365... err, 362, I guess.

Ok, so I'm not a huge believer in New Year's resolutions. The Universe slipped me a little note last year, that oddly (or not oddly?) is the one that I have passed on to so many others, but somehow cannot find (even after searching for the last 10 minutes)(coincidence? you know the answer to that, I'm sure). Regardless, its message is that there's no such thing as "starting new" or "resolving to make things better" now that the calendar year has turned. What's real, what's important, is believing (ALWAYS!) that what you wish for, what you want, what you wish to change or feel or accomplish or be is always within reach. That instead of starting anew, it's more of a re-energizing, re-affirming, re-believing, if you will, in yourself and everything your life can bring you (and already is).

I've been wanting to do a better job of recording the magic of Grif. His craziness, his antics, his everydayness. And one of my photographer friends is taking and posting a new pic of her kids every day this year, 365 snapshots into the joy of her life and her family. As soon as I saw this, it struck a vibrant chord with me. Yes! This is the answer I didn't even know I was looking for (I love how that's always the way, right?). The answer to both my dilemma for blogging more and simply recording more of the boy's life.

So here it is. Day 1 (which is actually 3, but whatever). This morning, Grif and I got a late start, compounded by the fact that I let him cuddle into my bed, covers pulled all the way up to his nose, to watch Curious George while I hopped into the shower. I was so struck by his little face, the way he was mesmerized by the cartoon, his full attention on it, and the way I could only see the top half part of his head from the nose up. His sweet little cute button of a nose. It was the nose that got me.

Then tonight, we were playing trains before bed. And he was telling me a story about the one -- calling it the Spo-ler Esspress (Grif-speak for Polar Express), HOO-HOO!!!-ing around in circles, and telling me it was headed to the mountains. Pause. And also. Pause. The North Pole. His innocence, his energy, his stillness and motion. His youth, his joy, his very boy-ness. Click -- a snapshot of both, in my head and on this page forever. And although this photo does not capture either specifically, it's the start for both.

I love new beginnings, don't you? Consider this more than my happy new year to you (and me, and jim, and grif). Consider this my Happy Always.

Marisa, Motherhood and Rain Rain Rain

So, today was an unexpectedly, dreadfully, downpouringly (it's a word) day. Gray and overcast with big heavy rain, from the time I woke up in the middle of the night when a small boy and his bunny crawled into bed with me and through now, as I sit here and type. A day tailor-made for staying in bed and eating pancakes and chocolates and warm apple pie. Instead, I went to work. Fought the crazy traffic, slogged through the rain, felt overwhelmed at the discovery of this week's workload, and tried to remember it was my birthday.

Another year. This one has been a whirlwind (shocking, I know, as that never seems to change for me). Working part-time (thank you, universe!), having more time, over-filling said time. Such is the way. Because for as much as I got everything I asked for, it turned out to be really tough. No piece of cake getting your dreams handed to you on a silver platter. Not as easy once I had it all. Specifically, when talking about the whole "mother of a three-year-old" part.

I think some people are born mothers. They're the women who babysat nonstop as teens, and who even today fawn over any and every baby, toddler or child in their view. I was never, and am still not, one of those kinds of women. I'm not that mom at the playground that gasps loudly every time my child stumbles. I let Grif fall -- trusting (sometimes too much) that he'll be alright, trusting that a kiss from mommy will be enough to heal all things gone wrong, trusting that things won't go that wrong in the first place. I'm still not overly touchy-feely when it comes to (other) kids in general. But I have a new respect for the magic of children -- one I never could've experienced without one of my own. Perhaps that's why Grif is blessed with gorgeous brown skin and amazing blue grey eyes -- he's simply too beautiful not to love with all your heart. He can melt you with a laugh or a look from under his eyelashes. He can imitate my expressions and tone with perfect (often hilarious) exactness. He takes my breath away. He wakes me instantly from a dead sleep with the quietest cry of "mommy" in the night. But he also makes me crazy. Maddeningly, totally, sometimes out-of-control crazy.

