Mama Don't Dance

I have tremendous respect for people who can dance. Not people who wiggle their bodies around suggestively; that doesn’t require much talent. I mean people who artfully tell a beautiful, clever, or tragic story through various forms of dance. I can’t do that. If I attempt to dance, people assume I am having a seizure and start trying to stick a pencil in my mouth.

It isn’t pretty.

As a budding teenager, Parker was part of a competitive dance troupe. He spent hours upon hours at the dance studio every week, practicing. I spent weekend after weekend in dark, musty-smelling, hotel ballrooms with flashing lights and ear-splitting music, watching little girls wearing far too much sparkly makeup, perform their art. They were young and somewhat unrefined but I enjoyed the way they were learning to express themselves through fluid…and sometimes not-so-fluid…motion.

Of course, when Parker took the stage, I really didn’t notice those sparkly girls anymore. He was a fabulous dancer and one of the few boys that age with enough confidence to withstand mean-spirited labeling in order to do what he enjoyed. Regardless, it was during those years of watching dancers that I came to realize what a beautiful, expressive, challenging art form dance is.

I started to think about expressing myself through dance.

Not that I had dreams of becoming a middle-aged dancer. I didn’t. I didn’t have aspirations of performing before an audience wearing a tutu. Okay…maybe I wanted to wear the tutu but I could do without the audience. There was just something so beautiful about the idea of using dance as self-expression.

So, I considered learning to dance. Alone. In my kitchen. Not in my underwear, a’la Tom Cruise, but maybe by trying out some lovely, evocative, lyrical moves as a way to tap into deep inner emotions. It seemed doable. But then my pinch-faced, wet-blanket, inner judge strutted in, laughing and mocking, and summarily shutting down any notions of me being anything other than ‘the girl with two left feet.’ Whatever Parker had lacked in the way of an inner-judge, I more than made up for. And after listening to her discouraging words, I didn’t attempt to dance at all.

So much for self-expression and deep inner emotions.

The truth is, that nasty inner-judge had shut down a lot of other ideas over the years. I didn’t like her very much. She was mean. And she didn’t want me to be who I was. She wanted me to be somebody else, less free-spirited, and more insecure. I didn’t want to be who she wanted me to be, and eventually, I tried to stop listening. When she started shutting down my ideas, I just turned away. When she said I wasn’t good enough or pretty enough or smart enough, I tried to ignore her. And sure enough, the less I listened, the less she spoke.

Eventually she stopped demanding unattainable perfection. She stopped telling me not to try things. She started accepting me the way I am and the way I look. In fact, the older I get the more she seems to like me. These days she has less to say about external beauty and more to say about love and grace and joy.

My inner judge and I are getting along pretty well now. We are embracing age together. I like her. She likes me. We find the same things funny. Especially when we are dancing together in the kitchen. Turns out, she’s as lousy at dancing as I am. But now, neither of us care. We glide and twirl and trip and stumble, happily and freely. Self-expression and inner emotions are the order of the day. There simply is no judgment.

I like the way things have turned out and what I’ve learned along the way. And I like being able to express myself in whatever form I choose. Life is so much richer when we just let go and live.

No need to grab your pencils. I’m just dancing.

Downward Dog Dunce

I’m deformed.

All right, maybe that is a bit dramatic but, due to some genetic weirdness in my spine I have occasional muscle spasms in my back. Lots of people have muscle spasms, mine just happen to have been handed down to me along with mousy brown hair and detached earlobes. I like my earlobes just fine and I discovered the magic of chemical hair processing before I was old enough to wear a bra so, on the whole, I’ve either accepted what I’ve been given or found ways around it. Not so much with the back thing. The spasms have occurred, intermittently, for most of my life and for years people have suggested I do yoga as a way to manage it. For years I’ve ignored the suggestion.

It’s not that I have anything against yoga. I just couldn’t envision myself doing it very well. Neither my mind nor my body is quite that limber. Physically, I’m the proverbial bull in a china shop, and the notion of getting my brain to settle down and think only one or two thoughts at a time is challenging, but emptying it of all thought and getting to a meditative state is just laughable. I knew it wasn’t something I’d be good at. And like most people, I don’t make a point of trying out things I know I’ll do poorly. But, a bout of spasms came on recently, worse than usual and requiring drugs stronger than Advil, so I began to think about giving yoga a chance after all. I decided to try out a class or two.

