I once heard modern Christianity described as "mile-wide, inch-deep." Lately, I've thought this of my friendships. I know many friends (not just in the Quaker sense) but that with many of them, too many, I think, I have yet to get past the "polite point"-- the point where you go on a lot of assumptions, where you love eachother's clothes but your still not certain you have her husband's name right. If unchallenged, I think my whole life could go on this way. I could be content to make countless superficial acquaintence-ships. I'm pretty good at this. But when I see Zady Hasse, pictured here with my girl Clara, I stop in my tracks and am forced to remember with a strange mix of tremendous joy and also guilty regret my own best friends. Geoff continues to urge me to get back in touch with my first soul mate, Joyce. Getting back in touch with her has given me renewed belief in the girl scout song "Make new friends but keep the old. . . " Not only is Schmenky pure gold but it takes no time at all to connect, to understand to be understood. Just hearing her voice again has had a restorative effect on my faith in mankind. No one makes my abs hurt from laughing like she does. From ages 7 to 16, we were inseparable. I actually began to take on Italianate features and my relatives were convinced she had Filipino blood. So, what I want for Clara Margot in the end is this kind of friendship, to be known so well, to grow with someone. To have a Jonathan/David, Sookie/Lorelei, Laverne/Shirley kind of palship.

"In a desert land he found him, in a barren and howling waste. He shielded him and cared for him; he guarded him as the apple of his eye." from Deuteronomy 32. As Geoff's grandpa gets closer to death, our reactions have woven in and out of coping. One moment the thought of it is so grave and so stark then another moment it is back to our own mundane rhythm here, school, house, church. Talking with a dear friend today, she mentioned having an affinity with the geriatric set. If there's one thing I know, it's that, generally speaking, I do not have an affinity with them. I am really uncomfortable with medication, with hospitals, with sanitized settings, with convalescence, honestly. A different friend who's a nurse was saying how she went to a talk by a woman who was once a midwife and who now works in hospice care, or as I'm learning, end of life care. The talk was about how similar death is to birth. When put this way, I get it. I want to care for Grandpa the way I was cared for in my births. I wanted tender encouragement. I wanted support that I was making good decisions. I wanted physical comfort but I didn't want to shrink away from what was happening. I wanted to move with the process but not be hurried. I wanted to pass from one thing to the next with dignity and awareness. I wanted to breathe in the warmth of my loved ones. I want all of this for Grandpa. I want him to be found, to be shielded, cared for and guarded as the apple of God's eye. Barren and howling as death seems.

Saying Something

Today I gave a reading for the first time in almost four years. I was given these poems and I needed to share them and get out of the way of them. Geoff said that my voice sounded stronger than ever and I feel as though my husband and my babies have fortified me. Helen gave me this advice: "Don't apologize for anything. Insecurity makes the audience feel uneasy. Expect it to be great. The audience will meet you if you step forward." Amazing how versatile this advice is.

Clara's baptism day. A winter afternoon lunch with loved ones.