I'm a big believer in asking -- and thus receiving -- your heart's desire from the universe. In many ways, I'm proof positive. And (always) grateful to be so. But what I found myself doing this year, as I spent more and more time with a growing, maturing, willful, independent, high-high-high-energy child, was doubting my abilities as a mom. Getting mad at my failures to control him, or understand him, or even want to play with him when I had so much to do around the house. I'd lose patience with him. Yell at him. Spank him. Lose my temper. Wash my hands of him. Walk away from him. Deny him, in so many ways. And then I would be contrite, in tears, painfully distraught and wrung out, guilt-ridden at my lack of control, my lack of ability, wondering why I couldn't just be better at this. Thinking, over and over and over again, that I was a bad mother. Telling myself so. Again and again. Practically flogging myself (self-pity and all) for my impatience and temper and angry reactions. And in the universe's perverse but oh-so-consistent manner, thinking and talking about my subpar mothering skills started to become truth. Thought transcends matter, after all.

So I had a spiritual healing done. Which helped with my broken heart and blame and guilt. I came away feeling lighter, more determined, with a mantra to Shiva to break the cycle of temper and anger and impatience. I attended a restorative yoga class. Which added to the light, re-teaching me how to breathe, to let the anger and hurt go, to renounce that behavior with "that's not me." I bought books on how to deal with my willful child. All of it helped. Temporarily. For a day. Or a week. Or a month. But I still felt that ache of doubt -- will I fly off the handle here? Am I reacting (or over-reacting) the right way here? Why can't I stay calm? Why can't I just redirect? Why can't I think of some new way to react instead of losing my temper and yelling?

And then I came back to Marisa. For a few years now, Marisa de los Santos has been among my top three writers. Which is saying something, as until last month, she'd only written two books. Her new one came out, and it was as lovely and poetic and compelling and wonderful as the last two. I loved it. I love her. She's lyrical about love. In all its forms. And it wasn't until this week that I truly understood that.

When I read her first book, Love Walked In, I was bowled over by her description, her discovery of real, true, soul-deep love. How it surprises you in its fullness, how even more surprising is its reciprocation by the same being you love with all your heart. She was so right on the money -- describing everything I'd held out for all these years until I found my pilot. She made love come to life and reveal its true meaning inside this simple paperback. I was moved by her. I felt in sync with her, as a newly made wife having found and married the love of my life. But what I failed to realize, what I never could have seen even though it was right in front of me the entire time (often spelled out in blatant yet lyrical language) was that her book was really all about motherhood. About a mother's love. A mother's undeniable, all-encompassing, fiercely protective, unselfish, wonderful kind crazy love. And even more crazy, all three of her books have that all-important theme at their core. Somehow, I missed that.

This all has a point. What the healing and yoga and daily prayers started, Marisa's books finished. Or rather, reminded. Enlightened. Like a key that finally turns the lock. No more pity -- no more doubt, no more anger at myself. No more blame. The universe has heard these fears of mine and manifested them all too often at my very request. And above all, both Griffin and I deserve better. In Marisa's words, it's "time to get back to the business of loving this child who needs me -- my life's work."

Tonight, for the first time, Grif and I read The Polar Express. My boy, who loves all things trains and mountains and really gets Santa this year. It was the best birthday present ever, to share this book (that my lovely sister Jeannine had gotten for me so many years ago) with this child of mine. This small boy who fills my heart so full with love and wonder and joy. I am overwhelmed by him, the gift of his life, the gift of this life Jim and I have made together with him, for him, for each other.

So this year, today, on my rainy and dark birthday, I made the boy and myself and my husband and the universe a promise. Not a resolution, but a bone-deep re-belief, if you will. On this day that marks the celebration of my own birth, I have become more patient. More kind. More loving. More imaginative. More competent. More calm. More thankful. More forgiving. More peaceful. More joyful. More accepting. More understanding. More gentle. More generous. More fun. More lighthearted. More supportive. More attentive. More responsive. More happy. More joyous. More present. More rooted. More committed than ever to mothering and nurturing and embracing my sweet child with love and light and goodness. More and more and more... better. And yeah, it's a word.

