The Middle Moment



I’m getting older. Like the kind of getting older when you look down at your hands and they mirror back crevices and veins you swear weren’t there the day before. The kind of getting older when you catch a glimpse at your reflection and start (really asking) ‘am I getting to that point when long hair looks more haggish then hip?’ (Not that I aimed for hip. More like: what takes two seconds and doesn’t embarrass the neighbors.)

But you get where I’m going.

I’m writing about time, the awareness of it, watching your “little” girl mature in nano-seconds and you’re still remembering “goo-goo-ga-ga“.

Not because you aren’t smart and can’t see what’s in front of your face. But because motherhood and clocks get warped the minute they’re born. Am I sleeping or am I awake? Am I feeding her or did I just feed her? And when was the last time I showered? I can’t remember. Do I care? No. Yes. No. Maybe. Okay, not really. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I hoped this would change…with time. (Pun intended). But of course it didn’t. I still prefer “non-binding” clothes and completely understand, now, my grandmother’s preference for polyester pants.

I’ll skip the polyester part, but those elastic bands…? Who are we kidding. We call them “Yoga pants.”

She’d laugh if she saw me now and tell me I’m just fancying up what she’s known all along: a mother needs to breathe.

Boy isn’t that true.

Especially in moments I call “the middle” or  invisible “parentheses.”

I’m writing about the space specifically between what was and what will be.

Anticipation that offers a wide array of opportunity for responding.

They can freak out, or fill up your Soul with a chance to recognize, remember, plan and prepare. Or some quasi-discernible blend of both.

Think of planting a garden. We purchase the seeds, prepare the soil, tend to it with light, water and love…and we wait.

While we wait we anticipate hope of good. Whether food, flower or tree.

Then comes an unexpected hail storm and freezing temperatures. Also known as disappointment, or devastation, or despair. Or all three (and then some.)

There was no bounty.

Our children weren’t what we ‘hoped’ for.

The probationary period for your new job didn’t work out.

A loved one never comes home.

And the space opening up in front of you does a 180. Sun gone, clouds cover light. We’re in a hard place.

Now the unknown ‘parentheses’ presented before us has an outcome we’re sure of. We decide we’ve had enough of hoping for the best. “Middle moments” are for the birds and we’ll teach our children something different.

Life is hard.

Life is pain.

Life is a let down – most of the time.


And no.


I don’t want to go there. I might live in the Granite State but that doesn’t have to resemble my heart. In fact I love it when I see growth pushing through stone.

Mother Nature knows.

Let’s tell our children that leaning towards Cynicism after disappointments rise and fall over and over is completely understandable.

We’ve been there. We can empathize.

Let’s also tell them we understand the small strange seed of Hope looks ridiculous against a mountain of experienced hurt and if we were to nurture Joy and Optimism we’d look foolish to some.

Who cares.

Let’s tell them Middle Moments are times we can lift up a prayer of thanksgiving for remembering the good things we’ve known and release the hurts of things that caused us pain.

Because it’s worth it. And do-able. And better in the long run.

Let’s create a life for them that holds Middle Moments in our arms, first, so we can provide the modeling and mirroring necessary for their own resilient hearts.

Because the world needs heart, over machine, more than ever.

We’ve learned such hard lessons in our journey’s. We’ve licked our wounds, bandaged up broken places and made private promises never to go, do, or experience ‘that’ again.

And we’ve learned we can break our own promises.

We are still loved.

We are all, still, so deeply Loved.

And so, as the school year ends for many of our children, and summer awaits, Sedona-Grace and I send, from the north country, lots of wildflowers, sunshine, clean air, quality time as a family and hope for memory making you can cherish for a lifetime.


Spring Prayer


Quiet, in the last moments of Winter’s stillness and mountains of Snow, I search deep wellsprings of Discernment, Grace and Thankfulness because Perspective comes like a hurricane when hard, unexpected events happen – like the death of a loved one.

Suddenly everyone’s clear about what matters.

