Love is a verb.

Dear friends,

The view from my friend’s back porch in Oklahoma.

I got home late last night from my trip home.  It made my heart ache and it made my heart full.

As I was standing outside St. Catherine’s Church a few minutes before the funeral, the father of my friend Janet passed me on the sidewalk. He’s been divorced from Janet’s mother for many years now, but he looked as heartbroken as anyone. He gave me a big hug and said “How are you doing, Joan-Marie?”

Without thinking, I said the first thing that popped into my head: “I’m happy to be back in the place where people call me Joan-Marie.”

And so it was that in less than 24 hours, I hugged half my hometown, cried a few tears, tried to follow along with a Catholic rosary service and funeral, whispered and giggled under my breath with the Js on a church pew as if we were 17 again, caught up with former neighbors and friends and teachers, told  Janet’s children how proud their mother was of them, snapped photos at the burial as if it was a class reunion, gave thanks during the Lord’s prayer for all the souls around me that I’ve loved for so many years, pigged out on the first decent Mexican food I’ve had in a year, and stood on the back porch of my friend’s house and breathed in the Oklahoma prairie that calms me.

It was a whirlwind trip, made better by the fact that Kate went with me and did all the driving. She also chose the playlist and John Mayer’s “Love is a verb” seemed an apropos anthem for our pilgrimage. All that driving and talking and hugging and crying and laughing and whispering and praising and photographing and eating and the breathing, too — that was our love in action.

I’m tired today from all the loving. But I’ve got a lot more to do because Kate graduates tonight.

So I’m off — to love us all right through it.

With gratitude {for these days the Lord hath made},

Joan-Marie, who knows you can always go home

Never been to heaven.

Dear friends,

Since I’m back in my hometown today (unfortunately, to attend a funeral), I’m offering an encore presentation of an essay about living in my favorite little town.

I’m feeling nostalgic. And teary, as you might imagine. I think this will perk me up.

With gratitude {for happy memories},

Joan, who’s glad to be home, even for a day

Never been to heaven.

First published May 10, 2009.

I get a strange feeling sometimes that I can’t quite explain.

In an instant, time rolls back 30 years and I’m transported. Wait, that’s not exactly right because 30 years ago I was precisely where I am now. It’s more like time doesn’t exist, the years and miles never intervened, and I am transfixed in a place where I’ve always been.

It’s not quite deja vu, because instead of feeling a compelling sense of familiarity or repeated experience, I feel an odd sense of time standing still. It’s not that I’ve experienced the moment in the past, but more like the moment never passed.

In December 1978, I turned 16. A few months later, my mother and father pooled their savings to buy me a 1968 Mustang with a price tag of $900. With a 289 engine and a three-speed on the floor, my little pea-green, notchback pony was a fast ride. The only problem was it took me months to figure out the clutch. During most of the summer of 1979, I could be seen killing my car on hills, railroad tracks and at stop signs all over Mayberry. My neighbor Steve, who I mention often in this space, was at that time my friend Steve. And after a few weeks of seeing me repeatedly pop the clutch, he nicknamed my car “the Frog.” I didn’t get it at first but then he explained: it’s green and it hops around town.

Like most 16-year-olds with wheels of their own, I spent every spare moment in the Frog, often accompanied by the Js. When gas shot up to 50 cents a gallon, my mother tried to put a moratorium on my excessive driving, but I somehow found a way to drag Main more often than not. And somewhere along the way, I developed a dangerously leaden foot.

One of my friends dated a boy who lived just a few doors north from the home I live in now on Pecan Street. And one evening while cruising in the Frog with the Js, we decided to drive by his house after a Sonic run. For reasons I don’t now recall, I cruised down Pecan at 80 miles an hour. A slight crest in the road just south of the boy’s home sent us airborne. Back then, nobody wore seat-belts, so a split second after our fannies landed back in our seats, our drinks landed on our heads after having splashed off the Frog’s headliner.

Some days when I sit on my porch and watch the lazy traffic roll past Magpie Manor, I try to imagine what I would do if a car full of young girls drove down my street at three times the legal speed. At those moments, I feel alarmingly old.

But sometimes, when I’m driving my current low-slung coupe with its quick clutch and six-speed manual transmission, the strange feeling of time standing still envelops me.

Once it happened on a snowy night while driving home from work. At a stop sign two blocks south of my house, the heel of my sling-back pump caught on the floor mat and I accidentally popped the clutch. With my left hand on the steering wheel and my right hand on the stick-shift, I was suspended in a moment of silence after killing my engine. There was no one else on the street. It was just me, lulled in the moonlit hush of a town taking refuge indoors on a winter night, watching the faint sweep of snowflakes on my windshield. And in that hypnotic moment when I didn’t even breathe, I was not 46 years old with a husband and two kids awaiting my arrival at home. I was 16, and stopped at the intersection between my mother’s home and the 30 years that would carry me to big white house on Pecan Street.