It's been HOW long?

Ok, so, um, I've been busy. Thank the Universe -- busy beyond belief. Probably too busy, in all truthfulness. But working part-time has been amazing. I've had the opportunity to bite off waaaaaay more than I can chew, spent the last six months trying to potty-train a three-year-old (and not lose my mind), adjusted to my new part-time-crazy-working-mom-loving life. And had a blast doing it.

The only thing I've missed is this. I've missed it a lot. I haven't made time for it -- but in truth, it's because I've made time for so much else (although you don't want to see the state of my home office. I'm truly afraid that if I don't get in there soon to organize, purge and, I repeat, ORGANIZE, that my husband will submit me for an episode of Hoarders. I digress.).

Time -- it's always been about time, hasn't it? And now that I have more of it, I've filled it to the absolute brim so that I've got even less these days. Ironic, no? Even my husband complains that I'm always going somewhere, doing something, with the boy, with friends, with yet another project. Driving way too much. Taking too much on. But it's been fabulous. Hard, at times (such is the life with a 3-year-old). Crazy at others (such is the life of a mom). Truly insane at even others (such as it is as a writer, late nights and long hours writing and editing and writing and editing....). But, I repeat, so very good.

So here's to getting everything I wanted. Here's to being crazy busy but still having the days off to go to the zoo with the boys, the pool with Grif, the off-days to do errands or just play in the driveway, or stay up way too late with my pilot watching silly movies or talking into the wee hours, planning our next days, our next dinner, our next dreams.

Here's to it all. Thanks, everyone, everything. Proof positive that dreams do come true.

And a wee little promise, to myself, to the boy, to my pilot. To come here more often. Just for a few minutes. Oh, and to write in the boy's journal. And clean up the office. And get those pictures hung. And get back to yoga more often. And... And... enjoy all the rest.

With love, with light, with hope and peace. Thank you for this good, good life.

change is a comin'

Well, who knew, eh? Who knew that this day would finally, finally arrive? This day where the focus, the hope, the crux of all my dreams and desires from the past two years would unfold itself in one neat little package? For those of you following along, this is where I would obviously and convincingly say, "Well, I did. I knew it was coming." And though there were days when I lost patience (but never hope!), I believed this day would come. Truly. And yet, it's still so amazing to know that it is finally here....

Last week, I went to yoga. A mom's night out. No boys, no distractions. The decision just made and final that although I believe in long shots and miracles, my current place of employment simply had not been able to keep me -- the hours? the pay? doesn't matter -- the decision finally final and done. And although I was so very excited about my new part-time job (read it again, PART-TIME JOB...ok, now shout it to the rooftops), I had, in fact, been holding out more than a little bit of hope that my long shot of being able stay would come through. It did not. And frankly, I was more than a little disappointed. Ok, that's an understatement. I was sad. Supremely let down. Broken-hearted. Scared too at the thought of leaving this very comfortable place I had created for myself as writer, editor, brainstormer, concepter, valued employee, friend.....and that's when I realized that I had let myself lose sight of the most important part. That. My. Dream. Had. Finally. Fully. Absolutely. Perfectly. Come. TRUE!

So, yoga. Arriving in sadness made me angry. And those are two things that just don't belong there. At my hot yoga practice, I find it easy, natural even, to really be able to focus on and deliver the deep, deep breathing that is so critical to every yoga practice, but even more so when it's 110 degrees in your studio. And I always use two words to inhale and exhale throughout my practice there -- a mantra of sorts, depending on my mood. Usually some sort of reminder. Often a wish....any one of these my focus for the past year....Inhale (when?). Exhale (soon)....Inhale (peace). Exhale (hope)....Inhale (strength). Exhale (hope).