As a neophyte, I thought yoga was yoga. I had no idea there were different styles and levels. In my search for a class, however, I saw several different types listed. At the time my back was in an active spasm complete with a highly excitable sciatic nerve, but I figured I had to start sometime, so I picked a class. Once I hobbled in the room, though, I decided it might be a good idea to check with the instructor about the wisdom of participating. I explained my situation and she, in turn, explained that I had chosen an advanced yoga class for my introduction. Of course I had.

There I was, slightly cocked to the left while my overzealous back muscles maintained a constant state of contraction, about to embark on an advanced level yoga class for the first time. Maybe I should have reconsidered. But the instructor was encouraging and told me to just do what I could, so I figured I might as well try. Besides, I had the pants.

Not that I had gone out and purchased yoga pants just for this occasion. I hadn’t. I had gone out and purchased yoga pants a while back when, after weeks of sitting at my computer working on my dissertation, my jeans had all begun to cut off circulation. I could breathe again. So, while I hadn’t gotten yoga pants for yoga, here they were, on my body and ready to help me. Truly, the right outfit can give you confidence to do anything. It's like magic. I slowly got on the floor for my first yoga class.

I started the class crouched on the floor in child’s pose. I ended the class crouched on the floor in child’s pose. And I spent most of the time in between crouched on the floor in child’s pose. Perhaps I needed to start at a more beginning level.

On day two I attended a class designed for beginners. My back had calmed down a bit and I hoped I could perform the asanas reasonably well. The instructor was a woman older than I and about a third my size. She spoke in a low, calm monotone, and folded herself into positions that were surely not meant for the human body. Several times during the class I thought, you have got to be freaking kidding! I might have said it out loud a time or two which, I guess you aren’t supposed to do in a meditative yoga class. Regardless, the teeny-tiny-rubber-woman was gracious toward me and occasionally gave me quiet little hints when I was doing things backwards. It was humbling, to say the least.

I tried yet a different class on day three and this time while attempting to stand on one leg and extend my arms out in front of me as the other leg stretched out behind me, I ended up toppling over, letting out a little shriek, and catching myself to prevent falling to the floor. Whatever peaceful place others in the class had reached, they were all snapped back to reality by the awkward blond woman in the corner whose body was hurling across the room. I had been correct in my assumption I’d be a moronic yogini.

I didn’t think I’d be good at yoga and I was right. In fact, I am terrible at it. So far I’ve learned nothing about mediating but I’m learning a lot about humility. I don’t really like being the unintentional yoga class clown. If I keep at it long enough, maybe I’ll settle down and reap the benefits to body, soul, and mind. But if I accomplish nothing more than keeping back spasms at bay, that is good enough. Although we don't like to admit it, sometimes it’s okay to just be good enough.

So, while it is true that nobody will ever call me Swami Sue. If I want to, I can imagine I'm gracefully folding into pretzel shapes and drifting into a state of mindlessness.

I am, afterall, wearing magic yoga pants.

A Cerebral Story

I love a party. One of my greatest joys in life is having something to celebrate with people I love. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy to constitute a party. Okay, it doesn’t actually even have to be something real. Sometimes I invent things to celebrate, just for the fun of having a party. This year, Anna and I attempted to make fortune cookies in honor of the Chinese New Year. The attempt was fruitless and the cookies were a disaster. I later reflected that it might have been the Universe’s attempt at letting me know I shouldn’t try and co-opt a holiday about which I have absolutely no knowledge, heritage, or history. That could be it. Or maybe I just don’t follow directions very well. Regardless, we had something of a celebration, despite of the unfortunate cookies.

The same spirit of celebration overtook me a few years ago when I had a party to honor my friend’s uterus. She was scheduled to have a hysterectomy and I thought, seeing as how her uterus had served her well in housing two precious sons during gestation as well as admirably performing whatever other duties a uterus performs, it was only right and proper to have a party to celebrate it before it tottered off into oblivion. Well, the proper part might be questionable. Nevertheless, our party consisted of poetry and songs for her uterus and, in general, a spirit of thankfulness for a uterine job well done.

Weird. I know.

I’m not sure how many people actually have parties in celebration of their organs. I suspect not many but, somehow, in my social circles, it just doesn’t seem to be that peculiar. Hence the recent Brain Party, honoring the grey matter of a dear friend. Whereas the Uterus Party was intended to say goodbye to a beloved body part, the Brain Party was in celebration of a generous cerebral healing.

