Time Passages

“I avoid looking at the clock, fearing the slow passing of time that will only seem slower if I watch its progress.” Michelle Zink

Except for today, of course.  I know you think this is going to be my annual “I want my hour back” rant but not so much this year.  I have to say there were a few very profound happenings this week that seemed to wake (yeah I know) my ass up.

First and foremost my dear friend Paul sent a wonderful email (after attending a school presentation by his daughter Greta) entitled The Secret of Time:

Today the 4th grade classes at Race Brook School presented their research and enactments of famous people in history.  Our Greta was Betsy Ross, and aside from the great job she did on her research and memorizing her speech, she personified the most famous flag maker from Philadelphia perfectly.  She even answered questions about Betsy in first person, and was very proud by how impressed everyone was with the flag that she had sewn on her very own “real” sewing machine that she got for Christmas.

 Greta As Bestsy Ross

Most of all she tested Dad’s ability to keep smiling and not succumb to the urge to burst into tears.  There’s a very fine line between being happy to be alive, and becoming overwhelmed by the realization of riches that have been bestowed upon us, and just how precious each day is.

Now the secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.  James Taylor

Somehow Paul always has something happening with his family in March.  It’s a time I walk softly and carefully and sensitively lest I fall on my knees from missing my Father.  He’s gone nine years already. Already? See what I mean about the passage of time.  Anyway, each March my friend Paul elaborates on something that he is doing to cement his legacy to his family.  More so, I see him creating “father’s daughters” and I couldn’t be happier.  For them and for him.  It gives me strength to watch a Father bring everlasting memories to the children in his life.  I remain in awe of him.  And I appreciate his sharing me right through the end of March.

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To add to the family theme I was honored to attend my dear friend Cookie’s grandchild’s baby shower.  Baby Cook.  So, of course, I did what I do in all matters Cookie, I hid behind the camera for fear of becoming a whimpering nut to capture the day and regret that he was not a physical part of it.  It was beautiful, she is beautiful, they will carry on the family name in some way (the baby’s sex is a surprise!) with notions of Cookie in the back of their minds.  This is the most validating indication of the passage of time, it’s natural and beautiful and fulfilling for legacies both past and present.

Later Muriel and I actually howled telling stories of when they were all kids and how her Father’s memory lives on and on and on.  Ironically it was a story of a family tree.  Truth, my friends, remains stranger (and a helluva lot funnier) than fiction.

So this morning I awoke missing an hour.  I walked the girls, made my coffee and treated myself kindly.  I didn’t piss and moan once about losing my hour.  Nicely my sister (who has lived with the rant far longer than anyone) brought me a wonderful gift of lox for my Sunday bagel and it was a delicious treat.  I’ll never get this particular hour back, but I must say after this very long, very cold, very snowy winter I am thrilled to be writing this with sun still shining and Spring on the way.

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No, I won’t get this hour back but I will get an hour back.  What a gift to look forward to:

Time does not pass, it continues”   Marty Rubin

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Art of Selective Celebration

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Once upon a time a long time ago I lived in the land of obligation, see and be seen and just show your face.  Mercifully, I don’t live there anymore and can practice the art of selective celebration.

Begin with a catchup with dear Franny, then a funny, loving, and confirming dinner with my beloved Cookie Club, on to lunch the next day with the Rileys where we proceeded to leave our joyful mark on Davey’s.  Sunday with my friend Linda to celebrate food, friendship, and I let her lament for a minute. Oy, just for a minute and she’s back to her funny, warm and grounded self.

The best way to celebrate on your own terms is to throw a party, enter the 2nd Annual Car Hag Lunch. Car Hag; a term of endearment originating from a man in the car business who was generous with his knowledge, respectful of the strong women he worked with and supportive of their fight for equal ground.

These are not the politically savvy women but those women behind the scenes that know how to get it done.  They are part of the underground network of women who know like they know, the ones who, too, can slap you so hard you think you got a kiss, who tell it straight up, no frills or fuss, the ones you’ll always ask first.  Car Hag is not derogatory, if you don’t like the name you probably aren’t one.

What a delight to have them on Stowe Lane.  Oh the stories they could tell, and tell they did but like Vegas, what happens on Stowe Lane stays on Stowe Lane.  We will do this again and again, though we’ll need better scheduling next time bearing in mind, forecasts, days off, month end, and on and on in the land of automotive.

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Christmas Eve with my best friend, Sandra, and her family.  I am honored to be with them each year, to watch them grow, to share in the food prep, to ground her from the inevitable mother daughter button pushing, to exhale and know that I am completely loved and exactly where I’m supposed to be.

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Christmas morning with my Mother and Sister and the traditions that go with the many years of sharing Christmas morning together.  Breakfast, gifts, coffee, all tweaked a bit over the years but still basically intact.

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On to my adopted sister, Evi, and her family for a visit and to drop off Walter’s fruit cake…stop it, this one is good, and I made it.  It’s not your usual fruit cake but light and fresh and delicious.  He eats it all himself.  Fabulous.  Catch up with the kids, unavoidably leaving with some of their germy germs, which I am unable to fight off.  I don’t have any kid immunity but oh how I love them to bits.

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Next stop Cookie’s for kisses and a flyby drop off of the Italian cookies and back to Stowe Lane I go.

One of the best ways I know to celebrate is with my camera.  Clicking my way through the season so that once I’m back on Stowe Lane I can savor each moment.  And that’s my gift to me.  I call myself an accidental photographer firmly believing that if you shoot enough and make yourself just short of a nuisance you can capture the moments that make celebrations special.  Those ordinary moments that can be relished for years to come.  My technical ability would certainly be called into question by any self-respecting photographer but I no longer care about technical excellence.  I care about the moments and the memories and the surprises that come out of my camera each time I download, things even I didn’t realize I captured come to life in front of me.  Let’s see, ordinary moments in time captured with loving surprises included.  Yeah, that’s my idea of selective end to end action and a wonderful celebration.