The Parachute...

There are very few moments of pure bliss as we age. Bliss is the stuff of children. Pure, unadulterated exhilaration and excitement for life. As parents...caregivers...teachers....we try to protect and preserve the bliss within our children.

Smiles and giggles not laced with worry and regret. Nighttime slumber thick with the dalliances of sugar plum fairies instead of to-do lists a mile long.  We see our children for what they really are and hope the rest of the world does as well. Gorgeous, soft creatures. Cheeks deep and welcoming to our never-ending kisses. We examine their little bodies in rapt wonder. Lithe and lanky, pudgy and short. Eyelashes running wild from the blue beneath. Tiny hands that reach around our waists for comfort. Bursts of breath that remind us of that first one time and again. Never doubting that they are created just as was intended. They observe their reflections and see nothing but beauty. They would never think to do anything else, but live. Happily.


At their gymnastics class last week, the instructors pulled out the parachute. Remember it? The kids scream with excitement. It is pure bliss in rainbow stripes. They tug and pull at this nylon dream, raising it high above their heads. On the teacher's signal, they pull it down around their tiny bodies and sit on the inside, shutting out the world. I can hear their laughter as it pierces through the shield...the instructor pulls it away and they are all static cling and smiles. Running back to us...teeth visible from ear to ear. Bliss.

At this holiday time, I encourage each and everyone of us to find our parachute. What is that one thing that truly turns up the corner of your mouth? That one thing that makes you say...It doesn't get much better than this. That makes you feel like a kid again.  And then let yourself enjoy it. Wrap it around you and squeal in delight...over and over.

For Rent...

There was a moment last week, when I questioned my mortality. It was an abnormal reading of a normal test that ultimately turned out to be...nothing.

But for a few days...I thought...what if?

And then I thought...this body isn't even mine. It's been loaned to me in good faith by something bigger than I could ever fathom. Something bigger than I've ever had the faith to believe.

I am a renter. Of this life and this body. And I thought...

What will be seen when all the chips are cashed in? All the lights turned low and the orchestra is swelling in one final, glorious encore. When I turn this body back in...completely changed from the moment it was given to me. What will it look like? Some answers I have and some will come with time...as life takes its toll on this ramshackle rental. Held together with grit and glue. Too much chardonnay and not enough sleep.

Maybe I'll get a chance to stand outside of myself and look at "her".  Who was she?

And she'll laugh...at that ridiculous tattoo. She was 18 when she imprinted her body with rebellion. Over time the colors faded and the image stretched and pulled with the life of someone else. Two "someone elses". Two...who...want an explanation for that ridiculous tattoo.

And her fingers will trace, lovingly, that scar. Deep and crooked. Two lives wrenched free from the grip of her...and sewn back hastily. It is a battle wound. She wears it like a badge of honor. Because it is.

And that other scar...above her lip. From the day she dove headfirst into her parent's dresser and truly felt the safety of her mother's arms. Boys would point out that scar for years and she would always be reminded of...her mother.

And those legs...worn smooth from those girls ever growing bodies.
And those lips...kissed by true love.

And that life...rented...but owned...
...and loved...