Last week, last Thursday, with my somewhat broken, fearful, anxious heart in hand, I lay there on my mat before class trying to relax and focus. And I suddenly realized how ungrateful I was, how my expectations had overshadowed the most important part -- that my wish, my dream, my want had come true. Entirely. How easy to forget in the mess of all the crazy details that had just that day worked themselves out. And now how critical it was to put them all aside and embrace, believe, remember what was truly, truly important.

Somewhat contrite, I put all that hurt and disappointment aside. I had just been handed the thing I wanted most in life -- a place to do what I enjoyed (writing and editing) and the amazing gift of two extra days to spend with both of my boys (without compromising too much of my overall funds). More time. More time with Grif. More time with Jim. More, more, more. Time, time, time. How amazing. And so I dedicated that practice to being uncompromisingly, totally overflowing with gratitude and joy. To thanking everyone who worked so hard to make this come true for me. To not just saying thanks, but fully feeling it. To being full to overflowing with joy and thanks. Fully reaping the rewards from the sheer amazingness of it all. To being overwhelmed at this amazing gift -- this gift that sometimes goes by the name of Grif, but so often is just my good, good life.

And so I inhaled (joy). And exhaled (thanks).

Repeat. Infinitely.

seeing, listening, believing

And somehow, another month (plus) has passed, a new year has begun, and the craziness of the holidays has come and gone without a word here. Instead of apologizing, vowing to change, or wishing that I could do something different, I'm trying -- no, doing -- something new. Slightly different. Instead, right now, I'm simply thankful that I'm able to carve out these few minutes now to be here. To do this. And that you're here along with me. Everything as it should be. Kind of an interesting twist on looking at things, no?

I've been listening to the universe a lot lately. Both the universe at large, and the universe as it speaks through a favorite source. Even better, not just listening to the universe, but really hearing it. I saw a sign the other day while driving -- one of those digital road signs that usually blinkingly proclaim "road work ahead 2 miles, proceed with caution" -- only this one actually said, "You are blessed. Be thankful for this good life." Ok, I thought, I'm listening. I get it. And I think it's awesome.

Another day, I got a note from the universe, telling me to "ask my question, feel the answer. Ask, feel, ask, feel. It's that easy." It is that easy, isn't it? My question was of course, "when?" (can I find the right job that will let me spend more time with my husband and boy and still be financially viable) and the soothing, believable, obvious answer was immediately, overwhelmingly, absolutely "soon." Ask. Feel. When? Soon. Ask...feel...when...soon. WHEN? SOON! Even more striking, I believed it. Truly believed it. Still do. It's become my mantra, especially during yoga. Inhale when. Exhale soon. It's perfect, really.

For the new year, I was tempted to do the same-old start over, wipe the slate clean, set new goals thing. But again, at a suggestion, instead I'm looking at it this way....I'm giving thanks that life is just as it is (and always has been). Knowing that what I want is already mine by divine law (and I'm not worrying about how I'll get there) and just focusing on the ownership, the absoluteness of this and letting the rest take care of it itself. I'm following my impulses and instincts, and above all, I know that 2011 is going to be my year (more to the point, it already is).

I even had my tarot cards read the other night, out of curiosity and compulsion, to know if everything I was thinking and feeling already this year would shine through somehow with a turn of a card. Suffice it to say, much of it did. And although I didn't need confirmation to know that the path I'm on is unequivocally the right one, the best one, it certainly was comforting and lovely to hear a voice of resounding agreement.

I've started wearing a yoga charm made by the fabulous Rachel at The Yoga Bar, which reads "Salutations to Ganesha" -- remover of obstacles and the symbol for new beginnings. I'd even go so far as to say it called to me. I love what it represents -- the hope, the knowledge, the certainty. It just seemed too perfectly right.

