Everyone is marching forward.

“There is a good reason they call these ceremonies ‘commencement exercises’. Graduation is not the end, it is the beginning.” (Orrin Hatch)

Commencement is not just reserved for academic events. Life, with its fluid, forward motion, has many similar opportunities that invite us to experience multiple, awakening dawns that cast us off into a kaleidoscope of maiden voyages. First kisses, initial careers, engagements, and the purchase of new homes are all exciting events. But along with these welcomed inceptions come inevitable endings. Some of these conclusions are totally unexpected, unsolicited, and cruel.

Death is one of them. As its shadow crosses the threshold of life, a door slowly closes and the darkness behind it, created by the absence of the vibrant glow from a loved one, can push us through into a tunnel of despair and uncertainty. Struggling to avoid a sensation of free fall that can spin us out of control and leave us feeling panicked and scared, we temporarily retreat in an effort to heal.

Fortunately, the passage of time and the wisdom that we gain from it helps us to recalibrate and to find our bearings again. It gives us distance from the pain and loneliness and provides a clearer perspective of what is ahead. If we take a moment to listen to our hearts, we can hear our “whispers” again. During this exercise we are reminded to trust our inner voice and to accept the power of love that will always be with us, unlike the physical presence which has disappeared.

“Ends are not bad things, they just mean that something else is about to begin. And there are many things that don’t really end; anyway, they just begin again in a new way. Ends are not bad and many ends aren’t really an ending; some things are never –ending.” (C. JoyBell C.)

Just like the presentation of a diploma at the conclusion of a commencement ceremony which is the symbolic permission to exit, true life experience is our passport to the future.   This acquired insight opens our eyes and prepares us for the portals of another genesis, another chance to live and love. It is our voucher to launch a new adventure on a new day.

“Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”             (L.M. Montgomery)

Where ever you are now in life’s procession, remember to go out and acknowledge a new beginning. Celebrate your own special, personal “commencement” and embrace its joy and power. There are many more tomorrows  yet to come.

Congratulations to “graduates” everywhere, each on your own stage of life.

Best wishes!

Kim

 You and me, you and me, oh how happy we’ll be!

When each wave comes a-rolling in

We will duck or swim,

                                            And we’ll float and fool around the water.

                                           Over and under, and then up for air,

                                           Pa is rich, Ma is rich, so now what do we care?

                                           I love to be besides your side, beside the sea,

                                           Beside the seaside, by the beautiful sea!

(By the Beautiful Sea from the musical “For Me and My Gal” -Harold Atteridge/Harry Carroll 1914)

I love the ocean. I have previously written about my affinity for it and I am sure that I will write about it many more times.  This year I enjoyed an unusually early ocean visit when I attended the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation’s Camp Widow East in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina in April. Even before I got on the plane, I mentally planned out my long beach walks. In fact, the first things in my suitcase were my pink flip flops!

The lead-off day was warm and cloudy and by the time I hit the shoreline, the tide was almost at its lowest level for the day. The vast apron of wet, smooth sand was precariously exposed to the afternoon sun.  It was vulnerable and broken bits of shells punctuated the gray mass. Once perfectly formed and home to a miniature form of sea life, each tiny vessel had been on a journey and now was making its final appearance at the end of its cycle. The waves kept spitting out these remnants and I reverently tried not to step on them with my feet. Meanwhile, tiny new, whole shells peeked out from the soggy layer that was usually insulated by water. Their protective coatings were tightly closed as the new mollusks were hesitantly starting their life cycle. They were barely noticeable to the casual walker, but I saw them.

Inside the resort, a very brave group of people was gathering in anticipation of a weekend of healing and hope. Courageous widows and widowers from all over the country and from Canada and Ireland came to open up their hearts and souls to another kindred spirit in the hopes of making a connection and thus awakening their inner strength. Some were just starting on their grief journey and they were fragile and tentative. They let their salty tears flow freely, without shame, knowing that they would be pulled up from the strong undertow of loss and supported by warm hugs and sensitive words. Slightly battered and showing signs of chips and nicks in their outer layers, they were in the process of rebuilding for the next stage of their lives. Unfortunately, this time it would be without their beloved partner. The other piece of their protective life shell was no longer there.

