Dear Komen Foundation,
While controversy swirls around you and donors drop like flies despite your "apology" for the misunderstanding of your mission surrounding women's health, I feel it important to issue a heart-felt Thanks for all you've accomplished in a shockingly abbreviated timeframe. I hope you'll receive it in the spirit in which it is given. Really.
1. Thank you for showing us who you really are.
While much of the extreme right-wing has fox-trotted a careful dance of deception and Orwellian double-speak when it comes to women's health, your willingness to, finally, toss such entendre aside and simply throw the gauntlet of your political goals down on the cold, hard asphalt was nothing if not stunningly refreshing. Thanks to your belief in your own invincibility and the moral certitude of your leadership, that pesky outer onion layer was finally peeled back, and your supporters - corporate, congressional, and Plain Jane woman-on-the-street - got that rare opportunity to see you for who you really are. Sorry about that.
2. Thank you for showing us who Planned Parenthood really is.
Thank you for stepping into the shadows so that Planned Parenthood could bask in the spotlight. With your deafening silence and your stubborn refusal to recognize the tsunami of public animosity washing over you as you risked real women's lives in order to appease the handful of extremists who are hell-bent on destroying anyone who puts women above dogma, you quickly and effectively hand-crafted the platform upon which Planned Parenthood could show America who they really are - and swiftly dispel the mythology the Right has spent a decade constructing about them. Not missing a beat, PP was ready, with social media partners who understand the power of the internet in a way you clearly do not, to educate all who'd listen about who they really are, and what they really do. So, really, thanks. No PR campaign in history has ever been this effective, this quickly. Congrats!
3. But, most of all, thank you for showing us who we are.
We took you down in 48 hours. That's who we are. If I were you, I wouldn't forget that.
We won't.
Sincerely,
Deirdre Grace
Pro-family, pro-child, pro-choice
And one of the thousands that will donate directly to Planned Parenthood for the rest of ever.
The sentiment comes dressed up in many of our favorite cliches - the shift of dominance from elder to younger, the inevitable march of time. Most of the time, its just the days passing - or, in our house, the flipping of the hourglass.
But every now and then the moment sneaks up and bonks you on the head.
Earlier this week, after dropping Dylan off at his off-island school and running some errands, I found myself on the ferry back home later than is my norm. It had turned into a beautiful afternoon, sunny and golden, with puffy clouds on the horizon and seabirds swirling in azure skies. I had an enviable spot at the front of the dear, beloved ferryboat Rhododendron. This little vessel is from a by-gone era, with her brass fittings, teak benches, and lanes too narrow for modern day Navigators. She is much loved.
She also breaks down a lot.
But, we cherish her and awaited her imminent replacement with dread and loathing. That afternoon, I found out that Fate had given me a small but precious gift - a spot on the Rhodie's very last voyage across our waters. After learning this, I looked around. There were a fair few people there, a little teary, like me, having walked on board just for the chance to say a proper good-bye.
The 15 minutes went by too fast. We chatted and took lots of photos. I tried to capture some of her magic in images of fittings and details I knew the new boat wouldn't have. I wanted to remember that there was a time when boats like this were built, that they criss-crossed Puget Sound with grace and dignity. That their crews polished their railings every morning and toddlers ran along their teak benches into the arms of young parents and indulging grandparents. She was the last of her kind in our fleet and she would be missed.
And then it was over, and I was driving off the Rhododendron, watching her replacement slip quietly into the far-away dock for the next run. I drove home, choked up and grateful for the events of the day that had put me on that voyage.
But, being late, I was only home for a short while before it was time to turn around and head back to the boat - the new boat - and pick Dylan up from his school day.
And there it/he was. A bright, shiny, new, state-of-the-art ferry with my son and his pal front and center, waving wildly from the impossibly high passenger deck. The next generation, setting sail and ready for the next 20 years. By an accident of Fate, Dylan had stepped into the maiden voyage of our new vessel. I said good-bye and he said hello.
"Guess what, Mom?" he said when he stepped onto the dock, "I was Passenger Number SIX!"
I smiled.
Here, bud, grab this stick.
.
I recently purchased the first Object d'Art I've shelled money out for in a long, long time. Nothing fancy, basically something that caught my eye that I could actually afford while killing a few minutes in Pottery Barn. (Wow - It's been quite a while since I've ventured into that store and a couple years since they finally gave up on sending me their beautiful catalogs - has it always been this precious or has my life just changed that much?)
Simple, elegant, and decidedly low-tech, it's a real, live, surprisingly accurate hourglass. I thought of the absence of clutter currently gracing my living room/kitchen divider, inbetween the holiday decorations being packed away and our regular doo-dads coming back. I liked that smooth, clear plane. I decided that, for the time being, the doo-dads could stay safe and warm in their tub up in the attic and this simple machine could take their place.
Funny thing is, it's quite a thing of beauty, both literally and metaphorically. My whole family is fairly obsessed with turning it. There's something quite different about marking the next hour with falling sand. Most obviously, it's visual - watching it is an act unlike staring at a clock. It's also beautiful, simple.
