It's warm today in the wake of the hurricane.  Windows are open and birdsong is in the air.  I was rather hoping that the storm would serve as a giant leaf blower and clear my yard, but if it did, it must have done the same for a neighbor because I have at least as many as before it started and now they are wet and icky.  I spent a little time wandering around the neighborhood in my red plastic poncho and high boots yesterday calling for my foster kitty, Martin.  I suppose I looked more than a little like an apple and if I had been he I wouldn't have come either.  Eventually he did turn up at his home (I got a text message...from his owner, not from him) and I could relax.

As the stories pour in from New York and New Jersey and all along the East Coast I realize how very lucky we are.  Looking at the pictures of Manhattan I found myself hoping they had been Photoshopped.  Unfortunately, they appear to be the real deal.  The usually bustling metropolis looks like a movie set from a science fiction disaster flick.  Fires in Queens took fifty homes.  At least sixteen people lost their lives yesterday because of the storm.  Even here in Massachusetts there are many still without power, although compared to the mid-Atlantic states we got off easy.

And so we are issued another reminder of how unpredictable life is, how fickle and unfair.  All the toys and fancy cars, the political signs and pedicures, don't really amount to much in the face of life and death.  Be grateful you are safe.  Check on the neighbors. Help those who didn't fare so well.  And open the windows.  The birdsong is beautiful.

Hurricane Sandy is expected to kick the stuffing out of Massachusetts (and most of the East Coast) today.  I don't treat the subject lightly, because these storms are very dangerous and people do lose their lives.  Still, there is some part of many New Englanders that relishes dramatic weather.  Certainly it helps with motivation for house-keeping, since it takes a threat of Armageddon to get the air conditioners out of the windows and the lawn furniture put away.  This is related to how I clean the inside of my house.  If I don't throw the odd party or have a dinner here or there I find it hard to care about the vacuum or a clear path through the clutter.

Luckily I haven't found a job yet, so I don't have to wrestle with my conscience about whether or not to go in and try to convince whomever that I am "essential personnel".  The path of the storm is halfway between the boys' colleges, so they should be spared the worst of it, and Himself is on an all-day conference call from home, so unless the power goes out we're tucked in and cozy for the day.  The wind has already begun howling, but we have another five hours or so before the storm really starts raging, and then we are in for it for a good nine hours.  The temperatures are not frigid, so losing heat won't be a problem, and much of the tempest will occur during daylight hours, so if we do lose power I can amuse myself with the piano or a book.  It might even be time for the semi-annual fake log in the fireplace.  Usually I only remember to do that on Christmas Eve. 

The drama of hurricanes and blizzards always reminds me of how little control we really have in the world, for all our technology.  I watch in utter fascination as the sheer power of nature lets us know who's really the boss.  And I bow in deference to the Maker of the winds, astonished to know that the birds will survive this and so shall we.  Send up a prayer for the emergency responders, the television crews, the power company employees, and all those who will work today to keep us safe and informed.  I will.  And then I'll sit with my cocoa and stare out the window completely entranced.

Nothing has changed.  There are still daily trips to the nursing home to see my mother, and every evening when he comes home from work Himself and I drive eight miles to make dinner for his mother who is also suffering from dementia, and whom his dad insisted on bringing home.  Flanagan remains dead.  I remain unemployed.  The boys' rooms are still empty while they cram their heads and souls with high-priced knowledge.  The air-conditioners are still in the windows as Hurricane Sandy approaches.  I haven't been to Weight Watchers in three weeks. Christmas is less than two months away.  Why, then, did I wake this morning with such a peaceful heart?  The weight which was crushing my spirit just a few days ago has been lightened and I can only think of one explanation.  Somebody out there is praying for me.

In polite society we're not supposed to talk about religion, politics, or sex.  Well everyone seems to be blithely violating the second tabu with a vengeance, so I'm not uncomfortable with shattering the first.  For those of you who don't believe in the power of prayer, I'm sorry.  It happens to be real, however, so for today you will have to cope.  Or skip this blog.  I can tell when someone is praying for me.  And if you get quiet enough, a difficult thing to do in a world like this, you will feel it when someone prays for you.  So whether Romney or Obama wins, we'll be fine.  And something about Dear Flanagan's passing has moved me from "believing" that our spirits don't die to absolutely "knowing" it, although I couldn't tell you why.

