DD) story as we wrap up the week. Why?  I stumbled upon my ill-fated attempt at a ‘mommy blog’ that I sustained for a couple of years and then, darn it all, I got caught up in who-knows-what and my well-intended effort remained just that.  Good intentions, no persistence.  And yet…as I perused some ancient entries yesterday, there were a few that gave me a giggle, so I thought I’d share one of them.  Here we go…

Even as a tot, our girl was ever perceptive about the unusual behaviors she saw in my mom and sister.  How do you describe to a two-year old that her “Nanny” is an alcoholic with mental health issues and her aunt, my sister Lisa, is different because of her disabilities?  Answer?  You don’t, really, you just move through parenting life, answering questions as they come up.  (The backstory about my sweet sister can be found, in part, here, in my “Loving Lisa” post.)

Me? I was our dear daughter’s dysfunctional family tour guide and while I screwed up plenty (sharing too much, explaining when I didn’t need to) I’m grateful that our now grown girl put it all into perspective, this way:  Families are messy.

The particular messiness that plagued my mom and sister?  Tremendous hypochondria with side orders of other issues. Given the time and distance, I understand, now, how their issues impacted my parenting. How? When DD was small, she had a tendency to take flying leaps out of her crib because she was long-legged and adventurous.  Always trying to normalize, we’d dust her off and move on, not wanting her to fall (wink!) into drama queen territory about bumps and bruises.  “Hey, your dismount wasn’t great, but shake it off.  You’re good – let’s go.”  It sounds like bad parenting when I say it that way, but I wasn’t careless, I just didn’t want her to milk the small stuff.

Why was this on my mind with a two-year old?  It only took one long weekend with my parents – dad, mom, and sister Lisa – for impressionable DD to latch on to bad, bad habits. Funny, now.  Horrifying and embarrassing, then.

Let me set the scene. The hubster and I left DD with my folks and sister for a few hours to do some sightseeing in San Francisco and when we returned, our little one had new favorite catchphrases.  “Shit, shit, shit” and “Owie, owie, owie, you hurt me.” 😕

Seems both mom and Lisa got embroiled in a competition about who hurt the most when they stumbled in the backyard while playing with DD.  Neither one was actually hurt, but because everything ailment-related morphed into a competition for them, our hearty little one found herself confronted with grown-ups wrestling and wailing on the grass because they’d gotten tangled up in a clothesline.  Mom blamed Lisa and Lisa, in turn, blamed mom for their mishap that was truly more hilarious than hurtful.  How do I know?  My dad was nearby and saw mom and Lisa in a brawl, with DD standing by, wide-eyed, taking it all in while sucking on a popsicle. 

Mom screamed, “Shit, shit, shit” to Lisa – mad because her clean laundry got into the fray and was all over the yard. Lisa countered with an infantile wail of, “Owie, owie, owie – you hurt me”.  (Mind you, Lisa was about 37 when this happened, but given her developmental disabilities she was forever an 8-year-old in a grown-up wrapper and reacted accordingly, especially when she was under stress.) 

Dear daughter?  She watched from a comfy perch on a lawn chair, as dad roared in, along with neighbors.  Everyone wanted to see the spectacle, given the high decibel scream fest between mom and Lisa.  Robbery in progress?  Home invasion?  Intruder?  Yes, the police were called, courtesy of ever-anxious and nosy neighbor, Eleanor.  It wasn’t the last time I needed to contextualize a sideshow family drama for our daughter, but I think it was the first biggie. You know, Officer Friendly and all.

For my parenting friends out there…whether you’ve got a toddler now or can remember those days…same for the aunts, uncles and grandparents, tell me this is NOT true:   Once a verbal tyke gets a humdinger of a new phrase locked and loaded, it’s like a permanent implant. 

No, you cannot scream “Owie, owie, owie, you hurt me” just for fun…it’s not funny…and same for “shit”. Especially when repeated three times.  Bad words.  NO and No.  DD was smarter than the average bear, then and now, but the more we tried to rid her of the new vocabulary, the more she delighted in screaming each phrase…like a rhythmic chant…for the better part of a four-hour flight home the next day.

At first the ‘shit, shit, shit’ routine was just annoying to the people seated around us but when DD launched into the ‘owie’ song, all eyes were on us…especially the ‘you hurt me’ part.  The more we shushed and walked her up and down the aisle, trying to calm her, the bigger the audience.  Add overtired into the mix and the crying and thrashing that resulted?  I’m sure it DID appear that we were torturing our young-un. 

Still, it’s a fun, ‘crack me up’ memory.  Theatrics and meltdowns and learning to ignore the bystanders.  Keep calm and parent on…and when you can, take the time to look back and chuckle.

Happy Friday!

-Vicki 😉

Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

Posted on by Victoria · 16 Comments

Goofy is Good

mom and daughter in pile of leaves

Is “Throw Back Thursday” – TBT – still a thing? I’m not enough of a social media person to know, so forgiveness if this is irksome and outdated…but I couldn’t resist.

The pic is the “DD” dear daughter and myself…taken on this date…gulp…24 years ago.  Sometimes I’m annoyed by the photo reminders that pop up on my phone, but this morning?  Seeing this blast from the past was all treat, no trick.

Our dear daughter needed to wear a hat on this and any other sunny day because she was such a baldy – until her third birthday when tufts of curls arrived. 

On this particular day, I remember my patience was tested – because of the damn hat. We were attempting a last-ditch effort to scoop up the remaining front yard leaves before a big frost and while DD was on board, tiny rake and all, we were delayed by about an hour as we hunted for the particular denim hat you see on her head. 

For reasons that made no sense to anyone but her, it was the ‘leaf hat’ and she needed to wear it for the sum total of ten minutes of yard work.  Less raking, more goofing – but that’s the point, right? A parenting reminder I needed often. Goofing is good. Hmmm…I’m thinking it still applies…advice that goes beyond parenting.

Happy Thursday to you – throw back or otherwise – and join me in finding the lighter side of yourself today, however you can.

-Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 15 Comments

Who Needs the Leaves?

sunrise

Nope, not a long post from me on this, the final day of October.

Many of us lament the loss of leaves this time of year. Me, too. And yet…as I mentally prepare for the transition to shorter days, I still welcome the reminders that nature doesn’t quit — offering take-your-breath-away-vignettes, with or without foliage.

That’s how I feel about the sunrise view I’m sharing with you from my backyard. A reminder that tree branches – even without leaves – are stunning, especially with a backdrop of early morning, pink, blue and orange brilliance.

No matter what’s on deck for you today, enjoy it all.

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 9 Comments

Mom Was in a Mood…

Growing up was choppy, as we moved ten times in twelve years.  I was ever the new girl with the family circus in tow – especially my eccentric, unwell mother intent on masking truth and recreating our family story every time we moved.  Exhausting.  The sparkly highlights, though?  Delightful and insightful comments from sister Lisa – ever ready with spot-on commentary, cutting through the madness.

Me?  I never knew what whoppers Sue/mom would tell as she tried to make fast friends and establish herself in a new town.  Sometimes she’d spin new, fantastic tales in the moment, without warning.  I’d nod and try to play along but it was maddening – this need to do improv with my mom.  Can I see a script in advance, please?

One such whopper came when we house hunted in St. Louis.  Dad was busy at work, but Lisa and I were stuck with Sue and her daily shenanigans as she took the reins house-hunting.  We stayed at a Holiday Inn for a month which seemed luxe, at first.  Then it became hotel hell.

I was 13 and yearned for private time.  As much as I loved Lisa, she was my ever-present shadow and right next to her?  Yep.  Sue.  All day, every day, treating disabled Lisa like a delicate china doll…assuming I might break her. 

The worst accommodations would’ve been if all four of us were piled in one room. Thankfully THAT didn’t happen, but adjoining rooms weren’t as great as they seemed.  Sure, we could close the door in between, but the walls were tissue paper thin, forcing me to unwittingly tune into every phone call Sue made.  Nowhere to hide.

But back to the whopper.  Not the burger – the lie. 😉 In one of her insecurity-driven tirades, Sue harassed the realtor assigned to show us houses. Mercilessly. Dad’s employer suggested a particular agency, but no one realized (except me…I saw this coming…promise I did) that the agent better be a guy.  Or — If the realtor was a woman, she’d better be old and unattractive.  At least more so than Sue. And… heaven help us all, if the designated victim (agent) dared to be a really pretty woman?  Buckle up. Bad moon rising.  Ever insecure, Sue needed to feel a sense of superiority any way she could, lest her paranoia would run amok…resulting in high drama, Sue-style.

Unsurprisingly, Sue sized up the lady agent based on looks alone, even before they met.  The realtor/victim’s name?  Let’s call her Patty.  She left a massive binder at the hotel front desk for Sue to peruse over the weekend and contacted her on Monday to discuss showings. 

