Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: How I Learned to Meditate.

March 24, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

I learned to meditate while Ma was dying. If she had died suddenly. Or in another place. At a different time. I’d probably have a different story to tell.

As an enduring student of yoga, I made countless attempts over the years to learn the nebulous art of meditation. But I just didn’t get it. Stilling my mind was impossible. Sitting cross-legged for anything longer than a minute or two just about killed me. Om aside, staying focused on ‘nothing’ was a ridiculous premise at best. Stopping the endless chatter inside my mind was frustrating. All of it made me uncomfortable. Pain, pain, pain. That was my mantra.

I also tried meditating while in the corpse pose. This just put me to sleep. Within minutes I was dead to the world. A gaping mouthed drooling transcendental disaster.

Ma used to say that God works in mysterious ways. I didn’t get that either. I’ve always expected God to be more direct. Obvious. Straightforward. Shoot from the hip. Strike with a bolt of lightening. Flood the earth. And part the seas. Regardless of their color.

Who knows. Maybe Ma and I were talking about different Gods. Despite all those Sunday mornings sitting side-by-side in the ass-numbing wooden pews of Christ Lutheran Church. Hers was an enigmatic deity filled with paradoxes, parables and puzzles. And with an inexplicable and absolutely unfathomable approach to running things. Mine was simple. He/She spoke my language. Read my letters. Understood the complexities and subtle nuances of the word fuck. And why it was part of my daily vernacular.

Then Ma had a heart attack.

I thanked God for not striking her dead instantly. Which He/She most certainly could have, especially if He/She was in a particularly angry mood on the morning of Ma’s heart attack. Remember all that scary shit from the Old Testament?

Instead we got another 18 months to enjoy Ma’s presence on Earth. And what a gift that time was.

Most of the last six months of her life was spent in a hospital, on the West Coast. She came for a visit a few months after the heart attack and never left. By this time The Old Man was living, and I use this term loosely, in a dreary Senior’s home back in Northwestern Ontario. They died 5 weeks apart, and 3 thousand miles away from each other. They hooked up in heaven though. At least that’s what I believe. That notion brought me comfort then. It brings me comfort now. Then, I’ve always liked stories with happy endings.

We held vigil by Ma’s bedside.

At times there were enough of us to form a small crowd. We clustered around Ma’s frail sheet-draped declining body. Her little flock of fragile birds. Still hungry to be fed. We took turns holding her hand. We laughed. Cried. Prayed. Told stories. I’m guessing there was nothing unusual about our good-bye time with Ma. We weren’t the first family to experience this. But this was our first time. Our first rodeo.

My heart was fractured. Armor chinked. Equilibrium faltered as the earth beneath my feet shook. I was standing on a fault line with nowhere to go. With my lifelong safety net lying in a bed dying.

This was also a time of transformation.

My favorite time with Ma was when it was just the two of us. Not just because it was precious mother-daughter time, which was slipping rapidly and elusively away. But because it brought me peace. In the midst of family chaos and emotional gut-wrenching wringer days, this quiet alone time with Ma became a place to escape. A safe haven. A sanctuary. It was the sheltered harbor where I moored my heart and allowed my spirit to rest. Next to hers.

It was in this quiet place that I learned about God and his mysterious ways. It was during these soft murmuring twilight hours that I learned to meditate. Ma taught me everything I needed to know about the stuff that mattered in life. This was no different.

Hours would pass. Time had no meaning. I sat next to her bed in the clinically designed hospital chair, with the hard vinyl seat and wooden arms. The type fashioned for short visits and good posture. Neither of which applied in this situation. But it didn’t matter.

Very little was said during these visits. Words were no longer necessary.

I watched Ma sleep. The gentle rise and fall of her breath against her flannel nightgown. The stillness of her body. Her peaceful repose. It soothed me. Ma had always been able to comfort me when I was hurt. Nothing had changed in that regard.

I slipped effortlessly into rhythm with Ma’s breathing. Inhaled. Exhaled. I closed my eyes. I let the world drift away. There was no dying. There was no living. There was just being. Ma. Me. God.

And with the ease of a soaring eagle, I was meditating.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: This Year I’ll be a Better Me. Or not.

January 5, 2014January 5, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

I’m not big on resolutions. New Year’s or otherwise. But I do want to be a better, kinder, gentler me. More loving. More magnanimous. More heart. More soul. More La Bamba.

And what better time to start a self-improvement regime than on January 1 of each year.

Fresh starts, heroic efforts and good intentions aside, odds are I’ll be a kaleidoscopic mixed bag of goodies and baddies this coming year. Just like last year and the year before that. And the year before, before, before. You get the picture. For this is the enigma that makes living sweet and interesting. Irresistible and delicious. Inspiring and auspicious. I could soar with the divine Messengers of God. Or grovel in the mud with the Prince of Darkness himself. Who knows. That’s the intriguing part. The ride. The rock. The roll of this thing called life.

But let’s imagine for a moment, I was big on resolutions. Picture me sitting at my computer on New Year’s Day typing up an entire year’s worth of aspirations, desires and goals.

Categorically they might go something like this:

Spiritual:

I’ll be more spiritual. Or not. I may just float this boat into the sea of iniquity. Not intentionally. That’s not me. But I might drift off-course from time to time. I’m human. Shit like that happens. Most days though, I’ll continue with my daily letters to God. I love these intimate conversations. They’re a bit one-sided at times but they do make me feel better. A daily emotional dump into the neatly lined pages of a Hilroy notebook is remarkably cathartic. Good for the Soul. I’ll work on being kinder and more loving to everyone, even those who are difficult to like, much less love. I’ll pray and open the eyes of my heart. I’ll listen with compassion and empathy. I’ll tread lighter on the earth. I’ll work on my awesomeness. Maybe even turn myself into sauce.