So -- this may seem a wee bit more mystical than usual, and much of this I've shared with some of you already via email, coffee or conversation, but it simply had to be the first post of this wonderful new year. And even though we all have those same dreams and aspirations and hopes for change and discovery as a new season begins, the difference -- the one I believe and know and feel with utter happiness and certainty and peace -- is knowing (not just believing) that everything will work out as it should. Oh, yes, it will. That I will move mountains (and they will say, "thank you, dude!). And that there is simply no such thing as thinking too big.

Wow. Pretty cool, no?

Small enough to hold

Griffin is tall. Really tall, especially for a two-year-old. Just over three feet already. And although he's not a baby anymore, he is still very much a little boy. And one who is still small enough to hold in my arms.

I've been noticing that lately. Paying very close, quiet attention to the moments (sometimes brief as they are) that he is trusting and content and still in my arms. "Up, Mama," seems to be his mantra of choice these days. He always wants me to pick him up. Sometimes so he can see what I'm doing -- cooking, chopping, cleaning, whatever -- sometimes I think just because he's missed me throughout the day and wants to be spoiled and cuddled and held. I'm always happy (breathless, thankful, overwhelmed) to oblige.

It's funny, when he was a baby, we actually were worried for a time because he didn't seem to be all that cuddly. He always seemed to be going, going, going...only sitting still for seconds at a time. That, of course, has changed quite a bit. He'll sit in your lap for book after book (Go Dog Go, Goodnight Moon, Polar Bear Polar Bear and The Eye Book being just a smattering of his current favs -- in Grif speak, Woof, Moon, Roar and Eye). He wants to be held after every bump and scrape (some bigger than others, but always running to be lifted up and consoled -- as if the power of my arms can make all the hurt go away). He'll run to me to be held when he's frightened or hesitant. He runs to me with a resounding "MAma!" and a huge smile when I come into his room at daycare at the end of the day...all but throwing himself into my arms. Sometimes, he'll walk right up to me, hold my face in his hands, and give me a big (slightly sloppy) Grif kiss. Or he'll sit on my lap, facing me, and just lean his forehead in til it touches mine. Full of easy, innocent wonder and love. These simple things overwhelm me.

Lately too, after bathtime, he likes to be cuddled while still wrapped up in his the towel, head on my shoulder. Which is one of the most amazing, startling, poignant times, since we are always in front of the bathroom mirror, where I can actually see his full weight -- his full trust and love -- as he collapses his whole body in my arms. I hold him up -- I hold him close -- physically and in so many other ways, in my heart, in my mind, down deep in my soul. Oftentimes here, I get the smallest, slightest twinge of envy, as I wish I was small enough still to be held so fully, so totally by someone else. I wish I could remember that feeling of being lifted up, and surrendering so completely. What an amazing thing.

And if he wakes up too early, either from a nap or in the morning, we will sit in his chair in his room, with his head on my shoulder, and his little long body still small enough to fill my lap. In silence, we'll just stay there, neither of us ready to get moving just yet. Me, holding him. Him, being held. And I'll look down at his sweet face, holding him close, and just reveling in, marveling in, wondering at the amazing, miraculous, natural thing it is to hold my child in my arms.

Without direction

I feel my shoulders creeping up around my ears. My anxiety level building, filling me up with this weird restless feeling that has me wanting to just walk away from this job (that I need to be at right now). Near tears that I can't do this today (anymore)(just yet). And lunchtime yoga is still two hours away.....I feel like I'm literally about to boil over...with what, I'm not sure, but I know that maybe this is the best way to get it out and under control.

I had a hard night last night with Griffin. He was a tired, unhappy, fit-throwing monster last night (for lack of a better description). No nap at daycare. Two-year-old "wants" that he wants NOW. It made for a very un-fun and stressful (and again tearful) evening. And I felt so frustrated at him, and myself. Are we raising him the right way? Not giving in to the tantrums that if we do, will only lead to more? Nurturing him enough for him to know that some days it's ok to lose your cool (cuz it happens to us all)? Funny, I think about his name a lot these days...and those are the things I want him to be. Powerful like a lion. Free like an eagle. Right now though, he's just a cub who doesn't always know the difference between playtime and serious time -- a fledgling who's just starting to spread his wings and test the air. He was a lion for Halloween this year. And that (and this pic) captured him so perfectly -- his innocence, his youth, his playfulness, his sweetness, his trust, his potential....

