We had our first cup of coffee. 

I was thinking I could wish for spring weather but today I choose to love the cold while it is here. This morning I decided to suddenly trim some ivy in the backyard- so I got the kitchen scissors and clipped through it. I was in my bathrobe and had my little old dog with me on his long leash. 
We felt alive in the cold. We had clarity as we clipped the leafless  branches. The lines of the vine that grew on my neighbors side of the fence had reached out and grasped the pines on our side, maybe thinking the living might be better over here. In five minutes I cut each of the quiet branches. I will untangle the disconnected pieces of vine another day. 

Today though, why brace against the cold when we can let it be and feel alive in it? When do we reach for new places and when do we stay put? What gives us clarity and what distracts? 

Meanwhile, the little dog grappled with his own worldly perspectives. He sniffed the ground despite his intermittent heart cough. He kept me company. When he had enough he walked as far as he could into the garage and gave his "I have had enough" bark, that remains strong despite his age. 

Winter. A season of clarity and quiet to consider clipping away what might entangle us, what we have had enough of. May we consider wisely when we need to change and when spring comes have the energy to reach and grow.  

We went in for our second cup of coffee. 

The other day I experienced such a spring treat. A young boy in our neighborhood went past the house on roller blades. In his hand he had a yoyo, and he was not just holding it while he skated, he was making it go up and down. Yoyo-ing on rollerblades! What a great celebration of spring. 

Today I picked out some chocolate things at Wegman's. The girl who rang my things up looked at each one and announced out loud what it was. "This is a rooster. This is a bunny. This is a different kind of bunny. This is a hen." She did it for all 7 chocolate things, and I appreciated her little girl enthusiasm for the Easter items. 

The other day I waited for Johnny K to drive home from work. We sat on the front porch and each had a Fat Tire. Neighbors walked by. The air was almost warm, the sun was out, and we were feeling like we made it through another winter. 

The other day my friend Sandy did me a huge favor AND brought me one of her home made peanut butter eggs. I am still reliving how perfect it was to eat. She gave it to me at 9 in the morning and I started eating it at 9 in the morning. Sometimes you just gotta. 

Reese's has a new kind of peanut butter egg... Little hard shelled ones. I never had them before. If you loved peanut butter and Fluff as a kid you should get some. OR if you loved peanut butter and Fluff as a kid you better not get any of these. Your pick. 

When I was a little girl in Massachusetts Easter would come and sometimes you would have a patch of grass peaking through mostly snow. It would still be winter. And I would make my way with my patent leather shoes somehow to the grass spot, to stand on it and just smell the dirt grass smell. 

I loved wearing a straw Easter hat with ribbons that trailed down, a little elastic band under my chin to hold it on. 

Today my friends son was in a video reciting Bible Verses on Facebook. He is getting so big and is such a sweet boy. Meanwhile my niece is pregnant with her second baby and we will find out Easter Sunday if it is a boy or girl. 

All this is just tiny little moments of life. You have to pay attention to these tiny moments though. I like to count them up, and realize them as they happen, make sure I  do not miss them. 

As Mandy Hale said, 

"Dance. Smile. Giggle. Marvel. TRUST. HOPE. LOVE. WISH. BELIEVE. Most of all, enjoy every moment of the journey, and appreciate where you are at this moment instead of always focusing on how far you have to go." 

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Lives should not be taken by sudden bullets to the head.  And yet they are. I have such love for the mothers left to pick up the pieces.

Mother arrived to find her critically injured son had no hope of recovery. She heard about the brain death testing that was to take place. An hour later she listened to the results of the testing. It concluded that his brain had died and that his time of death had been established.

She was introduced to me and she cried when she heard he had chosen to be an organ donor on his license. Cried that he had thought of others. She was proud and relieved. Something good, she said. Later she remembered she had wanted grandchildren. He had not given her any grandchildren. She realized suddenly that she had lost his future children, too.