Last week it happened on the long stretch of blacktop that runs north from Tulsa to Mayberry. I was driving home after Fleetwood Mac and it was nearly midnight. I rarely listen to music in the car, but in my post-concert exuberance, I turned on the radio and found it was already tuned to a ‘70s station. The music brought back memories of the many days and nights I burned up that same highway in the Frog, including one late night when curiosity got the best of me and I pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor until my speedometer was pegged.

As that memory flooded my mind, it crowded out my better sense. And inexplicably, an old favorite song — Never been to heaven — came on the radio. I rolled down my window, turned up Three Dog Night, shifted into sixth gear, and pressed the accelerator all the way down to the floor until my speedometer was pegged.

I’ve never been to heaven. But I am living — deliriously and dreamily — in a place called Oklahoma.

An endless cycle of gorgeous.

Dear friends,

The cards and gifts for Kate’s graduation started rolling in yesterday.  (Bonus! said the sweet CupKate)

Among the most adorable packages was one from my friend Maridel, who’ve you’ve met before in this post. Her gift was enclosed with the card above.

I won’t speak for Kate but I will say it makes a girl feel good when somebody understands our personal burdens.

An endless cycle of gorgeous . . . yep, that’s me, all right. And I have the shoes to prove it.

With gratitude {for sweet friends who are wishing my adorable Kate well},

Joan, or you can call her Imelda of the Midwest

From tears. To smiles. To oh crap. To cardiac arrest. To laughs. To epiphanies. Holy cow what a day!

Dear friends,

Yesterday was one wild ride.

It started with tears at home because, you know, I got all choked up over my own post even as I was posting it. (Yes, I’m a goofball.)

But then things started looking up as I read your very kind and insightful and empathetic comments, both on this space and on my Facebook page. (I can’t thank all of you enough for sharing your stories and bolstering my spirits.)

Then on my lunch hour I finally got around to booking our trip to NYC — er, Hoboken — for Kate’s graduation gift. I had been procrastinating because — while I’ve been to NYC four times in my life, I don’t know it all that well — and I was fearful of making dreadful, regrettable mistakes. On the other hand, I wasn’t about to pay $500 a night for a hotel room, so I eventually had to just pick one and go with it.

So I chose a little “boutique” hotel on the Upper West Side. (I don’t know why, maybe because it was close to the subway, and I stayed in Times Square once and didn’t find it all that appealing, and I didn’t think I wanted to be downtown, so I just, you know, went with the one with the pretty pictures and the good price.) And after I picked the hotel and prepaid for it, I realized it’s so “charming” and so “historic” it doesn’t have an elevator. And some of the reviews said it sometimes doesn’t have hot water, either. So lord only knows what I’ve gotten us into in the name of frugality.

And then I checked the price of Broadway tickets and had a heart attack. I really want to see Book of Mormon but I really don’t want to pay $600 for two tickets, so I’m trying to decide whether it makes sense to just stand in the Times Square discount ticket line and take our chances when we get there. (Thoughts, anyone?)

Then I sketched out our itinerary for all five days and couldn’t decide if Little Italy or Chinatown was the better bet. MOMA or Met? NBC Studio Tour or TV and Movie Sites Tour? Fifth Avenue or Garment District or SoHo for shopping?

Then I found this — a handy little map of all the shopping in Soho and it pretty much sealed the deal.

Then I got dizzy trying to decide if we could tour Ground Zero and Liberty/Ellis Island in one day, so I abandoned trip planning until I can get my wits about me.

Then I came home, where my entire family dog-piled into the kitchen because we were all starving. And, for once, I made supper while my kids made lists of the friends they plan to invite to our Memorial Day float trip. And Parker — who’s not my most decisive child — was really having trouble narrowing down his extensive list of social contacts to fit into an 8-man raft — causing me to lose patience.

And Kate finally stepped in and said “Parker! Have tryouts and make cuts!”

Which made every last one of us laugh out loud, even Parker. And in that moment — that moment where we were all together and laughing and eating and having fun — I remembered what so many of you said to me about savoring every moment.

And I did.

I surely did.

With gratitude {for the clarity to put down my hanky and embrace your wise words},

Joan, who knows even if the hotel she picked yesterday is a flea-bag, it still won’t be her biggest travel blunder ever, because her friends still tease her about the time she purchased Royals vs. Yankees tickets for their girls weekend in Kansas City only to get to Kauffman Stadium and realize the game was at Yankee Stadium

My big fat Easter bonus.