Patty should’ve met with Sue face-to-face first, to establish her credibility and catch Sue off guard. But how did she know?  Sue didn’t come with a warning label.  Until first contact, don’t we all assume sanity?  I could see the unfolding…Sue barely flipped through the chubby listing binder because Patty’s 8×10 glossy, glam shot on the cover provoked her, prompting Sue’s insecurities which summoned, ‘You might be prettier, but I’m better in other ways’ nonsense. 

When Sue took on airs, she conjured a strange accent and an awkward, staccato rhythm in her speech.  I heard it from the adjoining room that day, suspecting that fresh-meat-Patty would be in trouble with Sue, one way or another.  How did I know? I saw Patty’s photo, too.  Defenseless Patty was too blonde, too thin, too pretty.  It was just a matter of time.

Despite years of ringside seats for the “Sue show” I always hoped my intuition was wrong.  That day, I listened as Sue spoke in a condescending way to Patty, complaining that ALL of the homes were ‘unsuitable’.  (Maybe she stayed up all night taking a look, but far as I knew, the binder hadn’t been cracked open.  Not even a smidge.) 

Sue continued, complaining that Patty clearly misunderstood the price points, too.  “We’re not looking for shacks…we’re arriving from New Orleans” (but she said it like this:  NEWWW-ORRRR-LEEE-ANNNS adding an extra syllable with her drawn out pronunciation).  Arrogant and loud.  To which, Lisa – ever the savant – just turned the volume up on the TV, saying, “Mom’s in a mood again” as she resumed watching one of her daytime soap operas.  Why couldn’t I be smart like Lisa, I wondered.  Mom’s in a mood.  Move on. 

Anyway…hearing only Sue’s side of the embarrassing conversation, I walked into the adjoining room, doing my best to pantomime my frustration, mouthing “Oh My God” to Sue and throwing the slash the throat signal, hoping she’d knock off the stupid.  It was always a calculated risk, any approach of Sue in a spin-out, but I was mortified and motivated.  Instead of slowing down her rant, I became part of the circus as she brought me into the conversation with Patty, hoping I’d back her up and join the tirade.  Would she never learn? 

Instead, I took the phone from Sue and began an apology to the realtor we’d never meet, this blondie named Patty.  At first, she continued her apology, which is what she tried to express as Sue blustered.  Patty finally stopped and listened as I introduced myself, adding, “No apology necessary.  I’m sorry about my mom.  We’ll get back to you.  It’s been a lot, this whole moving business.”  Patty stammered with relief, “Oh, thank you.  No problem.”

Sue?  I expected a thrashing about taking the phone from her, and/or for apologizing to Patty but instead, she had a phone book in her lap, trying to identify other realtors to work with.  And just like that. End scene.  On to the next…and no, we never met Patty.

When dad was looped in, he said he’d heard about a ‘dust up’ between mom and the realtor.  “Yup, I said.  Too pretty” and he just nodded.  The replacement?  His name was Fred and he must’ve drawn the short straw, but he managed to survive showings with Sue and she gave him glowing reviews.  “Fred the Fantastic” was her nickname for him.  Poor Fred got the job done, and I always wondered if his winks in my direction conveyed more.  I’m betting so.

-Vicki 😉

Posted on by Victoria · 20 Comments

No Words Needed

black and white photo of many staring

This is a pic of my dad, beyond angry at me for a now-forgotten, teenage transgression. Mom was nearby to catch my look “in reply” and true to form, she was forever camera-ready, eager to capture me at my worst. “I’m saving this…you don’t know how terrible you are.” Sigh. I’d see her mouth move but 90% of the time, I blocked her words. All the better to avoid retaliation…never a good idea with mom. But back to that looook…on dad’s face.

Characteristically when dad’s chin went south, but his gaze remained steady and locked in, I knew I was in big trouble. He wasn’t one to rant and rave (“you-know-who” more than covered that ground). No, he’d simply give that chin down death stare.

Over time, I learned how to silently reply to his piercing, blue-eyed glare. My flippant, I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-patootie look was my best defense, firing back with a chin-up, head tilting retort, as if I had the unlikely assets of tough girl street cred and a posse to prove it:

black and white photo of teen girl staring

Why did I bother? No attempt to challenge his bold, chin-down stoicism diminished the intensity of his ice cold, eyes-only reprimand. He’d hold the look for a moment or two – long enough to ensure “message received” – and then walk away. Done and done.

Oddly, as a very verbal adult, I miss the no-words-required arguments and tussles. Looks alone can convey plenty. Still, once the staring duel was over, I’d add a little huffy breath as he retreated. I wanted to feel victorious, but I knew the truth. Dad was mad, but he moved on, not one to bear grudges.

Why the sharing about staring? Just this – these vintage pics provided an unexpected and potent rewind into family drama, mixed with humor. There is nothing I love more than random AND welcome discoveries…fixing my attention on what matters most.

On a mission, I dove into old bins of family pics this week to fetch snaps for my recent Halloween post and stumbled over these gems. Keepers, especially because these two photos – dad and I engaged in a “you blink first” showdown – fell on the floor FACE UP, as if we were still locked in our standoff. I love that. Found separately, I would’ve skipped right by them, but free-falling out of a box together? They commanded my attention, staring back at me from years past.

So I paused, not caring about the massive mess I created with musty old photos scattered everywhere and I smiled at the pic of my smart papa. Despite my terror teen years, he loved me anyhow, death stare and all. Looking back, I think he knew I couldn’t withstand HIS verbal tirades, in addition to mom’s frequent rants, so he balanced his delivery by going ‘eyes only’. Well, eyes and that chin.

Vicki 😊

Posted on by Victoria · 12 Comments

Loving her anyway…

She didn’t intend to be a hoarder, it just happened.  Years of abuse and neglect and deeply embedded loneliness?  I can see how ‘things’ became ever-so-much safer than people.  The humans were indifferent, unpredictable, self-serving, and dismissive of a little girl shoved into adulthood too soon. 

The motivation to accumulate and gather in excess?  Possessions, while lousy conversationalists, provided a twisted sense of comfort.  Not quite the loving embrace that a child deserves, but when you hurt, you improvise.  Work with what you have to seek nurture and love.

I have more compassion for mom now – nestled in my heart with a few regrets about not being kinder, not looking past her maddening behaviors to see the source.  If there’s one standout gift that comes with aging, it’s this:  I’m learning to address my own hurt, especially the slights – large and small – in order to look beyond, to better understand.  Time helps.  Maybe I needed seven years of introspection following her death to look back with softer eyes. 

She didn’t intend to be a hoarder, it just happened.  No, she wasn’t as out of control as the sweet, damaged souls on the show “Hoarders”.  On top of all the other secrets and lies that comprised the web of her life, she cloaked her hoarding tendencies, too, as much as possible.  Mom knew she needed to keep ‘appearances up’ to avoid detection…so unless you lived in the house with her or you were a close friend who liked to snoop, her compulsion could go undetected. 

How?  I think it was her pervasive scarcity mindset.  As a child of poverty, she was perpetually hungry.  As a kid, food was scarce and rather than feed herself, she’d squirrel away what she could to share with her siblings.  Secrets and lies about food led to eating disorders later, but her tendency toward hoarding and hiding, generally?  Food came first, as a result of her father’s death and her mom’s inability to cope.

Later, her need to over-purchase home goods – towels, sheets, cooking equipment, gaudy décor – came from a compulsion to create a happy home.  A home containing the things she fundamentally lacked as a kid.  As a result, every closet, pantry, nook, and cranny was overstuffed.  And oddly.  Her shopping addictions pushed her to use unusual hiding places and some were laugh-out-loud funny. 

Example?  I have no clue why, but this morning I recalled one of her wackier ‘episodes’.  The time she got caught shoving a slew of fancy tablecloths and napkins from Neiman Marcus into one of dad’s golf bags.  She didn’t realize it wasn’t his ‘old’ bag…just the one that was empty because he was cleaning his clubs. Ohhh…this is why mom was so maddening.  Her peccadilloes and crazy behavior were very often the stuff of sitcoms. 

Imprints from childhood reverberate into adulthood.  Never truer than with my mom…to know her was to love AND hate her and while I’ve carried those dueling emotions around for decades, this morning I was tickled to have a softer memory of her, recalling her silly side.

Take care…join me in seeing the softer sides when you can.

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 11 Comments

C’mon…We Can Do This…

At this very moment there are two women I care about who’ve been to hell and back over the past few weeks.  So much so that I’m almost ashamed to be female. I’d like to disown my gender, my card-carrying identities of “mom”, “friend”, “partner”, “helper”.  These examples of disheartening, mean spirited behavior, in pursuit of achievement, attention, accolades?  All-time lows and I’ve lived a lot, seen a lot. I don’t get it.

If I have a core value in my blood, it’s something like: Better Together – Always.  Sure, I’m a fan of recognizing unique gifts and contributions.  Absolutely!  What I can’t abide is blatant backstabbing and rumor mongering. 

I know duplicitous behavior isn’t unique to women-on-women rivalry – it’s an unfortunate by product of competitiveness run amok between men and women, too, but what happened to the sisterhood?  I benefited from it thanks to sage and patient mentors and peers who demonstrated inclusiveness – not just individual success.   