Physical:

I’ll be more physical. Or not. At times I’ll laze around, eat rubbish and binge-watch every season of Sons of Anarchy or Breaking Bad, even though I already did that last year. Some resolutions are worth repeating. There will be other binges as well. Like too much turkey and cranberries at Thanksgiving. Too many bottles of alcohol-free wine. Oh, the shame of it all. But there will be redemption. I will continue with my daily practice of yoga because it still manages to keep me somewhat limber. And without going all Zen on you, it’s a conduit to my higher self. I like that place in me. I’ll walk the winding country road during my lunch breaks. With every twist and bend there’s a brood of hens or flock of sheep that delight me, no matter how many times I see them. Similar to how I feel about my children. I’ll also keep running every morning. Learn new things from the hill. Or maybe not. It might simply be one steep mother of a hill that I have to drag myself up to get home. Sometimes a hill is just a hill.

Family:

I’ll spend more time with my family. Or not. It’s entirely possible that they don’t want to spend more time with me. They do have lives of their own. So there’s that. Wonderful lives that have nothing to do with me. Hard to believe I know, but true. But still, I’d like to see more of them. And, this includes my extended family and friends. You and you and you. Sadly, I’m guilty of being socially lazy. I’m the sloth of the soiree. But I can do better. I vow to do better. We’ll meet in places other than Facebook. I’ll get off the couch. Turn off the reruns of SoA or BB and hook up with you dear ones. We can chat over tea in a coffee house. Go to a concert and lose our hearing. Attend a poetry reading at a used bookstore. Dance our asses off in the middle of the street. Sing our own Coke commercial. It doesn’t matter what we do. It’s about the familial connection and glue. I’d love to spend all kinds of crazy-time with you, deepening the bonds of family. What about you?

Work:

I’ll work harder. Or not. Maybe I’ll work smarter. Or not. Truthfully, I don’t even understand what that expression means. Sounds like motivational mumbo jumbo. I’m smart. I work. I do my very best. Every day. But most importantly, I show up. That’s critical, I think. Especially when you work with other people who are counting on you. It’s a pretty simple philosophy. One that’s always worked for me. And if you enjoy the work you do, then bonus. And if not, take a look inside. The wisdom dwells there. But first you gotta show up.

Play:

I’ll play more. Or not. I have no idea what that means either. Do I go out and frolic in the sun? Run through mud puddles? Roll around in the dirt. Fly a kite? Play Cards Against Humanity? Join an organized sport? Ride a bike or a scooter? These all sound like legitimately fun things to do. I might even give one or two the old College try. But most likely, I’ll carry on doing the things I’ve always done for fun. Write. Read. Play music. Sing in the shower. You may find these activities horribly dull. I guess at the end of the day, or year, we have to define our own fun. And as Nike says, just do it.

Financial:

I’ll be more wealthy. Or not. Bottom line, I don’t care. I’ve never been driven by the money. Why start now? It gives me heartburn just thinking about it. I prefer to do the things that delight and amuse me. Tickle my fancy. Capture my imagination. Challenge my status quo. Some of those things pay fairly well and keep food on the table. Others don’t pay a cent. But I love doing them just the same. Maybe even more. Like writing this blog, for instance. I’d be a penniless beggar if this was how I made my living. But it brings me enormous pleasure and joy. It’s gratifying beyond my wildest expectations. And if these things, these heavenly intangible things, were currency? I’d be a millionaire. Ten times over. And that’s good enough for me.

There you have it. Words to live by? Could be. Words of wisdom? Possibly. Words worth repeating? Maybe not. You tell me.

Now back to reality. The big reason I don’t do resolutions is that I can’t keep them. Why would I set myself up for failure? I can’t take that kind of pressure. Can you?

So rather than engaging in all forms of frenetic doing, accomplishing, goal setting and achieving, I choose to relax into the year. Let it unfold organically. Bask in the wonder and glory and pleasure of it all. Smell the roses and the coffee and the intoxicating aroma of life. Embrace the git and grime and messiness. Revel in the perfectly miraculous humanness.

No doubt, I’ll trip over myself along the way. But I’ll enjoy the tumble for it’s not the end of the world. A fall is just a fall after all.

I encourage you to do the same. Pursue the things that you find worthwhile. That add meaning to your life and to your tribe. Be mindful that it isn’t always lofty or profound or life-altering. But it is essential. Take time to sit still and do absolutely nothing. For it’s in moments like these that you get to know the wonder of you.

Now go on. Give yourself a big fat passionate hug. Tell yourself you’re beautiful. Glorious. Loving. Full of awesome sauce. There’s no one else in the universe quite like you.

Then resolve to tell someone else to do the same.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Depression.

November 10, 2013January 29, 2015 / boo king / 4 Comments

This morning I woke up. Thank God. As I was making the bed I thought about my plans for the day. Making a cup of cinnamon coffee. Writing my blog. Banking with E. Shoe shopping with M. The first two items on the list made me happy. The third, not so much. The fourth delighted me.

Then I had this thought. My two daughters are my best friends. Then I had this thought. I wonder if they’d find that pathetic. I know I’m not theirs. Nor should I be at their ages. Then I had this thought. My mother was my best friend. Then I had this thought. When she died I not only lost my mother, I lost my best friend. Then I had this thought. That blows.

Then I started to cry. Bawled my fucking brains out as I was making the bed. The whole nine yards. Messy tears and snot all over my face, the pillows, sheets and my new shabby chic comforter. Which by the way, was incapable of providing neither the degree, nor the depth, of comfort required to stop this sorrowful eruption of muck and mournfulness.

Then I had this thought. I’m sad. Probably even depressed.

I come by this melancholy honestly. Not that he talked about it. Not ever. But I think The Old Man was depressed, most of his adult life. Maybe it was because he was Finnish. Their suicide rates are high, especially in the winter, which is long, cold and dark. Much like Northwestern Ontario, where he lived his entire life. I got out when I was twenty-four. It was too dreary for me. On so many levels I can’t even begin to describe.