Dear friends,

Despite what could have been a melancholy day, I had the most lovely Easter in a very long time.

It started with this:

My family patiently posed for me. (Isn’t Ed a ham?)

Then we went to lunch where my Easter dinner looked like this:

Have you ever seen lamb chops more gorgeous than these? (I’m still enforcing a 4-oz limit per day on meat, so I ate one small chop and brought the other two home.)

Once home, Kate napped and the boys disappeared, so I retreated to the deck with my favorite reading material — a home decor catalog.

I love a sunny day on the deck and my legs went from milk white to . . . um . . . slightly darker than milk white. (Hey, I’ll take what I can get!)

Before long, the solitude of my sunny corner was broken by the commotion of happy and boastful boys.

Holy cow! I’m not sure who was prouder: Mr. Mom who showed the boys where the secret fishing hole was, the boys who caught the impressive string of bass, or the dog who supervised the whole outing.

While Ed rested (management responsibilities are taxing; Ed and I speak from experience) . . .

Mr. Mom cleaned and fileted our fish . . .

And the boys posed with their trophies . . .

Then I hightailed it in the house to heat up the cast iron skillet and make mashed potatoes and green beans. My hard-working fishermen deserved a good supper.

And the fish filets . . . they were a sight to behold. And to taste.

I promptly broke my 4-oz meat limit (just this once!) and ate two filets. My fishermen ate two platters of filets and about five pounds of mashed potatoes, with a handful of green beans thrown on for color. It made my heart (and their bellies) full.

Then after supper, my happy campers retreated to the den for an evening of . . . nothing strenuous.

Meanwhile, I received the sweetest message via Facebook from my friend Cindy. She had posted a beautiful photo of her 88-year-old mother dressed in her Easter finery and I had commented that she should treasure these days. She wrote me a long and thoughtful message about mothers and daughters and grandbabies and empty-nesters — and all those sweet and sympathetic thoughts old friends share.

I smiled.

And I counted my blessings which, this Easter, were most bountiful.

With gratitude {for a lovely day by all measures, especially in inches of fish},

Joan, who counts her lucky stars that she lives with two very resourceful and strapping men who’ve been known to bring home fish, rabbit, turkey, squirrel (Eeeek! Not my favorite!), venison, and wild hog and who always clean and cook their varied catches

Ped-ewwww-cure.

Dear friends,

I got a pedicure yesterday. My first in a very, very long time.

And since I have spent the last two and a half months publicly expressing my gratitude every dadgum day, I wish today to express a little ingratitude.  I trust you’ll indulge my rant.

You see, back home, my best friend did my nails. For 20 years.

She is a college graduate. She is an insanely talented and accomplished artist who just happens to do nails for a living. She’s funny as hell. She kisses me and hugs me every time she sees me. Her salon is as clean as her home. She doesn’t wear gloves because she’s not icked out by my feet and I’m not icked out by her hands touching my feet. She doesn’t wear a mask because she doesn’t use hazardous chemicals. We don’t make small talk because we’re used to big talk. I love her so much and enjoyed the company in her salon so much I used to hang out there even when I didn’t have an appointment. It was my Cheers, in a way. She let me take naps on her sofa, even when she had other customers. She gave me bites of her lunch. She was the Matron of Honor in my wedding. She is the first person to change Kate’s diaper. And beyond all that, she happens to be the most talented, most thorough, most skilled nail technician in all the world.

So I’m guessing you’re getting it that I miss her. And I don’t like her replacements.

I mean, all I can say is getting a pedicure by anybody else is like kissing your elderly neighbor when you miss your husband. Ewwwww.

And if you were tempted to say “Ewwwww” when you saw that photo of my feet, I blame it on yesterday’s nail tech. My feet used to look much better when Alisa took good care of them.

And Alisa didn’t criticize me. Yesterday’s nail tech declared “You cut nails too short.”

“I don’t cut them,” I deadpanned. “I pick them.”

“Too short.”

“Yeah, I know. I also bite my finger nails. It’s a bad habit.”

“You stop.”

“No. I don’t think I will.”

I know. I was being snotty. But come on. A woman comes in with trashed toes because she clearly has a nervous habit and you really think you’re going to convince her to stop with two words of broken English?

I’m being terribly uncharitable. I think it’s a reaction to the grief of losing not only the world’s best nail tech but also my weekly, scheduled, therapy sessions with my best friend. It’s a lot to deal with.