At the end of every day, I have a meditative moment or two where I take stock of the day that was. Most days, my rewind reel is loaded with a-ha’s about missed opportunities, things I could’ve done better.  But mixed in, every day, there are meaningful moments where I either received grace and kindness or had an opportunity to offer the same. 

During my reflective time recently, I’ve been heavy-hearted – wishing I could mend the damage that I see women/sisters inflicting on each other.  The pettiness and the recurrent waves of tactical pot-shots, reputation ruining malfeasance?  Far too frequent for this woman who believes in goodness. Did the pandemic fracture workplaces that much?  I feel like it’s masks off and gloves on.  Be prepared to have your ‘dukes’ up and heaven help you if are TOO talented.  I might need to take you down a notch or two, one way or another.

I’m not alone. There’s some comfort in that. Mikaela Kiner, Founder and CEO of Reverb Consulting offers this:

“We often talk about the importance of sisterhood, but there’s a dark side of women working together that we don’t talk about nearly enough, and that’s female rivalry. I heard stories of female bosses sabotaging their direct reports, peers gossiping about and excluding their coworkers, and women including those in HR dismissing other women’s complaints of harassment and discrimination.” 

The worst of it, given the stories from the two wounded women I know, is the loss of trust.  Both are caring souls, by nature, but the deluge of gossip, manipulation and double-speak they’ve endured was eye-opening, and damaging for both.  They’re now learning how to build protective barriers, and will likely engage less with co-workers, at least for a while.  Are you friend or foe?  Enemy or ‘frenemy’?  Some might say, ah…such is life.  I don’t disagree, but still.  These are hard lessons to learn.  When boiled down, the message both women now carry is this:   Be more closed than open and ‘side eye’ might save you. 

And yet…just when I need it the most, I often find a morsel of light.  I needed it this time because the cynic in me was rising and I hate that.  Adam Grant – my favorite organizational psychologist came to my rescue.  Grant’s recent TED podcast about rivalry and competition has THE most heart-warming reminder of the ‘better together’ philosophy – this time in the form of a fabulous story about two female marathon runners.  The whole podcast is a delight – food for the soul – but if you only have a few minutes to check out the mood boosting tale of Amy and Shalane at the beginning, I promise it won’t disappoint.

Here’s to doing better…together.

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 12 Comments

Darkness & Light

black and white photo of sunrise

Of all the thought-provoking quotes from Carl Jung, the one that I connect with on a heart level is this:

“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of other people.”

You might be thinking, “Hmm…a little somber and sobering, Vicki, not exactly the bright-and-shiny-uplifting quote I was hoping for.”  Stick with me for a minute, okay? 

Jung’s bluntness is liberating.  It’s how I felt, many years ago when I read the quote for the first time. Especially when served up with Nietzsche’s resilience-boosting “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” What a one-two punch – calling in the cavalry to normalize pain – and darkness – as natural and normal parts of the human experience. Mix in the anthem version courtesy of Kelly Clarkson, reminding us to be “Stronger”?  YES!  Who needs a superhero cape? You’ve got this – whatever IT is.

But why are we calling in the cavalry?  Because the incessant ebb and flow –  dark and light, good and bad – roll in, often without heralding or warning.  They just arrive and when they do, other lived experiences ride along, filling in the landscape of our lives.  I call these feelings “the familiars” – the amalgamations of joy mixed with ever-lingering pain points.  What helps? Having a soulful sherpa in your corner, someone who’s navigated the shadow scape of light and dark…which brings me to Jody.

“Jody” (not his real name) was a client, years ago who experienced plenty of unwelcome ‘familiars’ in the form of a horrific collapse in parenting.  He was closed off in our sessions, at first.  Unable to disclose much other than his three-word description of his childhood, which he referred to as the “Triple A’s”: Alcohol, Abuse and Addiction. 

Jody’s two pervasive emotions?  Pain and shame and lots of both.  Despite his academic ability, his pronounced low self-esteem and identity issues held him back, making him feel unworthy.  His self-sabotage skills were epic, and he knew it.  Jody was a master manipulator, unsuccessfully trying therapy more than once (twice as a court-ordered stipulation and once to keep himself from being booted out of college).  I enjoyed working with him, but every bit of our dance was a push-pull challenge.  But still, we danced – he showed up and as much as I hate this therapeutic phrase, he ‘did the work’. I was just the sherpa.

And then he moved on…and I didn’t hear from him for a couple of years, until last week when he reached out, asking if I’d be a reference for him and if I’d write a fresh letter of recommendation.  “Yes of course”, I said and then we got to the important business of catching up.

Jody shared that he was offered a position to lead a humanitarian aid team in rescue and recovery efforts in disaster zones, worldwide.  I felt a warm rush of emotion – a mix akin to proud parent and coach – as he described his current role, and the elevated position he’s seeking. 

Jody summarized his recent accomplishments – completing his master’s degree and joyously sharing that he’s in a committed relationship.  “I found someone loving and kind” he said, “For the first time in my life”.  All of this was terrific news and just as I expected the call to wrap up, Jody said this: 

“I never knew your story, Vicki, whatever it was that made you THE ONE who got to me, but I figured it came from some pain of your own.  I decided that’s where deep empathy comes from. People who’ve seen the dark and know how to find the light.”

Jody explained he found his ‘calling’ and knew helping others – especially in the face of natural disasters – was his purpose.  I know those are just words on a screen as you’re reading this – Jody sharing that he found his place and purpose – but believe me, the weight of it as he spoke was substantial, in the best possible way. As soon as the call ended, I was a teary, wet mess, needing a ton of tissues while I searched for the Jung quote, wanting to recall it more clearly. 

Jody was right.  Maybe my own pain helped in the development of empathy, but I remembered my other reaction to Jung’s quote. Maybe he simply meant this – those who’ve experienced darkness have special skills in sniffing out shade from others. 

Ah yes…I connect with that morsel of Jungian wisdom, too, and it explains why the quote stuck with me for years.  It’s pretty accurate, given the plague of half-truths, out-and-out lies, and bold indifference I tolerated as a kid.  I can smell bullshit and baloney a mile away.  But those are “Vicki tales” for another day.   

For now, three cheers for Jody – and to all who seek resilience and light. And if you have three minutes, let Kelly Clarkson do her thing and listen to “Stronger”. It might be ten years old and ‘dated’ at this point, but it’s a keeper. I promise.

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 11 Comments

Be the One

I had one of those quintessential, odd Vicki experiences yesterday.  It’s been a while since a wave caught me off guard and I’m not sure I want to write about it, but I’ll get the story rolling, take a look back and assess how it might sound to those of you reading and then decide if it’s fit for sharing.  You’ll understand when I explain. 

On one hand I don’t want to freak anyone out or contribute further to growing notions that ‘this Vicki chick is a major oddball’.  But…on the other hand, speaking my truth is one of my core beliefs.  Still, I don’t like laying down the ‘deets’ unless I’m fairly sure I can do so without stressing anyone out.  I’ve learned.  Sometimes it’s better to button up.   So…let’s see what happens as I rewind and share.

We have a tradition for hubby’s birthday – a major pizza feast at his favorite deep dish Italian place.  He and sweet sister Lisa share the same pick and years ago, it became the ‘birthday place’ – their restaurant of choice – and we’re hot dog happy that we can celebrate by EATING IN at long last.  Two years plus of take-out only for birthdays was tough on darling, disabled Lisa.  She understood why, but still.  It’s not the same. (And as an aside, but an important one, love and support to all who work – not just in health care – but in restaurants and service industries, generally, so ravaged by Covid.  Sending love, just because.)

Back to hubster and Lisa…oh my goodness…those two can chow on fried calamari like it’s candy.  Me?  Not a chance.  The aroma alone is a stomach swirler.  Yuck.  But I get it – they love it and dig in happily and heavily, enjoying their greasy, circular swirls of fishy-ness as I slurp my soup.  What’s better than a well-crafted bowl of minestrone, I say.  Especially when the second act, the entrée, is a pizza that requires weight-lifting skills.  Cast iron skillet and all, it’s a heavy hitter and we love it. 

But the food’s not the story.  Anastasia is.  She was our server and I don’t know how to explain it, but I knew her – and she knew me.  When she approached our table, we locked eyes and she stammered as she greeted us and introduced herself.  She gave hubs and Lisa a quick look in her greeting, but her gaze rested on me and I have to admit, I was doing the same. 

That ‘wave’ I mentioned?  It’s an overwhelming feeling I get when I’m picking up SOMETHING I can’t compute.  It’s a rush of input with nowhere to go.  When Anastasia shared her name, I thought, “Of course you’re Anastasia and you go by Stace.  Hello there” and I swear she replied affirmatively, with her smile. Unspokens.  And it freaked both of us out. She started rapid blinking, futzing with her pen and then a nervous grin – a smile so broad, it conveyed familiarity, warmth, and recognition.  But of what? 

