A few dumb thoughts, silly and profound, dressed as cliches

There is nothing more musical than a babies laughter, nothing more magical then their smile.

If spring is rebirth what's sprung - dandelions?

Age creeps up on you like a slow tear running down your cheek.

Nothing like a good cry to cleanse a worried mind and empty the angst bucket for a refill.

I wonder why there is never enough money and never enough time, and too many mosquitoes, especially when you want to just sit outside for a few minutes and roll your pennies.

When I think of all the members of my family who are gone, it makes me sad, and I wonder where they are and if I will ever see them again. I try not to think of when I will meet up with them because planning for a surprise party ruins all the joy.

The climb

The Tetons, the most beautiful place on earth.

When my father retired he was perfectly content to sit back and relax on his couch each morning while mentally planning what he was going to cook for dinner that night. That was it, coffee, couch and contemplation. He had worked hard for years; he deserved to defend his downtime. My mother was not like that. If she was not doing something, she believed that her gift of time on this earth was wasted. From laundry to list-writing her to-dos weighted heavily on the side of accomplishment.

I’m like my mother, if I’m not moving or doing or at least thinking of my next move or thinking of my next project, I’m not happy.

That’s right, I’m not happy.

My life is very full with family, a beautiful home and is near perfect. That we’re all blessed with health is a daily ‘grateful’ and an ‘amen’ to the fate maker. It’s the writing life which scatters the puzzle pieces.

I’ve heard actors say you’re only as good as your next movie. Well I believe I’m only as good as my next project. I’ve been published dozens and dozens of times and yet, I consider myself an amateur. My editor says I have a fan base, surely she wasn't speaking of me. I do have loyal readers, folks who seek out my column and, face to face, compliment my writing. But I know I can do better. I want to do better, I want to make more money at what I do, build a bigger name, a bigger platform, create a larger audience - but - when is enough, enough? When does the mountain climbing stop, when is the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, enough? Will I ever get to say, that was perfect, I cannot do better, sit back on my couch and defend my downtime?

And what about that mountain?

That I may lose my way after leaving base-camp, and wander from the path, or tumble from face of the cliff and never make the summit breaks my heart in a way. Even though I know that life is all about the journey and writing is all about the climb, I’m beginning to wonder if I will ever get to see the broader view. I’m not seeking Everest, although it feels sometimes like I am, I’m not even looking to climb McKinley or Mt Washington or the treed mound in my own back yard. I’m looking for...actually I’m not sure what I’m looking for, and what I want, and maybe that’s the problem. I climb the mountain every day and I don’t even know how high I've gotten and where the damn thing monolithically is.

The dream is to make it to the top and plant a graffitied billboard with my name on it that everybody can see if they chose to look. I just hope to be young enough and healthy enough, to use the spray can, enjoy the accomplishment and toast the effort.

I have my Nepal Evos in just the right size, my karabiners and an endless supply of drive. Today the slope is manageable, the rocks firm...I climb. I am not ready for the couch just yet. Are you?

Barriers

My youngest daughter received a Graduate Degree last Sunday. She already has her masters in something else and a graduate certificate in another field, but this one, this is the one which is tattooed on her soul, teacher.

I can’t fathom why anyone, once out of school, would want to take teaching on as a career. It's a tough job. To me, teachers, like nurses, have halos.

For students who like school and love learning, for others who want to just get by and get it over with,  for the kids who hate being in school and  reek of indifference, for all of them, education matters eventually. That my daughter will make a difference in so many lives is a wonderful life-long legacy.

I can remember a few teachers who really made a difference in my life, one actually changed my path simply by saying, in front of the class, “Carolynn, you are a writer.” After a shocked and pink-cheeked thank you, I was speechless, rare for me.

Back then when the idea of being published was an unrealized dream I wrote serious stuff, some controversial and some, so from the heart, I left little mitrial pieces as exclamation points. The rhythm of my heart's chambers became a back-beat theme song to my pages.

The essays and newspaper columns I write now are fun; they chronicle my life and the everyday absurdity of my family. But Saturday was not absurd, it was momentous. A teacher was made.

Think of the teacher, or teachers, who cleared a new path for you. Have you thanked them?

The same teacher, who plowed under the hedgerows which had blocked my writing dreams, taught my older daughter years later. In class, she asked if the teacher remembered me, the teacher said amazingly nice things about my writing. My daughter was immensely proud of me and I beamed when she told me what he had said.

I finally got to thank the teacher who made a difference for me. His name is Greg Stone, and I believe he still teaches at UCONN, which means he still wears a halo. What teachers made a difference in your writing life?