Monthly Archives: March 2013

Keep Looking

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gold eggAt least once in our lives, we all deserve to find the golden egg.  Whatever it is for you–a place of peace, a true friend, a story to tell, a community, forgiveness, love, sobriety, calm, true north, delight–I hope you find the golden egg.  If you don’t find it today, keep looking.

Back when I was the spinster aunt, I volunteered to orchestrate an egg hunt for the kids.  The first year, when it was just Jackson, it was easy–we hid the same 12 eggs for an hour.  Every time he toddled over with one, we’d sling it back in the grass as soon as he turned his back.  He’d find it again with just as much delight as the first time.

One year, I did a hunt for Grant and Jake when their family invited me to the mountains for Easter weekend.  Their mom asked me not to go crazy with the candy, so I filled their eggs with coins…they walked away with a low-fat, sugar free $50!

Once you own 200+ plastic eggs, you get to do the egg hunt every year.  I love doing it.  Nana and Papa have a magical yard (that comes from the “magic” of 25+ years of labor) filled with hidey holes, lush grass and blooming fruit trees.  Every summer, Daddy tills up a couple of especially well-hidden eggs when he’s putting in the garden!

As the boys grew older, I decided that EVERYONE deserved to find a gold egg so I bought six.  The rule is, you can only find ONE gold egg, even if you stumble on more than one.  This tradition led to one of my favorite Easter stories a few years ago.

We had already done an easy hunt in the vegetable garden for the little kids.  Then it was time for the five older kids to hunt in the backyard.  The parents fanned out to hide the eggs and I hid five gold eggs in really hard to find places.  The big kids tore through the yard, filling their baskets with loot.  Jackson struck gold first.  Then Grant.  Then Victoria.  Then Chase.  The eggs were dwindling out and everyone had found a gold one except for Jake, the youngest of the older kids.  We hunted and hunted and hunted.  For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the fifth hiding place.  Poor Jake seemed sad and left out and I hated that for him.  I know what it’s like to be the youngest and I wanted him to find that gold egg.

I was searching in the azaleas behind the pump house in a vain attempt to find that stupid gold egg.  Now, this next part will sound silly but some of you may understand.  When I need a little supernatural boost, I sometimes call on Richard’s spirit (or my Grandmother Eunice or my Pop or any other who might be looking over my shoulder).  So I mumbled under my breath, “Richard, I could use a little help finding this egg.  Please?”

A couple of minutes later, Jake shouts, “I found it!!!”  There he was, holding high a gold egg in a spot where I hadn’t hidden one.  He was BEAMING!  I was gobsmacked.  Where had that egg come from???

Then Jackson and Chase sidled up with big grins on their preteen faces.  Chase whispered, “We took one of our eggs and hid it so Jake could find it.”

I don’t remember if Nana and Papa ever found that fifth gold egg.   I do know that we all found what we were looking for.  Jake got his golden egg.  Jackson and Chase got the chance to do a kindness.  I got to see two sweet boys turn into generous young men.

The Country Bunny

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Did you know that DuBose Heyward wrote the story behind "Porgy and Bess" 14 years before he wrote "The Country Bunny?"

Did you know that DuBose Heyward wrote the story behind “Porgy and Bess” 14 years before he wrote “The Country Bunny?”

Did anyone ever read this book to you?  Someone who loved you very much and wanted you to believe you could be anything you want to be?  Mrs. Carol Fowler read this book to me and I have never forgotten it.  One afternoon a week, our class walked down to the library at Flint River Academy and filed in quietly.  On top of the low shelves filled with children’s books, one book would be lying face down and near her chair–the book she had chosen for us.  Oh, the excitement of that first peek!

We sat in a semi-circle on the thin carpet–back then we called it “indian style” instead of “criss cross apple sauce.”  Mrs. Fowler wouldn’t say a word until we were all sitting down and paying attention.  I can still remember the crackle of the plastic covers that she put on the books to protect their beautiful covers.  She was magical–Mrs. Fowler could read upside down and knew exactly when to turn the page without even looking.  Library time was the best hour of the week.

