Author: carriejoyful

The word sounds like lip gloss and trips to the mall.  Like posters of cute boys and long, late night phone conversations with a best friend.  Fourteen is the windows rolled down and the music turned up.  It’s your face buried in my neck, muffling the quiet sobs of your first broken heart.  It’s the loud slamming of doors and an all too familiar, “Mooooommm, Isaiah won’t get out of my room!”

Fourteen is discovery and maturity.  It’s when I start to see you as a woman and you start to recognize me as a friend.

That’s fourteen, in my mind at least.  I don’t really know for sure what it would be for you, and I never will.  For me the reality of fourteen is wonder and wishes and that still-empty seat at the table.

My mental image of you has lost its definition.  You’re not a baby anymore.  The few photos I have of you detail a tiny baby body, all wrapped up in a blanket of pink and blue stripes.  But that’s not who you would be now.  Fourteen seems so far from that image.  In that way you feel less familiar to me.  I long to know who you are, but I’m only sure of who you are not.

Fourteen years ago today I was a mom for the very first time, blissfully unaware of whether you were in fact a “she” at all.  I’m old fashioned that way, I wanted to wait and be surprised.  The wait only lasted until the next afternoon when the surprise was revealed.  You came and then just as quickly you were gone.  But what matters most is that you came.  The heartbreak of your leaving will never surpass the joy that I have in knowing you are mine.

Fourteen doesn’t look, sound, or feel anything like I thought it would, but that’s okay.  I don’t need to experience what I had hoped fourteen would be in order to honor what it is.  You will always be my joy, my first born.  You will never leave my heart.  And at fourteen, like every year before and every year yet to come, your life will always be a reason to celebrate.

Good things come in dozens. Sweet and delicious things. Practical things. Beautiful things. Precious things.

Cookies, donuts, and eggs. Pens, pencils, and socks. Roses. Hours.

These and dozens of other wonderful things escaped you. You won’t ever see or touch, taste or smell them. You won’t experience places or time. Hours don’t have meaning when I think of you because they didn’t come. We barely had minutes. Minutes that no matter how much we wished and how hard we tried, could not be stretched into even one hour, let alone a dozen.

Today makes twelve. A dozen years since we met you and said goodbye all at once. It doesn’t seem possible that so much time has passed until I think about all of the life that I have lived in twelve years. Life that has come not in spite of or because of you, but life that has been completely inspired by you.

I’ve been searching within myself for some word or expression that could adequately define how I feel about today, but I don’t know that one exists. I can’t say that I’m happy or sad, nothing is quite that simple. Emotions became far less distinct a dozen years ago. Since you came they bleed outside the lines and blend into each other to form ways of being and feeling that are entirely new. I am alive and affected, aware of the fact that it’s never been this many years before, and yet it will never again be this few.

What I do know is that true living is not about checklists or counting the dozens of things I’ve missed. Though this day marks an absence it’s also filled with presence. Today I give thanks for dozens of breaths and smiles, flowers and sunsets. Dozens of mistakes made and lessons learned. I welcome gratitude for the dozens of tears and hugs, conversations and connections which have forged authentic relationships. Dozens of reasons for living and loving.

Good things come in dozens. Sweet and delicious things. Practical things. Beautiful things. Precious things.

Like my thoughts of you.

The dynamic nature of human emotions is such a fascinating thing.  Sometimes I wonder if we ever really feel just one thing at a time.  Regardless of my immediate circumstances I am usually experiencing a number of emotions all at once.  Or maybe it’s just that my mind is in a million places at the same time and I can’t keep my heart from trying to tag along.

Tonight I type through tears of sadness while my heart swells with pride.  A few hours ago I learned that my sixth grade teacher Mr. Dan Christensen, or “Mr. C” as he was lovingly called by students and colleagues alike, has passed away.  My heart aches for his family who has lost a true gentle giant of a husband and father, and yet I celebrate with joy all of the lives that he guided and inspired, including my own.

Mr. C had about as much presence as a man can possibly get.  His tall stature made him stand out in just about any crowd and his deep, booming voice made it impossible for him to go unnoticed.   Most days he wore a smile so big you couldn’t get around it and his laughter leapt out the two open doors of his classroom and echoed down the halls and across the playground.  For Mr. C teaching a lesson was about so much more than reading or talking.  He approached every concept with physicality – wide, outstretched arms and large steps that would take him back and forth across the front of the classroom dozens of times, keeping his students enthralled. It was as if he was so excited about our learning potential that he couldn’t contain himself enough to stand in one place.