The morning sun tried to shine through the mackerel sky. The surf pounded on the oceanfront with such strength that the churned up sea left a layer of yellow tinged foam at the water’s edge. It looked as if a giant, frothy root beer float spilled over onto the sand. Gone were yesterday’s shell pieces and they were replaced by today’s collection of larger more intact specimens brought in by the rising tide. In and out the waves surged with confidence and authority. It was a new day and the landscape had changed.

Inside the “campers” finished their first full day of inspirational workshops and sharing sessions. Together they were standing noticeable taller. Laughter was echoing out of the conference rooms and preparations were being made for the evening’s formal dinner party. The event was a chance to dress-up and feel special while enjoying a delicious meal. There was a DJ ready to pump out some upbeat tunes in the hopes that the dormant dancing feet would come alive again. It was a time to celebrate life and the years of living that were yet to come.

Every day is different at the ocean. I think that its ebb and flow mimics our lives in some ways. We all experience our low tides. We all celebrate our high tides.  But unlike the printed tide charts in the newspaper that announce the daily timetable, our highs and lows are only revealed when we live them. We can try to be ready to ride the waves of life, but sometimes we crash on the shore and then get sucked back out into darkness. It is our inner strength and the kind helping hand of another seasoned sailor that brings us up for air and helps us to get back on course.

I was so honored to have the opportunity to present my workshop, “Life’s Not Perfect”, at Camp Widow East. I hope that I was able to bring a sense of hope in anticipation of an upcoming high tide as I extended my healing, helping hand as one who had experienced a very low tide twenty years ago. I am not unique. I had a story and I am fortunate to have been given a voice with which to share it. Actually, we can all talk about our life experiences with one another and maybe one day you too can provide a lifeline. Our lives are like the vast ocean. They contain places that can be very dark, cold, and deep and they also can have precious moments that sparkle like diamonds, like the sun reflecting off the crest of a tall wave.

There was one last walk on the beach before I left. It was very windy on the final day and the water seemed to flow sideways. The ocean was coming in at a different direction as I put my head down and forged ahead up the beach. I thought about the past three days and smiled to myself. At the conclusion of the weekend we were all moving in a different direction now, just like the ocean on that morning.  A new protective shell was forming and we were all heading back home riding on a wave of kindness and mutual support.

Carry on brave sailors! I hope to be with you on a future voyage.

Kim

Kim K. Meredith shares multiple stories in this collection, available on amazon.com

 4/19/13 – 4/21/13

Myrtle Beach SC -Marriott Grande Dunes Resort

Book signing and  workshop “Life’s Not Perfect” on Saturday 4/20/13

See details on web site:

www.sslf.org  ( events- Camp Widow East)

“Children are the bridge to heaven” (Proverb)

When I learned that my oldest sister Chris was coming to New York City for a month from her home in California, I decided to plan an adventure. I wanted to walk the Brooklyn Bridge together.

We are four girls, born in a five year span, who were raised in Ames, New York, once the smallest incorporated village in New York State.   Our early entertainment revolved around each other and a large red barn that we turned into our playhouse. Outside distractions were few so we developed a unique closeness that is the underpinning of our adult relationships today. There were no malls, no cable reality shows, no cell phones or Internet. We simply had each other, confined to two bedrooms and one shared bathroom.

Since I am the country mouse coming from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I carefully selected my outfit for the big city. It was a cool spring day and I knew that we were going to be outside so I wore a bright yellow sweater and everything else was urban black. Black pants, black leather jacket, black long scarf, shiny black walking shoes and a large purse with a black tassel rounded out my attire.