What caused his depression? Who knows. I can only speculate. One part environment. One part DNA. One party magical mystery tour.

The Old Man sought refuge and relief from his misery in alcohol, watching sports on TV, buying new shoes, eating anything laced with sugar, swearing at inanimate objects, going to church on Sundays, shoveling snow in the winter and digging in his garden in the summer, umpiring little league games, taking long Sunday drives, scratching our dog’s belly, and sleeping. The older he got the more he slept. He was often antisocial, spending long hours alone in the spare room, behind closed doors watching TV or reading the daily newspaper. There was a Hammond Organ in that room that he tinkered with but never really learned to play. (However, he was an accomplished spoon percussionist.) The memory of that room, and his self-imposed exile and isolation, makes me sad.

People didn’t talk about their feelings back then. Men especially, kept things under wraps. Stiff upper lips and pulled up boot straps. The Old Man stuffed his sadness inside a profusion of plaid flannel shirts, only to unleash it every three months like clockwork, after a long night at the neighborhood saloon. The Crest on Red River Road. Instead of manifesting in tears, his hurt took a far darker, menacing form. He’d come home seething with anger. Uncontrollable rage. He never hit anyone because he was like a small yapping dog. All bark and no bite. But he ranted relentlessly and bullied the shit out of Ma and her kids. He was an unholy terror. It was one hell of a time.

During those dark nights of the soul, I hated him. Wished him dead. Prayed to God to strike him down with a bolt of lightening. A precise and explicit message from heaven. But that didn’t happen. Thankfully. Because the truth is, The Old Man was a good man when he wasn’t drinking. He had a kind, tender and sensitive heart, and he loved his family fiercely.

And he was ill.

An alcoholic. But the alcohol was merely self-medication. The deeper illness was depression. It makes me sad now to think that we didn’t know that. I mean, we knew intimately the subject matter of his rum and coke induced rages. The things that angered and tormented him. But we never understood why. Our family knew very little about the pathology of alcoholism as a disease. And even less about depression. Back then depressed people were crazy. Plain and simple. It was far better to be a self-pitying miserable alcoholic.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered if while I was praying to God to strike him dead, if he was doing the same thing. He went to church every Sunday. What were his prayers? Did he pray for help? Beg for healing? Did he seek forgiveness? Did he find comfort there? Did it any of it help? I hope so.

So here I sit. Years and miles away from Northwestern Ontario. Daylight is breaking. How do I deal with my sadness? This depression? The tears that stain my cheeks and cover my shabby chic comforter? I do this. I write. I run. I do yoga. I take long walks along quiet country roads. I take photographs. I play with my dogs. I love my family fiercely. I eat well. I take vitamins. I talk to my wise girlfriends about deep dark feelings. I pour my heart out to my husband. I listen to my children and look for clues on how to live a joyful life. I laugh my guts out. I pray. I meditate. I write letters to God. I count my blessings. I get up, go to work and give it my very best shot. I play my guitar and my clarinet. I read books. Listen to music. I dream. I hang out. I waste time. I watch TV.

But I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t do drugs, except for the occasional ibuprofen. I do my best to stay away from sugar, especially white. I don’t give myself pep talks. They don’t work. I also don’t scold. Engage in self-pity, self-loathing or self-flagellation. I watch my inner dialogue. I try not to spend too much time alone in this room. Although that’s challenging because one of the things I love to do most requires that I spend long stretches of time in isolation.

Over the years I have found solace in motivational books and tapes, teachers, preachers, the wise and the enlightened. I’ve learned acceptance. Of what was. And what is.

Will I ever be completely free from depression and sadness? No. The truth is, I don’t want to be fully extricated. It’s part of who I am. Like my hazel eyes and crooked smile. It’s the fuel that fires some of my richest writing. The fountainhead of a few of my best ideas. My literary wellspring. It’s what allows me to feel things deeply. Not just my suffering. But yours. And yours. And yours. I shed tears for all living creatures. Even the dead rats I come across on the country road I walk. I like that about me.

Depression reminds me of my humanness. My weaknesses and strengths. It dictates that, in order to stay healthy, I must stay connected. It opens the eyes of my heart. And unleashes love, kindness, compassion, forgiveness, hope. And above all. Empathy.

I get it Dad. I get your pain.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Rhythm of Running.

September 22, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

Running doesn’t come easy for me. The first few blocks are pure hell. Psyching myself to go for a run is a marathon in itself. Each new day is like starting over. Even after 30 years, it’s still the same.

Before I run there are a few things I do first. The Monday to Friday pre-run routine and ritual goes something like this:

1. Get up early. 5:00am at the latest. Except for the summer months, it’s dark outside and quiet inside. The house is hushed and still in the undisturbed darkness before dawn. Just how I like it.
2. Put on sweatpants and T-shirt or some other comfortable running attire. These are found heaped on the floor next to the bed where I left them the night before. I prepare ahead.
3. Grope my way through the hallway to the kitchen where I put on the kettle. Sometimes I hit the bathroom first and take a pee.
4. Head to my office where I check emails and cruise through Facebook while the kettle boils. Sometimes I read a Cowbird story.
5. Make a cup of Tetley’s Orange Pekoe tea. I like how the round bags fit perfectly int the bottom of the Vegas mug D gave me.
6. Practice yoga for an hour. Because I’m so spiritual I do this in front of the TV. Depending on my mood it’s either Steven & Chris or CMT. Until January it was CNN but I stopped that because it was counter productive and stressed me out.
7. Make the bed and tidy my office. I hate clutter and can’t get into an unmade bed. Just one of my many quirks.
8. Make my lunch for work. This is usually a salad and some kind of protein. I don’t really care what I eat for lunch just as long as it’s reasonably healthy and doesn’t make me sleepy by two.
9. Boil the kettle again. Make a cup of coffee spiked with cinnamon. I like to live dangerously. I also add cream, which is completely over-the-top and edgy.
10. Head back to my office, pull out my latest Hilroy notebook, a blue Bic pen and write my daily letter to God. This is private. But possibly some of my best writing.
11. Sip my creamy cinnamon coffee and say my prayers. I don’t get down on my knees. This hurts too much. God knows and doesn’t expect it of me. We’re pretty tight.
12. If it’s cold out, I throw on my big old grey hoodie with the bleach splatters and pills under the arms. If it’s warm than the T-shirt is all I need. I don’t wear a bra. I like to flop when I run.
13. Head downstairs and lace up my sneakers. Nothing fancy here. Nor expensive. If they aren’t on sale I don’t buy them. One of my best pair of runners came from Zellers. This was before Target took over.
14. Check the clock next to the back door. I don’t know why I do this. I never check it when I return and I don’t time my runs. I really don’t care how long it takes.
15. Walk around to the side of the house, past the Camellia tree, the bamboo and the old rose bush that scares the shit out of me.
16. Open the front gate, take a deep breath, hesitate momentarily, mumble ‘what the fuck’ under my breath and hit the streets.