We hold each other’s hands a little tighter.

Prayers are less flowery because different words push up through constricted throats: the most necessary ones released.

We look into the eyes of others and see mutual humanity on another level because mortality made it’s mark once more and there was nothing we could do. Nothing.

I don’t often talk or write about my work. For one, I can’t – legally. For another, I just don’t. Working with people is sacred ground. I have learned to tread softly.

But every once in a while we are confronted by a situation bigger than our constructs. And we are left, after the fact, sitting at a random gas station for thirty minutes – just trying to breathe.

There’s no elegant way to describe what happened. Simply, I was tasked with the notification to two children their mother had unexpectedly died.

I can still hear their screams.

Joan Didion wrote about those instances where everything changes.

Of course this tragedy catapulted me back to 2009 when my brother completed suicide and a ‘new normal’ greeted our family like a (permanent) unwanted house guest.

Standing at the crossroads of  ‘what now’ I leaned towards the hope of healing and restoration. Because we’d endured the unthinkable. We’d love each other different, be angry less, forgive more, soften mindsets, build bridges.

Like tapers lighting up an abyss – I believed this lucidity would last and the deep darkness would diminish.

But then the Siren’s of habitual living begin singing. Their hypnotic melodies of homeostasis pull us away from remembering and the emotional gash transitions into just another scar from one of life’s gut busting sucker punches.

Off we doze back into our comfortable haze of sleep walking through moments meaningful. Rote and rigid, we miss the breath, the inhale/exhale of: Goodness, Kindness, Love, Warmth, Forgiveness, Peace.

At least I did.

No major reconstruction happened so that I could say I became a healthier, wiser or better person for the pain.

I just learned a new kind of haunting ache.


Meanwhile the Sun rises and sets on another day.

A new season arrives – indifferent to my struggle or any other neurosis born of our culture conditioning.

The winter winds calm.

New buds emerge – like Love transmuting the Unbearable into unspeakable Beauty.

The bloom persists – steady she unfolds in the warmth of the Sun.

She is coming.

Spring is on her way…and I bow my head.

Because no matter what I go through in this life as a woman, a mother, a professional, a friend, a wife, a daughter or a member of the community … all it seems we’re ever really tasked with is whether we would choose to let Beauty break open our hearts – allowing us to Love again.

And again.

And again.


Around me the tree’s stir in their leaves and call out ‘stay awhile.’ The light flows from their branches. And they call again, ‘It’s simple,’ they say, ‘and yes, you too have come into this world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.’ – Mary Oliver



She said “Able-bodied and Able-souled…are two very different things.”

That hit like an anvil against my chest. Hot tears.

Yes, yes, of course. Capacity is not defined by external capabilities. Capacity comes from a sacred spot within. And no amount of confrontation or careful consideration, from an outside perspective, can awaken that part of our humanity.

It’s an inner light that shines.

Or doesn’t.

So, what is it with me and my stubborn nature struggling to accept truth. What is it about my heart that pushes against the awareness of those who are capable of love, like my dear friends and family, expending energy, instead, on pointless pursuits of hope. What delusion grips so tight?

I don’t know.

But it’s tiresome. I’m weary of it.It’s old habit of mind and it must end.

My daughter, surrounded by a deep wellspring of love, is provided for. She is worthy.

And so am I.

Now, am I “able-souled” enough to believe it?

I better be. She is watching and learning. It won’t be enough I work hard to provide. She already watches how I nourish my body, care for friends, worship God, value family, live vulnerably. She will learn how to forgive–by the standard I set.


Am I “able -souled” enough to show her?

The truth is many of my sisters have faced situations they could not change, or control. People who have let them down. Opportunities disappointing them deeply. But they did not lose their joy. And neither can I. The sharp sting of sorrow and grief will come and go. It’s to be expected.

I wipe my tears away and look down at this sweet girl. My baby. She lies in such perfect repose.

We will be okay.

Everything…will be okay.

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” 
― Rumi