I guessed she was an early 30-something.  Maybe she was a former client?  Former student? Daughter of a colleague?  The entire time she stood by, taking our order, I racked my brain to sift through connections. I knew her and I could feel her thinking the same. 

As a result, the whole ordering business was awkward as we sized each other up.  Stace, by drumming her pen on her chin with her head cocked to the side. Thinking. As she listened to hubster’s rundown of our gluttonous order, she made notes but punctuated the process with eyes back and forth to me, and then an apology for being slow to get our drinks.  Why?  I think it was because her brain/head/heart – and mine – were preoccupied – doing the same thing.  I know YOU and it’s a good connection – but what is it? 

It wasn’t fear – or the geez, I want to run and hide from you vibe.  I know that – like the time I was at the mall buying underwear and the 17-year-old ringing up my purchase was a young man I’d counseled.  I knew far too much about him to reduce the embarrassment – for both of us.  Not the person I wanted checking out my choice of skivvies, ya know?  His red cheeks conveyed the same.

No, Stace’s ‘wave’ was something else and we both knew it but the extra quirkiness was this:  Under any other circumstance, I’d just call the question.  “Hey – you look sooo familiar.  I feel like I know you!”.  But not this time.  Something held me back and I could see relief in her face when she returned with the smelly calamari and my soup.  She still smiled, but it was different.  It was relief. 

When the time came to settle up, she apologized again and thanked us for our kindness and patience. Hmmm….it didn’t register as weird or overly familiar to hubs or Lisa but I got the message as she focused on me.  Stace continued and said she’d been away from her job for months due to an illness but was grateful that her first table back…on her first shift back…was full of nice folks. Us.

At this point I’m thinking, good enough.  We’ll let this rest and I smiled back.  With hubs and Lisa nodding, I said “Our pleasure – lunch was terrific – and all the best as you get back into the swing of things at work.”  It seemed like the right thing to do, given what she shared.  No probing.  Let it rest.  And then this:  She had tears in her eyes.  Just like I do – right now as I type this.  “That means a lot”, Stace said, “You have no idea.”

As we packed up our leftovers to go, Lisa needed a pit stop before heading to the car.  I walked her to the ladies’ room, passing Stace on the way.  You know that moment when you feel compelled to offer a hug, but you’re not sure about reciprocation, welcomeness?  There was none of that with Stace.  She leaned forward just as I did and with a quick embrace and a reminder from me to her to take care, the wave was over.  Whatever it was.

In the car, ever-perceptive Lisa said this: “Vicki, isn’t it fun sometimes how you meet people and they’re like friends?”  “Yes”, I replied.  “It’s funny and magical and a good reminder of how important it is to take care of one another with kindness.”  The hubster?  Long ago he became accustomed to the randomness of life with Vicki – ‘in the wild’.  “People find you”, he says.  “They just do.” 

From me to you – happy Monday – as I send universal goodness your way.  Maybe you’ll be the one someone needs to find today.  Maybe you’re the one who needs to be found.  Either way, I’m sending love.

Vicki ❤

Photo by Kevin Malik on Pexels.com

Posted on by Victoria · 20 Comments

One Foot…in Front of the Other

little boy walking

Beginnings, middles and ends….they’re the milestones we navigate every day, in ways both large and small.  Are you like me?  The Muddling Middle is Maddening….even though I know I must traverse the sloppiness to get to the finish line.  I know it, but that doesn’t mean I like it.  Nope. 

The Middle can be oh-so-messy.  The voices that ask, ‘Are you sure?’ Or, as if they see the destination and have reconnaissance I lack, they whisper: ‘It’s not too late to turn back’.  Having the confidence and poise to stay the course, while muddling in the Middle takes resolve. 

And I’m not just mulling over the BIG DECISIONS in life.  The biggies command our attention and one way or another, we decide with intention, or indifference as we choose to slow down, set sail or retreat.    

But alongside the biggies sit the littles – the everyday events, tasks, conundrums, and relationships – that we massage and manage.  Dutifully, we navigate the littles; the individual arcs, the blips and bumps, and hopefully triumphs, too.  Such is life, the mundane and routine riding along with the blasted big stuff.  

In the cycle of “BMEs” – beginnings, middles, and ends – I’m most often mired in the Middle because of my nature – I want to influence the unfolding with eyes planted on the destination.  I know I’m not unique.  The predictable outcomes, the ‘sure things’ give me peace but they’re harder and harder to come by as age and experience season us.  We learn to prepare ourselves for disappointment.

All of this may sound a little sobering, but I’m in a pondering frame of mind for a reason. Someone I care about is laboring in the Middle right now and he’s hurting.  His resources include patience, but it’s waning, along with his confidence.  I’ve offered what guidance I can, as well as my shoulder to lean on, but I wish my shoulder was heftier, more formidable. I wish I could do more. I wish I could be a better champion and tease out a conclusion for him – an ending point – some sort of punctuation.  I want to lighten the hold that his Middle malaise has on him. Provide relief.

The MIDDLE isn’t a villain, really and it doesn’t mean to conjure anxiety.  It just does – as the holder of menacing ‘what ifs’.  Those dreaded doubts. They create shadows masking the glimmers of hopeful light. Like summer fireflies, the glimmers ARE there – but harder to detect.  Or is it the fear of having hope?  If I greet this sweet elusive light, might it run from me and retreat into the shadows?

But move we must, and this is what I tell my friend. Don’t languish in the Middle.  As the finish line and destination appear, remember that invariably, a new path, a fresh beginning is likely there as well.  And he’s in charge.  Want to loop back?  Do it.  Forge a trail that may be both new and unfamiliar? You can. Just remember to pack well, carrying more confidence than doubt and consider heeding the sweet advice from Tom Hiddleston:

“You never know what’s around the corner.  It could be everything.  Or it could be nothing.  You keep putting one foot in front of the other, and then one day you look back and you’ve climbed a mountain.”

One foot in front of the other, indeed.

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 14 Comments

Be More than Mona

Mona Lisa
Hello, Mona!

Do you know someone who is ‘read’ by strangers as safe?  Oozing a vibe that says “Yes, I can be your port in a storm”?  I don’t know if it’s cosmic energy or something equally mystical but I’m often that person.  You, too? The one who’s instinctively leaned on? 

Before you say ‘Hey that’s a great quality’ let me share that I often think, at least in my case, it’s misplaced trust.  I can be a nasty gal; grumpy and crabby and although I try not to sneer and cackle at strangers (I save that for friends and family – LOL!) I’ve always wondered why me?

I think I figured it out.  Do you know about the Duchenne smile?  I was clueless until a professor laid it on me in grad school.  Evaluating my technique as a therapist-in-training I received plenty of unwelcome feedback (You ask too many leading questions…You need to become more comfortable with silence).  Those were the most frequent critiques.  But when he offered ‘Hmmmm…Duchenne smile’ as stoic three-word commentary, it was a head-scratcher. Huh? Doo-whooo?

Maybe you’re more informed than I was. I was annoyed that I needed to look up this Doo-sHEN dude to understand the point my professor was trying to make.  Sheesh. It would’ve been easier if he’d just said, ‘You stink’.  But spewing a reference to a type of smile?  Throwing me off track, buddy.  His delivery was that emotionless and monotone. 

And so, I learned about Guillaume Duchenne and immediately regretted my caustic thoughts about my well-intending professor.  Turns out, the whole “Duchenne” thing was a compliment.  Yep – Guillaume Duchenne, scientist from two centuries ago was hell bent on mapping the human body and understanding musculature and movement – especially related to facial expressions.  His work, while ground-breaking, was also the stuff of nightmares (Happy Halloween!) because he experimented mostly on decapitated heads.  Ick. 

Despite his morbid methods, Guillaume was a pioneer, documenting the importance of the eyes in determining what’s most genuine in a smile.  Eyes engaged and crinkled?  Eureka! That’s an authentic, Duchenne smile.  Smiles that are more controlled, show less engagement of the facial muscles? Indicative of less authenticity, more reserved.  Now I understand.  The most famous example of all, is Mona Lisa’s non-Duchennian smile. 

So, to hell with the crows feet and wrinkles, bust out your big grins and smile, people!  Those half-hearted, staged-looking pouts are the stuff of indulgent selfies.  Not real life.

Why is this on my mind? Masks and Covid made connecting so much harder.  All the more reason to lean into the Duchenne smile, I say.  Maybe that’s why random people seek some of us out for assistance. Authenticity for the win! 😊

Me? Left to my own devices and tendencies, I navigate the world with a grin and open body language – just because.  I’m the one who greets people first with a ‘good morning’ or a hello.  Especially during the pandemic when my smiles (Duchenne or not) were hidden.  All the more important to get my crinkle on and “show” I was smiling, with my eyes.  Mask or no mask now, I think I’ll keep Duchenne-ing.

-Vicki 😉

Posted on by Victoria · 6 Comments

Know Better, Do Better

moccasins
Dear daughter’s moccasins

At first, I celebrated – having solved the decades-long mystery of the ‘missing moccasins’.  Our sweet (and now grown) daughter had a wardrobe of tiny Minnetonka Moccasins from the moment she was born until she was about five years old. 