I start to run immediately. It’s uphill right out of the gate. Brutal. Punishing. Grueling. My legs are already tired and I feel the burn. It’s killing me and I haven’t even gone a block. All I can think about is how lousy I feel.

But just when I think I can’t run another step, the sidewalk slopes downward and I coast along for the next bit. This is where grace and mercy come into play.

It’s during this little stretch that I set the pace. This is different every day. It all depends on how I feel that morning. Not just physically but emotionally. One day I could be the hare. The next, the tortoise. Sometimes I feel like a freebird. Other days, a slug. There are mornings where I feel like I could run forever. Or at least a mile or two. Maybe even ten. Then there are days – many, many days – where I ask myself, ‘what the hell are you doing?’ I just want to roll over onto the boulevard and curl up like a wood bug. Go to sleep. For a long time. Like Rip Van Winkle. Some days, my youth is renewed like the eagles. Others, I’m an old wizened woman. Gnarled. Weather-beaten.

The difference between a good day and a bad one usually comes down to rhythm. I don’t plug in while I run. No iTunes. No playlists. No music. No motivational talks. No podcasts. None of that.

I listen to my soul. My heartbeat. My inner cadence.

I hear the sound of my breathing. My footsteps on the concrete. Crows squawking on the telephone lines. The voices of the squirrels. Leaves rustling. Wind howling. Gentle breezes calling. Dogs barking. Cars racing. Doors slamming. All the early morning reverberations.

I hear the silence. And the pauses between the clamor. I hear God whispering my name.

It is here that I get in the groove. Find my rhythm. This is the sweet stuff of running. This is the meditative place. Where everything works. My body, mind and spirit are all in tune. Harmonious. Peaceful. Grounded.

I run to the rhythm of me.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Tick Tock.

May 28, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

The clock on the wall keeps ticking.

Start. Stop. Slow down. Speed up. Wait. Proceed with caution. The traffic signs of the Big C trip. We’re forced to walk when all we really want to do is run. For our lives. Things take time. There’s a process. Procedures to follow. We get it. But we’re also scared out of our minds. The Big C clock is ticking. And we don’t know if we’re running out of time. The meticulous orderly pace is excruciating. Never fast enough. At least not for me.

When we returned from our weekend getaway, things moved swiftly at first. We arrived home late Monday night and by Wednesday afternoon we had the results of the PET scan. The cancer was localized. Just below the tongue. Our greatest fears, that E was riddled with cancer from head to toe, were banished. We were grateful and did the happy dance. High fives all around. Big sighs of relief could be felt from coast to coast.

Three weeks later E met with the Surgeon, who examined his mouth and discussed his role in the upcoming surgery. Because this would be a 2-surgeon job, eight days later E met with the Plastic Surgeon. At this point, it was exactly one month since receiving the results of the PET scan. To a cancer patient and his family this is an eternity. With each passing day I grew more anxious. My mind went to its dark place, that cavernous dwelling filled with irrational horrors. All the ‘what ifs’ were examined. I snooped under every rock and coaxed all the scary monsters out. My thoughts Teased and taunted. It was crazy-making at its finest.

I think E was scared too. In between surgeon appointments he was baptized. This was something he had been contemplating for a few years but he became obsessed with the notion after the diagnosis. He wanted to come right with God. Get things sorted out between the two of them. The surgeons could heal his body but only God could repair his brokeness. This would be his first step towards spiritual healing. Truth is, it was more of a first dunk then a step. I can only describe it as a full backwards drop into the watery depths, John the Baptist style. E emerged gasping for air. Regenerated. Renewed. Reborn.

The triad of Divine Es – elation, euphoria and exaltation – wouldn’t last long.

The meeting with the Plastic Surgeon brought E to his knees. Shaken. Shattered. Scared out of his wits. Later that evening, he described the procedure. He shuttered and shook his head as relayed the gruesome details. I thought I was going to throw up. The surgery wasn’t going to be pretty. Lot’s of cutting skin and veins here, and moving them there, and then there, and there. Visions of Roger Ebert danced through my head. Enough said.

The day after the meeting with the Plastic Surgeon, E’s Mama died. He got the news at 7:00pm on the Thursday and was on a plane to Nova Scotia the next morning at 8:00. He spent a week with his family and friends, buried his mother and was back on the Westcoast by Good Friday. The next evening his band performed at a Bluegrass Fundraising event.

It was the last time he would sing.

E’s surgery was booked for May 6, which seemed like light years away. Everything was moving in slow motion. To us, the medical world was dragging its collective feet. Our anxiety eclipsed their tempo. We felt like lab rats scurrying through a maze of white coats and mysterious technology. Humming machines. Little cogs caught in the big wheel. Dancing on peanut butter. Plenty of action but really going nowhere.