I don't believe in fairy tale endings.  Life is probably holding another nasty ace or two up its sleeve, maybe as soon as today, so whoever you are (and I suspect there is more than one) please keep those prayers coming. They make a difference.  I feel them.  And I need them.  We all need them.  I'm sending mine up for you as you read this.  Thank you.

My lawn (and I use the term advisedly) is an interesting place.  There's some real grass, some crabgrass, some dandelions, some clover, a convention center of grubs, several holes from some kind of critter I've never actually met, and a bunch of crunchy leaves.  I mow it when it gets embarrassingly high, and my theory is when you squint it looks green and that's good enough.  I have mandevillas climbing up the wrought iron supports on my front porch from May through October.  They are very low maintenance plants and quite dazzling.  The pink trumpet flowers are still throwing out blossoms this close to Halloween, and as in dressing, once a woman reaches a certain age, it's all about distraction.  People walk by and all they ever talk about are the pink flowers which are so pretty they look artificial.  They live in pots on the porch and the stairs, and when the frost comes I cut them back, bring them into the cellar where I occasionally remember to water them over the winter.  But this year I have a surprise.

Next to my front stairs a "green thing" has popped up.  I didn't plant it, so it is probably a weed, but there it is, around the corner from the hydrangeas my father-in-law planted this summer in ninety-degree heat.  It's not a giant dandelion.  I have lots of experience with those.  It has enormous green leaves and almost looks like a cabbage.  Perhaps a passing squirrel planted it, or one of the mysterious and unseen critters from my lawn.  It has become an object of fascination to me.  I mow around it.  I clear the leaves away.  I want to see where this thing goes.  There may be a flower someday before the first frost.  Mostly it is a reminder for me to keep looking at the world for new things.  So many days I am the prisoner of my chattering "monkey mind" that I don't see what's in front of me.  Driving down the street, I sometimes ask myself how I got here, where the heck I am and where I am going. But until it blooms, dies, or takes over the city, my little green friend reminds me that there is still an awful lot about the planet I don't know, and I'm not through learning yet.

Some days it takes a Herculean act of courage just to put one foot in front of the other.  The forces of the universe just seem to conspire and almost everything that can go wrong does go wrong.  Notice I said "almost" because I don't like to challenge God.  S/He can have a quirky sense of humor when challenged.  I know it can always get worse, but could a girl catch a break here?

You know the days.  You're paralyzed with how much there is to do, so you get nothing done.  You try to hold your feet to the flame to tackle the one project against which your soul shrieks and find yourself gasping for air.  The Stress Monkey sneaks up behind you and gets you in the dreaded choke-hold until you run for the front door, car keys in hand, on the way to anywhere.  Just OUT.  I'm having one of those.

The sun is shining.  The meeting at the nursing home this morning about my mother's condition was predictable and pleasant enough.  I know what I'm cooking tonight for my in-laws.  I have a piano lesson at one.  Why do I want to scream?  Panic is setting in about finding a job at my advanced age.  I'm missing my sons with a white hot fury.  I'm surrounded by well-loved but utterly depressing women nearing the end of their lives and well past the end of their trolley tracks.  The clutter in my house is an accurate symbol of the clutter in my soul.  And I'm missing many too many friends.

It's sad not to know what you want to be when you grow up when you're over 60.  I feel all this potential and I'm terrified that if I pick the wrong thing I will blow my last chance at  finding out what I can really do and who I really am.  Writer?  Administrator?  Singer?  Speaker?  All of those and more, but how does that translate into a position someone would pay for?  So while I ponder these very serious and scary questions, and before the Stress Monkey chases me out the door again, I guess I'd better start the vacuum.  Because on days like this it's important to see that you've accomplished something.