The pair in the pic surfaced recently during a garage clean out.  Hubby found them in an old milk crate, which left us both scratching our heads and mumbling ‘why’?  The answer came…but it took a bit of additional digging as we also found old rags and an actual SpongeBob sponge.  Ahh…this was dear daughter’s stash.  The things she used when she **helped** her papa wash the car.  Good memories and it explained why the moccasins were in the crate.  Yep – and I remember routinely shrieking from the kitchen window “take your shoes off!”. 😉

My in-laws were long time summer travelers to the Upper Penninsula in Michigan and one of their favorite, annual rituals involved stopping at a roadside Minnetonka store to buy fresh mocs for vacation. 

When dear daughter’s moccasins resurfaced, it was exciting and fun.  Like an archaeological dig in our own space.  (Which is another good blog topic, generally, but beyond what I’m sharing here.) Fun at first and then the wave of recognition came.

I remembered an article from a year or so ago, involving moccasin maker Minnetonka apologizing for their longstanding cultural appropriation-as-business-model.  I searched for it and found it – see here. Sobering but progress often is. 

It’s only been a year since President Biden’s Proclamation on Indigenous People’s Day which stated, in part:

The contributions that Indigenous peoples have made throughout history — in public service, entrepreneurship, scholarship, the arts, and countless other fields — are integral to our Nation, our culture, and our society.

Recognizing privilege is a good first step and while I’m still grateful that we found our daughter’s last pair of moccasins, they carry wistful feelings of regret, too.

Indigenous Peoples’ Day in the U.S. is coming up on October 10.  As a girl who grew up celebrating Columbus Day and her Italian roots, I’m reminded of how essential it is to be open, to evolve.    No matter your political points of view, the humanity of designating a day to honor those who were here first matters. 

Know better, do better. 

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 20 Comments

CSI: Lisa

girl in McDonald's uniform
Lisa: Her first job at McDonald’s

Sweet sister Lisa had terrific news this week!  Intellectually disabled Lisa is a marvel, despite her developmental delays and challenges.  (Read about her here to learn more.)

The pandemic thinned out vocational opportunities for lovelies like Lisa.  Despite the excellent work of her team of job coaches and social workers, it’s not easy to support disabled adults with a variety of intellectual and physical obstacles.

Lisa had a job, prior to the pandemic, doing piece work for a family-owned manufacturing company.  She loved it – they loved her – and although packing boxes of screws, weighing them and sorting them wasn’t an aspiration of hers, the point was productivity and providing Lisa with an opportunity to work in the community. (No job would ever compare with her FIRST job, however, when she worked at McDonald’s as a teenager. 😉 Free fries for the win, right?)

When the screw-sorting job ended, Lisa was bereft.  So sad and yet she understood it wasn’t her fault.  The company needed to trim their workforce and Lisa, along with two of her similarly disabled friends lost their jobs in the process. 

But this week?  Great news!  One of Lisa’s job coaches found a new gig for her – at a recycling company willing to do the good work of hiring Lisa, and her friend Albert.  This makes my heart sing.  Companies can easily dismiss hiring the disabled – view Lisa and Albert as ‘less than’ or unemployable.   

The company’s trusting heart and their willingness to listen to the job coaches who are angels AND champions made all of it come together.  Except for one, slightly funny Lisa-centric thing that everyone missed.  A smile is coming.  I promise.

Lisa LOVES all of the murder shows on TV. You know – CSI and NCIS whatever, whatever.  Law and Order this and that. I’ve never understood the appeal of “entertainment” that begins with dead bodies, and I’ve made my opinion clear.  Hubby, however?  He and Lisa share a bond here.  They DO on occasion, discuss other topics, but their conversations are typically peppered with ‘shop talk’ about the whodunits, etc. etc.  While they chat, I nod off or leave the room. 

What’s a common denominator in these shows – other than the aforementioned, requisite bloody corpse in every opening montage?  Yep.  Fingerprinting the ‘perp’, once captured.  In the old, old days, some of us geezers would throw the phrase, “Book ‘em, Danno” but for the youngsters reading, I’ll just apologize for the outdated reference.  Look it up, though, okay? 😉

As Lisa’s team prepped her for the transition to her new job – orientation, taking a tour, etc. – a passing reference was made to other milestones:  getting an official photo ID/badge and FINGERPRINTING. 

Alert! Alert! Alert!  Lisa’s savvy enough, sometimes, to catch herself before becoming volcanic.  This is a good thing – progress for Lisa who was plagued for decades by seizures triggered by emotional stress.   Afraid to clarify with her job coach, she said she needed to go to the bathroom – urgently – and called me in a full-on panic.  “I’ve done something wrong. I’m getting FINGERPRINTED.  I thought I had the job.  But maybe I messed up and I’m going to jail?”  Ah – hello, crime shows. 

For the love of Lisa.  Despite the kindness and care from her job coach and team, only someone with years of experience in Lisa-land would know what a passing reference to ‘fingerprinting’ might conjure up for her.  I’m glad I took Lisa’s call when it came.  Once I understood the problem, I simply said, “Oh – no.  This isn’t a CSI-Lisa thing.  It’s just part of hiring you.  You’re not in trouble.  Promise.”  Not missing a beat, Lisa said, “That’s good.  Thanks, Vicki.  I wondered if you’d bail me out.”

See me smiling? 😊 I love Lisa.

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 24 Comments

Like a Rainbow

love

I had a friend for a year, but I never knew her real name.  She said, after several months of touch-and-go, trepidatious encounters, “You can call me Gwen.”

Good enough, I thought.  I met her on campus.  She had a routine of visiting the piano practice rooms, in a deserted hallway adjacent to the music dept.  The seldom-used side entrance made it easy for her to slide in, unnoticed.

Even so, “Gwen” was well-known as the 60-something “sweater lady”. Out of necessity, her warmest clothes were always worn layer, on top of layer. Handcrafted and stunning, I eventually learned she was a knitter and couldn’t bear to part with her creations.  Needing to keep her small cart free for other possessions, her prized loopy cardigans and pullovers became her uniform.  She was a kaleidoscope; every shade of rich purple, pink, saturated yellows and greens were presented in her magnificent knitwear.  Maybe more of a rainbow, actually.

For several weeks, Gwen didn’t make eye contact.  She wore a wide-brimmed canvas hat that was easily situated to mask her eyes if she wanted to be incognito.  Hard to be stealth, given her colorful attire – hat or no hat – but you get the picture.  She’d wheel in her rickety wire cart, head down, and roll toward a practice room.  Every Mon, Wed and Fri, just after the bus dropped off students by the quad.  Around 11:30 am.

Campus police knew Gwen well, offering her rides to shelters and a few of us in the counseling area were consulted to see if we could ‘reach her’ and help her find temporary housing, or services of any sort.  She’d nod when someone spoke to her directly, but still with her head down, she’d typically respond: “Thank you kindly. I’m just here to play piano.”  Technically, she wasn’t a student, but my kind colleagues in the police department were the best.  They knew when to look the other way – quite literally – but they also knew I was keeping an eye on Gwen.

We worried she would fall, especially when the weather cooled, and snow arrived. (I know, I know – liability issues.  Be risk-averse, Vicki…but still…she just wanted to play piano for an hour in an empty practice room.  No skin off anyone’s nose. Judgment call on my part.)

Why the falling concerns?  Gwen limped and we supposed it was arthritis or maybe bad footwear?  She wore boots year-round, even on 90-degree days, and they were wildly mismatched, contributing to an off-kilter gait.  The boot on her right foot was a suede-looking brown Ugg style but the mod, floral rainboot on her left foot was entirely different.  Black and knee-high, bursting with color.

After a few weeks, Gwen became accustomed to seeing me in the music wing, around the time she’d arrive.  I’d eat my lunch in the hallway on those days and eventually, I convinced her that I had a chronic problem of over-estimating my own appetite in order to offer her a sandwich and an apple, while preserving her dignity.

Every offer of transport to a shelter or inquiries about food pantries was always met with a ‘thank you kindly but no’ but when I realized a sharing of food, a literal breaking bread with me, was met with ‘Sure, it shouldn’t go to waste’ I knew I’d found an opening.

Gwen was homeless – by choice.  The unfolding of her story was slow, but I learned she was a widow and through a horrible, awful, terrible life twist, her husband died unexpectedly and left her with a mountain of gambling debt. Gwen never worked outside the home. As a classically trained pianist, she always imagined a role, one day, as a teacher – not a performer – and the loss of her husband, her house, her possessions (including her beloved piano) were life blows she couldn’t recover from.  At least not in the way most of us think of recovery.

For Gwen, moving from one shelter to another and/or bunking with her grown children (when she could stand them, she said) was okay.  She didn’t want to be attached to things, people, or stuff.  She valued her sweaters, her music, and the rest of it?  Worries that others tried to place upon her.