E was diagnosed the first week of December, met with the Radiation Oncologist the end of January, had the PET scan in the middle of February, met with Surgeons in the middle of March and would have the operation on May 6. When someone you love gets the Big C diagnosis you just want the “evil” extricated from their body. We all wanted it out. Like Lady Macbeth, I cried, “Out, damned spot. Out. I say!”

Yes, I’ll admit, a bit dramatic. But still.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter. It Smells Just Like Yesterday.

March 11, 2013March 11, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

Certain smells always bring me back. Flood my brain with memories. Ones I thought were long gone and forgotten. I love it when this happens. It’s enough to send me on a scent hunt. Digging up recollections like hidden clues to buried treasures.

Then becomes now in a heartbeat.

I can’t walk into a kitchen where baking has taken place without thinking immediately of Ma’s cookie baking emporium at 204. Oatmeal raisin. Hermits. Ginger Snaps. Sweet and spicy. Rich with love and motherly goodness. One whiff of Italian food and it’s a Spaghetti Saturday Night. The best comfort food smack dab in the middle of a brutal Northwestern Ontario winter. Cold as the Arctic outside but warm and deliciously cozy inside. Turkey roasting in the oven conjures up decades of Christmases enjoyed with our family. This mouthwatering array of aromas reminds me to count my blessings.

I can close my eyes and smell Ma’s Second Debut face cream. Breathe in her presence. Inhale it’s gentle loveliness as my lips brush against her cheek. Just like I did every morning before I headed off to school as a kid. This fine scent not only evokes memories of the softness of her skin but the kindness of her heart. In her later years she treated herself to a weekly hairdo. She would return feeling pampered and pretty, filling the house with the beauty parlor scent of freshly coiffed hair. Set for the week. I’m reminded that although true beauty blossoms from within, it’s also nourished with a dab of cream and a nice do.

When I wash with Ivory soap I think of The Old Man. A grimy bar sat in the soap dish next to the bathroom sink. As soon as he got home from work he washed off the grunge that clung to his face and hands after a long day on the road delivering Holsum bread and Persian buns. He’d emerge from the bathroom a new man. An Ivory man. Pure and simple. Now when I stand in the shower preparing for my day, lathering on this creamy white soap, I am reminded that hard work of any sort is honorable. No matter what you do. Sell bread. Or shoes. Fly to the moon. Or stand on your feet all day. Work, especially in service of others, is good.

Old Spice makes me think of Sunday mornings and going to church. Once a week The Old Man donned a suit and tie, and escorted Ma and me to Christ Lutheran Church on Walkover Street. We drove there, despite the friendly invitation to hoof it. All week he wore his stiff blue twill uniform that smelled of flour dust, sweat, and when I was really young, tobacco. But on Sundays, he dressed for the occasion. He was a stylish confident man with his two favorite girls in tow. Old Spice has always been a feel good scent memory. Yet also contradictory. Like The Old Man, in many ways. A peculiar blend of spirituality and carnal pleasure. Old time religion and hedonism. Fear of the Lord and the folly of the man. Imagine all that in just one sniff.

The mauve lilac bush at 204.

There’s nothing like the perfume from a mauve lilac. One hint and I’m instantly transplanted to the front yard at 204. There, a charming little tree bloomed every year in June. It marked the end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation. It was a symbol of freedom and carefree days. A simple bouquet adorned Ma’s kitchen table and filled the room with such exquisite inimitable beauty. I’m reminded of the wonder and splendor just outside our door. The natural abundance of the earth. It’s symmetry and grace. And for that I am grateful.

Then there’s the fragrance of first love. I can’t walk in the early morning rains of April or May without thinking of him. Not every time. For the memory to come, the rain must possess a particular scent. A bittersweetness. Sadness in the joy. Longing in the reverie. Then I go back to this love that was beginning to unravel. So new yet tired of itself. Still, all these years later I think tenderly of him. Of us then. I know the smell of him. It reminds me to be inspired by love. To carry on. Love again. And again. Enlarge my heart. Grow it bigger. Until it beats no more.

And oh, the sweetest of all perfumes. My newborn babies. Tender. Innocent. Still so close to heaven in their scent. Still so filled with the essence of the divine. Without earthly tarnish. Nor painful sheaths sullying their pristine souls. Just perfection. I have been blessed to enjoy this redolence three times. Three times I breathed in their beautiful newness. Each time I was reborn.

I’ve read that the science behind this sentimental journey originates with the olfactory bulb in our limbic system, which is associated with memory. Called the “emotional brain” it allows us to conjure up memories in an instant just by smelling something.

I am grateful for this bulb in my brain that allows me to go back. Not just remember. But to be there. Time travel does exist. And the beautiful thing is, we all possess this wondrous gift of uncommon sense.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Best Laid Plans and How To Blog. Or Not.

December 30, 2012December 31, 2012 / boo king / 12 Comments

A year ago I started a blog. I didn’t have a hot clue what to write about. It was just something I felt inspired to do. The goal was to write two posts a week. Maybe more, if the muse struck with high pitched frequency. Kind of the opposite of lightening. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Really, how hard could it be?

Bloody hard. I’m not one to make excuses, especially when it comes to myself. But it turns out writing one post a week was a challenge. Two, damned near impossible. And more than that, well forget about it. What I didn’t realize a year ago was that I actually had a bit of a life beyond the iMac and the things that go on inside my head. So I reset my sails, pared down my goal and determined that one post per week would do. Not only would this do, it would be an enormous accomplishment.

This is my 54th post. Bravo for me.