When we finally met up, I looked across Broadway and there were the three of them on the sidewalk bundled up in ski caps, mittens and assorted colored fleeces looking like they were going to hike the Appalachian Trail. We all laughed and hugged on the corner as they remarked how cold the morning air was. Alright, we were not exactly Carrie Bradshaw and the girls from Sex and the City, but we were ready to make the Big Apple our playground for the day.

Off we went into the subway like school girls on a field trip. We fell right back into “sister mode” leaving behind our assorted diverse lifestyles and giggled while trying to figure out what type of subway passes to buy. The city mouse, Vanessa, took over here and guided us to the ticket machine and told us what to do. Sisters know when to listen when given advice from another.

Once inside the crowded car we found something else to amuse ourselves and started laughing again. Pure nonsense easily motivated us. Here we were, four intelligent women, all AARP eligible, and you would have thought that it was our first time on mass transportation!

Brooklyn was starting to warm up with the sunshine and above a bright blue sky welcomed us. We had been advised to walk the bridge from the Brooklyn side into lower Manhattan for the best view so we took that advice along with our recommended first stop, an iconic pizza place.  While standing in a lengthy line to get into our famous destination, the third eldest, Jill, quickly checked in with her local contact on her iPad to get us up to speed on the history of the place where we were going to have lunch. Calling us into a huddle in the middle of the line, she secretly pointed to another pizza establishment a few feet away and told us that in fact the original place had been sold to an outside party and this smaller place was run by the original owner’s wife and just opened up two months ago.  That pizza was the real deal.

Out of line we popped, into the restaurant, and we were lucky to be seated right away next to the open kitchen where we could see the huge pizza oven in action. While we decided on what beer to drink, I noticed a picture on the wall with the name of the owner of the famous landmark. Then I observed an older woman next to the kitchen who was keeping a careful watch on all of the activity and I wondered if maybe she was related to the original proprietor. Sure enough, we called her over and she shared the history of the picture and identified herself as the founder’s wife. Score! We knew we had cleverly avoided the tourist trap next door and we were going to be enjoying the real intended pizza.

Jill excitedly exclaimed, “We’re sisters” and told her where we all hailed from. The elderly woman seemed impressed and obviously was proud of her family traditions too and kindly sent us some complimentary cannoli. The pizza was outstanding, the beer quenched our thirst and the free dessert made us feel special as we leaned over to share it from one plate in the center of the cozy table.

While on the Brooklyn Bridge we marveled at the architecture and read the plaques which gave us our history lesson for the day. Stopping frequently for photo opportunities, we kept laughing and lost ourselves in our simultaneous nostalgic journey down memory lane. Fearing that it might be cold while high up over the water, I packed some small bottles of Sambuca that we secretly sipped from as if we were underage drinking high school delinquents.  Meanwhile bikers warned us to stay in the narrow walking lane and other pedestrians were weaving in and out as we were slowed down by our frequent silly moments and sips.

The day only got better as we traveled to Ground Zero to see the World Trade Center Memorial project. As we leaned over and peered into the Tower One waterfall and pool we found ourselves quietly reminiscing about that tragic day as our fingers traced the names of the victims. Now together in one place, on that sad day on 9/11 we were scattered around the country  in our own homes, in our own worlds. We shared how we were all at different stages of our lives when our country came to its knees. Some were experiencing great professional success while one was coming out of a very dark time and another was on the threshold of a difficult challenge. But there we were on that beautiful spring day, together again in a quiet, reflective moment at a different time in our lives and in a less stressful time for our country.

That Saturday was so special to me. We not only walked the beautiful bridge between two boroughs of the great metropolis of New York, but we also bridged the distance that daily living can interrupt and tightened our sisterly bond through laughter and a simple day together like the old times. No one else was with us. It was just the sisters.