Gwen had her script.  The one she used when we, the well-intended, tried to intervene:

  “I know you’re all trying to help.  I know I’m different but I’m okay.  I choose this.  My days are full and I’m not sad.”

Still, I felt I made progress with her, building trust slowly.  Gwen finally agreed to meet with my friend Maggie who worked at a local women’s shelter that was well-resourced, both from a housing and social services perspective.  Maggie joined us on the phone multiple times so Gwen could get a ‘read’ of her — confirm she wasn’t someone who would force Gwen into something she didn’t want.  “A look-see” Gwen said.  “That’s all.”  That was the last time I had contact with Gwen, that cold February day three years ago when she begrudgingly agreed to ride-share her way to a meeting with Maggie.

Sometimes when I can’t sleep, unfinished business haunts me, in the form of people who’ve crossed my path.  They flood my head and heart. Where are they now?  It’s an occupational hazard for helping folks and I get that.  When I woke yesterday, I was unprepared for the wave of Gwen that greeted me.  Does this happen to you?  People you care about just popping in? Why, I wondered? 

Maybe it’s just this:  Gwen’s story is unfinished and some of you know I hate that.  Ever hopeful that closure will come, one way or another, no matter the issue, challenge, or dilemma. Maybe Gwen was on my mind because we’re headed into winter here in the Midwest? Tough times for those who face housing insecurity.  

As I sat with my cup of tea yesterday, unable to answer my own questions, I allowed myself to remember Gwen.  Remember how charming and talented she was, despite her circumstance and fragility. 

No – she never made it to her appointment with Maggie.   In the years since, anytime I check-in with Maggie, she knows I’m going to ask: “Any sign of Gwen?”.  ‘Not yet’, she says. Wherever Gwen is, I hope she’s wearing her rainbow of sweaters and her fingers are either knitting or they’re on a keyboard.

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 8 Comments

She Was a Pretty House…

I don’t know if my love of Queen Anne architecture is a nod to nostalgia or something else.  Like many things in my life, design-wise, I don’t question it.  It just IS.

Back a few generations, this stately home was built by my husband’s family, right around the turn of the century…I mean the last century…1900:

queen anne style home

My mother-in-law grew up there and on occasion, she would share sweet stories about secret rooms, hidden stairwells.  Not in a spooky way, more of an old houses have history and reflect their owners/builders way.

She’s still standing, this queenly residence, and is often featured, especially this time of year, in seasonal newspaper and magazine stories about autumn.  She was a pretty house. 

Yet I never knew she was technically a ‘tower’ Queen Anne style.  Interesting.  Learning about that helps to bring the memory of my mom-in-law close.  Little nuggets do that for me. 😊

Now?   She’s been subdivided into apartments.  We’re not sure what that’s like but we’re not altogether angry about it.  The house fell out of family hands in the 60’s so it hasn’t been “ours” for a very long time.  Still, we wonder if the developer kept as much of the interior as possible and wonder, if the secret staircases and tucked-away attic rooms, upon discovery, were kept or swept away.  I imagine the latter, for practicality’s sake.

Could we knock on the door and say, ‘Oh hey there…may we come in…this place was special once, to the family who built it and we’re what’s left’.  Sure.  But we haven’t…and probably won’t.  Hubby and I both agree that monkeying with good memories might be a mistake. 

So, we’ll admire her from afar…once in a great while driving by but not lingering.  The family pics and memorabilia hold the sweet stuff now – including old photos like this one of the family that lived there first – mom-in-law, her siblings and parents, circa 1926:

black and white vintage family photo, 1920's
Mom-in-law Maxine is the littlest one…peeking out from behind her big sis…posing in front of their house.

All of this reminds me of an anonymous quote that I adore:

“Be the things you loved most about the people who are gone.”

Yes, and yes. Generational love for a house…a way of staying connected.

Cheers to you — and thanks for reading.

xo,

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 5 Comments

Stay Safe

red heart on black background
Sending love…

I had something else in mind for a post this morning but I’m not feeling it. 

Friends and family who are staring down Hurricane Ian are on my mind…much like the folks who’ve suffered already as it careened through the Caribbean, leaving devastation behind.  Sending heartfelt wishes for safety.

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 11 Comments

Go Great Granny, Go!

1900 woman in hat
Great Grandma…Get It, Girl

The photo of the distinguished lady is hubby’s great grandma, circa 1900.  She married into a family of haberdashers:

Three things are remarkable to me about this photo, unearthed in the family trunk of long-forgotten stories: 

First – LOOK – just LOOK at the hat.  I’ve discovered, after a bit of vintage sleuthing, that over-the-top ornamentation using fake fruit and flowers was au courant and high fashion at the turn of the last century.  In addition to the hat looking uncomfortable, I’m fairly certain great granny could’ve been airborne, should a strong breeze arrive. You know – Mary Poppins style.

Second – While the tailoring on the jacket and handiwork looks like the refined work of a master, the whole ensemble – jacket, gloves and high-necked blouse scream discomfort.  Great grandma’s visage, though?  She looks proud and proper.  Not a hint of “I can’t wait to get out of this to hop into something comfy” (which in truth, was probably an equally uncomfortable lumpy cotton, full-skirted ‘day dress’.)

Third and last – and most important.  As I rummaged through the trunk, I learned this hat pic was part of an ad campaign for the local newspaper – promoting the small-town millinery and haberdashery store, which her newlywed husband owned.  Excavating the tidbits uncovered more fun and fab family history.  Despite great granny’s time and place, she pushed her new husband to go beyond the traditional ‘furnishings’ for men only and branch out to offer equally well-made goods for women.  And she was the first model and spokesperson. 😊

What’s not to love?  Go, Great Granny, Go!

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 13 Comments

Puppy Dog Eyes

black and white photo of Chihuahua
Sweet Sadie

Our sweet Sadie took a tumble yesterday and must’ve landed on her already arthritic back legs.  We’re not sure what happened but one way or another, she ended up on the floor, wandering with a wonky leg.  The pic I’m sharing is from yesterday morning – sweet Sadie nestled in my lap – after her unexpected gymnastics. Even though she can’t talk to us, we knew she was hurting.  Pain was in her eyes. 

We took her to the vet to check her out, explaining when we called that although she’s not ‘voicing’ that she’s hurt, we can see it.  Likely the result of an unintended dismount from our bed.  Good news?  Nothing’s broken.  After a full body massage and evaluation, our dear vet said, “Sadie’s a tough cookie” and while she’ll be achy – on account of her age (she’s 13) – no harm done. Whew.

Still, I feel terrible about how it happened. Our senior girl LOVES the ‘big bed’ (yes – we talk to the dog like she’s a small human).  The ‘big bed’ is our king-sized bed and it’s a reward that Sadie relishes after a long day of, what, exactly?  Napping in the sun?  No matter – the point is that she’s thrilled when it’s ‘big bed time’. 

Prior to Sadie, we knew nothing about small dogs, Chihuahuas, and burrowing behavior.  Golly, IT IS a thing.  Even when it’s hot and humid, this wonder ball of fur still loves her blankets and lots of them.  Our best guess is that her accident occurred as she got tangled in her beloved blankies and fell overboard – yikes – onto our hardwood floor, softened only by a sisal-like rug. 

While perusing news feed this morning and snuggling Sadie, this sweet resource surfaced, and I melted.  I love when well-timed tidbits FIND US, don’t you?  Yes indeed, puppy dog eyes and this: 

“…our human connection to dogs, cats, and other pets is similar to the bond between a mother and a child. This bond, in part, is formed through oxytocin, the hormone associated with love, attachment, and trust.”

Cuddle muffin Sadie says good morning and reminds us of the power of touch, connection – and the importance of well-landed dismounts, with or without your blankie. 

xo,

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 16 Comments

Smallest Act of Caring

people hugging
Turning life around…with kindness

I can’t think of a Martin Luther King Jr. quote that I DON’T like.  One, in particular, popped to mind recently when I was (yes, again) at Costco:

“Too often we underestimate the power of touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn life around.” – MLK Jr.

Let me set the stage.  Costco was jammed and it struck me that it was the first time I’d seen that many people shopping in close proximity – without masks (mostly) in ages. 

Toward the front, near the checkouts, there were loads of fresh plants – perennials and mums on six-foot tall, massive rolling carts.  It looked like a makeshift greenhouse – one that created a Tetris-like maze for shoppers to navigate.  Get the picture?

Despite the tight quarters, folks were navigating pretty well with their laden carts, except for one sweet mom.  She was attempting to push a flatbed with a wonky wheel with one hand, while holding onto a toddler with the other.  On her hip was a round-faced, wide-eyed baby enjoying his pacifier while looking me over.

Mom’s flatbed load was substantial.  Diapers and towels, cases of juice and jugs of milk.  I suspect she settled for the flatbed because carts were scarce – all in use on a busy day.

As she tried to turn a corner,  the front edge of the flatbed made contact with a display of nuts and then ricocheted forward into a cart with plants.  Wowza.  I was behind her and I could slow-mo see what was happening but couldn’t stop it.  Stuff was flying – but no one got hurt. 