Little back story. I had read an article online in The New York Times by Eric Weiner called “Americans: Undecided About God.” This article intrigued me because the premise was something I thought a lot about. God was on my mind. Here, there and everywhere. Just a little insight into my interior world. I thought it would be interesting to engage in an online conversation with other folks of a similar ilk. I thought there had to be millions of people out there who would love to do this. And most importantly, participate via my blog. Looking back, I don’t know if I was incredibly naive or full of hubris. Or just a pompous ass. I’ll leave that for you to decide. Keep it to yourself though. My ego is fragile after a year of this.

Long blog short. This didn’t happen. None of it. You know what they say about best laid plans. I don’t either. But I think it had something to do with mice and men. And things not always turning out the way you expected.

As it turns out, this confounding cliche proved to be true for my blog about God. It’s painful to be reduced to a literary cliche, I might add. Thank you very much Mr. Steinbeck.

Not that God isn’t a hot topic. He/She most certainly is. It’s just that very few people wanted to read my blather on this theme week after week. Good God jumping Jehoshaphat. Truth is, I didn’t even want to talk about it. I only thought I did. I thought I had tons of things to say, given the amount of time I spent pondering. Contemplating. Meditating. Ruminating. Praying to and mulling over God. Turns out I didn’t.

I had about three posts-worth.

The thing is, I didn’t deliberately change course with the blog. It just happened. It took another three posts to realize that I was telling these stories about my life growing up at 204. As it turns out very few were interested in that either. So on that level my little foray into blogging was a colossal failure.

Either I have an extraordinary talent for picking lousy topics to write about. Or very few people care what I have to say about those topics. Or I just write poorly about the topics that interest people, and therefore, refuse to engage. Thus, the lights go dim on computers worldwide whenever one of my posts is broadcast. Regardless, my naive, hubristic, pompous dreams of blogging to the masses was possibly just a tad grandiose. Do you think? Don’t answer that question. Remember the fragile ego. May the echo of cracking ice on a frozen country pond haunt you eternally if you dare.

Fortunately, I’ve learned to not let those kinds of failures stand in the way of having a good time. And that’s exactly what this past year has been. The time of my life. I wouldn’t trade it for a wiener on a stick.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Except for childbirth. Truth is, this blog was a bit like giving birth. In this past year, I gave birth to a new me. The authentic me. 100% genuine. Bona fide and real. Most importantly, it gave life to the storyteller me. And it set me free.

Before Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter came to life, I never in a million years would have considered revealing the things I did. The thought was enough to make me shudder and hang my head in shame. Oh shame. How vindictive, rancorous, spiteful, venomous, cruel and unkind you are. You are the schoolyard bully. The coward. Tormentor and thug.

But through God’s grace, and one blog post a week, you are gone. I, and those who shared this journey, have been liberated. Telling these stories about my life growing up with Ma and The Old Man at 204 didn’t cause my heart to stop, my world to implode as I had so feared all my life. No. In fact, the exact opposite was true. My heart beat stronger and fiercer. My world exploded with love and kindness, compassion and empathy, joy and appreciation.

Although I didn’t intend to go down this path, I am so grateful I did. Along the way, I discovered my parents, Ma and The Old Man. I got to tell their story with all of its complexities. Their complicated love for each other. Their unconditional love for me, my siblings and their grand children. The lessons that love taught me. Somehow through the rush of time and the dailiness of life, I’d forgotten that. Or dismissed it as being trivial. Or worse yet, not true. But this past year helped me to realize and remember all the love that lived at 204. In all its shades, muted and glorious orange, the highlights and the dark shadows, the frostiness and the humidity, the large blue skies overhead and the beige sand beneath. The home in our hearts and the heart in our home.

On one of our many walks together, Ma said, “I’d love to write my life story but I don’t know how. And who would read it anyway?” This notion, this gut-wrenching, heartfelt cry touched me. Far deeper than I realized at the time. It took years, and much practice as a writer and storyteller, to bring her story to life. A simple tale about an ordinary woman, who in many ways, lived an extraordinary life.

I can write Ma. I can tell your story. Does it matter who reads it? I think not.

As for The Old Man, had I not written this blog I may never have realized just how much I miss him. Orneriness and all. He had always been such a thorn in my side. Not any more. Extraction is complete. Wound healed. Only love remains. I am proud and honored to be The Breadman’s Daughter.

Although there weren’t any grand discussions about God in my blog, the presence and influence of the divine was the underlying melody throughout. God was present in every grace note. Not only in the process of telling the story. But in the stories themselves. It was there. In the space between the notes. The reading between the lines.

As for those grander God discussions, I learned that in the end, I’m ill-equipped to have those. I’ll leave that to Eric Weiner or Wayne Dyer, Louise Hay or David Javerbaum, even. I could never write something so sublime and witty as The Last Testament. Not in a million blog years.

What next? More storytelling. I think I’m better at that than blogging. I’ve joined Cowbird, the online community for storytellers, so all five of you can find me there. I do have a few more Daughter stories to share with you. You’ll find those here and on Cowbird.

If the blog survives, it’s my plan to take it in a completely different direction. At least I think I will. As you know, I’m easily sidetracked. And we all know what happens to best laid plans.

One parting thought, watch out for mice.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I Saw God in Church.

November 25, 2012November 25, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

Dressed in head-to-toe Communion white and looking so pious with bible in hand.

I’m a sporadic churchgoer these days. There were times throughout my life when I was a faithful attendee. The Old Man, Ma and I used to go every Sunday. I was baptized and took communion. I read Bible verses and some chapters. But never the entire thing. Not enough grey matter between the ears to keep track of everyone and everything. Especially all the goings-on in the Old testament. So many begats and battles. Bloodshed and betrayals. Miracles and meyhem. Famines and bad things happening to firstborns. So complicated and confusing.

But the New Testament is a whole other story. While it contains its share of death, denial and despair, there is also hope and love and kindness and compassion. Sacrifice and forgiveness. Yes indeed, the New Book is chock-a-block full of precious and useful life lessons regardless of your faith or personal beliefs. Who could deny that loving one another is the ultimate purpose of all humans no matter where on earth they call home.

