Things are calming down.  People are getting back into their routines, except, of course, for those whose routines will never be the same again.  Those stories are slowly emerging, and the media and Face Book are putting faces on the statistics.  Along with the tragic events of April 15 came a harvest of heroes who didn't know who they were yet.  I include in this group the people who lost limbs, yet consider themselves lucky to be alive and have managed to find "the bright side" in that.  I include those who had previously lost limbs to cancer or to wars, who have taken the time to visit and encourage the wounded and to bring them the message that the world has not ended for them, that there is a source of strength within them for the tapping that will astound them and everyone else.  These are the stories I want to hear. 

I don't know why a nineteen year old kid would do what this nineteen year old did.  I'm grateful that it wasn't my sons who brought such pain into so many lives.  I'd like to think that it was because of my superior parenting skills that the greatest violence my older son experienced last week was the "Beast of the East" rugby tournament in Rhode Island.  But the truth is we never know.  I have met some wonderful parents who have absolutely atrocious kids.  I have met some amazing kids who have absolutely atrocious parents.  And then most of us, kids and parents, fall somewhere in the middle.  Such a large part of our lives is comprised of who we meet, who we are influenced by, geography, historical accidents, you name it.  The real difference is the grace of God, and along with my prayers for the wounded, both physically and emotionally, I include a prayer of gratitude that this event was such an anomaly, and that we don't have to face this brand of madness every day.

This is the shot that Himself took with my camera an hour before the blast on Monday.   That is THE spot of the first explosion.  My blood chills when I look at it.  Yesterday when I emerged from the subway there were uniformed officers everywhere and helicopters hovered over my office building all afternoon.  The rumors flew.  They caught someone. No, they didn't.  There's been a fourth death.  No, there hasn't.  And all of it was making it to the airwaves of most radio and television stations.  Journalism as we once knew it is dead as the dodo.
Some wise soul had a few paragraphs about the situation on Facebook.  It's credited to Cam Siciliano of Springfield, and I don't know if he wrote it or just had the great taste to pass it on, but it speaks of how he doesn't want to know anything about the beast(s) who did this.  Not their name, their face, how they were raised, or what the hell they thought they were doing.  He only wants to hear that they have been given a life sentence for every life they took, and then he only wants to hear the brave stories of the heroes that have come out of this tragedy.  He wants to hear how the one-legged are coping and fighting and continuing to believe in the basic goodness of people.  It goes on, but that's the gist of it, and I agree with all my heart.
There have been some moments which brought me to tears.  One was the Yankees playing "Sweet Caroline" at their game on Tuesday night.  Class act.  I shall have to work on hating them a little less, although, as every Bostonian knows, it's fun and it's mutual, and we've proven how deep the hatred goes, first on September 11 and then this past Monday.  The second time I got misty was at the National Anthem at the Bruins game last night.  I have never seen anyone given the opportunity to sing that very challenging song at a televised event who would have the grace and the sensitivity to back away and let the crowd take over the singing.  The crowd did a wonderful job.  They owned the song.  And that, my friends, is what the National Anthem is for.  It's for times like these, which are coming much too close together for anyone's taste.  It's a song of strength and resilience and unity.  And it was wicked awesome.

Nothing ever turns out quite the way you expect it to.  For all my complaining about the Twenty First Century, it was a cell phone text message that restored my ability to breathe normally, and Facebook that allowed me to reassure my friends and family, who know that the Boston Marathon is my husband's "thing".  My husband is safe, but other people's loved ones are not.  There's an eight year old boy dead, and although I'm hoping it's a rumor, I heard that his younger sister lost a leg in the explosion.  There are all sorts of stories circulating, and as usual, some are fact and some are fiction.

There's a lot of flag waving and saber rattling, and of course the ridiculous Westboro Baptist Church has threatened to picket the funerals of the Boston Marathon Massacre victims, but really they bore me and who the hell cares?  There is a weariness in the air.  We've been through this too many times already.  We're getting used to chaos.

The closest I came to tears was when I heard that the Yankees were going to play "Sweet Caroline" at their game tonight, the signature song of the Boston Red Sox.  It won't help anyone, but it was such a sweet gesture that it moved me.  I was hoping they wouldn't get a chance to pay us back for having been equally nice to them after September 11.  But I guess the world is in such a state that at one point or another we're all going to have to learn to be compassionate and caring towards our "enemies" at least for a little while.  Then we'll forget and go back to the Yankees hating the Red Sox and the Red Sox hating the Yankees and I'll probably feel a little better then, because THAT at least is normal.  This quiet sadness is not.