But it’s not his height or the sound of his voice that Mr. C’s students will remember most, for those traits could never compare with the size of his heart.  Mr. C loved his students because he genuinely cared about people.  If you were talking to him there was never a doubt that he was fully invested in the conversation, but more so in the person. When you were in his presence he made sure you knew that you mattered.

About ten years ago I walked back onto the campus of Bonita Street Elementary School.  My baby sister was in the fifth grade and she was lucky enough to be in Mr. C’s class, so I jumped at the chance to attend “Back to School Night.”  After all his years of teaching and all the students who had passed through those doors, I knew there was no way he would remember me.  When we got to the classroom it was exactly as I had remembered it.  The walls were covered with inspirational sayings and photos that spanned the years of Mr. C’s career.  Since he was talking with a parent I decided to wait quietly while perusing the photos.  I smiled as I looked at all of the faces looking back at me who clearly knew, as I did, what a difference a great teacher makes.

As his conversation wrapped up and the parent walked away Mr. C looked across the room at me and said, “Hi there.”  I said, “I know you probably don’t remember me.”  After eighteen years and without missing a beat he smiled and said, “Carrie Fisher, how could I forget you?”   If ever there was a moment that restored my faith in humanity and gave me hope for caring in this dark world, that was it.

The reason my spirit soars high tonight in the midst of loss is that I know I am only one of many who found her way to that hope because of a teacher like Mr. C.  I am only one who was taught to look within to find value, only one who stumbled awkwardly into confidence because of a few gentle nudges from a caring soul.  Out in the world there are countless leaders, thinkers…and other teachers who found their path because of one man who told them they were worth it and then came back every day to prove it.

So tonight I cry because when you lose something of value it is painful.  But I also celebrate life and legacy because they will always outshine even the darkest night.

Thank you, Mr. C.

A few months ago, I had the opportunity to visit the Los Angeles County Museum of Art just before the King Tut exhibit left. I was thrilled, mainly because we were gifted free tickets by my boss, and these days anything free is a good deal. I think I had an idea what to expect in terms of the artifacts, and they did not disappoint. To see physical evidence of history, in amazing condition, right before your very eyes, there’s really nothing like it. What I didn’t expect was to come out feeling like I’m the one living in an ancient culture.

One of the main rooms held two very small golden busts. They were not particularly noticeable, compared to many of the grander items. But a label on the side of the display indicated in one short sentence that these were only a small part of treasures that were crafted for the burial of two of King Tut’s children, two stillborn baby girls. I was fascinated to learn that these babies were buried with jewels and treasures comparable to other notable Egyptians. This was way beyond acknowledgement, these little girls were honored and respected.

I was recently reminded of my fascination while watching March of the Penguins. Now, I have to point out that I was not particularly excited about seeing the film because I was turned off by the bandwaggoning that went on when this movie came out and “swept the country.” (If you want to see the real documentary, with a truly amazing story, rent the DVD and watch Of Men and Penguins, the behind the scenes doc – there’s the film that deserves critical acclaim. But I digress…).

As Morgan Freeman eloquently describes the suffering and sacrifice of both the male and female Emperor penguins to protect their eggs, I was struck by nature’s example of honoring life. It is after the penguin parents travel the 70 mile distance to the breeding ground that the real challenge begins – transferring the egg from Mom to Dad without touching the frozen ground, and then keeping the egg warm enough to survive through months of unmerciful winter. Even then, those that hatch run the risk of being consumed by the cold. It’s a true miracle that any of them survive the harsh conditions. And for 1/4 of the babies that don’t survive, many of the parent penguins will lay down and literally let themselves wither away in despair. It’s an example of a selfless creature acting solely on behalf of another creature – an example that’s clearly lost on humans.

It never ceases to amaze me how blind we can be to the things that are right in front of our faces. Both present nature and ancient history point to the value of one solitary life, but modern human beings will go to great lengths to dismiss it. Especially if it will make things more convenient and less awkward for themselves.

I for one believe there are lessons to be learned in the smallest and simplest things all around us. I just hope I never get too sidetracked to notice.