I couldn’t help but think that soon the four of us will be in the front row of the family lineup. Fortunately both of our parents are still alive and that security and buffer keeps us from having to focus on our own mortality. We still have some time to be the kids, “the Burgess Girls” before we have to step up and take charge completely for the generations behind us. But on that day we didn’t see ourselves as the other pedestrians did. We didn’t assign ourselves an age, we felt young and we were just having fun.

When my sisters put me back on the bus for my trip home, our stomachs were sore from laughing, our aging feet, ankles, and knees were suffering from our various ailments, but each of our hearts felt light and youthful as we vowed to quickly plan the next adventure.

Destination:  Old Lyme Connecticut and Point O’ Woods Beach which was the summer cottage of our maternal grandmother. The web site says, “When you enter Point O’ Woods Beach under the railroad bridge, PAUSE…and leave the world behind…”

Ah!… another bridge, I am ready!

Do you have a “bridge” that you can walk? Is there an opportunity waiting for you to join the past with the present? Don’t put it off! You don’t want to miss it. I think maybe we can “go back”… just for a day. I did!

Kim

When I was a little girl, my youthful, smooth skin prickled and itched as if there was a tight, wool sweater constantly chaffing it.  Looking back, perhaps certain things rubbed me in a different, uncomfortable way. For example, I wasn’t sure why I often laughed when no one else did or why I liked to be silly. As a child, I enjoyed escaping into the world of make-believe. In my playhouse, I dressed-up in assorted cast off adult clothes from the local church’s rummage sales and imitated my new-found characters. Like a chameleon, I privately tried on various “life outfits” to see if perhaps there was a better fit since my own skin wasn’t feeling exactly comfortable.

As an insecure teenager, I must have felt a need to divert attention away from my awkward adolescence by layering on creamy light blue eye shadow, charcoal eyeliner, and bright pink lipstick. While I tried desperately to figure out who I was, I temporarily diverted the uncomfortable spotlight away from my true self with my makeup.  At times when I was confused and disappointed, I unwisely let others direct my happiness while waiting for my own genuine bliss to bloom and take over. Confidence had not yet become my companion and uncertainty and self-doubt tugged on my supple skin.

Later on, I felt the force of maturity deliberately suck the nutrients out of my thickening skin like a hot summer sun punishing a newly planted sapling.  Its potency left me feeling wilted and weakened as I pushed myself towards independence and self-reliance. Determined to “do it all”, I finished my schooling, found employment, provided shelter and food for myself, and started making all of my own decisions when I entered my twenties. Honestly, at times I gladly would have given over the control to a sympathetic adult in order to crawl back into the familiar warmth of my childhood—but I knew that I had to eventually grow up.

As I advanced in age, I understood that I was not meant to be alone and I carefully started to search for my soul mate. When I found him, we bonded instantly. While sharing our lives, our skins became fused as one. I learned to love another person more than myself and together we created a family and a home.

During that time, love had a way of stretching and stretching my maturing skin until I felt like it was going to tear apart. But magically, another centimeter always grew. However, one day, everything finally did snap due to the tragic death of my beloved husband and my awful loss deflated my full and vibrant exterior leaving it empty. Grief invaded my life and my skin recoiled for protection like a snapped rubber band. Time stood still. Nothing moved forward except the tears down my face. Alone and confused, I could feel the intense void of our mutual space.

But the sun continued to come up each morning forcing me to reach down deep beyond my exterior to meet each new day. Fortunately, slowly I started to make sense of my evolution. As my personal space became less challenging, my skin began to come alive again. The necessary pounds were gained to fill out my thin frame and a softness returned to my silhouette. The beating of my heart stopped forcing its harsh vibrations against my rib cage. Instead, soft palpitations were fueled by warm memories and more positive thoughts. The rhythm was soothing and it ushered love back into my life.

Oh, it felt so good to feel my chest expand and contract without effort! It was nice to genuinely smile with ease rather than to command my lips to falsely turn upwards from their tight horizontal position in a deceptive manner as I had done in my darker days.

