I had a birthday surprise that was nothing short of a little miracle.

I was walking a favorite path at sunrise. I veered off on a smaller trail to see where it would lead. I almost turned around once or twice but was curious to see where it would go. It was just heading across a big field that ended in a development of townhomes, but still . . . When the path finally came to an end, I looked to the north and saw a sight that took my breath away. From that distance it looked like the notes on a sheet of music. I knew just what it was and could not believe it. I could not believe it! I had to get closer.

I left the path and headed across an expanse of last year's tall prairie grass and plowed my way through in spite of the pokes from the little pricker bushes. I came to a line of trees. No path. I kept going because I wanted to SEE. I picked my way over and under the thick undergrowth and deadfalls of limbs. It wasn't easy. I still have a stick that  poked its way through my heavy army jacket as testimony. I was the pioneer making a discovery that no one else had yet seen. Or so it felt.

I found myself at last on the edge of a large marsh. Dotted across the water were tall, tall dead trees, slimmed down of branches and the perfect place for those immense, long legged cranes to build their nests and easily spread their wide wings to fly in and out of their perches. They were there. Graceful in flight, majestic at rest, standing straight. They were gathering at the beginning of their season of new babies yet to come, as winter kisses spring. The nests remain to welcome them back each year. 

It was such an incredible sight. I alone was there to witness them on that perfect morning. I was there long enough for my hands to get freezing cold as I took pictures as best that I could. I watched until I knew it was time to leave.

Looking back, I am so grateful for that moment. From my own natural curiosity and a gently guiding Hand that kept me moving forward came an unforgettable gift.

Listen up, asshole!

Some of us want to shovel our own sidewalks!

Some of us want the pleasure of carving out a path in freshly fallen pure white snow.

Some of us enjoy being out in the cold and breathing hard in the clean February air.

Some of us like the satisfaction of answering the physical challenge, of looking behind and feeling that sense of accomplishment.

Some of us, yes, like to feel we are making a difference for the neighborhood dog walkers and mail delivery people.

So don’t think just because you have a snow blower that you are god. That you get to blow wherever you please. That your neighbors will fall down in gratitude that you deigned to clear their walks with your gas guzzling machine, its air pollution and noise pollution spoiling the pristine winter moment. 

Maybe you just shouldn’t assume ...

Maybe you should ask first ...

Maybe you should consider that what you think you are giving is actually taking away something irreplaceable. Cuz you can’t put it back once you’ve moved that snow. 

So, well intentioned asshole, unless I am six months pregnant or on my death bed, just leave it. And if I do keel over with a heart attack from shoveling, know that I died doing something I love.

I like to watch the trees
do their slow strip tease
and cast their colorful garments
in a heap at their feet.

to my colorful and self-innovative niece - 

yeah, you know who you are. (smile)

The Lightening

My morning routine is based around clock time.

But the experience is a pure reflection of the time of year.

RIGHT NOW.

I arise in the dark and make my way up the stairs to the attic. Yoga is my first and most perfect wake-up, slowly moving muscles that have slept and feeding them with deep breaths, oxygen their source of energy.

I am in the attic, carpeted and finished many years ago as a bedroom for our two little girls. Later as the “penthouse” for one or another teen-aged kid. Now it serves as the playroom/bedroom for visiting grandchildren. In other words, a place of positive, good vibes.

But at 5:30 in the morning it is mine. When my genius husband put on a new roof many, many years ago, he added six skylights. Two face east, four face south, bringing in the  most light possible.

RIGHT NOW.

The lightening happens during my yoga practice through the skylights I stretch under. I love witnessing that magic that slowly changes dimness ... to shapes ... to the faintest colors ... to the bright hello of a new day. 

And as I walk outside for part II of my morning routine, I am often treated to a one of a kind sunrise made just for that day ... maybe an orange glow along the line between earth and sky ... or a full blown pattern of pinks across the clouds. A show that costs nothing but to look up.

And in six months my “RIGHT NOW” will repeat itself. But in between ... well, I’ll save that for another day. 

If I had my druthers ... my clock would have a little hand that moves with the seasons ... a big hand that traces the phases of the moon ... and a seconds hand marking each sunrise and sunset. 

“You come from good stock.”

That is what my mom said to me when I was expecting my first child. She said it in that way she had which was not to be questioned. She meant it to be reassuring to me ... that I came from a long line of successful births and healthy babies. Actually that simple statement was reassuring. 

The other day I found myself saying those same words to my two daughters, one who was at the threshold of giving birth to her first, and the other one who may one day be standing at that same threshold.

We had taken the day to grab a much enjoyed winter ritual of looking for eagles. The nearby Fox River has amazingly become a habitat during the coldest months for our nation’s revered symbol. 

The day was bright and just cold enough to be comfortable for our walk (or our waddle as the case may be -- sorry, Molly!). Though our goal was to see eagles, it became less important than the time together to talk and walk and take in the sights. Our togetherness was the heart of the morning. Just me and my girls - how often does that happen these days?

We had turned around on the path and were heading back. We came to the bridge across the river and paused there. I took that moment to tell Maggie and Molly what my mom had said to me. “You come from good stock.” They understood, and it felt like a good moment. It was right then we saw the first eagle. Then another. And another.

The wind had picked up and I believe that provided the lift for those large, magnificent raptors. We were enthralled and grateful and intrigued by their graceful and fluid movements. 

