Wrong

Are you wrong?

Wrong, not for taking everything so personally lately, but for beating yourself up because you feel what you feel?

Wrong, not for crying at the drop of a hat, but for hiding yourself behind the bathroom door while tears run down your cheeks?

Wrong, not for looking at everything you haven't done, but for feeling so much pressure to do all of it?

Wrong, not for standing up for yourself, but for thinking that maybe you shouldn't have?

Wrong, not for wanting to take a day off and go swimming in this heat, but for deciding you don't have time for that enjoyable activity in your life? 

I've decided I am indeed wrong. 

I AM Wrong, not for driving past my favorite house of all time like a stalker, but for never sending the homeowner a note asking her to give me the right of first refusal should she ever decide to sell it.

I AM Wrong, not for ordering the ice cream, but because I didn't savor it; too busy counting calories while I numbly ate it. 

I AM Wrong, not for feeling so lost and lonely after a recent death, but for attempting to put my grief on a timeline. 

I AM Wrong, not because my writing, my self care, my time spent exercising, and my time devoted to learning has been almost zero on the priority list lately, but because I have not faced my reflection in the mirror and kindly asked myself why.

W.R.O.N.G. - Ok, now flip that shit. 

Here is how I'm making WRONG acceptable, for me at least:  

Willing to 

Really listen to my voice

Openly and honestly and without ego. 

Nothing, including my old patterns, can make me feel a particular way unless I agree to it.

Growing pains at 50 are something to run to, not run from. 

#mushroomtumbler

Eulogy for Moo Moo

 

Most people I knew growing up had a Grandma. A Nana. A MeMaw or even an Oma, but I was the only girl in the crowd with a Moo Moo.

Grandmas bake for their grandkids. My Moo Moo baked 50 pies at Thanksgiving.

Nanas buy their grandkids presents. My Moo Moo bought me a Barbie Van and a navy pea coat so that I could honor my Grandpa while I stayed warm.

MeMaws have their grandkids on the weekend. My Moo Moo took me to camp for weeks at a time letting me run all over hell and creation; barefoot and dirty with a pocketful of quarters for the game room; no curfews because she knew I would learn more by setting my own.

Omas move to Florida. My Moo Moo lived within an hour and a half from me my whole life and when I was in college she was a only a 10 minute ride across the bridge where I’d come to do laundry, eat Sunday dinner, watch Murder She Wrote, and visit with all the people who routinely dropped in, everyone welcome, the door was never locked.

One of the most important and influential people in my life, I think of Moo’s legacy with me in two distinct parts. From birth to age 7, I had her to myself. Christian Armond Palombo wasn’t born until 1977 so I received all the attention and spoils that a first and only grandchild gets. I got all the Christmas mornings. I got the Judy Blume books. I even got her engagement ring, which I swiftly passed along to Lucas so that he could marry Chloe with a proper sparkle on her finger.

Once the rest of her grandkids came, I had to learn to share and things changed for me, but I always knew how much she loved me, right up to the end, because she stayed in touch like no other person in my life with the exception of my husband.

Moo Moo checked in on me constantly as a teenager despite the fact that she was caring full time for my Grandpa.

She came to every important function of mine. Every dance recital. Every birthday party. Every graduation. Every celebration. She made me feel noticed and important. That was one of her greatest gifts to us, she noticed people.

She eventually took on the challenge of AIDS/HIV education and advocacy. Now this was in the early 90s when those who’d contracted the virus were still stigmatized, shunned, and misunderstood. But Moo Moo volunteered in all kinds of places letting people know (a.) that she noticed and (b.) that she cared.

She was a surrogate parent to people who needed one. She brought Eugene, her special friend with the virus, to many of his daily medical appointments even though she was in her 70s and might rather have spent that time crocheting Moo blankets. She was proud to have helped so many with her volunteerism. She routinely asked all of us what we were doing to give back.

For those of you who don’t know, Moo Moo has been sick for a while. She had a blood disorder and suffered the effects of it for seven and a half years. It has not been easy for her nor for those closest to her. But every time I asked her how she was she said “Not too awful bad.” She wanted to live.

To honor Moo we can visit her grave, we can pray for her, we can tell stories among ourselves about her shenanigans and idiosyncrasies, but above all, we can try to live a life reflecting her values:

Here are a few ways:

Be generous when you can.

Notice people.

Root for the underdogs, the dark horses, and those at the back of the pack.

Offer the joyless and afflicted some hope.

Treat the dying with respect.

Dance with a butt wiggle.

Cheer loudly from the sidelines.

Keep the traditions.

Wave the flag.

Lift high the cross.

Say your prayers.

Make friends wherever you go.

Put aside material wants for other people’s needs.

Make room at the table.

Tell the old stories.

Don’t fear the mincemeat.

Keep in touch.

Never be too busy to spend 5 minutes with whomever is walking through your door.

Stop and smell the roses but don’t place so much importance on those roses that you fail to help the lonely, flea-bit cat in the alley way next to them.

Hers are tough shoes to fill.

It might take all of us to do it.

Thank you for coming today. She loved you all.

#mushroomtumbler