I was stepping back into life’s dressing room and trading in my ill-fitting skin for the proper size. And so, the one I have now is not too loose. It is no longer stretched out and empty from sadness and hardship. It is not irritated by youthful moments of indecision and bruised by immature self-doubt. It is just right. It contains just enough elasticity to provide for the inevitable changes that I will most likely endure as I continue on with my life journey. I do not feel a need to constantly disguise it with an outer layer of artificial color and I have allowed myself to relax and let my guard down more often.  (I will admit however, that the brightly colored lipstick has remained, even when I shovel snow!)

I guess we all need to try on a couple of sizes before we come upon the one that is just right. Going through this necessary self-discovery process allows those little inner voices, “our whispers”, to surface and to guide us to a peaceful, meaningful life.

Of course my skin is by no means perfect, but I am grateful for my transition and the current harmony in my life. I am sure that there will be a future nip and a tuck here and there in my skin and that there will be a seam to let out and a possible tear to mend. But right now, I think I have a pretty good fit and it feels darn good!

Where are you in life’s fashion show? Have you found “the right size”? I hope you have.

Kim

“I know how you feel”.

People mean well by their awkward acts of comfort in times of sorrow and despair. By inviting themselves into another’s emotional bubble, they try and identify with a moment that they perhaps did not even experience.  There is a sense of uneasiness shrouding grief and as a result, silly things are often said to fill the uncomfortable vacuum.

“Don’t worry you will get over it.”

“It was for the best.”

I have heard such expressions while walking on my grief path and I have reacted differently according to my current mental state.

At the very beginning of my journey, I was numb to my own feelings, so any expressions of sympathy were welcomed. The silence was punctuated by the well-meaning words and I vigorously soaked up their gentle sound while they served as an elixir for my wounded heart.

When reality set in, and I was frustrated by the avalanche of tasks as a single parent and head of our household, I was not as tolerant.

“How can you possibly feel the ache in my heart? I thought. “What was your loss?”

“Are you crying in the shower every night before you have to go to sleep in an empty bed?” I would wonder with bitterness as I enviously observed other lovers.

Slowly with the help of time, the edges of my grief became less sharp and the vivid colors of the tragic memories were muted and softened. The journey never really ends, but the experience evolves. I learned to accept my loss and started to listen to my “whispers”, those little personal inner voices of wisdom.

Finally, I am comfortable now reaching out to others with a message of hope. Through my workshops and presentations, I try and throw out a life line to a fellow human being who may be drifting away from his or her security in order to reach firm footing again.

No, I do not give answers.

No, I do not give “how to” advice.

No, I do not say “I know how you feel” because I don’t. Everyone grieves differently and every situation is unique.

But what I have learned from the feedback that I have received is that we all yearn to be loved and accepted. Our lives and the people in them need to be acknowledged. We all want to matter to someone and to be remembered.

I learned this through “the nod”.

I was invited to address a small group of widows for my very first public speech. Afraid that I would leave something out, I wrote my presentation in precise detail and slowly read from my typed script at a lectern in the front of a meeting room at a local church. Occasionally I would glance out at the audience for some obligatory eye contact and I would catch a slight head movement. “The nod”.  Looking out again I would notice smiles and bobbing hairdos. “The nod”. Wow! I was taken aback by the mental participation.  I wrongly assumed that the event would simply be a passive exchange of information.

At the end of the program many women stood in line to share a moment with me. We had connected on a very private level and they felt safe telling me about their grief. They were actually anxious to verbally relive the details of their sad stories. These women truly wanted a moment with my sympathetic ear to validate their loss.

Driving home I felt a little bit selfish. My heart was joyfully pounding in my chest and my body heated up from the warmth that I felt in that room on that October morning. I knew immediately that I had found my niche and that I wanted to do more. I felt at ease sharing and confident that my message was being received and that it was desperately needed.