My mind is racing so fast with emotions and wishes and sadness and hope that I can barely keep up here, let alone actually concentrate so that I can get the work done that I need to do here today. I don't want to write silly home page copy for a client that I'm working with now. I just don't want to (sound like a tantrum?). And if I can't do it (if I get anxious and upset and distracted every time like this) then how am I supposed to do this on a freelance basis? If I can't even concentrate here, if I can't motivate here, will it be worse when I don't have a timesheet and a boss to answer to? How can I teach my fierce little lion of a boy to be as peaceful as an eagle if I'm having so much trouble doing the same? I just want to go home and take a bath and a nap and maybe cry for a bit....I want to run away for a bit. But instead I have to hold it together. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

And just like that, this crazy stream-of-consciousness-not-really-like-me-jumble-of-craziness has done some semblance of its job, as a slight sense of calm and purpose has returned. Amy Seeley below helped -- I listened to these seven songs while writing this (and will probably just keep re-starting them throughout today). I have to breathe. I have to let all the frustrations -- from last night, from this job, from everything -- go. Just breathe. Be calm. Celebrate in my health. My breath. My strength. My beauty. My fortune. My life. I have to focus again here. On this day. On this paragraph. On this one inhale...and let the rest go.

 

I once was

So, I've been quiet here recently. Procrastinating really. The date since my last post grows further and further into the past, and instead of doing something about it (like perhaps write, as a writer should do, does), I've let it simply haunt me and remain unchanged.

Sometimes I use time as an excuse, as in, I have no time to do that today (sometimes this is acceptable...most times, well, not really). Most of the time I think it's because I  feel I should have something so prosaic, so profound, so paramount to write about that I can't fulfill my own expectation....and instead choose not to write at all.

Very recently, however, a good friend of me reminded me that this is not what this blog is about (thanks, Sue). Although public and with a small "readership" (one that I would love to expand of course), really this space is all about me -- who I am, who I want to be, and where I'm going. (Yes, I stole that directly from you, Sue. Thanks for that as well.) I start writing "half-blog" entries in my head so often, but then the workday comes and both they and the time fade away before I grab onto them firmly and set them down here. So instead of always feeling like this blog has to be lofty, or perfect, or moving, or targeted, or newsworthy, or readworthy, or even "good" (whatever that means), I'm going to try more to just write. And not judge. And not hesitate. And not over-think. And not procrastinate. Just write.

So this morning I was thinking about when I used be a skydiver. Distinction -- not when I went skydiving, but when I considered myself a skydiver. The short story is that my sister and I did it together -- I gave it to her as a Christmas gift certificate and told her that when she was ready to redeem it, I would go with her. We decided to do it the "real" way -- no, I'm not talking about tandem, nor about static line. We went hard-core all they way -- it's called AFF, Accelerated Freefall. What it means is that after 12 hours of class, one rain delay and another four-hour review, my sister and I went up to 13,000 feet, hung from the wing of the plane, and with ONLY an instructor holding on to our jumpsuits -- a mere handful of fabric, no straps, no safety net, just a hand-hold more to steady us in flight than as any kind of assistance -- we jumped out, freefell, pulled our own cord, and floated down all completely solo. This is one of those points where even years later, words don't really describe it....