Mom held on tight to the baby and the toddler knew to duck behind her – which is where I was.  Good thing my hands were free because her little dude jumped in my arms to avoid the cascade of cashews.

Oddly, I wasn’t surprised.  It was a mutual move – he jumped up and I scooped at the same time, synchronized-like.  After the clatter and confusion, mom turned around and began apologizing to me, to everyone around her and then stopped – realizing a strange woman (me!) was holding her oldest. 

She was colossally embarrassed and stressed.  Creating a scene in a public place does that to some of us.  Been there; done that – but it’s been a while since I was in her shoes.  Wanting to hide but needing to tough it out, because, you know.  You’re the mom. 

The Costco folks reset the cashew display and removed the plants and dirt that landed on mom’s flatbed, mixed in with the diapers and stuff.  They were so sweet – ushering her to a closed checkout lane to speed things up, get her on her way.  

As I walked behind her, still carrying her big boy, he announced, “You’re a nice lady and you smell good.”  Mom heard this and laughed – apologizing to me one more time.  “No problem”, I said.  “Right place at the right time.  Moms stick together, you know?”  

I doubt I’ll ever see them again, but it was a sweet reminder of the Martin Luther King Jr. quote.  Cheers to simple stuff, like the smallest act of caring when the opportunity arises, at Costco.  Or anywhere. Right up my alley – and yours, too. I just know it.

-Vicki ❤

Photo by fauxels on Pexels.com

Posted on by Victoria · 14 Comments

Finding My Way to Forgiveness

forgive sign
I’m a work in progress…

I know I’m partly molded from my mom’s madness.  Aging creates inevitabilities and as much as I’d like to deny it, my mom’s penchant for critical, caustic commentary often simmers just beneath the surface, within me. Especially when I’m stressed.

My mom, Sue, could be unrelenting in her expectations of those around her.  Every now and again when I’m zooming around the house doing too much at once, my dad’s voice surfaces – one of his periodic tirades directed at the hurricane that was Sue.  He’d say – ‘Slow down, Sue, just SLOW down’.  

Her frenzied, nearly out-of-body movements prompted him to utter, more quietly and with resignation ‘She needs to stay in her body when her head moves too fast’.  Yup.  Getting ahead of herself.  Driven.  Compelled.

Later in life she’d receive a diagnosis of depression and then the more defining manic depression. Eventually, heavy layers of additional issues (anxiety, alcoholism and more) were catalogued but it was her urgent, tempest in a teapot cleaning binges and spur-the-moment, 911 household projects that stick with me today.  Sometimes, I do the same.  Take on too much at once, putting a premium on “busy” for the sake of busy?  For the sake of task completion?

Sue would wrangle all onlookers into the fray and then make everyone around her feel guilty for taking a break.  Sometimes she was fun loving in her ability to manifest a near party-like atmosphere because of her charisma but invariably, she pushed too hard.  Drama time would arrive.  Predictably with tears and flying crockery (plates, lamps – whatever was within reach). 

As an adult, I recognize that her maladaptive behavior was borne from her demons and insecurities…constantly evaluating and critiquing those around her – benefitting from the short-term lift in her own self-esteem but at what cost?  Long term anguish, most assuredly, along with fractured relationships within the family.  One daughter especially.

There are days when forgetting is liberating.  I can still love and admire aspects of her.  If nothing else, I can marvel at her ability to morph from wildly funny to destructive – in a blink.  She was a sight to behold.  You know, in the I paused to look at the car accident kind of way.  You couldn’t help yourself.

I learned I could step back, remove as much emotion as possible and observe her more objectively, adjusting my regard and expectations for her.  It made it easier to be empathetic and less angry. Occasionally the heat is still there, though, and I work my way through it. 

This week I learned that my near year-long effort of unwinding my mom’s story – painful as it’s been – will come into the light in 2023.  I have a publisher willing to showcase the twisty-tale of my mom’s life and I’m grateful.  Over the next two months I’ll be doing a bit more editing to polish up the near 300 pages and then I think I can finally say goodbye to her – despite the fact that she passed seven years ago.

Every bit of this journey was insurmountable in my eyes…without my best friend Linda encouraging me.  “You can do this.  You should do this”, she would say, as she read one chunk after another, offering the gentlest of nudges, motivation, and love. I wish I could bottle Linda’s patience to sprinkle around. I was a lot to handle 😊 – especially when I retreated into the painful globs of life with mom.

What else?  These two thoughts guided me as I struggled to keep writing:

“One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through and it will be someone else’s survival guide.”

-Brene Brown

“The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you can see.”

-Sir Winston Churchill

And my dad…who loved her no matter how hard she made it — and helped me find my way, too. Writing about mom’s madness helped me open a window to see her with forgiveness first.

Xo,

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 9 Comments

Brownie Batter Insights 😊

Carl Jung
Carl Jung

My all-time favorite quote about introspection comes from Carl Jung:

“Solitude is for me a fount of healing which makes my life worth living.  Talking is often a torment for me, and I need many days of silence to recover from the futility of words.”

This is how I feel as an extroverted introvert – otherwise known as an ‘ambivert’ the personality type that rides the middle lane.

I think my personality is a by-product of moving ten times in twelve years as I grew up.  Forever the ‘new girl’ I needed to survey the social nuances – quickly – in order to make friends and connect.  That’s a tall order at any point in life, but when you’re an unsure, lanky, awkward young dork?  Tricky – so I built the skill of fast-friend making.  How?  Ask questions and be prepared to pivot, as needed.  Morph, baby.  And listen, listen, listen.

I suspect those skills framed my future career nicely – both in higher education as a professor and Dean and as a counselor/therapist in my own practice.  I could be extraordinarily extraverted, when needed.  No problem.  Got it.  BUT – I learned quickly that a recovery period after a long day of leading, listening, supporting – even when I loved doing it – was essential.

What else did I learn in the process?  Despite rampant and easily-applied labels, understanding personality types is complicated.  Nuanced.  Personality is not binary. We’re fluid, malleable and flexible and can present aspects of our true selves across the continuum of ‘extraversion vs. introversion’.

How did I manage as a card-carrying introvert in a mostly extraverted work world?  Just fine.  My only issue was remembering to tune into the need to refuel.  I often joked (then and now) that I need to ‘reload my words’ when I’m tapped out.  Give me five or ten, family, friends and I’ll be right back with you.  Right now, I’m fresh out of words.

There are a gazillion different tests – some shady, some reliable – if you want to delve into whether you’re more extraverted or introverted.  I think it’s helpful info, but it probably won’t tell you much that you don’t already know.  Is one type better than another?  No, of course not, despite this cheeky article lauding the merits of introversion. 

I still see myself as an ambivert because of my people-pleasing tendencies and high empathy. Consistently, my thought process is this:  What do YOU need me to be?  Let’s go with that.  And that’s how I live my life, unapologetically, but with awareness of the self-imposed fatigue.

Nasty fatigue.  It’s my nemesis more than anything else.  This past weekend provided a pointed reminder.  Sweet sister Lisa tested me during her visit over the weekend (check out this post from a few weeks back for more detail about my lovable, disabled sister).

Lisa lives in a terrific, well-staffed group home with lady friends with similar disabilities.  Whenever possible, we love having Lisa with us over a weekend, especially if family festivities like a barbeque are on deck.  Such was the case over Labor Day.

In addition to packing too much for a short stay (a genetic problem in the family) Lisa delights in bringing juicy tidbits and gossipy fun facts about her housemates, along with whispered shade about staff, programs, services.  She’s disabled but she’s more emotionally intelligent and verbal than most folks of normal IQ.  😉 AND she loves recounting all of it to me. 

See where I’m going?  I love Lisa but after non-stop listening – and not the half-listening that involves just a nod of recognition – she’s looking to chat – I begin to lose steam.  Not wanting to be short tempered with her, I find things for us to do and that works for a while as a distraction. 

This past weekend as I was teetering toward snapping at her, I remembered how funny she can be if lighten up and play along.  She wasn’t the problem, I realized – it was me.  I had too much **other** on my mind and Lisa sensed it, thinking I was upset with her.  My introverted self needed refueling for the heavy (but fun) impending BBQ socialization and that, coupled with my preoccupation with cooking and prepping, ramped up Lisa’s non-stop storytelling. I made her nervous.

Oh golly.  It just took a few minutes of slowing down over a bowl of brownie batter (with two spoons) to prompt silly reminiscing about childhood cooking disasters.  There were plenty, typically swirled together with outrageous things our mom did.  The laugh track that was our childhood. 

As I ruminated about Lisa last night, my summation thought yielded just this:  Extraversion, introversion, ambivert – whatever.  I needed to send out a search party to find my funny and laughter brought the pieces back together.  It usually does. 

Thanks for reading.  Thanks for letting me share.

Xo,

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 10 Comments

Family Traditions: Trees, Please

Family history – three trees!