It's Boston Marathon Day.  In this house that's like Christmas and Easter all rolled into one....at least for one of us.  I'm off to work, but Himself took a personal day to cheer on his friends and look wistfully from the sidelines.  And to party afterwards, of course.
Yesterday we both volunteered at the 5K race which is always the day before the Marathon, and that was fun.  He was the Team Captain and got a black and yellow hat.  We all got volunteer jackets, which is the reason that nine-tenths of the volunteers are out there anyway.  Me, I've been collecting unicorns for years, but I think with his involvement in the Boston Athletic Association, Himself has finally passed me in that pursuit.
He's having second thoughts about sitting this one out, and he is now starting to talk about doing a fall marathon somewhere.  I think it must be how Jewish children feel at Christmas.  It's OK, you're happy for your friends, but how do you get in on this?
Personally, I'm recalling the days of schlepping two small boys, complete with folding chairs and a backpack filled with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and juice boxes all the way out to mile 17 on the crammed subway cars, walking a quarter of a mile, getting sunburned, being bored for an hour or more and (in the years when we didn't MISS him ...yes, we did) getting to see an exhausted Daddy who stopped for a kiss and a picture and then ran off with the pack, and then repeating the whole craziness in reverse.  I got better at it, of course (He has done eight Boston Marathons..so far) and found the parking space closer to the course, and the boys got big enough to lug their own gear, but it was never a vacation day for me.
So I'll wear my yellow volunteer jack to the office today, and I'll do dinner detail at his parents' alone tonight and help Mom get into bed.  But the next time I'm in a play I'll be looking for roses on closing night.  Just saying.

Today is a day with sharp edges.  One year ago today my dear friend, writing buddy, and passionate warrior, Jim Flanagan celebrated his last birthday.  He stopped slaying dragons when his heart failed on Labor Day, but his smile (which I felt you really had to see to believe) burns like a pilot light in my spirit.
Always engaged in life, and always bursting with an opinion on everything, especially the government and the way he felt it ignored the poor, Jim was fascinating to be with.  He was a talented writer, and not just of irascible letters to the editor.  He had a published book, but it was his poetry that I loved the best.  April is poetry month, and it was fitting that his birthday fell when the world was re-awakening.  He would fly to Chicago to a poetry conference every year and for a week immerse himself in listening to others and to his own inner muse.
This man with a doctorate in English from Notre Dame taught high school English in a very tough neighborhood in New Jersey by choice.  Nothing pleased him more than to transform a young person's life by pulling the beauty out of their soul with pliers and holding it up for them and the world to see. These kids had no idea there was a hint of poetry in them until he taught them to dig for it and revel in it and use it as a tool to express their pain and to celebrate their strength.
More proud of his Irish heritage than anyone I have ever met, he would throw open his home the weekend before Saint Patrick's Day every year and start baking Irish soda bread at four in the morning.  The smell of corned beef and cabbage permeated the neighborhood, and the laughter and Guinness flowed like the waters of the River Liffey.  On the few occasions when we were able to get down there from Boston I would lead the singing and my son would play tunes on his violin, although for the day we called it a fiddle.  The party was legendary.  I quietly ignored Saint Patrick's Day this year, and Jim would not have approved, but my heart just wasn't in it.
So happy birthday, dear friend.  You've had some company from my circle join you in recent months.  I hope you are all well and happy and singing and blissful.  I still have work to do down here, apparently, but I carry you in my heart every day and know that when I've finished my chores I'll join the party up there, and it will put even your amazing celebrations to shame.

My days fly by.  I guess that's a good sign.  I guess it means I'm interested and focused.  Or it could be that old adage that life is like a roll of toilet paper...the closer you get to the end the faster it goes.  Dragon slaying has become a daily habit, and I usually get to cross one long-standing item off the "to do" list.  This week it's been financial aid forms for the kids' colleges.  Last week it was taxes.  I may actually take out the vacuum this weekend, but that might be aiming a little high.

For about an hour after Himself goes out the door I have the house to myself again.  The clock ticks louder than I remember, and the place feels empty.  How did I do this every day while the kids were in school?  How did I fill the void?  It certainly wasn't with house cleaning.  It's been so many years since I've needed to be this organized.  The more I have to do, the more "extras" I squeeze in here and there before collapsing in a lump.  Still in the back of my head is that little voice that says "Not enough, not enough" and in my stomach is that lurching, roller-coaster feeling that time is growing short.  Ultimately everyone's time here is short, and whether we live to be 20 or 99, there is never enough time to squeeze it all in.  Luckily, I know this is only the prelude.  But faith in a loving God aside, it's still time to take my shower and head out the door with my war-paint on and to spread a little kindness in the world.  It needs it, and it baffles me how many people are shocked to find it.