But that's not the point of the story. Nor is the point that my sister left her evil monster husband after that first jump day (although it could be, given the point of this post -- she'd been married to him for 20, yes, 20 years, and leaving him after that jump? No coincidence I think). Nor is it that we went back for a second jump and did it all again (only this time we did maneuvers in mid-air). The point is that I thought myself a skydiver. A fearless, jeep-driving, wild woman, cool-girl skydiver. Not just someone who jumped out of planes, but a skydiver. The word had weight. I did things like that back then -- weighty, somewhat crazy things like driving solo across the western half of the country in my jeep (pre-cell days, remember). Hiking the Grand Canyon. Playing rugby. Going rock-climbing for four hours before my shift at a crazy restaurant where I would spend the following 10 hours absolutely running my tail off. Writing poetry. Painting watercolor scenes at the pond by my house. Driving by airports and dreaming of flying...the energy I had, the romantic notions, the ideas...

My memory of that girl I was is jaded -- on the surface, she seems so confident, so daring, so free and fearless. And for the most part, I was (dare I say, still am?). But the truth is that I was also alone way back then. Lonely. Achingly, terribly, horribly so. And although I miss those days somewhat -- truly, who doesn't miss the crazy, carefreeness of their youth? -- I'm no longer that fly-solo-by-the-seat-of-her-pants girl. I have a husband who is my whole heart (and who, ironically, is a pilot -- my oldest of friends find that hilarious), I have a son (a child, a wee boy, the ultimate light of my life, the center of my soul), and a life with them that I love so very much and that I waited so very long for. I have so much. So very, very much.

I want to remember these things for the good that they were. I want Grif to know that I drove a blue jeep for 17 years (still miss ya, Big Blue). That I was the captain of my college rugby team (and we were good), that the only times I've been to the Grand Canyon have been by myself. That I once spent a month crewing a 34-foot sailboat and sailing around the Virgin Islands. That I bought a harmonica determined to spend every day playing it but never did. That I've started two different books, but not yet finished either. That all these things made me the woman, wife, mother, writer I am today. And that I wasn't afraid to do any of them. To try them. Or to leave them in the past where, for now, they belong as good, wonderful, gotta-smile-at-that memories that remind me I'm still beautiful, strong and free. I can't wait to tell him that I wasn't afraid to step out of that plane....and let go. And fall.

Five years ago....

Five years ago today....there was a full moon. And the day began with an early morning bath and a cup of coffee that upset my stomach. And then we laughed the entire rest of that glorious day and night away....

Five years ago today, I had my hair and makeup done -- my hair turning out not so great, but my makeup...I remember looking in the mirror and thinking I had never looked so beautiful. And my dress, well, I still am in love with it. Five years ago, the only time I cried was when I saw my mother come out of the hotel as we picked her up in the limo. I had never seen her look so utterly lovely and radiant.

Five years ago, I looked at Jim down the aisle of a church, he and I alone, as he turned around and saw me for the first time in my dress. And I laughed when I thought of how nervous I had been in the car ride over. I'm still blaming the coffee.

Five years ago, my sweet dad walked me down the aisle surrounded by the best of our friends, companions, family. Five years ago, we read Walt Whitman, and played Verdi and the Marriage of Figaro, and spoke from our hearts when we gave each other our rings. Five years ago, we took time out to thank my girl Mary, for all she had done for us. And Father Keyes made everyone laugh, and cry, and think that if there were more priests like him, more people would be returning to the Church.

Five years ago, we took pictures outside, boarding these gorgeous brick-red chris-craft boats with a glorious blue blue metallic sky above to match my "something blue" shoes. Five years ago, my mother gave a Spanish toast, my father blessed us all in tears, and my dear friend Lark gave a speech to end all speeches about love and life and living and thanks.

Five years ago, we did things just a little differently than everyone else (said lovely planner Susan, who we will miss and remember just as much as Father Keyes on this day), from the music, lights and the setup to the food, fun and flowers. Five years ago, we were each other's Shining Star, with a silly Dancing Bear pinata and Spanish cava and chocolate fondant cake. Five years ago, we danced our feet off, broke the bar (so to speak)(or not, depending on if you ask my father about the bar bill), ate like kings and had a vivid and glorious day, one I remember in fine detail even these years later.

Five years ago, I married the love of my life. My soulmate. My best friend. My lover. My pilot. My husband.

