Somewhere Over the Rainbow

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The voice is alto, and it is a voice that has never fully understood its limits. It belts out the first strains of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” to the church audience. Three hundred eyes widen. It is not a singing voice. I know this now as I stand and sing a tribute to my mom. But as a child–I did NOT know this. I sang all the time. It started when I was five. My best friend, who lived three houses down the block, suddenly died. To help me understand, my mother coached me to say the word “leukemia” and showed me how to pray. But I asked if I could sing instead, and Mom said that would be a great way to honor my friend and to express my sadness.
As I waded through this first experience with grief, I went to our basement, and I remember walking in circles around that musty room as I sang endless, self-composed ditties–the kind that can only come from a child. At the end of my long concert, my mom hugged me, and said I had done a beautiful job. Her words of praise ignited my passion to sing. I began singing endless nonsense songs daily, not only in our basement, but each night in the tiled shower where my voice could reverberate. While I didn’t know how to carry a tune, Mom encouraged me to keep singing. I did. Just her calm presence made me pretty certain I was a child virtuoso.

At some point in this first journey through grief, Mom played a record for me, and I discovered a song that resonated deeply in my child’s soul. It was her favorite song, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” I listened endlessly to Judy Garland giving flight to these words. In the weeks that followed, I experienced the inner joys of karaoke, and my drive to imitate a great voice consumed my waking hours. In no time I was convinced I could do a credible imitation of the inimitable Judy Garland.

Now there was no stopping me. I offered to sing my rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” to my first-grade class. Soon I was performing the song solo in all the elementary choir classes. I was lauded by fellow six-year-olds and frequently told I could grow up to be Disney’s next Annette Funicello. Even now I recall that magical sense that something significant was unfolding in me. Of course, it was.

But it was not my talent for singing. It would be several years before I realized that I did not have a singing voice and that eyes often widened when I sang loudly and off-key. But by then, the dream of being a pop song star had faded. By then, I had something far more important than a singing voice—I had a strong human voice. I had been gently nudged forward by my mom. She believed in me and she ushered me down a path that would help me find an authentic and confident personal voice. My own words. Mom never stopped encouraging me to find them and share them. She always cheered me forward–even when I sang too loudly or off-key.

To this day I still make up crazy ditties and sing loudly in a tiled shower. But it is only recently, when my mom left this physical earth, that I realized what a gift it is to have had a woman in your life who believes in you, and one who has helped your voice to take flight. Thank you, Mom.

Chief Inspirational Officer

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A two-pound bag of Hershey miniature chocolate bars is stowed safely by my mom’s Lazy Boy where she sits during the day and sleeps at night. She says with conviction that she never eats them. But I can see by the shrinking size of the bag that someone certainly does. As mom’s caretaker, I fret over her how she eats. Should I steal the bag? I worry about it.

An author friend calls herself a CIO. A few months ago, I adopted this job title for me as well:  Chief Inspirational Officer. I suspect it has been my life-long calling–teaching, writing, and caring for others. It works as I navigate mom’s struggles and continue my work with cancer patients, veterans, and writers. Like my writing, this work helps lift me like a kite on a wind-swept beach when I need a boost.

Three weeks ago, Mom was ill, and I placed her in hospice. It was a hard decision. A couple of days afterwards I tossed clothes in a suitcase and headed to Tucson to speak at a Survive Well Conference to cancer survivors. I was stressed and underprepared—and that is not my style. But the “parent of a parent” is first and foremost a caretaker. I make mom’s decisions and struggle with my choices. It is the hardest job I have ever had. I love her like a best friend, and I am losing her. A gracious, kind, and caring woman she remembers little about me.

As I climbed the steep stairs to the stage at the conference, I wondered if I would trip in the tangle of cords on the floor and somersault forward into the audience like a rock concert routine by Queen. But after years of performing daily for my high school students, my brain is wired to make an easy shift into the joy of speaking. I embrace these moments.

And as I looked out over the sea of eyes—six hundred eyes—I was stunned into a moment of silence. These are the eyes of cancer survivors. These are the eyes of courage. And I embraced their shared aura. “Wow!” I began. “Look at you. I feel your courage.” And they did something I did not expect. They applauded wildly. I shared a few stories, but I have forgotten which ones. What I remember vividly is that I had been asked to inspire this crowd, but I parted from these survivors with tears in my eyes. I was uplifted by them.