I live in a neighborhood that has been home to many wonderful people. Some have come and gone but, typically, those attracted to buying a house in our neighborhood are true ‘salt of the earth’ types. If the world were full of people as lovely as the ones I’ve been blessed to live around, it would forever be a most gracious and kind place. When our children were growing up, we had several families on our block which made up a community in the truest sense of the word. We looked after one another’s kids, loved and cared for each other, and shared what we had; wheelbarrows, articles of clothing, ketchup. Whatever one person needed, someone else had it to loan. We knew, instinctively, when marriages were strained, when finances were challenged, and when sitting on the porch with a glass of wine for some conversation, laughter, and tears was no longer a luxury, but a necessity.

Over time our community changed as the children grew up and families moved to other neighborhoods, but many of us maintained our friendship long after addresses changed. In particular, we’ve stayed close with two couples who lived across the street from us and last year we were shocked to hear that our friend and former neighbor, Kathy, had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. We watched in wonder as Kathy unflappably planned for surgery and a lengthy recovery. Because she is, by nature, painstaking and giving with others, she was surrounded by people eager to help in whatever way they could. Long lists of friends volunteered to prepare meals and provide whatever support was necessary. Her family was sure to be well taken care of during the ordeal, which was nothing short of what Kathy would offer to anyone in similar need. The day of surgery arrived and Kathy’s family and friends nervously waited for results. The benign tumor was successfully removed and Kathy began the arduous process of recovery. The months passed with ups and downs but recently Kathy and her brain fully returned to health; her healing complete.

And so, it seemed only natural to have a party to celebrate Kathy’s amazing, healthy, and tumor free cerebrum! Amid much food and wine we shared stories and memories and laughter. What wonderful laughter, ringing out loudly and joyfully in a house full of friends and love. As I listened, I realized that all six adults were there as well as all eight of our children. Everyone was together, taking part in and enjoying the varied and lively conversation, the shared memories woven together through time, and the comfortable sense of being with those we love. And there in the middle of it all sat Kathy, as beautiful as ever, with her sharp wit, her disarming humor, and her ever-present munificence.

I paused in the midst of the clamor to take in the blessing of relationships, and families, and healing, and health. Those things we often take for granted in spite of their precarious existence. It was a celebration of Kathy’s healthy brain…and so much more.

I’ll probably find something else to celebrate soon. Maybe I’ll co-opt someone else’s holiday again. Or maybe I’ll throw another party for a body part. Perhaps I’ll have an impromptu celebration of a pretty new string of garden lights the way I did a few years ago. It doesn’t much matter the reason because, in the end, all it really boils down to is a celebration of life.

Fragile, beautiful, and fleeting….life.

Party on.

Don't Try This At Home....

Life has a way of soothing our weary souls, just when we need it, by giving us little things that force us not to take ourselves so seriously. Simple situations that encourage us not to be uptight, but to laugh instead, and remember that few things are worth losing our joy over. It’s those little snippets that change our perspective and add some much needed color.

I’ve been forgetting that lately. For every day I think I’ve got the upper hand on my dissertation revisions, I have another day when it seems like it will never be finished. For every day I’m confident I know what I’m doing, I face another one that leaves me feeling utterly inadequate. I lose sight that it will be finished soon. It won’t always be looming over my head. Some days it feels endless and insurmountable, when I find myself with piles of books and articles stacked around me, trying to discern what is important, what is tangential, what is vital, and what is just noise. Many days I forget that it’s just a dissertation. It isn’t life or death. And then I have a welcome reminder.

Yesterday hadn’t been the worst dissertation day. In fact, as dissertation writing days go, it had been pretty productive. But I was tired and feeling like all I ever do is sit in front of a computer and revise. I felt fat. And sluggish. And humorless. And boring. The house had been quiet all day with the boys at work, Steve out of town, Anna with laryngitis and the cats, well, … monosyllabic cats. In all, I was feeling rather dull. Thinking a nice relaxing cup of chamomile tea before bed would help, I put the tea kettle on to boil and began thinking about ways to make tomorrow feel less like a prison sentence and more like a party. How to start anew. Tomorrow I’d wear something nicer than a paint-spattered grey sweatshirt to write in. I’d put on a cute sweater. And do my hair. And apply lipstick. I probably write better in lipstick.