My favorite stories are the ones about Jesus, in particular, the Nativity and the night he was born. I also really enjoy a good old fashioned Christmas pageant. Especially ones enacted by earnest five year-olds. I never grow tired of such performances.

When I turned eighteen, and for the twenty odd years that followed, I went in hot pursuit of God. My spiritual excavations took me far and wide on my interior journey. I looked under every rock. Behind every locked door. Inside a plethora of books and passages. I sought the holy, the evolved, the gurus, the teachers, mentors, ministers, the religious, the spiritual, the wise, the dedicated, the sacred, the masters, saints and the venerated. It was an incredible journey of wonder and awe. It both grounded me and threw me off balance. It gave me confidence and brought me to my knees. I was exalted. And humbled. But mostly grateful.

The family gathered after the Communion for Sunday dinner. The Old Man and I had already changed into more comfortable clothes for this photo. Ma in her apron over her Sunday dress.

At that journey’s end, I found myself in a little church in the countryside. It was a familiar place. It felt like coming home. It reminded me of the little Lutheran Church where The Old Man, Ma and I shared a pew. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t satisfy all of my spiritual needs. Nor did it fill my hunger completely, nor answer my endless questions. But it was a place to dwell, to sit quietly and learn. To witness and rub shoulders with fellow seekers on this bumpy, often terrifying, road.

It was there that this happened.

I saw God in church. It wasn’t at all what I expected it would be. It was such a quiet whisper of a moment. Manifested in a simple expression of love between an elderly husband and his fragile wife. I don’t think either of them noticed that something so incredibly extraordinary was taking place. But I did. The providential witness.

The congregation was about to sing another hymn. Everyone was seated and looking to the Music Team Leader for direction. He asked us all to stand and sing our praises. Obediently, all the adults in the church stood, except for one.

Ma and The Old Man on the steps of 204. One of the last photos together.

He stood with confident ease. Thin and stoop shouldered. Yet strong. In conviction and constitution. She made a feeble attempt to rise. Her heart was willing. A formidable match for his on any given Sunday. But her tired, frail body was uncooperative.

Without skipping a beat, he reached for her arm and gently helped her to her feet. There they stood. Side by side. Singing with hearts wide open with love and devotion. As it had always been. Now and forever.

The tenderness of this ordinary, natural and unassuming gesture touched me in ways that were more profound than any sermon or hymn or prayer. I was overwhelmed by the presence of God. Just two rows up.

There it was. In a flash. An instant. Grace. Sweet, kind, patient, loving and humanly divine.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Christmas Dance.

November 12, 2012December 28, 2016 / boo king / Leave a comment

Hugs after the dance.

I have many fond memories of Christmas. The wonder years at 204 waiting for Santa’s arrival. Shaking the merrily wrapped boxes adorned with bright ribbons and bows. Guessing the contents. Hoping and praying Santa brought the number one thing on my list. Moody teenage walks through the evening snow pondering the true meaning of the season. Looking up to heaven for clues. Breathing in the cold air and welcoming the white flakes on my ruddy cheeks. Celebrating the magical First Christmas for each of my three children. Planning and preparing, making lists, shopping, decorating, wrapping, hiding gifts, baking, cooking, roasting, mulling, eating, singing, laughing, welcoming and praying. Joyous greetings. And wistful farewells. I love it all. And recall with bitter sweetness.

There’s this little snapshot in my mind of one particular Christmas that always makes me happy and takes me back. Not to 204. But to a snug cozy living room tucked away in my heart. One filled with warmth and a whole lot of love.

It was a couple of weeks before Christmas. A song came on the radio, a festive tune in three-quarter time. A waltz. Inspired by the music, E spontaneously scooped up M, who was two or three at the time and began to dance with her. I watched as they twirled around the living room, E crooning to his little daughter, who was decked out in her holiday finest, a deep purple velvet dress with a white peter pan collar. An angel. Heaven sent. Divine in every way. M giggled with sheer delight as they swayed around the coffee table and sashayed past the tree laden with festive baubles and twinkly lights. Her diaphanous white-blonde hair fell around her delicate face, her skin so blue-white you could almost see through it. E was badly in need of a shave but on this wintery afternoon I found his two-day-old stubble somehow less objectionable. Oddly endearing. Downright gorgeous.

The Divine Miss M in purple velvet.

Around and around they danced. It was glorious. Took my breath away. My heart and soul and every cell within filled with gratitude. I never felt more alive. Nor at peace. Humbled by the awesome grace these simplest of occasions bring. Clear out of the blue. Unexpected. Gifts from God.

Could this be what it’s all about?

As I sat on the sofa and witnessed this intimate father-daughter connection I remember wishing I could stop time and stretch the moment out forever. Every once and awhile life presents a situation that is so picture perfect that it puts everything into perspective.

There it was. The fullness of life dancing around the living room to a White Christmas. Just for me.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I Love To Do Lists.

November 3, 2012November 3, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

I knew one day I’d start a list. In the meantime I stood in front of windows and smiled.

I love To Do lists. They keep me organized. Help me to remember. Remind me of what’s important. They keep things orderly. Sweet and simple. Neat and tidy. I love the symmetry these lists bring to my life. Balance. Ease.

I’ve always been a compulsive list maker. As I age my appreciation for this practice has grown exponentially.

There is this list that I have been compiling in my book of “boo’s to do’s for today” that just keeps growing. It appears to be never-ending. And for this I am grateful. These are the eternal things. The timeless. The constants in my life. And the infinite. The daily reminders of how good life is. How lucky I am to have been born in the time and place that is now, to the parents who raised me with love, to the children I have done the same, to the family and friends who I have been blessed to have walked the earth with, for their presence and presents. For grace and forgiveness. For hope. For faith in us all to create a better, kinder, gentler place.

It’s all a wide-eyed wonder to me. It’s humbling. I am thankful every day that I am here now with you. And you. And you.