My husband descends from a pioneering family that settled in the small village near our current home.  Immigrating from the Alsace region of France and Germany in the early 1800’s they were part of a small pack of persevering souls who established the quaint town that’s now more tourist destination than residential.  A haven for those who relish the opportunity to travel back in time, shop, nosh and recall simpler days.

We knew snippets of family history from my mother-in-law, Maxine, but believe the surface-level storytelling and limited sharing was the result of embedded, gender norms – favoring the retelling of patriarchal tidbits of family history much more than the matriarchal.  Sigh.  It was his mother’s family – not his father’s – who literally blazed a pioneering trail but her legacy and history were sidelined as less important.  How irksome; but that’s not the point – at least not at the moment.

Maxine’s great grandparents arrived on the plains and brought traditions from their wooded homeland.  Evergreen trees were plentiful in heavily forested Alsace and one of most endearing stories was the tale of the painstaking transport of three small evergreen saplings across the Atlantic. I can imagine some arguments about this – a sentimentality vs. practicality tussle – but how lovely that sentiment won, I say.

We often wondered if all the human travelers in the family made it to America safely, because the ‘tree tale’ was more vibrantly recounted.  Records are spotty, at best, even with the dynamic search engine tools like Ancestry.com.  At least three family members – the husband and wife and one child – arrived safely and a few cousins, it seems. 

Piecing together facts from decaying photo albums and journals, along with the family Bible yielded one fantastic find.  A simple red frame home that still stands in our tiny community was the homestead.  Built by the grandparents, three times over, and identifiable for years as theirs because of the three stalwart and regal trees that stood in their modest front yard. Evergreens.

Maxine, before she passed, acknowledged the ‘little red house’ built by her distant elders but she never mentioned the story behind the trees.  A local historian helped to fill those gaps using records long forgotten about the family.  The sweet crimson structure still stands – now converted into retail space.  Sadly, only two of the three trees remain.  One wonders what happened to the third. 

Discoveries about family history can come in large lumps or in tiny waves.  Learning about the house and the trees was like the latter – ancestral echoes that, once summoned together, created a spectacular story.   If only we’d drilled down more with Maxine to better understand the oral history, to supplement the archival tidbits stitched together. 

Time was not on our side; she passed AND years passed and it wasn’t until we bought a nearby home that the a-ha moments arrived.  Of all the remarkable aspects, one especially stands out and it’s about the three trees.

Across many years of married life, we’ve lived in several homes  – fixing them up and moving on – but with heavy hearts each time.  As much as we knew we’d miss certain features of each home, the greatest lament always involved saying goodbye to beloved trees. 

Without knowing it (at least in any conscious way) every home we’ve ever lived in was improved upon, landscape-wise, with the addition of three or more trees. 

Every home. 

Most received a cluster of three evergreen trees for decorative screening, shade, or wind control.  Often we planted more than three but always three together, somewhere on each lot. 

There’s more.  When our daughter was born, we wanted to instill a love of nature and conservation and decided an annual tradition of planting a ‘birthday tree’ (yes, an evergreen) would do the trick.  And we did.  As she grew, we finagled and fretted every spring…where will the next tree go?  An homage to family, in ways we never suspected. Three trees, please.

-Vicki ❤

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Bumps & Blessings in Parenting

frustrated mom face
Photo by Monstera on Pexels.com

Right now, it might be hard to fathom, but I’ll share a truth with you.  The one that kept me (more or less) sane during the roller coaster ride that is parenting:  The highs and lows will suck air from your soul.  This is not a drill.  Despite the resplendent, breathtakingly shiny moments  – those that are gloriously joyful – you can’t linger there because the valley is waiting, too. 

The valley is where you’ll question everything – especially yourself.  In those moments you might fret that you’re incapable, ill-suited, or too impatient for the rigors of parenting.  I don’t care how old your children are – whether newbies in onesies, toddlers, or teens – they will rock you with the unexpected as they morph and grow.  Developmentally pre-destined, this push-pull of parenting.

When your babies return after the miracle miles of maturity, you’ll see them, still, as your squishy newborns, but they’ll be disguised in grown up packaging. Even as full-fledged adults, their needs for attachment are still there – but in new wrappers. 

Parenting is maddeningly unscripted, unpredictable (and, I found, in constant conflict with my plan-ahead personality) but you move through it, relishing the sunny days and smooth roads when they arrive.  They come and you remember:  I am nothing if not resilient.

Take care of yourself, my parenting compadre.  One day you might look up and see a little being who once ate crayons (“Just to try them, mom”) as a near-peer, standing before you.  Still needing you, same as ever, just taller, and less sticky.

Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 4 Comments

Dads and Daughters

Dad and daughter on sofa relaxing
This is how you take a break!

I love this pic of my favorite “Dad and daughter”.  There are days when I’m flummoxed by my good fortune.  How did I get so lucky?  I found a partner who’s put up with me for decades while reserving just enough patience to be a doting, loving papa.

What I enjoy most is the connection these two have around tools and knowing how to fix stuff.  Me?  In the face of full-on armageddon, I won’t survive because I have zero skills.  No hands-on capacity whatsoever unless it involves cooking or baking.  When the apocalypse comes, I’ll be whipping up a batch of brownies, just so you know.

Fixing something?  Home repairs?  Understanding anything about mechanicals, engineering?  Nope, nope and nope.  These two, however?  The gene pool richly rewarded our “DD” (dear daughter) with all of the how-to skills the world could offer – in the form of do-it-yourselfer DNA from her papa.

I suppose I contributed to some of her other talents (she’s the best negotiator I know 😉) but this photo speaks to me – especially now.  She’s old enough to demonstrate that she has the blessed combo of people skills and smarts about ‘things’. 

“DD” is a strong young woman with a caretaker heart and while I feel a sense of pride in her academic abilities and accomplishments, the fact that she knows her way around a toolbox means just as much.  Maybe more? She’s my independent, step back and let me do it girl – no matter the task. 

After a job well done, she also knows how to kick back and relax.  Her papa showed her how to do that, too. 

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 4 Comments

Love, Magic, Wonder

Love with heart
Photo by Ylanite Koppens on Pexels.com

This morning I peeked at pieces I’ve written recently (and some that are still ‘in the pipeline’) and remarked (yes, talking to myself) that three words seem pervasive:  LOVE, MAGIC, WONDER.

No, I didn’t do an official search and count…I’m not going for precision here.  But still, I spent a meditative moment (followed by some necessary self-talk) ruminating about being repetitive and boring. 

Yep – there’s the self-evaluator in me surfacing.  I hollered back, ‘So what? What’s true, is true!’  And then I remembered this from Persian poet Hafiz:

“The words you speak become the house you live in.”

Taking a little liberty and swapping out ‘speak’ for ‘think’ or ‘write’ offers the guidance I needed.  It’s okay.  Go forward, Vicki, and use “love, magic, wonder” endlessly, boldly, authentically. 

And so…I send those three things to you today.  Love, magic and wonder – in abundance!

-Vicki ❤

Posted on by Victoria · 5 Comments

White Shirt, Helping Heart

man wearing sunglasses in white shirt

I took this photo of my dad while on a family vacation in Mexico – decades ago.  It became a favorite – for both of us – but possibly not for the reasons you’d imagine.  Yep, it’s a handsome pic of a handsome man but the binding between us had nothing to do with mutual admiration for his face (or his swanky mirrored shades).

It was all about the shirt.  Take a look. What do you see?  Pretty buttoned-up, right?  Indeed.  Even on vacation, my dad was tidy and scrupulous about how he dressed.  Known for packing more outfits than my mom – by a mile – dad loved his white dress shirts for any and all occasions. 

Did he tote along typical beach duds?  Sort of.  If you’d call a slew of short sleeve 😉 white button downs “casual wear”.  Any tropical board shorts in his suitcase?  No, no, no.  Only plain (and seemingly starched and pressed) navy, knee-length swim trunks.  Two pairs – so one pair was ever-ready, dry and good-to-go. 

He was fastidious to a fault and endured a lot of ridicule (yep, from me) for his ‘board room’ vs. ‘beach’ attire but he was also generous and charming.  As tightly wound as he was about his appearance and apparel, he was equally loose and loving with those he cared about.  I think his white shirt rigidity made it easier for him to be spontaneous in other ways.

My dad knew how to make everyone around him feel like a big-time winner.  How?  He never wanted or needed eyes on him.  I suspect he’d had enough of that along the way. At 6’ 4” tall, he towered over most folks and by size alone, was cast as a caretaker.  The solid one. 

In an unguarded moment once he told me he suspected he was a mighty oak in another life because people so willingly trusted him and admired his strength.  Sometimes, he said, strength he knew he DID NOT possess (or was in short supply).  Still – he rose and served – but when he could manage it, he mostly wanted to be in the background and not center stage.  “All the better to have eyes on who needs help the most”, he’d say.

He’s been gone for many years and yet he’s always nearby.  I figure nuggets of my heart and soul – the cosmic soup that is ME – came from pretty good stock.  His.  And that’s sweet comfort for me, every day.

-Vicki ❤