It is twenty years today 2/24/13 that my dear husband David S. Kluxen Jr. has been gone. I can speak his name clearly now without a lump forming in my throat. I can freely laugh with his parents as we retell stories. I can look in my children’s eyes and see their father’s gentle spirit deep within and feel a sense of pride. And I have loved again, like he asked me to do when we said our final good-bye.

I do not expect you to know how I feel and you shouldn’t tell me that you know, because you don’t. But I want you to understand that grief is a journey that gets easier and that there is always hope.

I am especially thinking of you today David and know that you are watching over all of us and giving us “the nod”.   Thank you for all that you taught me while you were here with me and for the wisdom that I have gained since you have been gone.

Kim

“Be Prepared…the meaning of the motto is that a scout must prepare himself by previous thinking out and practicing how to act on any accident or emergency so that he is never taken by surprise.” (Robert Baden-Powell)

This guiding principle sounds great for a camping trip, but let’s face it, life is pretty much a big mystery and it is full of surprises.  An emergency is something that catches us off guard and takes us into uncharted territory.  If we knew what to expect on our personal journey, we all would certainly stock up on supplies and provisions and not allow ourselves to be caught short. But life does not come with a handbook, so we try the best that we can and make adjustments along the way.

Being a former Girl Scout, I felt prompted to maintain a high level of preparedness, so I was inspired to create a personal toolbox to try and be ready for those “surprises”. But honestly, sometimes I have forgotten to bring it with me and I have floundered and experienced failure as a result. When my husband died I did not know if there was any tool that would “fix” my pain and I spent a long time seeking a remedy. Fortunately, at other times, my personal toolbox has helped me to recover more quickly and has prevented me from giving up.

My personal toolbox has four sections. One is marked “Head”, one is labeled “Heart”, one is for the “Body”, and one is dedicated to my “Soul”.

“Head”: This is where our thinking takes place and we need to try and keep our cerebral moments as rational as possible. So a level is a good tool for the job. “Leveled- headed” people tend to be more clear and precise thinkers, so from time to time I try to stop and monitor the equilibrium of my thinking. Am I dangerously tipping off in one direction or another? If so, I try and get back on course and check to see that the little bubble is floating right in the middle of the tiny window of this device.

“Heart”:  From the moment we are born we are making emotional connections and reaching out with our love. At first we connect within our close family circle and then we extend our hearts over the miles to far-off relatives. And even when we can no longer physically hold on to our dearly departed loved ones, they are still in our hearts, wrapped in a precious layer of love. We cannot possibly measure this powerful emotion, but I keep a special measuring tape in my toolbox to remind myself how far the heart can stretch and how much love there is still available to share. Along with that I keep an ample supply of tacks in case I need to reattach my sense of hope when it has been dislodged.

“Body”:  Oh my, I have noticed as the years have progressed that my need for tools to fix these accompanying problems has grown. It seems lately that there is more sagging or drooping and the joints are getting tighter and stiffer. A socket wrench set is a good starting point to make all of the necessary adjustments, but just in case, I also keep an extra large roll of duct tape, which stands ready to mend all of those unforeseen, potential disasters.

“Soul”: This is probably the area that we guard the most and only start to feel comfortable with it as we age. When the other three parts are working in concert, we can feel the strength of our soul. It contains our deepest feelings and thoughts and it is the only place where we can be truly honest, if we let ourselves. Sometimes we need a hammer and a chisel to chip away at the false protective outer layer that we create for protection. I find that a crowbar is ideal for me in order to pry deep within my soul to lift off its lid so that I can feel liberated. It is then that I can really appreciate myself and enjoy my existence.

Even if you have a well-stocked personal toolbox, life can throw a “wrench” into the works and everything can fall apart. The best laid plans crumble and the once still waters now send waves crashing over your head and you can lose sight of your horizon.  So you might want to keep a big sledgehammer at the bottom of your toolbox for such an extreme emergency. On several occasions I have had to reach in and take mine out, hit myself over the head with a forceful “whack” to get back on track. I would caution you to use this device sparingly, but when you feel yourself spiraling down, a strong reality check can help to improve your vision and realign your priorities. It can assist you to clear away the toxic influences and pollution that can creep into your life and it forcefully reminds us that we are here to love and to be loved.