For a country so set on security, I find it confusing and slightly hilarious that one night a year out of 365 we open our doors in the dark to anybody wearing a mask.  Welcome, Halloween!  Still, it is fun.  I've always loved dressing up, which for me is infinitely preferable to Jolly Ranchers and Tootsie Rolls (what ARE those things, anyway?), so today I will share with you some of my favorite costumes. 

First, I'm all about comfortable.  The gum ball machine, with the giant clear trash bag filled with balloons is adorable...until you have to drive a car or use the rest room.  Anything involving a leotard is usually strategically awkward, as well.  However, I once wore a full length white slip over a black turtleneck and black leggings and I wrote "FREUD" all over it in magic marker.  Ta da!  A "Freudian slip" and still wearable under a dark dress!  Of course good luck finding a slip these days.  In this economy a "pink slip" works, too.  That's pretty scary!

I used to own an opera cape which belonged to a Monsignor in the 1930's.  It was a gorgeous (and warm) circle of black broadcloth, lined with satin and with brass crosses and a chain to keep it closed at the neck.  I wore it to winter dances and over maxi-dresses in the 70's, but mostly it was for my witch at Halloween.  It, in combination with my graduation robes from college (a present from a member of the class of 1924 and replete with moth holes) made a scary costume.  I am very good at face painting.  The neighborhood children lived in terror.  But I gave it to a young priest a couple of years ago who wears it over his robes at funerals.  The Monsignor has finally stopped spinning in his grave.

One year I wore a sheet stitched up the sides with a place for my head to poke out of the top and my arms to poke out the sides.  On it was carefully painted a replica of a tube of Crest toothpaste, front and back.  On my head was an inverted white paper paint bucket and I carried a car brush which looked like a toothbrush.  Face paint did the rest.  It was so comfortable that I couldn't understand why no one stopped for me when my car broke down on the side of the road.  Hmmm.

I made my kids a Bionic Bunny costume with a sweatsuit, felt squares, a glue gun, a propeller hat, a bunny headband, and an Exacto knife.  The cape came from the skirt of my favorite red dress, which no longer fit me after childbirth.  That same cape, painstakingly hand sewn, has gone to college to be part of a Super PAC Man costume.  My son is a political science major.  I don't think anyone will get it, but he insists his friends are brilliant and it will be a big hit.  Yuh.

But my favorite costume of all time is the Franciscan habit I borrowed from a friend.  I wore an old man's mask with it, and pulled the hood over my head.  I drank my beer through a straw all night.  I pinned empty potato chip bags all over the front of the habit.  That's right.  I was a "chip monk".

Now for the really scary part of Halloween; living in the house with a bag of miniature peanut butter cups and Hershey's Kisses for a week!

After a week's break at home, Number One Son is back to college today and I am actually going to miss having him around.  Disrupting though it may be to my schedule (such as it is) it's been fun to drive him to see his friends and have him around for breakfast.  He even spent an evening at his grandparents' house making endless circles with his grandmother's wheelchair since she must be in constant motion or she gets up and "wanders".  I heard him telling her about his political philosophy courses, a gentle drone so she could hear the sound of his voice, which seemed to quiet her ever-present anxiety.  Himself and I had a dinner to attend and couldn't do our usual preparation of meal and helping Papa get her dressed and ready for bed, and in steps our big-hearted 19 year old son to save the day.

I am finding it very interesting getting used to dealing with my sons as adults.  One of the best parts is I can go back to swearing while I'm driving (I know, I know, but as Mark Twain said, "There is a relief in profanity that is denied even to prayer!"), and we get the same jokes.  OK.  Sometimes he has to explain them to me, but you know what I mean.  Nothing gives me a greater understanding of the passage of time or the natural flow of life than watching my sons turn into the kind of people the planet needs.  I have decided that caring hearts are more important than large bankrolls.  There is so little that we actually need, especially in this country.  But to teach compassion to the next generation is critical to the survival of all the good things we cherish.  All the fancy gadgets in the universe don't give joy.  That only comes from feeling that we really matter to someone else. 

I can't wait until Thanksgiving when both boys are home.  My heart is full at the thought of it.