It wasn’t until later that I made a connection. My mom was also very fond of eagles. Her “decor” was riddled with eagles. Maybe not the kind that grace the sky. But rather a reflection of the patriotism that ingrained her spirit. She lived through World War II while in her early 20’s. 

I like to think that my mom was there with us standing on the bridge watching the eagles soar. And witnessing the words she gave her daughter once upon a time ... in turn be passed on to her daughter’s daughters.

Maybe the eagles were not the only ones to soar that morning.

Crossing Paths

It is time to write about this because I don’t want to lose this experience to the cobwebs I call my mind these days.

There was a stranger. I said three words to him in a fleeting instance. But the message resonated with him. And he returned the favor. That kindred moment left me changed.

............................

In celebration of Mother’s Day, I wanted to challenge myself to an extra long hike. Maggie, my lovely daughter and faithful co-hiker and I set off on that glorious May morning. We started at the northern most boundary of North Blackwell, leaving from Gary’s Mill Road and continued through open land, past McKee Marsh, as still as a mirrored table top, then crossed Mack Road into South Blackwell, passing through fields and old growth woods. It was just right, with good smells and lots of birds and blooms to notice.

The stranger came jogging towards us when we were maybe halfway to our goal. The usual nod and a smile were given that we people on the path always share. Because we shared more than the path, we shared the good feeling of just being there.

The stranger had his goal and we had ours. As we neared the parking lot along Butterfield Road at the end of our two hour walk, he came up behind us, still jogging. I said the three words in the one second when he was at our heels, just loud enough for him to hear. And he was gone. 

I try to make a point of telling someone what I notice about them, especially if it is positive. We all need to hear that if it is true. We all need to speak it if it is true. This was such a case.

At last Maggie and I reached the car we had left waiting for us, tired but grinning. The stranger was in the parking lot too. He approached me and said very little. He said that my words gave him encouragement at a time when he needed it and wanted me to know that. He did not need to say this, but he did. It warmed me in a way that has stuck with me. 

............................

To satisfy your curiosity, I will tell you what my three words were, although I should warn you, it may end up detracting from the story. Think about it before reading:

                                                                                                                                                                                  I admire you.

The Big G is for Good

If you feel as if you are acquiring a negative view of the world, then maybe you should look at yourself first and see the kind of image that you are projecting out into the world.

This story is true and reinforces my belief that Karma happens and that the great majority of people ... are good.

I wrote a thank you letter to General Mills -- that is, to the plant manager of the General Mills factory that operates about a block from our house. It has been there since we moved here in 1973. It is an icon of the neighborhood.

But, for whatever reason, the plant will be closing in the near future. I have been thinking about it ever since I heard the news. The workers who will be impacted. Who or what will take its place, or worse, for how long will it remain empty and unattended.

But mostly I have been thinking about how the General Mills plant has made a difference for me personally, this big, impartial, impersonal industrial presence. And as far as factories go, it has not been that bad. 

So I wrote a thank you letter and expressed in my own way how much I have enjoyed the good General Mills smells that waft into my garden and fragrant my daily walks. I mentioned how important Cheerios have been as a staple for my husband and our four children as they grew up. I described (confessed) that on the rare holiday when the parking lot was empty, our kids would take advantage by riding bikes, racing remote control cars and just enjoying the uninhibited SPACE. 

I concluded the letter with:

You have made a difference in our lives in many ways, and I am sure we are not the only family who can say that. I thought you should know while you are still ... our good neighbors.

I mailed the letter and immediately felt a lightness, a relief that I had said my peace. I asked the plant manager to please post the letter in all the break rooms so that every employee could read it ... since it was literally for them.

The plant manager paid a call on our house a few days later and dropped off a fitting sign of his appreciation: a box of samples of their products as an edible keepsake of the factory’s efforts. I was just happy that I had been heard, and delighted that my intended kindness had been reciprocated. 

This happened at the end of February. 

Time passed as it resolutely does. 

Turn the calendar pages forward by about seven weeks and come to last Friday as I came wearily to our back door after work and entered. On our dining room table were nine grocery bags - 9!! - that were packed with more General Mills products, fresh from the plant and ready to eat. There were 16 packages of assorted Bugles. I had no idea they came in so many sizes and varieties! There were 42 boxes of cereal from Golden Grahams (my kids went through those like crazy back in the day) to Fiber One to a special edition of a cereal called Minions. (hunh?? OK, I am not with it) Most likely you will understand that reference. 

As I looked at the bags and bags on our table, I was speechless -- flabbergasted -- and so incredibly amazed. My letter had by chance been noticed by the plant’s union president. A regular guy who stood up for the 400 some employees there and who also worked side by side with them. 

Not only did he bring these nine delicious bags to our doorstep (thank goodness Bob is always home now in his retired glory), but he also wrote me a letter that gave to me a greater gift ... what he felt when he read what I had written.

There is no easy way to explain this. But this man, who has been at the plant for the last 26 years, revealed to me what the closing of the plant meant to him. I was so delighted and sad at the same time. For instance, he wrote:

I cannot thank you enough for your kind words and your thoughtful stories of Bob and your children. We too are reminiscing with each other more than ever lately.

Your letter found me at a perfect time to lift my spirits. It has been very emotional for all of us. I worry about everyone here at my plant.

I respect this man who took the time and trouble to speak his peace in response to mine ... a regular guy in his regular world ... the faceless stranger who just the same reached out and confirmed a bond of mutual regard. 

It costs nothing and brings great inner reward to say something that is true and positive to someone you don’t know. Toot someone else’s horn -- or should I say “bugle.” (wink)