Forgiveness

“To err is Human to Forgive is Divine”.  Alexander Pope (1688-1744) English Poet

The Baha’I Faith says “see with the sight of forgiveness” (quoted from Wikipedia)

On the Day before Thanksgiving I wonder that first we should be forgiving to be truly Thankful.

Can you honestly be Thankful and accept gifts given and then not offer  forgiveness?

Pass the plate of Forgiveness to that person who needs it this holiday season.

The Piano of My Life

I walked into my mother’s living room Monday after work in a big hurry to print an article for a meeting and started to cry. It was gone. She finally did it. Without a final warning, a last caress, a last good play, a last goodbye, it was gone….  My piano.

My Dad rescued that piano from a bar in small paper mill town in 1964.  He rebuilt it from the inside out.  It had all the scars of bar life, burns, bangs and held many a story silent. My three older brothers and I all took piano lessons using this piano for practice. But I spent the most time on this piano. We were the best of friends and at times it was my worst critic.

I started lessons when I was 4 or 5  and continued to the age of 18.  At times I begged my parents to quit, they insisted I continued.  I trudged on.  The piano endured my discontent.  It stood firm through every emotion I threw at it:  joy, sorrow, anger, love and melancholy.

When I went away to college, I would go to the practice rooms and pound away on the pianos.  It felt like I was cheating on a boyfriend and I couldn’t wait to go home, back to MY piano; its key action so familiar, its sound so familiar.   Nothing could ever replace it.

When I married and moved, I tried to take the piano with me but its huge size was an issue. The cost of moving it multiple times made it clear the piano needed to stay at my parents.  The piano became difficult to tune and it was discovered that the sound board needed an expensive repair job. My parents bought a newer electronic console piano for the family of  musicians.  The other piano sat quietly in the corner holding the grandchildren’s graduation pictures.  Every now and then I would play it a little; Its mournful sound crying out, as if to say goodbye.

This past August, I tried to talk my son and his wife into taking the piano and putting a little work into it. “Keep it in the family” I pleaded.  I thought I was starting to really sell them on the idea.  I just wasn’t fast enough to beat my mother to the punch.

The loss of my piano means a piece of me is missing.  It was a huge part of my life. It was the creation of my love and understanding of music.  That piano is reason, my ears perk up every time I hear an real instrument playing or an instrument being tuned. I am drawn to the sounds of instruments being played on the streets of my small town. I will stop walking, turn my head and turn toward the music in hope of finding the musician, wanting to experience it first hand.   That piano made me a musician.

 

Good bye Piano. I hope whoever has you, repairs you, loves you like I did and becomes a lover of music as I always will be.

(pic from 1975, the cat is Cat, who thought sleeping on the piano would keep things quiet.)

Encouraging our Women

Yesterday afternoon it was the bicycle, last week it was the voice during a presentation.  It is all about confidence, confidence building in women. In particular the confidence of my daughters, ages 8 and 28 (about to turn 29).

Exasperated with my youngest child’s frustration level, I turned and head toward the house, the dog yawned, I leaned down, cupped her tiny face in my cold hands and said “I agree, I totally agree.”  I went back to my patio cleaning chore and thought about how many hours I have spent in the past month encouraging these young women, instilling confidence, “You can do this.”  “You did so well today”  “You’re the best in the office.” 

The age span between my girls is huge, 21 years and yet they both still need Coach to stand on the side lines and cheer them on.  Why?  I ask myself and the broom… why?

My boys don’t seem to need it as much. In fact when it is offered, most often the response is a “I know Mom” with an air of I-already-know-this swirling under their breath.  Growing up they didn’t need much encouragement to try new physical activities. They head for task put in front of them full speed, confidence high, no “what ifs”.

Sometimes it’s their sheer physical strength that leads confidently into the task.  I have to concede that men are physically stronger, usually taller than woman by their genetics.  But there is something more.  They are treated differently from day one. By their fathers, teachers, coaches, society in general and then there is this boy’s club code.  Is it a secret club? (I only suspect)  I know if I ask my sons will just shake their heads, laugh at me and leave the room.  But I do wonder.   ????

Women are still trying to play catch up, break to code, make new rules.  Everywhere we go.  My youngest daughter is on a co-ed soccer team, Taller than any of the boys, yet holds back to give the little boys a chance to kick the ball.  “Stop” I tell her. “It’s your Ball” My Oldest Daughter is taking the lead on a huge project at work but worries that her voice is too much like a little girls.  “Talk to them like you talk to me when you are mad” I tell her.   Be firm and decisive like any boy/ man, something I tell both girls. 

