Finding Your Voice

No doubt half the bloggers in the US are running some sort of post on what they’re grateful for this year and why, because that’s what Thanksgiving is all about here.  And I’m going to be no different.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because nothing happens.  At my house, anyway, there are no expectations to meet or fail to meet; no rules or rituals or requirements.  The kid and I go out for Chinese in the afternoon, unless we don’t.  Then we watch a movie, unless we don’t.  This year we’re living in a house with a fireplace, so we may light a fire and toast marshmallows.  Unless we don’t.

But one thing we do every Thanksgiving, without fail, is be very very glad we’re here and we have each other.

Hope your day turns out to be as wonderful as mine!

The last roses of summer are sitting on my desk right now, and they smell wonderful.  Every now and then I catch a whiff of them and every time it makes me stop to think how beautiful they are and how lucky I am.  Their distinct perfume isn’t something you get with store-bought roses.  Of course, these roses aren’t as perfect as store-bought roses; the garden pests have gnawed on them a little, and no one has carefully removed the thorns from their stems and wrapped them with baby’s-breath in green tissue paper.  But they are more wonderful than store-bought roses because Jessica and I picked the bush out together and planted it in the garden this spring, and neither of us had the first clue what we were doing.  I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a gardener.

So the roses are a triumph of hope over experience, and I’m sure I don’t have to beat you over the head to make the analogy: the store-bought roses may be perfect and commercial, but it’s the ones I grew in my front garden that mean the most to me.

I’m not exactly a teenager anymore, but I still manage to act like one now and then.   On Friday a real hottie walked into the coffeeshop, so what was the first thing I did to catch his eye?  Dumped my mocha all over the front of my t-shirt.  Ah, yes, I’m always the soul of elegance.

A friend mentioned to my daughter that she was turning fifty later this year.  My daughter paused, then said, “Why?”  Which I think is an excellent question.  Instead of my chronological age, think I’ll turn 39 this year, or even 29.  Because apparently, getting older is a choice.

After I went on a lengthy rant recently, the friend I inflicted it upon pointed out, “Cluelessness can be cured.”  My new mantra.

The other day, when we were having one of those “Why is the sky blue?” discussions, I admitted to my daughter that I didn’t know the answer to a lot of her questions, that I would probably never know the answer to those questions, and she shouldn’t try to stump me before I’ve had my morning cup of coffee.  She pondered this and said, perfectly seriously, “Oh.  You don’t know everything in the world.”  As if this had just occurred to her.  Then, with a sigh, “Well, at least I know a lot.”

I think I detect a budding teenager . . . .

My friend Marilyn over at Simmer Till Done is getting ready for her daughter’s Bat Mitvah and has been in a fever of baking and crafting for the past couple of weeks.  I ran into her at the coffee shop the other morning, where she taught me the secret of putting lists on pink paper so you can find them.  As I was sipping my mocha and contemplating her to-do list, I found myself grateful for my much much smaller one.

The other day, a woman I know came up to me and said, “Do you think your sister could give me a quote for re-doing my living room?”  I stared at her for a minute, uncomprehending.  All of my siblings are tax accountants or some variation thereof. 

“Um.  What?”

“Isn’t she an interior designer?”

“No. ”  My exppression must have clearly telegraphed my “Where did you get that idea?” befuddlement because then she said, “Oh.  Well, I read your novel and I thought for sure your sister was actually an interior designer.”

Sometimes you get the details right enough that people really believe they’re true!

The other day, my daughter and I watched Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, mostly because the DVD was on sale and I’d promised her a new movie as reward.  I had no expectations of it, except that I usually like Dustin Hoffman and hoped it wasn’t another Ishtar.   As it turned out, Jessica sat in rapt attention the entire time, enjoying every minute of it.  It can be hard to find movies she likes and can follow along with, but this movie turned out to be one of those rare delights that I can enjoy as an adult and she can enjoy as a child.

Interestingly, it’s a story about death, but the whole point is to live your life to the fullest.  What I liked best?  Not everything tied up into a happily ever after ending.  The little boy without any friends his age didn’t magically make any at the end.  The timid shop manager found her calling, but didn’t magically complete the concerto she’d been trying to finish for lo these many years.  Still, the ending was satisfying because while one story ended, you felt like several other stories were just beginning.  Not a bad lesson in story-telling.