Hurricane of Prayer.

I'm supposed to be sitting in a theater in NYC's Lincoln Center tonight, enjoying the Tony winning play, War Horse, with my daughter and sister. And we made reservations for brunch tomorrow morning at the celebrated restaurant Balthazar in Soho. We planned such a wonderful trip.

But needless to say, we cancelled that trip on Thursday night as the reports of Hurricane Irene grew more  concerning by the minute. And while we are very disappointed to miss our long planned trip to New York, this can't compare to the fear and suffering the East Coast people are going through now.

But tonight my daughter is in New York City because she recently moved there. As I write this she is hunkered down in an apartment with friends in Chelsea, only four blocks from the Hudson River. As her mother, I am beyond worried. But I must trust that she will be safe. I must have faith.

I'm sending up a request to all of you for positive thoughts and prayers, not only for my daughter ...  but for all of those in harm's way with this horrific storm. Collective positive energy can swirl, gather strength and become a powerful force, much like a hurricane.

Thank you and blessings to all.

Sunday morning update: The kid is safe! Thank heavens Irene lost steam and THANK YOU ALL for your prayers!

My Pet Peeves

 Last week we made the difficult decision of putting down our beautiful 13 year old Lab, Angel. Until I find the right time and words to write a commemorative post about her, I am re-posting one I wrote for another blog quite some time ago. This may say it best.

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(This blog post was originally published on January 1, 2010.)

I was kind of in the mood to gripe about a few of my pet peeves, like:

wrestling with tangled clothes hangers,

or, people who say "her and I" (as in, "Her and I ditch English class often.")

or, rude and sullen service people who mutter (without even glancing up from their task at hand) things like "what's up" when you go to pick up your passport photo at Walgreen's. And I don't mean a friendly, cheerful "hey, wassup!" ... I mean a "what-the-hell-do-you-want-lady, you're-bothering-me" what's up.

Or, sheesh, they can send a man to the moon but nobody can figure out how to make a garden hose that doesn't kink,

or, clueless grocery shoppers who abandon their carts in the middle of the aisle as they wander off to contemplate nutrition labels,

or, the fact that we are always knee-deep in dog hair at our house, despite endless vacuuming.

But that last pet peeve got me to thinking about the pet that causes that peeve and then I started feeling less bitchy and more, well ... all mushy inside. The source of all that dog hair is Angel, our 12 year old yellow Lab. Baby Girl, Mike calls her. But our Baby Girl is getting on in years. And, oh dear ... that makes you think. And now I don't so much feel like bitching about petty stuff anymore.
Angel came to us as a 9 week old pup in 1998. Elizabeth was 10 and we had promised her a puppy when we moved to Austin; she in turn promised us she would be responsible for taking care of this dog. Parents 'round the world? Does this ever happen? (raspberry sound here) Elizabeth named Angel after her favorite food at the time, angel HAIR pasta, and after a couple of shedding seasons it became clear that Elizabeth's name choice was a little joke from the universe. Shouldn't we have taken the "hair" part of that name inspiration and called her Harriet? Especially since Angel seemed a poor choice for the naughty youngster she was. But as she got older, it was evident Angel was a perfect name as she became our gentle, patient, devoted companion and protector.

She's not been an especially healthy or low maintenance dog however, and she has cost us a small fortune in vet bills, especially in contrast to our miniature dachshund, Rosemary, who's never had a sick day in her life (and who sometimes uses Angel's ass for a pillow; above). Angel takes the prize for ear infections, chronic skin allergies, compulsive licking, paw chewing, and scratching. She often wears toddler's socks (pictured above) to keep her from gnawing paws raw. She's been on an expensive allergy medication for several years now ($50 a month) and does an occasional course of steroids for bad flare ups. As you can see, she's never particularly happy about all this. In September she tore her acl and had surgery, a big deal for an older dog because the recovery process (below) is intense. Again, not happy. She's hobbling a bit but doing pretty well now! For an old Baby Girl.
But the shedding. Ack! I find blond dog hair in my morning coffee and on my pillow at night. I even found one in the microwave the other day. My slippers, which are not the furry, fluffy kind, are furry and fluffy. And our clothes ... well, suffice it to say we have a lifetime supply of lint rollers which are strategically stationed throughout the house.

Angel is a year-round shedder, even shedding great gobs in winter when other dogs are smartly building up and hanging onto their winter coats. You can see the hair falling off blizzard-like when she strolls by. I could stuff a sofa with the hair I collect after I brush her on the back porch. I often throw fistfuls of it into the yard and come spring, the birds snatch bits of it to line their nests. In the fall we find these empty nests in the naked branches of trees and we tell Angel that she has made a loving contribution to the comfort and protection of tender fledglings, who will soon be the parents of more fledglings come next spring. And on and on.

I often complain that I wish I had back all of the hours I've spent on extra vacuuming over the years since we've had Angel. I don't really. She has been worth every minute of it, worth every penny spent at the vet, every moment devoted to her convalescing, every chewed up Bally shoe and every Barbie ensemble ingested as a puppy. The best part is that we can say this now, while she is still with us. We can nuzzle her neck and tell her how important she is to us. She has been our mentor, showing us how to love. Showing us how it's done.