As I stood in the kitchen being all Annie about tomorrow and waiting for the water to boil, my cat, Princess, wandered in for a little snack. Princess lives up to her name. She’d wear a tiara if it wouldn't fall off and she prefers to take her meals on top of the refrigerator away from the rowdy, messy, distasteful boy cats. It is bad enough that we ask her to live with them but eat with them? No, thank you. I, the indulgent pet servant, oblige. Her food bowl sits atop the refrigerator and she jumps up there for a dainty little nibble every so often. It typically isn’t a big deal. It does involve her jumping up on a small section of counter en route to the refrigerator. And yes, that is gross if I think about it. So I don’t.

Anyway, the water began to boil and I took the kettle off the burner and poured some of the boiling liquid into my cup. I mindlessly dropped the tea bag into the steaming mug, dunking it rhythmically a few times. Things were feeling pretty Zen just before I turned around and saw that Princess had jumped up on her little section of counter but, for whatever reason, she hadn’t proceeded to the top of the refrigerator as normal. She was sitting primly on the counter as though it were her throne, staring trancelike at absolutely nothing. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, cats tend to zone out and stare blankly more often than not, except that her beautiful black tail was stretched out behind her like a wooly caterpillar lying prone after a long journey, right across the hot burner. Smoking.

Oblivious, Princess sat gazing while her furry appendage was engulfed in a plume of smoke. I shrieked and ran to the stove. Startled by my uncharacteristic aggression toward her, Princess flew off the counter and streaked up the stairs. Fortunately her fur was the only thing that got scorched. Her skin was fine but the damage had been done and the house started reeking of burning cat tail.

Somehow, as the air took a on a decidedly burning feline stench, the whole scene struck me as very funny. And I started to laugh. My family has grown accustomed to me burning things in the kitchen; although never before had it been one of the pets. Moments later Charles came upstairs from the basement to investigate and Anna came downstairs and croaked out, “What’s burning?” I had to respond with, “the cat,” which just made me laugh harder. As I explained what happened we all started laughing and at that moment life seemed very joyful. And certainly no longer dull.

A dissertation is just a dissertation. It isn’t my life. For the moment it is challenging and consumes a large portion of my life but my life is these people, laughing heartily with me amid the smell of burning fur, and all the meaningful little moments that make up our days. I needed that perspective last night. Funny how life knows just how to give us what we need.

So, today I’ll wear a little lipstick while I write. It will add a bit of color.

But then, so does cooking the cat.

Ice, Elevators, and Newt Gingrich

It is January and we’ve had a fair amount of snow and cold in Colorado this winter. I’m of the opinion that if it is going to be winter, it might as well be cold and snowy, but our house faces north and inevitably, every winter, a gigantic ice patch forms in front of it. Sometimes it melts off rather quickly. Sometimes it hangs around for the better part of winter. This seems to be a year when it plans to hang around. No amount of shoveling, chipping, pick-axing, or salt can prevent the glacial formation. While I don’t love the ridiculous, unending, painful work of trying to remove the ice, what I like even less is trying to walk across it. I resemble a zombie every time I lurch across the ice with little jerks and convulsions. I’m a klutz and have horrible balance.

So horrible that I couldn’t ride a bike until I was 12 or something. Balance beams terrified me as a child. Roller skates? Forget it. To this day, I still have trouble riding an escalator. Really. I can’t quite coordinate that whole moving stairs, one foot at a time thing. On the whole, I’ve learned to live with my lack of physical balance. But sometimes it feels as though my emotional balance matches my physical balance and I start lurching through life with little jerks and convulsions. I definitely haven’t learned to live with that.

I’ve been working on writing my doctoral dissertation for what feels like most of my adult life now. Obstacles keep getting thrown in my path. Sometimes they are unforeseeable and out of my control, like when my mom was ill last summer and I spent the better part of it in the hospital with her. Or even the months leading up to moving her to Colorado, when I was finding her a place to live and preparing myself emotionally for her arrival. Sometimes the obstacles are of my own making, like when I sit down and cry and tell myself, “I can’t do this!” During those episodes I end up wasting inordinate amounts of time in emotional angst. And then my inner judge walks in all hostile and haughty and starts chastising me (funny how that judge looks an awful lot like my mother). It can get ugly.