But what's maybe most compelling is that each time the glass is turned, the sand falls in a way that is not quite like the time before. Or the time after. Every hour is unique. Special. Worth a look.
Every hour slips away like...sands in the hourglass.
If I've been really good and get to go to Heaven, it will be a cozy living room with my family and a snow storm outside.
Light.
December is all about light in the darkness, especially here on the 47th parallel where the month of December can feel like prison. Twinkle lights save the night, candle wicks begin flickering around 4PM. Everyone seeks ways to light up the long, soggy evenings.
And then January arrives like the light at the end of the holiday tunnel, promising ever-lengthening days and maybe even the possibility of spring in the not-too-distant future. I always welcome January, more than a little ready to pack the snowmen, nutcrackers, and Santas away for another 11 months.
And so here we are, Day 1 of the post-holiday season. January, 2012. Does it feel like a new beginning? Like renewal? I think so. We are beginning or have started quite a number of new adventures, our family, and 2012 feels like it holds real promise. Even as I sit here, at 7AM, in total darkness save for the twinkle of the Christmas Tree and the laptop screen, I know the light will be coming soon - sooner and sooner every day - and I'm ready.
From Stop Sign Farm to you and yours - here's hoping 2012 brings hope, opportunity, and harmony.
A quick departure from farm chat.
Our son, who possesses a unique and engaging intellect and sometimes surprising empathy but has been fiercely frustrated in school, was recently diagnosed with a vision disorder called Convergence Insufficiency. The condition is just what it sounds like - the two eyes do not work together well enough.
Convergence Insufficiency can have dramatic repercussions. Headaches, dizziness, blurred vision. In Dylan's case, believe it or not, he has seen pretty much everything closer than 4 feet in double-vision his whole life. Reading, writing, computing, conversation - if he relaxes, everything within arm's length and a bit beyond all goes double.
He thought everyone saw this way.
The good news is, it's treatable and curable. He started eye therapy with an opthamologist yesterday and with daily exercises, he should be able to train his eyes within a year. But when I think back to the myriad "talks" about his distractability, his disengagement, his daydreaming, to the frustration his teachers expressed at his "lack of interest"...tears inevitably well up.
But, I'm looking forward, not back.
Convergence insufficiency is a largely undiagnosed phenomenon. School screenings and sometimes even regular eye exams don't catch it. As much as 20% of the population is suffering from it to some degree and most of them don't know it.
If you experience any of the symptoms, ask for a test. Most importantly, have your children tested when they're in elementary school. School's hard enough, they shouldn't have to spend all their energy just to see.
It wasn't that long ago that I last posted (now, seriously, in dinosaur years). Just a few weeks, but oh what a difference a few weeks can make sometimes.
Actually, the Grace-Wells family has watched our life somersault in just about 6 weeks. We're still a little breathless and playing more than a little catch-up.
We all know Life happens in threes, so here's ours, and they're wing-dingers.
Dylan, through some divine intervention, was accepted out-of-cycle and a year early, into a science and math high school that is literally at the other end of the ferry dock. He's off the island and in an entirely new, and wonderfully diverse and interesting, gene pool and loving it. BTW, funny what happens when you treat a kid like a success instead of a failure. Just saying.
I started working. From home. Contract. We'll see.
We wrestled our retirement funds out of the hands of hedge-fund managers, happily (happily? hmm. willingly) paid Uncle Sam, and are now the proud owners of a Belltown condo, (where yours truly is currently balcony sitting while attending to her blog).
Just like that, our life has been transformed. We haven't even quite caught up with our own decisions yet.
But, for the first time, in a long time, we are all very, very happy. We live on the island, but our lives have expanded. And that, I think, just might be the Key to Happiness.
Tonight we enjoyed our traditional Friday night Pizza/popcorn/movie night "in the city" - the first time we have all been together overnight in the apartment - and it was ridiculous fun. Between a school that recognizes and celebrates unique intellect and quirkiness and a city get-away that feels like vacation is just a key turn away, Dylan is approaching the most joyous person I know. Mark gets to work long hours and discard the commute.
I get to sit on a wrought-iron half-moon balcony, wishing it weren't too late for the monorail to zoom by and watching ALL MANNER of drama unfold beneath me. I have to insert that it really is fascinating, even now, how unbelievably rarely people look up - even when the glow of a laptop is involved.
A firetruck has come and gone. I think someone might have expired essentially right in front of me but I hadn't understood what was happening. Police cars have driven off. Couples have quarreled and wheels have squealed. Many have trod below.
Would I live here every day? No way. But what an escape hatch/laboratory/retreat. Ever so much better than reacting to a statement in the mail every 3 months.
Yuck.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we have 2 pigs now and Tiffany has managed, after several disheartening tries, to build a pen that will hold them. So, that's good.
Living on a bucolic, verdant island, raising meat and produce, with a tiny escape hatch in the one of greatest cities on the planet? Yup, we are the lucky people.
C