As the sun set later that day, I returned to Chandler and to my mom. She was snoring gently when I entered her room. Somehow a new full bag of Hershey chocolates had appeared, snuggled up to her Lazy Boy. Mom took a rattled breath and smiled warmly at me as she awoke. “You are going away today,” she said as she looked at me confused. I took her hand. She saw me eyeing her chocolates. “I don’t eat them,” she paused. “I give them away. I promise.” Then she did something I had not seen her do for many years. She winked at me, a mischievous wink. “Please have some chocolate.”

I hugged her, and she smiled again before her eyes fluttered lightly and she slipped back to sleep. As I nibbled a chocolate, I visualized my day. The cancer survivors. My mom, with her wink and her Hershey chocolates. They are true Chief Inspirational Officers. As we wander and sometimes struggle down our paths, perhaps this is a job title we are all trying to hold. I know I am–and perhaps you are, too.

Finding Love

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The day I moved into the graduate dorm everything changed. I made a new friend. Steve. I wondered why he leaned forward as he shot through the graduate dorm cafeteria toting a huge stack of textbooks. But he had a dream—and he was going after it. I liked that. I also appreciated that he immediately volunteered to fix my vintage Raleigh three speed bike, bequeathed to me by my brother.

The day before Noah had accidentally knocked over my Raleigh.  The bike seat had been twisted oddly, and I could not ride it. Noah did not apologize.  I had just broken a date with him, and he was mad. I would say I had broken up with him, but even after dating for two years, I still did not think of him as a boyfriend.

As an undergrad I had trouble finding love. The odds were good at my college:  seven guys for every girl, but still—I struggled. Benji, an upperclassman, always wanted to take me to the Pig and Whistle to down a pitcher of beer and shell a couple of pounds of peanuts. Since I was underage and oblivious to false IDs, we usually ended up at the only movie theater in town. Often it was a film, like 2001: A Space Odyssey, that I had already seen a half dozen times.  I was relieved when Benji stopped calling.

Although I rarely went out with him, Noah seemed to think we were a thing. He had thick-Beatle-styled hair, that you wanted to touch.  He walked with a swagger, had a square jaw, and an Adam’s apple that bounced when he talked. My roommate was crazy for him. “He looks like Ashton Kutcher—and oh, that walk!” Noah was headed to vet school. His passions circled around Irish setters and the game of chess. I could not weigh in on either. Instead I longed to talk about the Herman Hesse book I was reading, and Rodney, the nine-year-old I was tutoring at an inner-city Presbyterian church.

For two years Noah hung on. Our dates often ended up at his frat house where we would “twist and shout” to the sounds of Fleetwood Mac or the Rolling Stones. I never understood much of what he said as we shouted back and forth over the music and sipped Boone’s Farm Apple Wine from paper cups. At the end of college, many of our friends were marching down the aisle. I began to worry that I might be alone forever, but still, I was relieved to graduate from college—and college frat parties.

On the day I moved into the grad dorm, Noah caught sight of me returning from the bookstore with a new book. I had last seen him at a friend’s wedding. “How about dinner at the Pig and Whistle?” he asked. When I turned him down, foolishly explaining I had a new book to read, he stared at me as if I had slapped him. This would be the last time I would ever see him, and in his haste to leave, he turned and collided with my Raleigh, crashing it over.

In that moment my understanding of love suddenly shifted. I had a deeper sense of what love might be, and I knew Noah and I weren’t in love and never would be. Maybe I had liked the security of having him around and he was cute, but suddenly none of that mattered. At that moment, I had a glimmer of what love could mean, and I wanted to hold out for it. I thought to myself– I am done dating. I am done looking for love. I will let it find me.

That evening before I headed up to my dorm room to start a new book, I played a few hands of gin rummy with Steve in the lobby of the grad dorm. I told him I was done dating. Done with trying to find love. He nodded like this was reasonable.

The next day on the first of our many bike rides out to a small airport where we picnicked, Steve and I agreed to be friends. And, of course, this is how I would finally find love. Through friendship.