It was just a moment in time, really.

I haven’t thought about it much for fourteen years, but suddenly, it came flooding back.  Then, you were my only child, bundled up for the day: jean overalls that snapped on the legs, sturdy white leather shoes to help you run faster than I ever imagined.

It was just a fleeting instant in time.

Chunky red plaid fleece jacket, softly lined, hood to cover your flaxen hair; you never liked hats.  I think it was November, early snow.  Ten tiny fingers gently captured snowflakes.

It was just a snapshot, really.

We walked out on the dock, just the three of us.  Our family almost complete.  Your gleeful squeals filled the silence with joy, envious couples glancing our way.

It was just an instant, then it was over.  Inhale.  Exhale.

We stopped, you posed, we snuggled you between our legs, holding you tightly.  Never wanting to let go.  You raised your face to the sky and grinned with rapture.

It was just one moment, really.  But I remember every detail.

When I was hired for my first teaching job, I had no idea that the man who recruited me had AIDS.  It was the early 1990s, and AIDS wasn’t mainstream.  It was a secret.

He didn’t look sick.  He didn’t act like he was dying.

He never told us.

He just disappeared from work one year.

We didn’t know what was wrong.  We wondered why he was gone for so long.

And one day when he came back to visit, we figured it out.

And then he died.

Thank you, Steve, for taking a risk with me.  I was young, eager, and enthusiastic.  You gave me a chance.

I think you’d be proud of the teacher I’ve become.

I’ve never forgotten you, or your infectious laugh, or your love of the strange-but-contagiously-addictive middle school human.

Thank you.  I wish you were here.

“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.”

–Arundhati Roy

One of my favorite kids in the whole world is named Gloria – we call her Glowie for short.  She’s the kind of kid that is quiet on the outside, but full of life on the inside. We’re related.

A couple of years ago my kids and I spent some time at her house – it was back when she was in preschool.  We don’t see each other too often; she lives 500 miles away (California is a big state).  Ever since I can remember, one of the ways I’ve bonded with kids is through baking.  Sure enough, Glowie’s mom felt the same way, and she had just pulled a loaf of this delicious orange-cranberry bread out of the oven.

One taste, and we were goners.  My kids and I helped to quickly devour the entire loaf!  Since then, Glowie’s Cranberry Bread recipe (straight from her preschool) has become a treat in our house.  It’s easy to double, and you can adjust the sugar amount up or down depending on your taste.  We like it on the less-sweet side ourselves.  I guarantee that if you have a kid in the kitchen with you, you’ll make some happy memories with Glowie’s Cranberry Bread recipe.

You’ll need:

2 c. flour

1 c. sugar (decrease if desired)

1 1/2 t. baking powder

1 t. salt

1/2 t. baking soda

1/4 c. softened butter

1 egg, beaten

1 t. grated orange peel

3/4 c. orange juice

1 1/2 c. fresh cranberries, chopped

 

Dear Family,

Last night, as we slumped around the table, bellies full and wine glasses empty, I took my turn and shared two words of gratitude.  Surprised, you asked if that was all.  The truth is, it wasn’t, but at the time, those were the only words I could say out loud.  Now, hours later in the light of day, I have the rest.

I am grateful for the dawn over the Sierras inching up, pale pink to my left, golden yellow to my right, unveiling my angels sleeping in the back seat.

I am grateful for the dark roast with cream warming next to me as I type, helping me greet every morning with a smile.

I am grateful for the new and the old, the memories that push me forward into the future and those that ground me in the past.

I am grateful for air conditioning, Bintang beer and chocolate-center Cotton Buns.  You saw me through some challenging times last summer.

I am grateful for friends I’ve made and lost, friends I’ve seen and those I have only thought of.  You may not know it, but I listen to you and learn more about myself from your presence.

I’m grateful for curiosity, challenge and conflict.  From them, I grow into a better human.

I’m grateful for brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts, grandmothers and grandfathers.  Your eyes help create my vision, even when they don’t see in the same direction.

I’m grateful for simplicity, complication, and everything in between.  It always seems to come at just the wrong, yet just the right time.

I’m grateful for the 6,000,000-plus like-minded people who turned left, not right, and helped me see a future.

I’m grateful for the wind whistling through the trees.  Some say it’s the spirit talking.  I’m thankful I believe them.

I’m grateful for language.  The words I write, the sounds I hear, and the letters I read teach me in a way I learn best.

I’m grateful for faith, wavering in and out, back and forth, between the sky, the spirits, and the universe.  Sometimes, you’re all I’ve got.

I’m grateful for June 29, 1985.  Our worlds collided then, and life has been a doozy ever since.

Now, I’m back to where I began.  Two words.  Two spirits.  Two reasons to face each day, to walk the talk, to take a step forward when what I really want to do is stay right where I am.  Because when the pink glow is gone, replaced by a blaze of red, or orange, or a blanket of black, those two words are all that matter.

And that, dear family, is what I’m grateful for.

Love,

J