There is such an abundance of Angel hair blowing about our yard that long after she is gone someday, the birds will still be lining their nests with Angel hair every spring. When we find those abandoned nests in fall, our hearts will swell and we will tell Angel again: you always did and always will make a loving contribution to the comfort and protection of tender lives.

That's what Angels do.

The Big Gift

It's my birthday and I'm giving myself a present! But more important, I'd like to give the Progeria kids a present.

Please scroll down and check out my last blog post about Progeria, the rare and cruel disease that causes children to age rapidly. These children march bravely through the few years they have to live. Birthdays are limited.

So here's the plan for presents. On the selfish side, I'm trying to bring new followers and comments to my blog. (But this is all part of a grander plan down the road which actually has non-selfish motives!) So to encourage participation I am going to donate $5 to the Progeria Research Foundation for every new follower and $2 for every comment left on my blog from today until the end of August. I will have a cap on the amount I can donate (just in case I get flooded with responses, which is my hope!) but it will be a pretty high cap ... maybe somewhere between $300 - $500. Haven't decided yet.

So please sign on as a follower .... it's a win/win!

Two ways to do it:

You can either click on the blue "join this site" button to your right and use your google account to follow or, if you don't already have a google account the blue button should direct you to register for one ... which you never have to use afterwards if you don't want to.

Or, you can sign up as a follower through the Networked Blogs button.

And if you share this on Facebook or tweet it, that would be awesome. Then it just might spread like wildfire! Those buttons are also to your right.

I love presents! Thank you!

She just lives.

 Last week I turned on the TV and landed on a Barbara Walters show about the rare disease Progeria, which causes early aging in children. The show featured three little girls with Progeria; Lindsay, Kaylee and Hayley.

These children suffer from countless afflictions and rarely live past their early teens. They have no hair on their bodies, are very pale and fragile, have larger heads, bulging eyes and beaked noses. In other words, unlike most of us, these children have been dealt a very, very difficult hand. Not only do they suffer from this cruel disease and it's difficult treatment, but they look extremely different from the average child, which makes them subject to stares and cruel words from those who don't understand.

During this show, the mom of one of these little girls (and I think it was Lindsay's mom but I'm sorry that I'm not absolutely certain) said something that just hit me in the heart with a big thud. She was talking about how her daughter is such an inspiration and mentor to her, because despite all the pain, difficulty and adversity in her life, Lindsay looks beyond that and ... "she just lives."

Just those three little words. She just lives.

She doesn't care how she looks. She doesn't care what people say.  She giggles her way through her day. She adores her devoted family and friends. She's grateful for her time on this planet.  She just lives.

Say no more.

Lindsay and Kaylee, in Boston September 2009 for their
final visit in the first clinical trial (for which they received
trophies!) and their 1st visit for the new, triple drug trial.

For more information about Progeria or to donate to the Progeria Research Foundation, please click here.

Who I Am

painting by L. Diane Johnson

Last week I noticed an elderly woman in a restaurant in Carmel, California where I was lunching with my Mom. She was dining alone and seemed to be having the most enjoyable, leisurely time of it. She wore khaki capris, a plain white shirt and a straw garden hat with a silver ponytail trailing out from under it. Her lined face was beautiful ... she reminded me a bit of the late Jessica Tandy, actually. I commented to my Mom, "Now there's a typical Carmel lady." Artsy, beachy, unpretentious, maybe on the wealthy side (I mean really, it's Carmel).

My mom and I enjoyed on own leisurely and scrumptious lunch ... big wedges of the most divine deep-dish veggie quiche and gorgeous fruit. (Okay, and coconut cream pie and a latte.) As I watched this Carmel lady, the writer in me immediately launched into conjuring up the details of her life.

She was an artist, of course. (Because it is Carmel, the city of galleries.) She's just taken a break from a gratifying morning of painting in her glorious garden. She's a regular here at this restaurant, dropping in often for lunch or a croissant and cappuccino. There is warmth in her eyes as she smiles at the waitress who brings her salad. She is friendly and welcoming.

Yet she is a loner in many ways. She loves her solitude and her creative time. It feeds and nourishes her soul. She has learned that using her gifts and talents and sharing them with the world is the most powerful connection to God. She is at a point in her life where she doesn't care what other people think. She's over it. She imperfect and worthy and grateful for every blessing that has come into her path. She is overwhelmingly content with her art, her house full of books and memories, her daily stroll on the beach, and her devoted family and friends.

Yes, as I painted the picture of her life I painted my own. This is who I hope to be in my 70s and 80s; I want the Carmel lady's life. Funny thing is, I feel like I'm well on my way. Over the years I've managed to wiggle myself from a place of self-doubt into a place of celebrating being an imperfect person living in an imperfect world and feeling utterly worthy of every day I get to stand on the right side of the grass. And I've recently had a return to painting and writing, two passions I've put aside for years. I've learned you can't turn away from these things .... they will come back after you because they are part of who you are at your core. Writer Mary Jo Putney says, "What one loves in childhood stays in the heart forever." Words that ring so true. And so ........

This is who I was.
This is who I am .
This is who I will be.