Alisa used to take one look at my toes and say “Oh my. You’ve been stressed lately haven’t you?” Then she’d give me a hug and a glass of wine and massage my feet and ask about my kids and compliment my hair and invite me for dinner. I guess I don’t really expect anyone else to live up to that soul-filling standard, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be crabby about it now and then, does it?

Many years ago, Alisa contemplated running away and marrying a man in another state. I was young in my career back then and I contemplated buying her salon. She taught me all her secrets, and the result is I can now perform a better manicure on myself than any other nail technician besides her. (Heck, I could perform a better manicure on you than anybody besides Alisa.) So the problem is, I am terribly picky and I don’t do my feet well. The angle is tough and I’m ticklish, even to my own touch. So while I have resorted to doing my own manicures, I’m kind of stuck when it comes to pedicures.

And that makes me very, very sad. And my feet very, very neglected. I mean, what kind of tech doesn’t shave the tiny hairs on your feet, which are embarrassingly visible on that photo? I’m both deprived and humiliated.

Without gratitude {for the skilled and loving care of my feet by anyone but my best friend},

Joan, who apologizes for this self-indulgent break in programming but clearly desires your sympathy

Cheers to nineteen.

Dear friends,

We had a party last night. Best I can tell, it was a hit.

As was the cake.

I got a little nervous about running out of cake when kids kept showing up, but my four-layer beauty fed the hungry teenagers with one piece to spare. Whew!

The whole evening made my heart full. I couldn’t have been happier that so many friends showed up to help Kate celebrate. It’s been a tough year for her as she noted on a recent Facebook post: Eighteen was one heck of a year for me, but I made it through it. Cheers to nineteen and all that it brings me!

Our new little town has welcomed us at every turn over the past several months, and the kids have been especially kind and friendly. My debt of gratitude grows every day with each new gesture of friendship.

With gratitude {for strength of family, resilient kids, and the gift of new friends, which is one of the best reasons of all to celebrate},

Joan, who impressed a kitchen full of teenagers while making Pioneer Woman’s Baked French Toast (for Sunday breakfast) with her one-handed egg cracking technique

More cake. Please forgive me.

Dear friends,

Photo by Instagram, Lomo-fi filter

I wanted to write something pretty for you last night. But I was busy baking something pretty instead.

I know . . . enough of the cake. You must be thinking how much desert can one family eat, for Pete’s sake?

Last night, though, I was baking a birthday cake for a friend.  You guys know I usually only bake on Sundays, and at a leisurely pace. Pulling off a Triple Lemon Layer Cake (with homemade lemon curd filling) was a stretch for a weeknight. I was still at it long after I wanted to go to bed, futzing with that annoying fracture you can see in the bottom right corner of the photo.  My top layer split in half and that lemon curd is some slippery stuff. Had it not been for take-out pizza and a glass of wine, I may have had a Tuesday night baking breakdown.

I trust you’ll forgive me — for my writing lapse and for boring you with yet another cake story. On behalf of my friend who really deserves a killer birthday cake, I appreciate your understanding.

With gratitude {for buttercream frosting that hides a multitude of cake sins by the rushed baker},

Joan, who figures eating Margherita pizza and lemon curd for supper counts as both a vegetable and a fruit

Thoughtless. But not heartless.

Dear Friends,

Recently, I’ve been on both ends of a complex equation. And both times, I failed to add it up correctly.

Not long ago, I hurt someone’s feelings.  S/he told me about it via text and I have to admit I was surprised – both at the news I had hurt the individual, and that s/he chose to inform me via text. (Ah, the vagaries of modern life!)

I apologized via text but, looking back, I’m wondering if I did more explaining than apologizing. After all, when a slight is unintentional, isn’t our first impulse to explain it away? The individual texted a conciliatory response to my explanation/apology, so I figured the matter was put to bed.

Then a few days later, I received a note from the individual, apologizing to me and attributing the sensitivity to difficult personal circumstances.  And, interestingly, instead of feeling vindicated, I felt worse than ever.  I had been thoughtless, even if unintentionally so.  Had I also been self-righteous in my explanation/apology, enough so to prompt a return apology?

My association with this individual is longstanding, so I sat down and wrote a letter saying that no further apologies are necessary and that I was grateful for a relationship that had weathered far worse. I hoped s/he found my letter to be as warm and sincere as I tried to make it, and that my reassurance would prompt the individual to release any remaining guilt or worry.

We’ll see.

Not long after that series of interactions, somebody else (actually, more than one somebodys) hurt my feelings.  Instead of saying something immediately, I stewed. I’d like to think I’m tough as nails and rarely get my feelings hurt, but the truth is, I’m just more reluctant to speak up.