And there you have it.  I am encouraging my girls to fight their way into the boys club, continue to make progress and show the world that we are all people no matter our gender.  Education and Encouragement for  all Women. 

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month:  Remind all Women to get their Mammograms.  If they cannot afford Mammograms they should go to their local Health Departments where programs are available to assist them.   BE PART OF THE CURE!

Worn out green.

Did you ever just want to throw something away because you were too lazy to deal with it?  Didn’t want to sew that button on for the hundredth time, fix the hem, glue a gaping hole shut, nail a board back in place.  Do you get worn out from being “green”?

I’m feeling the pain of green tonight, in the form of the meatloaf pan.  I looked from the sink to the trash can and back again.  If it were not for the fact that the pan was older than me, I would trash it.  How can a pan be older than me?  I remember my mother making Christmas goodies in this pan when I was a very small child.   I drove her crazy as she tried to count out the cups of ingredients. She would count 1 and I would say 2.  No wonder she is so talented at math.

 Another thought came into mind.   My dear father would probably come back from the dead and punish me, something he rarely did, if I threw the burned pan in the trash.  But darn it Daddy!  The pan will have to soak in the sink for days. Take up needed space and get moved from side to side and just be a general pain. I could just run it through the dishwasher multiple times.  A trick I learned isn’t really a trick.  The drying cycle actually bakes the blackness on more.  You eventually have to get out the brillo and scrub till your hands ache.  Daddy would nod his head with an “I told you so grin”.

There are so many things we all are trying to recycle these days: clothing, grocery bags, plastic bottles. I fully appreciate all these efforts but at the same time, I’m trying to lighten my load, live with less.  I took out a pair of clogs from 1979 the other day, the first pair of shoes I bought as a college freshman. I refuse to part with them but don’t think I will ever wear them. Is this green?  Is this recycling? Is this just crazy? 

The pan has seen years of abuse, burned food more often than not.  I will be green, let it sit for the week in the sink until the layers of blackness have soaked off so I can muscle off the remaining carbon, The pan will live to see another burn meatloaf.  And the clogs..  Maybe on the first truly cold day I will wear them.  I will recycle my youth.

To quote Kermit the Frog  “It’s not Easy being Green” 

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5rceMe-kt4&feature=related

Fashionista Soccer

The First  Soccer Game.

 

 At times I thought it wouldn’t happen. First the practice was on the wrong night; she didn’t like that. It didn’t meet her schedule requirements.  Then she found out the uniform requirements:  soccer cleats, a team shirt, ( a color not of her choosing), and shin guards. “What are shin guards Mom?’  I explained apprehensively picturing a battle when asked to wear said uniform.

The first practices were accomplished with much enthusiasm, I  started to relax.  Her older sibling had already begun to question her about the first game. Did she know what position, color of her jersey and other little details?  And then they ask the dinger… “What are you going to do with your  hair?”  My heart sunk, No- not the hair?  Don’t talk about the hair. Shoulder length, thick, a mass of tangles after an hour of brushing, lectures from my 78 year old mother how I don’t take proper care of it.  Not the hair!  I gave the siblings the look that warned them to quiet down or lose their inheritance. She looked  inquisitively at all of us.  I looked away,  practicing ambivalence.

.

Saturday morning arrived, along with, it a head full of extra hair.  I sighed and tried to pay no attention. Let her do her own thing, including her choice of athletic shorts, pink with her Atomic yellow jersey; the yellow that can be seen from the Space station on a cloudy day.  Upon arrival at the field she happily marched to the field and joined her team.  She was playing defensive guard.  Now here I readily admit I am a football fan.  I’m the graduate of an ACC team and fan of the Football team and a parent of a High School Football player.  I know the game of foot ball, soccer not so much. 

I do know enough that when the ball comes toward you, fixing your hair, adjusting your jersey, and checking the alignment of the stripes on your shorts is not in the soccer manual.  From my chair on the sidelines, I yelled, “Puddie!   The BALL, here comes the ball!”  My extra hot Mocha did a little bobble as I laughed, shifting in my chair.  My daughter looked to me, back to the field, and with a look of surprise, took off after the ball. 

Successfully kicking and blocking the ball from entering the zone, she looked back to me for approval.  Seeing my smile, she struck her fashion pose and proceeded to dance as if she had the radio tuned to Taylor Swift.  “Puddie… the game!”  The dancing stopped, but not without flashing me that smile that told me she was proud of herself.  The “see what I can do?” smile.

We will make it through the rest of the season with her fashion sense, creative hair styles and immeasurable patience from me.  She will learn many lessons about soccer and me?  Touchdown Puddie!