(You never know how much you might inspire somebody, just by sitting there eating a salad. Thank you, beautiful Carmel lady.)

No journey is too great .....

I'm off to California to visit my Mom, who turned 89 yesterday. She is in surprisingly great health, has so much energy, and has a far better memory than I do! I plan to have a fun few days celebrating her birthday and catching up. (And it's 45 degrees cooler there than here in good ol' hot Austin, Texas ... a refreshing change!)

But before I go, I want to leave you with this wonderful sentiment on a thank-you card my beautiful friend and neighbor Jane, gave me ... just for bringing her some peach cobbler! When I read this, a tremendous feeling of wonder and gratitude washed over me, because I realized I DO find whatever I seek. I have hoped for people like Jane in my life and here she is. Another of my favorite people in the whole wide world, Katherine (who also happens to be my cousin's wife) found her way back into my life by moving into a house right across the road from me, all the way from New Zealand. I live out in the country which is what I've always wanted. I have a wonderful, creative life, and three sweet dogs who follow me around adoringly. I have a terrific husband and a daughter who is truly a dream come true.

This is the life I have sought and this is the life I have. Yep, sometimes the journey is rocky but it is worth everything when you find what you seek. Thank you, Jane.

A card with a dachshund even!

Brooklyn

Funny how just when you think you're all grown up, you put on a big growth spurt. At age 57.

Last weekend I went to Brooklyn to visit my daughter who moved there a month ago. Her move was a big leap, not just for her ... but for me. You see, she's my only child and not only was it so hard to see her go, but ... well, it was difficult to know that she was moving to an uber-urban place like Brooklyn and commuting by subway to her job in NYC. This is a far cry from our laid-back, Southern lifestyle in Austin, Texas. In Brooklyn there is massive graffiti, guys hanging out on stoops, dark and grimy subway stations and, you know ... stuff for a mother to worry about.

But over the course of my three days there, my daughter introduces me to her new Brooklyn neighborhood and beyond. We walk the streets to her favorite coffee house, little diners and restaurants for brunch or pizza, and even to the Flea Market on the East River where we buy her a nice big chest for her apartment. We have a lovely time. Nevertheless, it has been a very long time since I've lived in the Bay Area and navigated the streets of Oakland and I wasn't used to this starkly urban life. I am apprehensive.

We also spend a lot of time in Manhattan during my visit, and I follow my daughter through a maze of tunnels in those dark and grimy subway stations. My preferred way of NYC transportation ("Taxi!") gives way to countless subway trains as she tries to teach me how to do this alone upon my next visit. We take the subway everywhere... to Soho, to Macy's at Harold Square, to Fifth Ave. and 53rd St. where she works ... and all sorts of points in between.

Lots and lots of walking too, which I always enjoy while in Manhattan but this time my feet are killing me. (I think this is called aging. Or quite possibly, as my husband suggests, being out of shape.) As we weave our way through the packed sidewalks of Soho, I'm often cut off by the crowd and get separated from my daughter. She turns, spots me and waits until I can catch up, something like a mother duck and her duckling. She asks about my aching feet and we stop into a drugstore and buy shoe inserts, which helps for awhile.   

On Sunday, as we sit on a bench in Central Park eating our deli sandwiches, it occurs to me that she teaches me now. She teaches me how to ride the subway, how to see that graffiti can be art, how to recognize that those people on their stoops are most likely not thugs, but people enjoying the day. She teaches me how to navigate the city and guides me through her world. Most of all, she teaches me to trust that she will be fine.

She has taken me to the very spot in Central Park where she comes to eat her lunch everyday. It's a beautiful sparkling day. We watch nicely dressed families strolling by after church and the balloon man twisting up crazy shapes for children who beg their parents to buy one. We see the pierced and tattooed lovers whispering on a bench across the path, the numerous pregnant women walking by on the arms of husbands, and nannies rocking napping babies in strollers. I am flooded with memories of my years with this beautiful 24 year old daughter beside me .. as a baby, as a toddler, as a little girl whose hand fit in mine like a tiny sparrow as we walked the tree-lined streets to kindergarten.

I am glad to know this little piece of her day on a Central Park bench, glad to take that perspective home with me to Texas so that I can glance at the clock everyday around 11:30 a.m. and know where she is and what she sees from that bench, because I've been there next to her.

We gather our shopping bags and head out to Fifth Avenue where we hail a taxi. My feet are hurting so bad I cannot even walk the few blocks to the subway station. I'm not as young as I used to be.

And neither is she.

Just one month ago, it was painful to watch her disappear through the retracting doors at the Austin airport en route to NYC, her petite frame slung with heavy duffel bags. That image is branded in my brain. It was worse then leaving her on the steps of her freshman dorm six years before. Much worse. Because this time it seemed she was going so far beyond my reach, disappearing from sight, deep into her new world and life, far away from mine. All those years she spent beneath my cloak of protection are truly over now. When those retracting doors slid closed behind her, I felt the finality of it.

But now I trust that she is (and always has been) beneath a different cloak of protection ... one of a divine and loving nature, and that she will be alright, and safe, and very happy. I try very hard to hand her over.