However, in this case, my hurt was obvious, so it wasn’t long before one of the somebodys broached the subject. Once the door was opened, I delivered a calm but lengthy analysis of the thoughtless act and of why I found it so disheartening. The listener attempted an explanation, in addition to an apology, but I wanted no part of it.

I can’t say the conversation ended well. It wasn’t ugly, by any means, but I think it’s fair to say we both left with the feeling that the matter was unresolved.

And today, all I can think about is the fact that — in the course of a week — I’ve been on both ends of the hurt stick and each side feels utterly miserable.

I can’t help but notice that in both situations, the perpetrators were thoughtless. But I, as well as the folks who offended me, was far from heartless. And that must be what stings most – knowing that no matter the intentions of my heart, I’m still capable of blundering my way through someone’s life in a way that is hurtful, just as others are capable of hurting me.

And explanations and apologies are the just the beginning of putting the pieces back together. Because what really has to happen is that both sides have to muster enough humility to admit one of two things:

I’m not perfect. I am capable of really screwing things up in ways that cause others pain and/or harm. The only way to make it better is to find the courage to admit it and ask for forgiveness. Then I must be gracious and forgive me.

– or –

I’m not perfect. And the people around me aren’t either and when they screw up, I must realize it takes courage for them to admit it. Then I must be gracious and forgive them.

Notice how both situations are resolved with forgiveness? For some of us, forgiveness is found in that region of the heart that is most remote and difficult to penetrate.

Like gratitude, though, forgiveness is free. And it comes more naturally with practice.

So excuse me. I have some practicing to do.

With gratitude {for difficult lessons, patient teachers, and the fortitude to endure both),

Joan, who wants desperately to make an A in Life, but had no idea it takes so much study

You can’t take the treadmill to Joyland.

Dear friends,

Wednesday night as Mr. Mom and I were about to drift off to sleep, he squeezed my hand and whispered “Did you find your joy today?”

We both snickered, and I admitted that given a taxing day at the office, I hadn’t even looked for it.  We talked about the thoughtful comments made by readers and the elements of your suggestions that resonated with us.  Finally he said, “Sometimes I think you have to stop thinking and start doing.”

His words echoed many of your comments, which suggested I get busy — responding to my creative urges, rolling out the yoga mat, or even cutting loose and dancing in the kitchen. Simple things, all. But incredibly uplifting things, too, if one does them consciously.

But let me tell you — the conscious part is not so simple.

Haven’t you ever felt like you were going through your days in a daze? Before we moved and I was still commuting two hours a day, there were times when the entire drive would go by and I’d have no memory of it. It might sound like a convenient mental trick, but there were instances when I’d pull into my driveway and “wake up” without any memory of the traffic or the landmarks (or, frankly, of any brain activity) of the prior 60 minutes. The feeling frightened me so badly that sometimes I would feel myself shaking as I pulled into the garage. And it convinced me I had to get rid of the commute.

But getting rid of the commute doesn’t mean I got off the treadmill. And by treadmill, I mean the automatic-pilot state, the sleepwalking trap that all adults but especially working mothers can fall into. I’ve tried very hard since I “remade” my life 10 months ago to stay off the treadmill.  But the truth is that some days I’m more conscious than others. (We humans are all a damn DIY project, aren’t we?)

When I launched this site on a whim in January, I chose the tagline “daily meditations of a mindful mother” for two reasons. First, because I needed a written promise to motivate me to blog daily (and blogging is my chosen method for cultivating gratitude). And, second, because I aspire to be mindful (though I so often am not). Thus, the daily part and the mindful part were at the center of my New Year’s resolution. And yet here I am, in early February, in a self-inflicted stupor wherein I whine publicly about how “I have no joy!”

So, I’m going to stop whining and start doing.  Do I know what my doing will consist of? Heck no! But whatever I do, I’m going to follow this advice:

As you walk, cultivate a sense of ease. There’s no hurry to get anywhere, no destination to reach. You’re just walking. This is a good instruction: just walk. As you walk, as you let go of the desire to get somewhere, you begin to sense the joy in simply walking, in being in the present moment. You begin to comprehend the preciousness of each step. It’s an extraordinarily precious experience to walk on this earth. —Peter Doobinin (from Tricycle: The Buddhist Review)

Don’t worry . . . I’ll report in and let you know how it goes. Because you can bet when I find some joy I’m going to spread it around.

With gratitude {for a husband who cares enough to ask about his wife’s joy and friends with much-needed perspective},

Joan, who wrote this late Thursday night in a hotel room while cultivating a little TGIF-joy at the thought of going home for the weekend