When I was in seventh grade, long after the days of story hour, I got to assist Mrs. Fowler in the library during my free period.  As I straightened the books in the elementary section, I rediscovered “The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes” and read it many times.  When Mrs. Fowler had first held the book up for us to see, I was a little disappointed because the cover doesn’t look like much.  The colors were too old-fashioned, some book my grandmother would pull out of a dusty box in the attic.

young bunnyOh, the story!  A little brown bunny named Cottontail wants to be an Easter Bunny but no one believes in her.  Those jobs go to the swift jack rabbits or the giant white bunnies.  When Cottontail finds herself all grown up with 21 babies to chase after, her dream seems even further out of reach.  But lo and behold, Cottontail’s experience as a mother translates into just the “skill set” that a busy Easter Bunny needs.  She is selected and gets to live her dream, thanks to the help of her children and her own belief in her dream.   Even when the job seems to be too much, she finds the strength to do the impossible…thanks to a pair of magic shoes.

When I was all grown up, I bought a copy of “The Country Bunny” for myself.  One Easter, when my nephew, Grant, was about two and a half, I decided to share it with him.  His dad was busy fixing something around our parents’ house and asked me to keep Grant out of the way.  We snuggled into a comfy chair and I told him about this wonderful book that I had loved for so many years and how excited I was to share it with him.  Papa was snoozing in the other chair.  I opened the book, read the first page in breathless awe.  Grant reached across my lap, closed the book and chirped “The End!” He slid off my lap and went off to find out what all the hammering was about.  My dad STILL laughs about that moment!  So much for that.

tired bunnyThis is my favorite illustration from the book.  Cottontail has one very special egg to deliver to a sick boy who lives atop a mountain.  She is exhausted from her night’s work.  There isn’t much night left–the pink dawn of Easter breaks behind the mountain.  Cottontail doesn’t want to give up.    She makes it…SPOILER ALERT!

I think I love this painting because I’ve felt this way so many times as a mother.  You spend so much effort trying to get everything done, trying to make the magic happen and there doesn’t seem to be enough time.  You’re worn out.  You just need that little boost of magic.  The night wasn’t long enough.

Go get this book and read it to yourself.  Give yourself the same gift that Mrs. Fowler gave me all those years ago.  I still appreciate it.

Permeability

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We are made up of what we feed ourselves.

We are made up of what we feed ourselves.

I have lost my mojo.  Misplaced my mojo.  OK, to be honest, my mojo has been devoured by zombies this week.

There’s a marathon of The Walking Dead on AMC so I’ve been catching up on the first two seasons of this awesome show.  Now I finally understand why Carol is so quiet and how Maggie and Glen met and when Carl learned to shoot and why everyone hated Lori and just how much, how very much, I love Daryl.  So much that I want to give him a long hot bath and cut his forelock.  Mmm, mmm, MMM.  I do love a man with a crossbow and a steady moral compass.  

Fifteen hours of zombie dystopia packed into three days may have been a tad too much.  I have been sad, paranoid and unfocused for days.  Granted, some of it has to do with staying up past midnight too many times in a row.  I’m lethargic from sitting on the couch.  The house is going to pot and the refrigerator is empty.  I haven’t been writing like I was.  I worry that I don’t have the skills to protect myself and my children in the event of an outbreak of zombie fever.  I can shoot, but only if they stand still.  I can forage, but mostly in Kroger.  I can survive in the wild, as long as I have a car charger and wi-fi.  I would be as vulnerable as T-Dog in a red Star Trek shirt.  This knowledge is BRINGING ME DOWN.  

The fatigue is eating my brain from the inside.  So when a lady flipped me off after I had let her into traffic, I let it get to me for a whole day.   When my daughter complains about dinner, it hurts my feelings.  If the cat delivers a mole to the doorstep, I futz and futz and futz instead of just slinging it into the neighbors’ yard (they’ve moved…and not because we pelt them with carrion).  Normally, negative things roll off me, but not this week.  They are eating into my flesh! 

It reminds me of a science lesson on cell structure.  (Actual scientists or science teachers should probably stop here…SPOILER ALERT…I’m not very good at science).  We are made up of cells that are contained within semipermeable membranes.  Everything in us is in the process of exchanging, absorbing, passing through.  I think this applies on the grand scale, too.  Even though we are solid enough to keep the insides in and the outsides out, we are permeable–we let things through.  

