C is for Concert

I estimate I've been to 40-50 concerts through the years.  In high school I saw bands like Journey, Styx and Foreigner, and have seen a variety of artists through the years including Lyle Lovett, Elvis Costello, Patty Griffin, and of course, Jimmy Buffett.  But last night I saw what may now be my favorite concert of all time - the Indigo Girls backed by the Nashville Symphony.

I started listening to the Indigo Girls when they first hit the musical scene in the mid to late 1980's. Their haunting harmonies and intelligent, thoughtful lyrics spoke to me then, and still do today.  As a young college graduate struggling to create my future, I related to the words "and the less I seek my source from some definitive, the closer I am to fine".  When I spent a summer in Dallas working for Habitat for Humanity, I was inspired by the lyrics of Hammer and Nail, "if I have a care in the world I have a gift to bring".

Last night was more than just a concert - it was an amazing experience made possible by the generosity of two of my best friends, and made sweeter by the presence of my sister.  We started with dinner at one of the top restaurants in town, then strolled over to the Symphony Center to our box seats complete with wine and snacks. We were on the second level, with seats so close to the stage we could clearly see the facial expressions of the musicians.  The familiarity of the music, the intimate setting, the swelling of the strings and the beat of the timpani were overwhelming; when the concert began my eyes filled with tears.  I found myself singing along to the songs of my youth, surprising myself that the words came back so easily.  Backed by the excellent Nashville Symphony, these beloved favorites took on a new level of intensity and beauty.  To the amusement of my friends and sister my tears kept flowing, fueled by nostalgia and the voices of the Indigo Girls, all the better with age.  The night ended with a rousing rendition of "Closer to Fine" with the entire audience on their feet singing at the top of their lungs.  It was a truly magical concert experience that I won't soon forget.

C is for Commencement

My beautiful, smart niece graduated from Father Ryan High School this past Sunday.  Resplendent in her purple robe, she was positively beaming in every single picture she was in.  (Check out Facebook - she was in a lot of pictures).    We capped the day with a family dinner where we toasted her accomplishments and shared our favorite silly stories about her.

The graduation ceremony itself was lovely, and the words of her principal struck a deep chord with me. In fact, I leaned over to my sister and whispered "I just figured out my next blog post".   He shared the results of a survey given to parents of high school students in which they were asked - if you could only choose one outcome, would you prefer to see your child successful, happy or good?  Overwhelmingly the parents chose happiness.  At face value that answer makes a lot of sense, but the principal said the results puzzled him as he expected a parent would want a child to be good, first and foremost.  After all, you can be happy but not be good, and yes, you can be good and not be happy.  But if you develop and cultivate gratitude in your life, then being good can and will bring you happiness.    I've thought about his words frequently over the past few days, and it struck me that the happiest people I know are also the most grateful.  It is also telling that those same happy people have faced more than their fair share of adversity, yet gratitude fuels their happiness despite the challenges.

This August my niece will start college in Connecticut, studying to become a nurse.  I think she has the right mix of skills and temperament to be successful in her chosen profession - she is caring, has a steady head and steady hands, and the sight of blood doesn't faze her one bit.  She is an outgoing, vibrant young woman who I believe is happy with herself and excited about the future. And maybe I am biased, but I do think she is good.  For her graduation I gave her a pair of earrings, and now I give her this blog post so that she will always remember the lesson of her commencement, that there is no real happiness without gratitude.  I think she is going to be just fine.

C is for Coast

I'm back from a few days in one of my favorite places, Rosemary Beach.  This little town on Florida's gulf coast has everything - a cool coffee shop, amazing restaurants, a few great boutiques, and of course, a gorgeous beach!  The greens and blues of the water, the sugar white sand, the crashing of the waves - the sights and sounds of the ocean have always calmed and comforted me.  Every evening we'd walk down to the beach to watch the sunset and marvel at the way the light bathed the water and sand in a rosy, shimmering glow.  And most nights, we'd walk back to the beach after dinner to gaze at the multitude of stars above the dark water.   It's easy for me to forget the minutia of my own life when standing next to the immense, ever changing entity that is an ocean.  It is perspective on the grandest scale of all!

I can admit it now - I was worried that Rosemary would somehow feel different this time around. It was definitely a study in moderation for me, something for which I am not generally known. I took a daily nap to keep up my stamina,  limited my wine consumption, and opted for appetizer size portions for many of my meals.   But I finally realized that the only one who cared how much wine I drank was me, and in the end, I really didn't care that much.  The truth is, I am different than the last time I was there, but so are my friends, so is the town itself.

My "moderation vacation" was actually pretty wonderful. The weather was perfect, every meal was better than the last and I read two great books.  And each evening when I watched the sunset over the gulf, I did so in the company of four smart, funny and compassionate friends.  We're already looking at houses for our next trip to this special place, whenever that might be.   In the meantime, I'll treasure my memories of surf, sand and laughter.