For some weird reason, if I’m not careful, I can get caught up in the notion that I have to make it seem as though everything is breezy even if it isn’t. As though I can handle my mother and the dissertation and my family and my friendships and everything else that comes my way without being ruffled. I can’t. And really, aside from my own pride, there simply isn’t any reason I should feel I have to.

Being my mother’s nearest care-giving offspring adds a decidedly challenging spice to life. Her autumn rally appears to be wearing off and when that happens I know what is coming. I feel like I’m playing ‘Beat the Clock’ to finish the dissertation before she plunges. Some days I’m paralyzed by the fear I can’t do it all. When that happens I try to walk my emotional balance beam but start feeling like I did back in 5th grade PE when everyone else was prancing across the beam with dainty graceful steps and I would take one step, teeter, shriek, and fling off the side.

I am doing the best I know how. And for the rest of the world, that seems to be plenty. For whatever reason, my brain can get really crowded with the inept 5th grader, the judge, and that crazy bitch who thinks she has to make it all look so easy. Sometimes the clamor is so loud I can’t even make out who is saying what.

Recently I told my brother that I had been praying for more challenging people in my life to help me learn grace. While I lack physical grace I'm hoping to develop more emotional grace. He, rightfully, thought that was a little nutty and recited for me all the challenging people and situations I’m currently juggling. He lovingly offered advice regarding my prayer life by suggesting that if I needed to pray about something, I pray to win the lottery. Or, if I really needed to pray more altruistically…I could pray that Newt Gingrich is rendered mute.

He made me laugh. He calmed me down. And he reminded me that who I am and what I’m doing is plenty. He offered me what I most need to offer myself. What we all need to offer ourselves.

Grace.

Blame it on the Enthusiasm....

I’m not sure how it happened, just that it happened. At some point I grew old enough to be qualified to give advice. I suppose it would be presumptuous to call myself a ‘sage.’ Perhaps a bit self-deprecating to say ‘crone.’ But somewhere on that definition spectrum, my age and life experience have qualified me for a position. For a long, long time I saw myself as too young and inexperienced to offer much in the way of advice. Advice givers were older. Advice givers had more life experience. Then one day it occurred to me that I am older. I do have life experience.

I officially deemed myself qualified to give advice.

For starters, I’ve been a parent for over 23 years. That alone qualifies me to give advice to my children. True, some of it is unheeded, but I give it regardless. For a while I had a job where I got paid to give advice. That was cool. Not so much because I could be Ms. Smartypants, but because I was helping students achieve their goals. I liked feeling that what I did mattered.

Currently, no one is paying me to tell them what I think but I do, at times, have the opportunity to offer my expertise, wisdom, or general know-it-all-ness when I’m asked. I’m not very good at making stuff up to try and sound smart, so if someone asks me about something that I really know nothing about, I usually say so. It saves time. Plus people who act like they know what they’re talking about when they don’t just look ridiculous.

Over time, I’ve grown comfortable with the advice-giving me. Confident that I’ve earned some degree of credibility through my life experiences. Without a doubt, my best and most rewarding experiences have come through being a parent. As a result, my advice-giving frequently involves telling young parents to savor the moment. I have a compelling need to ensure that they understand how short the time is. How quickly the years blur and how, before they know it, they’ll be looking at photos and realizing they are the shortest person in the family. Until recently I had confined my advice-giving to those people with whom I have a relationship.

The other day, however, I became possessed by some sort of crazy advice giving spirit that overtook my body, determined to impart wisdom on unsuspecting strangers. It was around Anna’s birthday and Steve, Anna, Charles, and I had gone out for dinner. While we enjoyed our meal we talked and laughed and recalled stories of when the kids were born and things they did while growing up. As we talked it just didn’t seem possible so many years had passed. I noticed two couples and a newborn baby at a nearby table. Our family continued our lively conversation and a few minutes later the couples gathered their things to leave.

That’s when the crazy spirit took over.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I sprawled my upper body across the booth where we sitting and in an attempt to get their attention pointed and waved and even took to snapping my fingers while saying loudly, “Hey, who’s its mother?” Honestly. Several times I, loudly, referred to the baby as ‘it’ while attempting to get their attention. Finally ‘its’ mother responded and I motioned her over to our table. For some reason she actually walked over to our booth rather than ignoring me and making a hasty exit. And then I started gushing. To this slightly bewildered, overwhelmed young mother, I launched into mawkish adoration of my children and my utter joy at being a parent. My effusiveness was out of control. In the words of Robert Lowell, “I was overcome by an attack of pathological enthusiasm.”