Five years ago, we had a blast. And although every day since then hasn't been as magical and perfect and carefree and fun as our wedding day, I wouldn't change a single day. People are still talking about how fun and amazing our wedding was -- we can't get together with anyone who was there on the lake that night of the full moon without retelling a story, a favorite moment, a salute to a great getaway and an over-the-top occasion. I'm inclined to agree.

Here's to the next five, and all the rest to come. I love you, Jim. With all my heart yes.

When did I become a hippie?

I grew up in the 70s and 80s. Came of age (in my mind anyway) in the mid-90s. My music repertoire had its roots in Styx (I blame my then-teenage neighbor), then later in Rush, the Fixx, the Alarm (I blame pals Rick and Joe) and other similar bands like the Clash, Joe Satriani, the Cult. Post-college brought me into contact (as I fell in love) with Pearl Jam and the Dave Matthews Band. And then there were the Frank years, and all things ladies of blues, Etta, Ella and Nina. But I never would've called myself a hippie or anything even slightly related. Slightly boho-gal, yes. All-out Jeep outdoorsy cool chick, probably. But hippie? I had one tie-dye shirt (that I made). Didn't go to festivals (didn't even know such a thing existed besides Woodstock). Never saw the Grateful Dead on tour (never even knew much of their music). Would not have known what a drum circle was. Nor a jam band. Phish grew to fame in the east while I was there, and I missed that too entirely. And then, somehow that all changed.

I remember the first song that my husband played for me -- the first one that he really wanted me to hear. It was by the Jerry Garcia Band, and it was a cover of Shining Star by Earth, Wind and Fire. And it was good. Really good. I instantly fell in love (your guess here whether I'm talking about the song or Jim). He had told a friend of his years before that he would play that song for the woman he was going to marry, so in a way, it was a mini-audition for the wife and lover and friend and companion that I was already well on my way to becoming. Come forward to our engagement, which began when he asked me to marry him at Bonnaroo, during the Dead show while they played Morning Dew (a sweet, soulful, classic folk melody)...and then keep on going to our wedding, which featured both significant songs, a reception introduction orchestrated by Phish's First Tube, and filled with Jerry Garcia wine, Jerry art on all the place cards, and a Dancing Bear pinata. Oh yes, I'm serious. It was a blast....

I credit my lovely (hippie) pilot of a hubby with all this music discovery. Music is amazing, I think. How one song can change your entire day, mood, life sometimes. How one song can take you back 20 years, and surprise you by the fact that you still know all the words. And the words -- ahhh, the writer in me is always so focused on, so moved by, so inspired with what the songs actually say and how they say it, most times more than the music itself (although also a critical part). That's one of our big differences -- for Jim, it's all about the music, and the words are secondary, sometimes unimportant. It's the absolute opposite for me. To this day, I still print out words to songs that strike me -- songs where the words could stand alone, but are brought to such an amazing life with their accompanying chords and notes and voices. Songs where the words alone bring a tear to my eye, make me smile, cry, wish, hope....

I'm now a huge fan of both the Grateful Dead and Phish, and find myself sorry that I missed some of the "golden years" when touring with the bands was an experience and not just another show. I've been to Bonnaroo twice. A number of smaller festivals like the Hangout and two and three-day shows galore from Red Rocks to Alpine Valley and back. In fact, much of our vacation schedule is crafted around festival season. I just got back from a two-day Phish run at Deer Creek. Funny, how music can change a life, no?

So in the spirit of the hippie I've become -- loved becoming, become through love -- I leave you with my latest favorite song. A good DJ "friend" played it to end his run on my favorite local radio station, and it seemed to me to be the perfect send-off, the perfect goodbye, the perfect so long for now. It's a sweet, slightly sad tune, but as always, it was the words that hooked me, with the music sealing the deal. So from one hippie to another, I hope you enjoy it....both the words and the music.....and think of the "many worlds I've come since I first left home"....and that you'll "listen to the river sing sweet songs to rock my soul."