It's almost a week again since I've written.  The job is challenging, and I enjoy it, but I come home and collapse on the nights when I don't have to be at my mother-in-law's to get her to bed.  Still, I am getting in more of a walk than I have in a while.  The walk from the subway to the office is pleasant.  It's only about a quarter of a mile, but in the process I walk over the bridge which is near the Tea Party Ship Museum.  From the moment my foot touches the bridge I can hear the sounds of fife and drum wafting on the breeze.  Every so often they will throw in a fiddle for atmosphere.  I know it's all recorded and tourist-phony, but it's a rather charming way to start the day.  I watch the ducks in the channel as they find their breakfast.  Most fascinating are the other commuters.  Most are plugged into something or other...an iPhone, an e-book, an iPod....and are completely oblivious to what's going on around them.  They rush past me up the escalator to get to where they are bound.  Many mornings I will take the stairs from deep underground all the way to the sunshine on the sidewalk, but this week I've been so tired that I chose quite consciously to ride. 

I've learned to leave enough time so that I have the option of strolling to get to the office.  The days of cutting it close are far behind me.  There is enough stress in the world without my adding more.  On the way in I get a seat on the train usually, and I read my book, a treat for me.  There are still a few tiny piles of soot-encrusted snow here and there where the plows piled it high on the street corners, but for the most part it is certainly spring.

Baskets were mailed to my college boys, and for the first time I won't have to stay up late to help the Bunny hide plastic eggs filled with money or chocolates.  All in all, I would say I'm ready for an "Alleluia" after a long, sad fall and winter.  I'll read at the Vigil tonight.  I'll sing at a Mass tomorrow, and then it's off to the in-laws' for a non-traditional Easter feast of Chinese food.  Usually it's a ham dinner, carefully and lovingly cooked by my sister-in-law at her beautiful home, but this year we will gather where Mom is and keep Papa company.  She won't know the difference.  But we'll be teaching my nephews the value of faithfulness and flexibility, and that's no small achievement.

It's been a week since I've sat here to catch up, a week of getting children back to schools, of juggling two jobs, visiting my in-laws, filling out forms for financial aid, and getting ready for Easter.  After fourteen years of being a stay-at-home Mom, I find it strange to be ironing my clothes for the office, packing two lunches instead of one, and riding the subway every day again, but I find I'm liking it.  How important it is to have a reason to get dressed and out of the house in the morning!  Spring is finally sneaking up through the melting snow, and I get to see the progress it's making first-hand.  The subway is crammed with fascinating people whom I either get to observe in great detail, or sometimes talk to, despite years of warnings about talking to strangers.  I even get to catch up on some reading during the commute, although I confess to library books rather than beginning to figure out how to download anything to my electronic book (which you won't be surprised to learn was a present, and not something I bought for myself).

The house is far too quiet with the boys back at school, and of course it's trashed from their presence.  I'm getting that itch to wash and put away the winter clothes and see what from last summer survived its stay in the attic.  It's time to string the silk forsythia down the stairs and put the wreath of iris and jonquils on the front door.  The stuffed snowmen are relieved of sentry duty and about to take a spin with the spiders upstairs.  Spring is here.  Bring it!

There is a French expression about "sleeping on one ear", which refers (among other situations) to that semi-conscious state of alertness moms have when their children are sick during the night.  Since Son #2 is flying back to Cleveland this afternoon and since there is no snowstorm forecast, we were up from 3 to 6AM with me holding his head as he voted on last night's dinner.  He voted no.  Six times so far.  Before the sun rose I was at the 7-Eleven buying ginger-ale, both warm and cold, and saltine crackers, which I remembered helped somewhat before his arrival.

When he could speak, which wasn't often, he apologized for disturbing my sleep.  I tried to explain that these are the moments that mothers live for.  I haven't felt this needed in years.  Son #1 has the same bug, but his week at home is just beginning, and he had the sense to get ill several times between 9 and 11, and then sleep through the night.  The difference in patterns was established when they were both still in diapers.