I instructed the mother to look at her newborn. She obliged. I told her to look at Anna. She obliged. And then I solomly said, “Look carefully because they go from that (pointing to the baby) to that (pointing to Anna) like that (snapping my fingers for dramatic effect). The mother was gracious. I’m not sure if she was embarassed for me or not but she and the baby’s father smiled, thanked me, and then made their way toward the door.

As the couple walked away I saw the bemused looks on the faces of my family. It was then that I realized what I’d done. I asked, “I’ve become one of ‘those people’ haven’t I?” They smiled. Charles ducked his head and said quietly, “Yes. Yes you have.”

The thing is, even though I didn’t know them, I wanted that young couple to understand how quickly it will pass. I wanted them to savor and enjoy and love every moment…both good and bad…because before they know it that baby will be grown and living a life of her own. And it happens so fast. Maybe they took my message to heart. Maybe not. I’ll never know. But in that moment of pathological enthusiasm, I simply had to tell them.

Good thing I knew what I was talking about. I wouldn’t have wanted to look ridiculous.

Keep Calm and Celebrate...

Although the traditional holiday season typically ends on New Year’s Day, in our family the party extends from Parker's birthday (a day or two east or west of Thanksgiving) all the way to Anna's birthday (five days into the new year). This provides us with extra time to consume massive calories with abandon and gives us one more thing to celebrate before settling into January’s doldrums.

We didn't plan for Anna's birthday to fall just as the new year was gearing up. In fact, we weren't planning for Anna at all. She just sort of happened. She has, on a few occasions, asked if she was an 'accident.' Steve responds in his typical caring, positive, and sensitive way by saying, "Oh no! No child is ever an accident." I, on the other hand, answer her question with something much more along the lines of, "Yep!"

It is true. But, Anna is the happiest accident of my life.

Before her noon-hour arrival 17 years ago, our little family eagerly anticipated Anna’s birth. At four-years old, Parker was very excited to have a younger sibling. Only, not really. He was excited to have a younger sister. In fact, he was adamant that he was having a younger sister long before we actually knew if she was a girl or a boy. If the baby were a boy he'd prefer to pass, thanks. He did, however, insist that we should name her Ed. No amount of explaining could convince him that Ed wasn't a conventional girl's name. Not that our family has ever been conventional. But still.

I had a favorite name picked out for a baby girl but in an overzealous moment a few years earlier, I gave it to the cat. This didn't seem so insurmountable. The cat never responded when called anyway, so why not just change the cat's name to something else and transfer the original name to the baby? When I suggested this, I got horrified looks. No. The cat had already been in possession of that name for 12 years. She was not giving it up for the baby. Apparently there was some concern for a feline identity crisis. Really? For a cat who largely ignored us except when she wanted food, I doubted she’d forget who she was. But, I had ankles the size of small watermelons, a perpetually full bladder, and a lack of oxygen was addling my brain. I just wasn’t up for the argument.

It was Charles who eventually created peace by suggesting Anna's name. Shortly before she was born, Charles calmly proposed the name Anna Katherine. It was as if angels quietly whispered in his ear. When he spoke it, we knew immediately the right name had found its way to our baby girl.

Once we established that she was a girl and had a name, the only thing left to do was welcome her. It was a cold, snowy, Colorado day when our little songbird was born and at that moment the world instantly became more beautiful.

Anna’s calm, easygoing manner was evident from the start. As was her natural musical ability. Quietly determined, so far Anna has accomplished pretty much everything she’s set out to do, although she rarely creates the accompanying hoopla. Fortunately, she is surrounded by people who love her and just happen to be superior hoopla creators, otherwise her accomplishments might be overlooked by her blithe acceptance.

Although Anna’s gene pool is crowded with every imaginable expression, including some who are hooting and hollering and doing cannonballs in the middle, somehow she manages to be confident, poised, and reserved, with just the tiniest hint of regality. Which might explain why she has always referred to Charles and Parker as, ‘her boys.’ I might start getting concerned if I hear her say, “We are not amused.” But, unless that happens, I’ll stand aside and watch as my unassuming superstar casually saunters in and, with aplomb, takes her place in the world.

Accidents happen. We are all better for this one.

Happy Birthday, Ed Anna!