So this is the ever-growing list of Boo’s To Do’s for Today.

The cover of my book of to do’s. It’s nice.

Today I will:
Thank God for my human being-ness
Be curious but not nosey
Be helpful but not pushy
Be funny but not hurtful for the sake of a joke
Be a dreamer but keep my feet on the ground
Be happy but not at someone else’s expense
Be honest but not brutal
Be smart but not a pompous know-it-all
Be supportive but not a door mat
Be a seeker but look for Light not darkness
Be God-minded but not God

Today I will:
Thank God for the little things in my life
Kiss my husband good morning
Tell my kids that I love them always, forever and a day
Eat mostly healthy stuff today
Eat chocolate, devour the entire bar
Smile at strangers, even the scary ones
Be helpful and kind and generous
Laugh at myself
Practice patience with everyone but especially the very old and the very young
Say my prayers and let go of the day

Today I will:
Thank God for a new perspective
See people in a different light
Recognize the truth
Appreciate an opposing opinion
Give everyone the benefit of the doubt
Understand that there are other sides to the story
Look for a new perspective in an old place
Offer grace so I can also receive it
Read between the lines and hear the words not spoken
Say my prayers and settle into the quiet

I like the red ribbon and yellow sticky note.

Today I will:
Thank God for the playful
Play it as it lays and learn acceptance
Play for keeps with those who matter
Play for real with everyone
Play around and square and mix it up
Play full with all I’ve got
Play games that are fun not hurtful
Play back again and again, especially if it’s good
Replay and repeat tomorrow
Say my prayers and sleep lighthearted

Today I will:
Thank God for all the wonders of Nature
Chase double rainbows across the sky
Sing with wild abandon in the rain
Blow free like a leaf in the wind
Spread my wings and fly
Soak up the sun and catch some rays
Dig in the dirt and get mud on my face
Soar with the eagles
Set the world on fire
Reach for the stars and make three wishes
Howl crazy at the moon
Say my prayers and drift into the waters of heaven

Today I will:
Thank God for this new day of simple things
Forgive everyone, even those I don’t want to
Do yoga and be grateful that my body still moves
Eat an apple, possibly an orange, but not a banana
Paint my toenails red and smile at my feet
Take my dogs for a walk
Drink water right out of the tap
Be polite and mannerly, please and thanks
Listen better to everyone but especially to the very old and the very young
Say my prayers and plump my pillow

Thank God for all the wonders of nature.

Today I will:
Thank God for the givers
Give a helping hand
Give advice only when asked
Give away the good things I no longer want, need or wear
Give to a charity besides the usual ones
Give love even to the unlovable
Give someone a surprise gift for no reason, just because
Give others the benefit of the doubt
Give of myself even when I’m tired and don’t feel like it
Give someone else the credit and the glory
Say my prayers and give thanks

Today I will:
Thank God for the journey through this day
Applaud the achievements of others
Eat more red foods
Be respectful and considerate of others
Play my guitar even when it sounds painful
Be honest, starting with myself
Bake chocolate chocolate chip cookies, then pig out
Sit quietly and breathe easy
Take the long way home and enjoy the trip
Say my prayers and drift into dreamland

Today I will:
Thank God for healing
Mend all bridges in my life that are broken
Sew buttons on tattered open wounds
Stitch time that has been squandered
Mend a broken heart
Seam together a fragile friendship
Repair all hurt caused by my good intentions
Fix things that can be fixed and bless what cannot
Patch the worn and the weary with love and kindness
Say my prayers and hug my love

Today I will:
Thank God for countless things in my life
Count my blessings
Count the red smarties in the box
Count the steps from the couch to the fridge
Count my friends who count
Count the birds at the feeder
Count the calories in the chocolate cake then eat it any way
Count the purple tulips in my garden
Count the number of sleeps until my summer holidays
Say my prayers and count sheep

Thank God for the Makers.

Today I will:
Thank God for all my senses: the first five, the sixth, common and Spidey
See the beauty in all things, even the unusual
Listen with an open heart to hear the unspoken
Breathe in all that is around me, especially the smells of nature and of the kitchen
Touch someone in need of a gentle hand
Taste the sweetness in life not the bitter
Trust my inner voice when in doubt
Remember the sound and reasonable advise of my mother
Pay attention to the goose bumps
Say my prayers and welcome a sense of peace

Today I will:
Thank God for the lazy days
Take it slow and easy
Relax and chill with a cup of green tea
Read a gossip mag from cover to cover while watching my fav soap opera
Eat a bag of Oreo cookies
Consider practicing yoga
Contemplate meditating
Think about going for a walk
Exercise my option to do absolutely nothing
Take a long soak in the tub
Say my prayers and rest gently

Today I will:
Thank God for the makers
Make believe and have fun like a five year old
Make memories without Kodak
Make amends to everyone I’ve hurt
Make love with the light on
Make up not down
Make music without an instrument
Make peace with myself first
Make better all my owies
Make good on all my promises
Make muffins, blueberry lemon
Make magic without a wand
Make friends with myself
Say my prayers and make ZZZ’s

Today I will:
Thank God for housework
Change the sheets and flip the mattress
Do laundry and maybe iron
Wash the dishes by hand
Scrub the floors, the old fashioned way, down on my knees
Vacuum even the hidden places
Polish the furniture with lemon oil
Clean the windows
Stop to admire the “clean and shiny”
Say my prayers and fall quickly into a deep sleep

Thank God for the lazy days.

Today I will:
Thank God for chance to begin again
Turn over a new leaf, discover the mysteries hidden there
Start a new chapter that begins with hope
Wipe the slate clean of all past doubts
Start fresh with a different perspective
Begin anew with novel ideas
Embrace the blank page and let go of fear
Clear the deck and make space for possibilities
Close the book and make peace with the past
Say my prayers.

My Thing About God