So once again, there is something to worry about as I send my baby much too far away for my taste.  We are hoping to stabilize and re-hydrate him before two or so, and then I'll tuck zip-lock bags and paper towels into the outside pocket of his carry-on,  just in case.  Around 4 this morning we were trying to look at the bright side of all this.  He came up with, "It's better this happened at home because I sleep on the upper bunk at school," whereas I thought silently to myself, "Some mothers do this too many nights with their children because of chemo therapy."  I'm tired, but I'm not unaware.  Or ungrateful.

Last night both boys' rooms were occupied with tired heads on pillows. They both stayed up later than I did, in spite of the fact that Son #1 had traveled from Seattle without  benefit of going to bed at all the night before, but for last night my house and my heart were full.  I get this special blessing again tonight, then tomorrow Son #2 heads back to Cleveland, so there must be snow in the forecast somewhere. 
As we did last week when my younger one came in, last night we went straight from the airport to our favorite little pizza place, where the oil swims on top of the pie and the crust crunches exactly enough but not too much.  As I sat and listened to my sons talking about politics, the latest movies, and the new pope, I was amazed at the transformation.  These are two intelligent, charming young men who have it all before them.  I consider myself an intelligent woman, but several of the topics were quite beyond me so I sat and listened, which is something I should probably do more often anyway.  Full of confidence and overflowing with the rush that knowledge brings, they had opinions on everything, and when they differed they calmly backed up their points and debated like the gentlemen they are.
Proud as I am of my Renaissance men, my eyes kept darting to the table next to us where a Mom and Dad were dealing with an impeccably dressed and absolutely adorable toddler.  His chubby legs were visible above his little pale blue socks when Dad hoisted him up on one arm as they put on his navy blue double-breasted jacket with the matching hat.  I don't know how we got from that place to this, and I actually tried to pay attention during the whole process, but it's still alchemy to me.  I could wish to be back in that time of our life, but that wouldn't be fair to them or to me.  That's not what life is about.  If I were that selfish (and had the power) then they would never know the joy of having two college boys coming home for Spring Break at the same time and listening to them talking in their sleep.  And I wouldn't deprive them of that joy for the world.

My, it has been a while!  The  "new" new job started on Monday, and it involves getting up early, packing my lunch (as well as Himself's), finding a parking space at the T, and commuting into downtown for the first time in 14 years.  As usual, I'm being too hard on myself and expecting to know everything on the first day.  I don't.  But the people are pleasant, and the work is not terribly taxing, and I'll get the hang of the three computer systems eventually. 

The return trip gets me home around 4, in time to spend some time with Son #2 who is on break until Sunday.  Son #1 arrives tomorrow evening for a week, so they will wave at each other and only share the house for one full day before going their separate ways again.  May cannot come fast enough for me.  Having my "baby" home reminds me of how much I miss the energy they bring to this house.

All this and a new Pope and my first crocuses on the same day.  More on that tomorrow.

The need to "parent" never ends.  After the usual snowstorm/airport fiasco which I've come to expect when Son #2 comes home, and having received the 3AM phone call from Son #1 who had safely landed in Seattle, I toddled downstairs and woke Son #2 from the couch and made him go upstairs to brush his teeth, wash his face, put his precious head on a newly laundered pillowcase and go to sleep.  I was feeling a little silly about this until the phone rang at 6:45 this morning and my 82 year-old father-in-law called to warn me (age 60) that I should be careful of the ice on the front stairs.

We all need to feel that our children need us.  Or that somebody needs us.  Otherwise all the mani-pedis and massages and book clubs become pointless.  Of course, it's important to take good care of and to occasionally pamper ourselves.  We deserve that, and it's good for the ego and the body and the nerves.  But I feel so much better after I've called a mourning friend and been able to make her laugh just for a moment, or shot an e-mail to a friend battling cancer to remind her that I'm praying and that she's not facing the day-to-day battle alone.  I don't think it's ego.  I think it's an awareness that we've got a job to do while we're here.  We all fall down at different points of our lives.  Our friends (and sometimes wonderful angel strangers) are usually there to pick us up.  When they fall we pick them up.  Eventually we help one another get to the other side.
As long as we don't all have our breakdowns on the same day, the system usually works, and I find it satisfying to be reminded once in a while that even though my babies are not babies any more, someone is still glad that I'm there to reach out a hand.  And I'm glad I have someone to remind me to hold the railing when the stairs are icy, even if I might have figured it out on my own.

Winter has turned into an immortal monster.  Just when you think he has gasped his last and the crocuses start to timidly peek above ground, back he comes with his arms flailing and his icy breath blowing the birds out of the trees.  It's like the dinner guest who refuses to leave three hours after the dessert has been served.  I, for one, am pretty sick of his company.

