Oh Stanley!

This week the most Holy of Holies made it's way through our town. This chalice, with all of its rich history and sacred wonder, was displayed at the city's capitol rotunda. Hushed crowds numbering in the hundreds stood in line for hours just to catch a glimpse of this hallowed relic. The security guard whose job it is to transport and display this cup stood by with dignified grace, his hands ensconced in white cotton gloves, as no human hands should ever sully the revered chalice. Was this solemn group of worshipers a sea of Catholics waiting to venerate the holy cup of the Pope? No. This incredible display of reverence was all for the sake of the Stanley Cup, Hockey's version of the Holy Grail. One by one the trembling wide-eyed wannabees approached the cup and almost genuflected. Some kissed it; others were content to just touch the handle that had over the years been lifted by so many hockey greats. Tears of joy welled up and grown men were speechless in the presence of such a sacred icon.

The cup travels almost 300 days per year. Players in the past have had many experiences with it. Stories of it’s high jinks include letting a Kentucky Derby horse use it as a feedbag, having a baby photographed sitting in it, taking it to a strip club where all the patrons were allowed to drink from it, and reportedly Bryan Trottier said that he took the cup to bed with him. He was quoted as saying “I wanted to wake up and find it right beside me. I didn’t want to think I’d just dreamed of this happening.”

What is this magic that draws people out in droves just for a glimpse? Is it the idea that one can aspire to greatness with determination and perseverance? Or is it that this is one of the great sports where a player can legally bash his opponent up against the glass and crack a stick up the side of his head? No hushed tones as with golf, or the precision of the Olympic gymnasts. Hockey is balls out, racing for your life and taking no prisoners. It’s a gloves off, old school brawl at times, and I think that’s what we love about it. If a player can spit out a tooth and insult another players mother all while flying across the ice to stop a goal, the crowd will go nuts with the joy of it!

You've got to love this country where a woman can run for president and grown men can humble themselves at the sight of a sports trophy, all with the same enthusiasm and respect. Rock on Red Wings!

Soft Places to Fall

I spent this past weekend with a group of eleven women of all different backgrounds. All of us have met as a bookclub for about six years and besides meeting monthly, we also have an annual weekend away. This year we were at a cottage tucked away on a beautiful lake in northern Michigan and the beauty of it was more than just asthetic.
Laying awake on Friday night I listened to the sounds of the crickets singing and the swishing of the trees as they swayed in the night breeze. A single loon cried out as it flew over the lake, it's lonesome voice echoing along the shores. It felt magical.
Away from the hum of the city and the "to do" lists, we shared our lives and talked about our hopes and dreams. Matters of the heart and matters of health were all fair game, and there was no shortage of advice and laughter. We all agreed that if our kids could see us they would stand aghast at the sheer intensity of our "dork factor". But oh what a sweet place it is, to be in the presence of such friends. To bare your soul, or share a tear, to dare to hope, and admit to fears. As I get older I know for sure, we all need a soft place to fall. And fall we will. As we continue on there will be more challenges and more tears, there will be losses. Such is the stuff of the journey we all have embarked upon, in this lifetime. No longer living with large sums of time in the bank, each year becomes sweeter, each friendship more valuable.
As we gathered up our things to leave the lake I helped my sister as she tried to tie the boat up a little tighter. It was tethered to the dock, but still floating away a bit. We found a long piece of rope and an anchor. Together we wrapped it around and around from the boat to the dock, securing it tighter. We just wanted it to stay put, to stay moored.
Would that we could do the same with this group. If only we could tie an invisible rope around us and hold on, letting no one float away!
Hold on friends. Enjoy the day, drink up and take huge gulps of this life we share and celebrate the wonder of it. There will also be storms ahead and we will face it all head on. Tossed about by the crashing waves we will weather it and though there may be trouble, together amidst our friendships, we will find soft places to fall.

Father's Day- Is Memory Lane really a cul de sac?