I have no idea when I first heard of Lane Goodwin, the young teen from Kentucky who lost  his battle with cancer this week.  Someone must have sent me the Facebook link at some point, and somewhere along the way I became caught up in his struggle.  The outpouring of love and support from total strangers was enough to lift my heart and make me believe in the basic decency of most people.  Movie stars and athletes and farmers in the field were all photographed with their "thumbs up" for Lane.  This brave little soldier, for as long as he could, would show his optimism with his own "thumbs up" and an increasingly weak smile.

What I found most amazing was the willingness of his mother to share her incredible pain with the world in order to raise consciousness about childhood cancer.  There were pictures of her with Lane and his brother at Disney World, and at major league ball games, and many other places that people had generously arranged for them to visit.  I will confess that when I first saw all the pictures I was a little skeptical, but it soon became obvious that this child was really dying and this was no scam.  How does a mother share so many private moments at what she knows is the end of her child's life?  Angie is incredibly brave and generous, and I suspect that trying to find the kernel of something positive in all this pain is all that is keeping her going.  She has made a lot of people think about childhood cancer who never gave the issue a thought before, and that is definitely something positive.  I have a young friend in my town who is now a junior in college who raised my consciousness on this issue a while ago.  She, too, is a fighter, and she is doing well, thank you, God.

So when people ask me how we are dealing with the stress of sending two kids through college at the same time, my standard answer has become, "I thank God I'm not looking for money for chemotherapy," and that is true.  There is no rhyme or reason for who gets cancer.  No one deserves it, and it's especially hard to deal with it when it attacks a child.
Every day we are surrounded by reminders of how short and unpredictable life is, and also how beautiful.  So enjoy the gorgeous autumn leaves, hug your kids, and say a prayer for Lane's family.  He, himself, is finally resting pain-free in the arms of God.

So here it is, more than half-past October, and we haven't turned on the heat yet.  There have been a couple of chilly moments, but we have warm clothes and blankets, down comforters and flannel sheets, for all of which I am very grateful.  By now it's a matter of principle.  November is when you turn on the heat in New England.

My friends on Facebook confess when they cave in.  We all feel a little guilty when we bend to the lure of creature comforts.  The cost of oil (and gas, I suppose) is certainly a consideration, but I've always thought it had more to do with a perverse pride in being from "sturdy pioneer stock" and sheer stubbornness, at least in my case.  We are playing "chicken" with our friends to see who can hold out the longest.

My nose is pink, my lips are blue, and my LL Bean chamois shirts are covering my waffle-weave underwear, but I'm not about to crumble!  However, if you are looking for me later, you'll find me at the library, or the supermarket, or the mall, or pretty much anywhere that doesn't play the same silly games that I do!

It's always a mistake to wait until the end of the day to write.  In the  morning my intentions are so good, and the day is so full of promise.  There are a million plans waiting to be executed, each one sure to make a difference in how I feel about the world and myself.  By the time dusk starts to creep in I realize that I've blown it again.  I didn't run.  Heck, I didn't walk.  I didn't get as much laundry done and put away as I'd hoped.  I didn't send out enough resumes to find the perfect job.  The list goes on and on.

There were things I did do, of course.  I played chauffeur for my college son.  We went to visit my mother and fed her lunch to her, bite by unappetizing bite.  We went to Town Hall to get a flu shot (which apparently isn't offered until next week....I really should start reading signs), and we got Himself's car to the shop so that it no longer sounds like a Sherman tank as it zooms down the highway.  The list isn't nearly as impressive as I would like it.  There is time to get something else done, of course.  Another load of laundry, dinner, the Board of Directors meeting for my theater group.  Mostly I would like a nap, but the likelihood of that is dwindling fast.

So, like most of the human race, I fall a bit short of my target pretty much every day.  At least I still have a target most days.  And tomorrow morning, assuming I am granted another day (which most of us blithely take for granted, but I've learned better), I'll give it another shot.  Maybe that's what matters most.  That we don't just shrug our shoulders and say, "Well, that's just the way it goes," because I am not ready to settle for that.  Are you?