Same job, different uniform.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson


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Sunday, May 10, 2009

I am a Mom. Far Out.

Last week I was in the card aisle at our local grocer's. As I stood there, scanning the racks for Mother's Day cards, pushing the cart back and forth in an effort to keep my little boy asleep, I had one of those incredibly silly moments.

I am a mother.

No longer just a daughter, just a granddaughter, just a daughter in law, this day was for me now, too. I was shopping for a card, but sharing in the experience, wishing for others what I hadn't thought about wishing for myself.

I, a mother? Thirty-two years of giving handmade cards, "coupons" for back rubs, flowers, and chocolate and suddenly I was thrust behind the sacred veil myself.

Oh, God, make me worthy of the name.

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