Of course the benefit of a March storm is that it never stays on the ground very long, although it will probably stay long enough to mess up Son Number Two's flight home tomorrow, something which I've started to expect from my charming snow magnet.  Spring Break, which appears to be a real misnomer this year, starts tomorrow.  Son Number One is also flying tomorrow, but he is headed to Seattle with his friend and won't be back here until next week, by which time the flowers may actually be here for real.  I'm looking forward to deep voices in the house, empty milk cartons, and the traffic of friends coming and going at all hours.  I watch in amazement as these young men float in and out of my area of vision.  Trying to retract my "mommy claws" is difficult.  They don't sleep enough, either of them.  I have no idea how they manage to do so well at school.  Nagging is pointless, but expected, so I do it but half-heartedly.  I know it will have absolutely no effect.  But what a joy it will be to have them home to nag! 
It will be the first time I've seen them in person since "Uncle Jim" passed away a few weeks ago.  They had a hard enough time when my dear Flanagan died in September, and then in November when my mother slipped away, but "Uncle Jim" had a special place in all their growing up years and they both adored him.  We need to cry together, remember together, pray together, and then celebrate.  Ritual is crucial at times like this, and then we will learn to live with the memories as a quiet companion in the background, and get on with the business of spring.

A week from today I embark on an adventure.  While I'll keep on at the boutique part-time, I've also found a part-time job in town, which will involve dressing like a grownup, commuting on the subway, and finding a place to park my car.  It's only from ten in the morning to three in the afternoon five days a week, but it's working for a company that sends out staff to people who might otherwise have to be institutionalized, and this company enables them to stay either in their own home or in group homes.  I'll be behind the desk at reception, and doing projects on the computer, but I feel good about contributing to a worthwhile organization and getting back into the swing of things after almost fourteen years on the sidelines. 

The flexibility to go out to lunch with friends or take care of my mother in the middle of the day was important, but now that mother is gone, and the boys are away for much of the year, and I have too much time to brood over friends lost, I think it's a good thing to get busy.  The hope is that, like most busy people, I'll wind up accomplishing more at home than I did when I was here full-time.  Some days the inertia feels like a swimming pool filled with maple syrup trying to pull me to the bottom.  The phone calls from people I love which used to brighten my days are now few and far between and the silence is deafening.  It's time to reinvent what my life is, because whether I like it or not, it has changed dramatically in the last few months.  I can sit and weep or I can move forward.  And forward looks more interesting.

I can't see it, but I can hear it.  It's a tiny blue-gray thing with a tufted head, and even though the temperature is still in the thirties, I've thrown open the window so that I can hear it better.  It seems to be calling around to see if anyone else has arrived yet.  If ever a year needed a spring it's this one.  Now in the distance I've started hearing other types of birds joining the chorus.  Of all the things I miss in winter, including light, birdsong is in the top three.

There is an ocean separating me from where I want to be right now.  Funeral preparations proceed for Jim, who will be laid out in Saint David's Church in Mold, North Wales on Thursday evening in preparation for his Mass on Friday morning at ten, led by the Bishop.  It will be five o'clock here, and I'll be up, saying the rosary with the ring he gave me years ago, and listening to "Jerusalem" through my iPod, rocking and weeping in the ancient tradition of "keening".  Nothing will help the pain.  Still, I know that under the melting snow outside my window there are daffodils, the flower of Wales, which will emerge in a few weeks to remind me of my precious friend, and to connect me to him and remind me that it takes more than death to break the bond of love.

I find the period after a "hit" physically exhausting.  Going to the boutique and pasting on the happy face as I deal with ladies buying clothes I couldn't begin to afford and which they don't need serves to distract me, but doesn't begin to deal with the issues.  I want a bit of quiet, but that doesn't seem to be on the schedule.

It has occurred to me that I need to start cultivating younger friends or I'm going to run out.  Since I was a child I have always gravitated towards "wisdom figures".  I wept bitterly on the last day of school from the third grade right through high school.  My teachers were my first real guides and friends.  After school I would sometimes stop by for a cup of tea and then work in the garden.  While I was in college I was the weekly housekeeper for my retired eighth grade English teacher, and we remained friends until I was well into my thirties when she passed away. 