My dad never liked me. That's it, and there are no amount of "Oh gosh, that just isn't so!" remarks that can change it. For what ever reasons I had a father who did not like me and wasn't able to be a father to me in ways that I longed for. He did provide for our family to the best of his ability, and God knows that was difficult with six children, but the thing I have learned from my failed relationship with my father is how much we all long for the love and approval from those who call us into this world, no matter how old we get.
My dad worked crappy jobs, dirty difficult demeaning jobs for years on end in order to meet his financial committments. He saved money and paid his bills. He was financially frugal and those were admirable qualities.
But what I longed for, and actually begged him for even into my late adult years, was just his acceptance, his approval, his presence in my life. It never came.
My dad died the most horrible death that I have ever witnessed, and I have witnessed many many deaths. As we all stood around his bedside for hours I helped care for him along with my siblings. It pained me to see him suffering and all my supplications to the doctor to ease his pain fell on deaf ears. But when my dad finally died I was surprised to find that I felt absolutely nothing. Nothing. I knew then that any hopes of a relationship with him that I had clung to, had left the station years before.
I was an irritant in his life. As a child he saw me as ridiculous, dramatic and complicated. He told me over and over again that I was just "too godammed sensitive". I was just me. It's taken me many years to realize that there is no penalty in that.
In a spiritual sense I have come to a place of peace about my relationship with him. I realized one day that if we all get a life review when we cross over, and I believe we do, then he is now aware of all that I am, and all that could have been with us. I believe that I chose him as my father during this lifetime in order to do the work that I needed to do. I believe he taught me lessons that I am still uncovering. The pain and longing for his love and approval are still unquenched. How can a child reconcile the rebuff of their own father? But we grow older and we know that life isn't black or white, and that people are flawed. My flaws will be revealed to me in all their splendor at my life review as well, and I pray that while I still have life here I will continue to express love and kindness to my best abilities. I hope in some small way also that as I care for my own children, I can break the cycle of hurt. I hope that they know deep into the marrow that I love them with everything in me. I hope they know that I am their loudest cheerleader and their softest place to fall.
I may never be famous or wealthy, and when I die I'm sure few will even notice. But if my children know how much I loved them, then I will cross over with peace. What goes around doesn't always come around, that's a myth. But sometimes we are able to heal the sins of our fathers, as our children will do for us as well.
On this father's day I honor the flawed and complex relationship I had with my father while he was here. I pray that as the years go on I will find more lessons amongst the rubble.
Where ever you are dad, I wish you peace. I wish you rest. I wish you love.

Tim Russert- A true gentleman

Today I was in a meeting with a client and a team of professionals. My phone rang twice during the meeting, and I politely ignored it. When it rang the third time I apologized and took the call. It was my sister Nancy phoning to tell me the sad news, that Tim Russert had died. I felt the immediate loss of someone I had never met, but felt that I knew. Tim Russert was to me a combination of Addicus Finch, Will Rogers and Edward R. Murrow. He was someone who had the gravitas to go toe to toe with heads of state, and yet you felt like you might just bump into him at the bus stop and share a joke. He knew his stuff and it was evident that anyone he interviewed was in serious trouble if they attempted to be less than transparent. He was a political purist true and true, and he had a love for this country that was unabashedly full of raw enthusiasm. Mr. Russert had class, something that is rare in a profession that regularly sells it's soul for a story. He was the guy you knew would ask the question we were all thinking, but never got the chance to ask. He was never pretentious, and yet as he deferred to his guests, he was weaving a web that would catch them in their own words if they weren't careful. He clearly knew his stuff and was universally respected among his peers. He was the brother you never had, or the dad you always wanted. He was a gentleman.
His legacy will be many things and I am so sorry as I think of his family tonight. Their grief is just begining.
Mr. Russert set the bar high for anyone who wishes to aspire to journalism in any form. His simple manner and indefatigable quest for the truth in every interview will be missed. Politics just won't be the same.
Tonight all the political junkies, and I am chief among them, mourn the loss of a great man. God bless Tim Russert.
May the angels welcome you to paradise, may the martyrs greet you on your way. May you see the face of the Lord this day, Mr. Russert, as you leave us.