So, tell me, do you have a personal toolbox? What is in it? Are you “prepared” for life’s surprises?

Kim

We have special bowls and crocks for it. There is a fancy named serving piece in which to hold it when on the dining room table and there are designated pieces of silverware to transfer it to our bowls and then into our mouths.

SOUP

What is it about this warm liquid that triggers memories, soothes us on a cold winter day, and tempts us to buy tiny, salty crackers to sprinkle upon its surface and watch them float like miniature buoys?  Hungry people devastated by poverty patiently stood in line during the Great Depression to receive this hot, generous nutrient. In 1929, “soup kitchens” got their official start as local communities opened up places to feed the homeless and displaced community members and to give them a sense of hope.

The popular television sitcom, Seinfeld, even devoted a whole episode to it, “The Soup Nazi”, and from it came a memorable title character based on the serving of this special liquid.

“He’s not a Nazi. He just happens to be a little eccentric. Most geniuses are.” (Kramer, in “The Soup Nazi”)

The great thing about soup is that anyone can make it and you really can’t mess it up. If the consistency is too thick, simply add more liquid. If it is too watery, throw in some more ingredients and a little flour. If it is too salty, toss in a piece of raw potato to absorb the sodium. It can be custom made to meet the needs of all types of diets—vegetarian, vegan, low-salt, low-calorie, you name it! Healing powers have even been suggested to come from homemade chicken soup and several national food chains feature an assortment of soups as their main item.

I learned about soup from my mother. I swear that she could make this delicious winter staple out of just about anything. The turkey carcass from Thanksgiving always went into the large soup pot on the stove where it simmered with the leftover vegetables and various unknown entries. She even once took the remains of a prime rib dinner and came up with an incredible beef and barley concoction. I loved when we had ham because I knew that the remaining bone was going to soon make friends with dried green peas, diced carrots and onions. Later after simmering quietly, she gave a few hearty spins of her trusty Foley Food mill and out came the best split pea and ham soup that I have ever eaten. It seems that soup was the second cousin to a good meal in our home.

However nothing is perfect and I do recall one clinker. I always felt that Mom was the precursor to Martha Stewart. Her ingenuity and ease in the kitchen set the bar very high for her daughters. But, one late fall Sunday evening, she went way out on a limb and served her newest recipe in a manner that she felt would cleverly highlight its ingredients. A warm, creamy pumpkin puree with a hint of nutmeg and hunks of cooked sausage was presented in an actual carved-out raw pumpkin. The lid with the attached dried out stem kept in the steamy dinner and it was the first natural tureen that I had ever seen. Focusing more on the orange globe, I had trouble enjoying its content. All I kept thinking about was last Halloween’s jack o’ lantern and the memory of the musty odor of the pumpkin flesh filled my sensitive nostrils and kept me from appreciating her creation.

It must be in our DNA. My mother’s mother was also a “souper”. I have never had clam chowder like my Nana made. Sitting in a rocking chair on the wrap-around front porch of her Connecticut beach cottage, she first scooped the tiny mollusks out of their gray shells into a large bowl in her lap while rocking and humming away. Fresh raw clams, water, finely diced potatoes and small pieces of onion and salt and pepper were the only ingredients that I remember watching her put into the large dented pot. I couldn’t wait for dinner when I got to slurp my portion from my bowl and see the familiar tiny grains of sand at the bottom of my dish swirl around in a funny pattern. It was the real deal.

“A first-rate soup is more creative than a second-rate painting.” (Abraham Maslow)

So, I naturally am drawn to soup. Instead of using my big soup pot, I usually bring out my slow cooker to do the work for me when I am working and away from home. I never use a recipe and the results vary according to the ingredients that I have on hand.  My children started to refer to me as “crock pot Sally” because in the winter “the pot” made at least one weekly appearance and treated us to an abundance of great soups.