My first priest friend fell into my life when I had surgery at the age of thirteen and hit it off with the hospital chaplain.  Since then I have met and added to my list of "inner circle friends" a number of priests.  I'm not sure why.  It's not a plan.  If there's someone in a sweatshirt and jeans at a party and we have a wonderful time talking about important things, at least six times out of ten I'll find out he's been ordained.  I guess I see the human being behind the Roman collar, and treat him accordingly.  And sometimes very irreverently, which we all need once in a while to keep our feet tethered to Earth.  My husband considers the clergy part of my dowry, and he and my children have become the family that some of these men never had.  It's "win, win" until you get to today when one of them leaves and then everyone is reeling in pain. I suppose that's true any time you open your heart wide to let someone into the inner circle.  The pain is in proportion to the depth of the joy received. And over the years this family has been blessed with great joy.

There's been another tear in the tapestry of my life.  Canon Webb (aka "Uncle Jim" around here) slipped away quietly in his sleep on Sunday night after dedicating the new chapel in Saint David's Church in Mold, Wales.  Since my boys were tiny (indeed, before they were born), we would spend our summer holidays at the presbytery, using it as a launching place for exploring castles.  Every Saturday at 7:30 either I would call him or he would call me and we would catch up on the week.  There was never a birthday, Fourth of July, or Christmas that the phone didn't ring with a greeting.  We were family by choice, which, as I maintain, is the best kind of family to be. 

Scary at first, his Cambridge University accent, hard acquired after a childhood rife with poverty, could prove off-putting.  Then he would say something outrageous like, "One found that very amusing.  We laughed so hard the tears of mirth ran down our leg," and after doing a double-take to confirm that I'd heard what I thought I'd heard, we'd howl.  He introduced us to the phrase "tickety-boo" for use when things were just lovely.  The first time I saw the town of Mold I commented that it was much larger than I'd imagined it.  He replied, "Yes, but even in one's moments of most diminished sobriety, one would never mistake it for midtown Manhattan."

He was the friend of my high school history teacher, Rosemary, and I'd known him almost twenty years before we became friends.  She passed away two months after my wedding, and when he came to town to collect his things which he'd left on various visits, we mourned her death together and sealed a friendship that will last forever.  Himself and I named our second son after him, which delighted Uncle Jim.  My friends are carefully chosen and fiercely and permanently loved.  To take a third major hit in six months has been difficult.  I haven't seen him face to face since 2007, what with college tuitions and airfare costing what they do, but the bond has never faltered.  His face, intentionally stern and unsmiling, sits atop the piano and keeps me company.

Jim's funeral will be on Saint David's Day, which is Wales' equivalent of Ireland's Saint Patrick's Day.  He'll miss the field of daffodils which should be in full bloom in his garden by then.  But not a thousandth as much as we'll miss him.  Sleep well, my dear, dear friend.  And save me a good seat.

Such a lazy Sunday.  It's snowing again, but just enough to cover the rapidly graying remnants of the last storm, so that's not necessarily a bad thing.  We went to Mass last night, so there is no need to even brush off the car, and tomorrow is a holiday for both of us, so the possibility of sleeping late two days in a row looms like an oasis on the horizon.  I actually got up at nine today, which is ridiculously rare for me.  There were, of course, plans for the day (dinner with my sisters and their husbands and reminiscing over the pictures Mom left behind, and that's been postponed) but one of the joys of winter is that most events cannot be written in stone...or even ink.  There has to be a flexibility to the thinking that is not required at any other time of year.  One must decide what is critical and what is not.  Most things are not.

I shall throw on a laundry or two, and shuffle some papers around, but my most serious plans involve a good book, an afghan (the blanket, not the dog), and a cup of tea or ten.  If I'm very good I may reward myself with a nap later.  And I am usually very good. Or at least good enough.

All morning the backhoes and loaders have been filling dump trucks with mountains of snow and carting them away, widening streets and reducing the likelihood of a head-on collision at every intersection.  Between that and the climbing temperatures, last week's blizzard remnants are rapidly disappearing.  Larger patches of ground are visible on the lawn, and a few very confused bulbs have started to poke a nose out of the ground to find out what's up. The Groundhog (that dirty liar!) is still buried up to his misinformed whiskers, but my hopes are still high.  Spring can't be far away now!

Valentine's Day has come and gone, another milestone in the march towards better weather, the final obstacle traditionally being Saint Patrick's Day in this neck of the woods.  And while we're on the subject, why is it "Saint Patrick's Day" but just "Valentine's Day"?  I guess chocolate isn't as important as beer.  In any event, Himself spent the evening caring for his parents while I helped out backstage at a production of "Almost Maine" at the local community theater.  I dropped a shoe on cue, and made it snow onstage.  Not exactly romantic, but any participation in theater is always much better than a box of chocolates.  Now if I could just land a part in something.  It's been ages.