With that thought it all caught up with her. 

“How do we know it is really him?” she suddenly asked. “It is not him. It can’t be him. This young man, we have to find his mother.” Her voice rose up an octave.

We walked to his bedside, and she powerfully gripped the rail of the bed. “It is not him. I am so glad it is not him. We have to find his mother.”  She started to sob and her knee’s buckled and she ended up sitting on the floor. Her arms remained above her head, gripping the rail.  The young mans helpless father stood behind us with his own deep and quiet sadness.

I squatted next to her. I stroked and patted her back. Stroked her arms. Repeated soothing noises. “I am so sorry Momma. So sad. Every mother’s heart is with you. So sad.” Over and over I stroked and comforted and repeated those words.  My squatting position caused my legs to get numb and so I also eventually sat. I did not lose my awareness of everything that might be on a hospital floor.

She was the picture of grief. We stayed there until she raised her head, came back to us.

Within the hour we coaxed her to leave. All the while, she seemed to need gently suggested reasons… her daughter needed her in the waiting room…. they all should get home…. a storm was coming…. they needed to be safe. We walked slowly to the exit of the Intensive Care Unit, my arm around her. Encouraging words every few steps.

We made it to the waiting room and she hugged her lovely remaining child. We had momentum with her so we continued as a group toward the elevators.  I kept my grip on her.   Dad headed to the parking garage to get the car. I steered her to a bench in the lobby.  We sat Momma in the middle, daughter on one side and me on the other.

She wished that she could have kept him safe. “We raise them up and then we cannot keep them safe, can we,” I said. “No mother can keep them safe. We raise them and we cannot keep them safe. He was lucky to have you, Momma.  Look how tiny he had been and how big he grew. You kept him safe when it was your job. “

The cars pulled up. I opened the door of her husbands car and on autopilot she climbed in.  She sat; the only motion her streaming tears. She stared straight ahead. I reached in for the seatbelt and pulled it across her chest.  I buckled it. I wrapped her fingers around the small box of hospital tissues I had carried down. I kissed her on the cheek. I watched as they drove away.

 The kiss was from me and all the other mothers of the world. 

I sat on the floor of my kitchen yesterday with my little dog. I fed him a clementine. For years he has known when a clementine was being peeled. He would promptly find me and sit reverently at my feet, waiting quietly as I bit the last few sections in half. I would hold out his side of the piece. He would swallow it and then be an alert little sentinel, patiently waiting for the next slice. 

He is a smooth black and tan miniature dachshund, who was born in rural Pennsylvania on May 14, 2001. Now he is gray and white and black and tan. You can picture him as an elderly gentleman, winding down from life. If "a dog year equals seven people years" rings true, this May he will be 105.

A few days ago he lost his footing and fell down the stairs, and though he is okay, he has been quiet for the several days since.  

One busy morning a few weeks ago I took him out to start his morning, and I was already an hour into mine, important thoughts whirling in my head. He walks slowly with a swaying lilt. I was urging him to be faster about his to do list. I told him I had so many things on mine.  I was wanting the walk to be over so I could get on to my next thing. 

And then. 

I remembered why I wanted a dog, why I pushed for a dog, why I looked for a dog, why I found a dog, why I reserved a dog, why I drove hours to Hillside Kennels in rural Pennsylvania to pick up our new dog. 

I wanted to have someone who would make me get outside to play. I wanted someone who would take walks with me, and never say no. I wanted someone to listen to me talk about adult things when I was lonely. I wanted someone to be a loyal friend to my boys. I wanted someone to snuggle with. 

Oh my little friend, I think. Oh my little friend. You have gifted me with everything I ever asked you for. 

So, yesterday I sat and fed him a clementine. Or I should be more clear. Yesterday he was propped in his own bed. I sat reverently at his feet. Waiting quietly, an alert sentinel, I hand fed my honorable little friend his very own clementine, slice by slice. 

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