C is for Coleridge

In my first semester of college freshman English we read Ars Poetica by Archibald MacLeish, and I distinctly remember our professor reading the line "Silent as the sleeve-worn stone of casement ledges where the moss has grown".  The class grew quiet and watched as he stepped over to the window, and with a far-away look in his eyes, ran his fingers over the ledge.  It was such a simple gesture, but that line, that poem, and poetry in general came alive for me that day.  I devoured works by 20th century writers like Eliot and Frost, but, oh, the poets of the Romantic and Victorian periods spoke to me!  My favorite poem is Ulysses by Tennyson, and his words resonate in a new and more meaningful way than ever before:

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

After my Dad's cancer diagnosis, he told me that three things were helping him cope - his love of God, his love of family, and his love of poetry.  I've sat with him through several rounds of chemo which can last up to 5 hours.  His favorite poet is Keats, so on one of those long days in the infusion room I googled my Dad's favorite poems by Keats on my iPad and read them aloud.   Then I googled some of my favorite poems and read those aloud, too.  There is beauty and power in poetry, which I had forgotten, and a really long, tiring day became a little bit brighter. After years of being "too busy", I've started to slowly rediscover and enjoy poetry again.

We're all fighting a demon, and for my Dad and me, that demon is cancer.  We often quote the lines below, as a reminder that we have control over our attitude and tenacity in that fight.  So I close this post in honor of my Dad, with the words of Dylan Thomas:

And you, my father, there on the sad height, 

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.  

Do not go gentle into that good night.  

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.  

C is for Cheesy

My brother is following my blog, like a good brother should, but he told me the other day that it is a little cheesy.  He's absolutely right, and that is kind of the point! In my very first blog post I wrote that I "refuse to huddle under the covers" as I battle this disease yet again.  That is only partly true.  The whole truth is that if I stay under those covers for too long, I fear I will never get back up.  Sure, I'm an avowed optimist, but I have moments when my cancer diagnosis slams into my consciousness so hard I can't see or think or catch my breath.  Many nights I have trouble sleeping because I can't turn off my whirring brain.  I'm trying to define what the new normal is for me, but my symptoms, and my emotions, are constantly shifting.

The physical and emotional roller coaster that is cancer is exhausting, but I'm trying to focus on the parts of the ride that bring me joy.  I do have some physical symptoms, but right now they are completely manageable and don't interfere with my ability to work full-time or spend time with loved ones.  I do have my moments of darkness and doubt, but I had those kind of moments before cancer, too.   I choose to be positive, to be grateful, and to be kind to myself and to others.   I choose faith over fear, love over hate.   And if that's a little cheesy, then I choose cheese.

C is for Cardi

After enduring both rain and snow earlier this week, we've seen absolutely perfect spring weather these past two days.  Flowers and trees are blooming, the sky has been a beautiful blue, and the temperatures have been in the high 60's.  I love this time of year when I can slip on a pair of flip-flops but still wear a light cardigan without sweating.  For the fashion impaired, cardi is affectionate shorthand for cardigan, hence the title of this post.  And I admit, I own a lot of cardis.  And a lot of flip-flops for that matter. No wonder I am so cheery these days.

I've been in my home for the last 10 years, and from the street it looks like a small bungalow with a front lawn and some shrubs and plants.  But it is actually a condo, so I haven't done any yard work in those ten years which is exactly how I like it.  Despite my black thumb and lack of attention to anything outdoors, every spring random flowers appear in my raggedy beds.  Right now, a single pink tulip stands by my front door.  It looks fragile but is surprisingly sturdy; it has already survived severe thunderstorms and a late frost.

The comfort of a cotton sweater, the sassy smack of a flip-flop, the resilience of a tulip - they all signal spring.   This year more than ever before, I am embracing the spring themes of hope, faith and new beginnings. I'm sure that pink tulip has sprung up for years, but this year I admire it and am inspired by it. And this year, I have new pink flip-flops - I'm ready for the season and wherever the journey may lead.  

C is for Chuckle

I just wrapped up a weekend in Florida with my parents and most of my siblings and their spouses.  It was supposed to be a weekend to celebrate Dad, but he was incredibly fatigued and wasn't feeling well. We still held a gin rummy tournament and had a great meal at his favorite restaurant, but we spent a lot of time discussing his health and making plans for his care.  But something wonderful happened last weekend, too.   Despite concern around my Dad, despite my own recent diagnosis, despite everything that my siblings have on their very crowded plates, we laughed.  We laughed a lot.  It's hard to describe the way we interact, but I suspect that from the outside looking in we're a bit like an improv comedy group on speed.  We hurl insults at each other, drop curse words, sing snatches of songs (usually in unison) and recite lines from classic movies. Old stories are told over and over again, and this time, photo albums that chronicled our childhood came off the shelf.  (As an aside, the 70's were not a kind decade to any of us.)

And yes, we cried.  I was hugging my brother goodbye on Sunday morning and laughing at some silly joke, and suddenly, without warning, I was sobbing.  The goodbyes were definitely harder this trip for obvious reasons, but they were sweeter, too.  We're supporting each other like never before and our emotions are more raw and more authentic than they've ever been.  You could say we are using humor to cover up our real feelings, and perhaps there is some truth in that.  But I would argue we are using humor to help us navigate through a dense fog - it is our beacon, our light.