The job hunt continues, while I spend a few hours every week at the boutique trying to run the cash register, which I find intimidating.  Another job interview looms next week, at more than twice the hours and at fifty percent more pay.  And who knows where that may lead or who I might meet?  The last time I took a "temporary job" it lasted twenty-two years.

And so begins Lent.  Just as my New Year's resolutions have totally dissolved around me, in comes Ash Wednesday with a booster shot of discipline.  I waiver every year on whether to give something up or to do something positive.  I sometimes try to do both.  This year it's no alcohol and no video games (sacrifice) and an attempt to meditate at least once a day.  Motives are not pristine for most people, and I'm no saintly exception.  While the spiritual benefits of discipline are many, there are very few of us who aren't secretly hoping for a lower number on the scale or lower blood pressure at the same time.  I don't suppose Jesus minds as long as we do (or don't do) SOMETHING.  At least we give Him more than the usual passing thought.

The Catholic traditions (you've caught on that I'm Catholic, right?) are very comforting.  Some of them are weird, too, and I don't dispute that, but the music, the stained glass windows, the incense, and the vestments all help to put me in a sacred space.  I don't stay there long on the average day, but at least I get to dip a toe in once in a while.  Everything else on the planet seems to be in turmoil, but the Church just keeps on keeping on.  OK, I would vastly prefer it if they would ordain women and accept that many wonderful people happen to be gay (I know several priests who I am reasonably sure play on that team), but it is quietly reassuring to have something which is pretty much unchanged since my childhood.  Or Geoffrey Chaucer's childhood, for that matter, give or take Vatican II.

I wish you calm and peace, perspective and insight.  And from now until Easter I'll be missing the "Alleluia" more than a little as we focus on the more somber side of life.

Life is crawling back to normal around here.  The ice at the end of the driveway is losing its oomph.  It now only takes me three tries to scale the snowy mound to get to the street.  The sun is shining and my "to do" list is back to looking like the Boston phone-book.  I'll be happier, however, when I have a place to park my car other than inside the house.  We have a "garage under" and the ONLY time the car is in there is when there is nowhere else to put it.  Between carbon monoxide, fire hazard, and my complete lack of depth perception which occasionally leads to some REALLY scary close calls, this is no fun at all.

Himself has gone back to work,  and it's the first time I've had the house to myself since last Thursday.  I find it's making me miss the boys even more than usual.  I'm hurrying to get to the point where I have to go out to do errands, just so I can hear a human voice besides the one in my head.

I am fascinated by the retirement or resignation or whatever it is of Pope Benedict (or "B-16" as we call him around here).  Mind you, I am not expecting much in the way of progress from his successor, whoever it is.  The ones who recognize the worth of women in ministry, or the sacredness of every human life, including gay ones, have a tendency not to rise very high in the system, if you know what I mean.  It will be a company man, I'm sure.  But perhaps we'll zoom ahead into the 17th century, and wouldn't THAT be an improvement!  And now I shall take my cynical self outside with the ice chipper one more time to change what I can.  (Are we sure we can't get the Dalai Lama to apply for the job?)

Yes, it snowed.  Lots.  Yes, I shoveled, it was scary overnight, we lost power, blah, blah, blah.  This is the obligatory shot taken from my front steps.  I don't know why the wind decided to sweep my walk for me (and my front porch) but it did, while it piled stuff over my waist everywhere else.  Go figure. I'm already bored.  Let's move on.

Today is Himself's birthday.  A kinder, gentler, saner man has never graced the earth, and I am a very lucky lady.  He took the day off from his work and I took the day off from mine so we can get some errands done (Valentine's gifts for the kids, bank, post office) and he can exercise.  Tonight we will go to his parents' house, make dinner, and get his mother to bed.  But there may be a movie tucked in there somewhere, a lunch out, a "nap" ;) and a trip to the Mall so I can get his present, which the snow managed to keep me from doing earlier this week. 

It's very revealing to be cooped up for days with one person and intermittent electricity.  It either really works or it REALLY doesn't.  While the cuisine was less than "haute", the company was still wonderful after all these years, and it makes one consider what constitutes a good relationship.  We forgive each other for all the little stuff.  I am not the world's worst housekeeper, but I am a contender.  He spends more time tapping on his computer than he does with me.  But we say "Thank you" a lot.  For doing the dishes, for ironing clothes (yes, I still iron), for making meals.  When he is home he always offers a cup of tea when he's making one for himself.  He is not much of a talker, but I would (and do) trust him with my life.  He is so strong he doesn't need to prove it to anyone.  He is secure enough to let his friends have their own opinions without having to turn them around to the "right" side.  He works hard and is generous to his family.  He is an amazing role model for our sons.  He is disciplined and dependable, but he still manages to surprise me every so often.  And after almost twenty-two years neither of us can believe how long we've been married, because the time has flown, so I guess we're doing something right.