Besides warming our stomachs, soups can nurture our souls and bring people together. Huddled around a table, diners lean forward with tilted heads making an invitational  gesture for the warm liquid with opened mouths, while at the same time engaging in close conversation. It is almost impossible not to follow up with a muffled guttural sound coming from deep in the back of our throats as our lips smack together on the outside, keeping the soup from trickling out like the overflow of a leaky spigot.

It is not surprising that the Campbell Soup Company is the world’s leading maker and marketer of soup. In 1900, Campbell’s soups won the Gold Medallion for excellence at the Paris Exposition, and since then they proudly feature a miniature version of that prize on their labels. Many generations are familiar with its red and white labels. In addition, the company was very clever to employ the logical response to its product, “M’m! M’m! Good…”, and first used it in 1931 as their advertising slogan. Soup lovers often quote it.

So tell me, are you a “souper”?  Do you like to create your own soup or do you just enjoy someone else’s” Do you have a special recipe that you would like to share? Do I have you thinking about your next bowl of soup?

Well, my crock pot is steaming and pretty soon in our house… soup’s on!

Can we all say,”M’m! M’m! Good.”?

Kim

Celebrations accompany these life bookends as various family members gather to pay tribute to the arrival of a new member or to mourn the departure of another. Food, friends, ceremonies and music chime in to accompany these memorable events.

“Birth and death; we all move between these two unknowns. ”(Bryant H.  McGill)

We do our living in the middle. Often referred to as the “dash”, the space between the two dates,  this is the unknown amount of time that we are given in which to experience life and all that it has to offer.

I was recently compiling a scrapbook for my son’s 30^th birthday. As I was going through my albums, the number of special shared memories stood out. I audibly laughed at the out-of-style clothing in the pictures and wondered why someone did not tell me that my ’80’s perm was not the best hairdo for me. My eyes filled with tears when I saw photos of my son with his Dad, who only lived to experience 11 years with his youngest child. Color images on square, shiny papers acted like magic carpets, transporting me to the vast white sandy beach at the New Jersey Shore and off to the Magic Kingdom in Disney World where we were together one winter. Once dormant, the past experiences came alive in my head and my heart raced with excitement to keep up with their picturesque recall.  Simple activities such as a family picnic or washing the car on the driveway were all important memories. They chronicled our life.

As the future days unfold and we pass through the upcoming weeks and year, it is possible to get lost in our comfortable routine and we can lose sight of the knowledge that each day is a one-time special gift.  Fortunately birthdays and weddings add the exclamation marks to our lives and give us cause to pause and rejoice! Sometimes a quiet reflective moment puts in a much-needed comma in the narration and provides us with a moment to relax and exhale. And memorial services and funerals provide the solitude for self-reflection.

None of us knows when the shadow of the end of our journey will eventually creep in and extinguish the light of our life, but hopefully we have filled our given days as best as possible with assorted fun along with a tremendous amount of love and joy and plentiful acts of kindness.

I feel like I am truly living in the “middle” of my life right now, although the math may not coincide. I have clear, vivid memories of my past and I delight in my moments of reminiscence.  Having experienced loss and disappointment, I am better able to  focus on making my current days meaningful and I try to let my inner spirit, my “whispers” take charge. In addition, I am anticipating an exciting future with the upcoming marriage of my son and my continued years as a grandparent, my new role in life.

“Death, like birth, is a secret of Nature.” (Marcus Aurelius)

So in this New Year, try and spend a few more meaningful moments living in the middle. Take time to embrace those occasions that warrant exclamation marks and put in some extra commas in your busy lives in order to stop and reflect upon your journey. We do not know when that final date will be recorded, so let’s fill the middle with as many rich details as we can! Pay attention to the opportunities to stuff your life to the perimeter and remember, there is always room for more.

Happy New Year!

Kim