It was the only time I really remember my parents having a party.

(Aside from a few political gatherings when I was very, very young.)

There was food. And laughter. And people sitting on floors and chairs and couches.

There was a chart for betting. A quarter per space which led to no-so-very-large-winnings. For some reason, it seems like Karen Burnett always won.


Today is Yesterday was The day before yesterday was the first Superbowl since my Dad died, and his beloved 49ers are were in it.

I was raised a Niners fan–back in the glory days of Joe Montana–but faltered in the shadow of taking a knee.

Today seems like It was a good day to go home; to root for the old team and remember my Dad and parties and fun.


Life is constantly shifting.

Fault lines heave under the weight they carry. In the relief of burden, there are often cracks that remain a permanent part of the landscape.

I find myself wondering if those cracks–the ones that are too large to be ignored and demand that they be navigated in order to remain safe–will help my world to be smaller. And, I continue to ponder, will that small-er-ness lead to a better maintained, more likely to thrive, personal world?



I am ready for the work. Or to work. Or to accept that terrible reality that life requires more work than I actually want it to, and no matter how hard I hold the covers over my head in denial, the world rolls on– demanding work.

My son used to say to me, “The ‘F’ word, Mom. I don’t. Do. Effort.”

And I would howl with laughter because he is just so funny to me. And because I get it–I don’t want to, either.

Except, I don’t actually love a life that reflects a glaring unwilllingness to try.


And pee-wee football coaches around the nation were shouting from their couches, “BENCH HIM!”

I often remind myself that most of us do not have our worst moments displayed for the world to see.

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Note to self: Behave.


The sun is shining, and the air is crisp.

Sitting on that couch–the one that has welcomed me dozens and dozens of times–I recount the unpleasantries I have accepted about my life. I phrase them like bullet points in a Sunday sermon, and that clarity helps to end some wrestling.

“Do you feel peace now that you know?” he asks me, gently smiling.

I do.

And I know what to do, now that I know.

Maybe, just maybe, that will mean that today really is the first day of the rest of my life.