Now off to get a present for this most amazing man.  Although I thought it was pretty cool of me to arrange for the resignation of the Pope.  How on earth will I top THAT one?

There's a blizzard on the way.  Bread and milk are flying off store shelves, as is traditional.  I'm not really sure why people load up on bread and milk when it's going to snow.  I'd much rather heat up a frozen pizza and wash it down with a beer, myself, but New England traditions are hard to break.  It has been years since we've had a real blizzard.  There is a vulnerability coupled with an excitement that goes into every really big snow storm.  We become pioneers in the wilderness (especially if we lose electricity) and are cut off from our neighbors.  We are bears in their winter den.  All of the "important" things we had to do will just have to wait.  I'm scheduled to work in the boutique for four hours tomorrow afternoon.  It's hard for me to believe that anyone will have a critical need for sequins, or that I will be willing to risk the roads for a total of about $36 before taxes.  We will see what happens.

The part I like best is the "digging out".  We emerge from our houses once the snow has stopped (or sometimes before) and clear our stairs, and help elderly neighbors clear theirs.  Whoever has a snow-blower usually does more than his share, and after a while the kids come out in their multicolored snowsuits in shocking contrast to the stark white background, and start constructing snow creatures, which they top with hats and scarves, rocks and carrots.  But that will be Saturday morning.  First we have to get through the scary Friday night of whipping winds and stinging snow.  We will listen in the dark, and light our candles, and if we lose all power we will go to our goose-down covered beds and bless our flannel sheets and get one more reminder that we are not really in charge.

It's been a wild few days, with covering "emergency shifts" at the boutique caused by sickness and problems with the building's exhaust system.  Add that to Super Bowl parties and taking care of my mother-in-law, and I've had my hands full.  The house continues to look as though the Roman Legions tromped through with their sandals on, but the Christmas decorations are put away, lights and all, and even though the temperatures are back to frigid, it is lovely to have daylight (sort of) at five in the afternoon.  Spring is certainly on the way.

There is a feeling of expectation.  I'm waiting for something, but I'm not sure what.  Spring, certainly, and maybe a little more peace in my soul brought by time and healing, but there is something I can't quite put my finger on that's getting nearer.  I'm glad Lent is coming.  I find it helpful to "pare away the excess".  It gives me room to think.  Knock off a few video games a day and I find I have more time than usual do get things done.  I really do feel on the edge of something (not "whelmed").  An old friend of mine used to tell me, "The groundwork doesn't show until one day....."  It feels like that.  The groundwork is about to pay off in some area.  Stay tuned while I figure it out.

I may be modifying my stance on the Christmas lights.  They are even beginning to bore me.  And this morning, while researching a question about "Candlemas" (look it up) I discovered that right after Epiphany, or "Little Christmas" (January 6), Candlemas is the traditional day to take down Christmas decorations.  I guess I'll take them down tomorrow, since everyone knows Groundhog Day and Candlemas are the same day.  Well, almost everyone does.  I once tried to tell a really hysterically funny joke that had Groundhog Day for a punchline, but unfortunately I was in Wales at the time and was met with confused stares and stony silence.  Once I explained the extremely bizarre tradition (which sounds weirder the more one tries to explain it) they were, of course, howling.  But at me and my mistake, rather than at the joke (which is still pretty darn funny and if you're nice to me maybe I'll tell you some day).

That said, Candlemas was superimposed on an ancient feast day which celebrated the coming of spring.  There are stories of the goddess, Brigid (not to be confused with Saint Brigid, but I do anyway) and loaves of bread, buried in the first furrow of the field dug in preparation for the coming planting season.  The Christian holiday has to do with the Feast of the Presentation, when Mary, having been delivered of a male child, was "purified" after forty days, and Jesus made His first appearance in the temple.  It is also the halfway mark between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox.  There is no mention anywhere of a meteorologically precocious rodent, with apologies to Punxatawny Phil.

So tomorrow the rest of the Christmas decorations come down, right on time according to ancient traditions.  Or maybe I'll just throw the circuit-breaker until around April, because let's face it..whether Phil sees his shadow or not, it's still winter out there!