No recipe today. Unless it’s my mother’s recipe for pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and getting on with it.
She would never have said it that way. Even her sternest admonishment would have had a loving and positive tone. I don’t think I’m overstating it when I say so. She was one of the most positive people I’ve ever had the fortune of knowing.
Boy do I miss her.
I’ve been talking to her a lot lately. Not in a crazy sort of way. My voice is the only one I hear. But I can remember hers and I know what she would say if she were here. “Sis, why don’t you write?”
Writing is my way of cleaning house and rearranging the furniture in my mind. When I write I feel like I’ve opened the doors and windows in the house and let the fresh air blow through and renew everything.
So, why don’t I write? I could lay out a laundry list of reasons. Mostly it’s time. I just haven’t taken the time to let myself be still and listen to my heart. To be honest, my heart still hurts from the crushing loss of my mom. She was my best friend.
I’m doing better day by day and have big plans to keep moving in that “better” direction. It just takes time.
I’ve visited this blog many times. I just sort of stood there at the door looking around in silence not knowing what to say. There are still dinners with friends and I’ve come a long way from my frazzled Lean Cuisine days. I just put a stop to those in short order.
It’s a discipline that I set aside. I replaced it with a myriad of UN-disciplined activities. I was talking to mom this morning and I heard my voice say, “I’m going to do it mom!” so here I am. It may only matter to me. I’m not so full of myself that I think it has to matter to anyone else. I know it mattered to mom and so for her and for me. I’m going to get it done. And I plan on having fun doing it!
One of my mother’s favorite poems was written by Edgar A. Guest. She gave me a copy of it when I was about thirteen. She reminded me of it often during my difficult years. Every time I dramatically threw my hands in the air and declared defeat she would gently remind me that it could be done.
I had the poem printed on the back of her memorial program along with a picture of her, suntanned, beautiful and proud, I’m sure. She is standing next to a little Cesna that she learned to fly, soloed in and got her pilot’s license. What a great woman.
It Couldn’t Be Done
Edgar. A. Guest
Somebody said it couldn’t be done
but he with a chuckle replied
That, “Maybe it couldn’t”, but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin on his face.
If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing that couldn’t be done,
And he did it!
Somebody scoffed: “Oh you’ll never do that! At least no one ever has done it.”
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat and the first thing he knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing and tackled the thing that couldn’t be done,
And he did it!
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done.
There are thousands to prophesy failure.
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it.
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
That “cannot be done” and you’ll do it.
So, thank you mom for all the good advice and the amazing example you gave me in the way you lived your life. I can’t thank you enough. And mom. I didn’t want to tell everyone else because they might think I’m nuts, but I can hear your voice and what a comfort it is.