Have you ever done the experiment where you stick a daisy or carnation in a vase filled with dyed water?  Within the hour, the daisy will take on the color in which it is immersed.  Or have you dyed eggs this week?  We absorb, too, just like the flower or the eggshell.  If I immerse myself in a world of fear and desperation, guess what starts to show on my petals?  

Last night, I sat down to watch more of The Walking Dead.  At the end of the first hour, Dale was dispatched by Daryl with a violently generous act…and then some dumb show about taxidermy came on.  WHAAAAAT???  Only one hour of zombies???  I checked the cable guide and discovered that it was true…no more walkers for me.  I flipped over to “Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” and enjoyed two hours of pleasantly delightful British pensioners opening themselves to life in Jaipur.  Ahhhhhhhh.  

Permeability has its good side, too.  If Carlos gets the giggles, I am likely to get the giggles.  When the birds sing outside my window in the morning, my heart lifts up.   A woman humming at the salad bar puts a song in my head and hours later I am whistling the same tune.  

So today I am going to soak up some sun, laugh with my friends, read a book.   I can clean my crossbow another day.  

Have you experienced permeability this week?  Was it positive or negative?  What did you do to shake the negative?

If You Can’t Say Anything Nice…

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144px-Alice_roosevelt_color_3

“I have a simple philosophy. Fill what’s empty. Empty what’s full. And scratch where it itches.”–Alice Roosevelt Longworth

Clairee Belcher in “Steel Magnolias” was paraphrasing Alice Roosevelt Longworth when she said, “If you can’t say anything nice, come sit next to me.”

Alice’s version was “If you haven’t anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me.” *

There’s the snarky “If you can’t say anything nice, just point and laugh” or the smarmy “If you can’t say anything nice, sit there and look pretty.”

I even found a book on Amazon called “If you can’t say anything nice, say it in Yiddish.”

In “Bambi,” sweet little Thumper said, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say nothing at all.”

I’m going to stick with “If you can’t say anything nice, give your mouth the day off.”

*Alice was something of a handful to her father, Theodore Roosevelt.  He was once asked by a visiting dignitary about parenting his spitfire of a daughter and he replied, “I can be President of the United States, or I can control Alice. I cannot possibly do both.”

Lest You Think I’m Imagining This…

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Original FrostineThis was the original Queen Frostine when the character was introduced in the 1970s.  She could be on a float in the Orange Bowl Parade.   

frostine pink

And here she is in the 1980s and 1990s.  Roughly the same, a rounded face and no more skin than your average Gunne Sax prom dress.  Still a queen.

frostineHere’s a more simplified version of her look during this time.  Thirty years on, still regal and sweet as can be. 

frostina250

Entering the next millenium, Frostine was demoted from Queen to Princess (though still purportedly married to King Candy).  She’s “aged down” and given a more angular face and Farah Fawcett hair.  I find it interesting that her facial expression goes from one of direct contact with the viewer to one of those chin in hand, tilted eye, “tell me another interesting story” expressions.  Or maybe she’s just tired from all the skating. 

Queen Frostine 2013

And here we have the latest iteration of Princess Frostine.  Tousled hair, collagen lips, disproportinate apple head…and waffle cone legs that look a whole lot like fishnet stockings. 

Real Housewives of Candy Land.

Busted Back to Gramma Nutt.

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Gramma_nutt

How long has it been since you’ve played Candy Land?  When I was a kid, it was one of my favorites and I can still remember how delicious the board looked and the worn soft edges of the cards that we had played with for years.  Did you know that Candy Land was invented in the 1940’s by a young woman who was recovering from polio?  Imagine the hours of family fun that she created for generations!

One Thanksgiving, 2002 or 2003, most of our family went up to DC to my sister’s house for the holiday.  My nephew, Jackson, was about four so he was RIPE for Candy Land.  He jumped on that game like a duck on a bug.  I am not exaggerating–we played for nine hours straight, stopping only to eat the meal then right back to it.  

Gotta admit…I was sad to see that the familiar Candy Land board had been updated with new places and characters for the special spots on the board.  No more heading for the ice cream floats–instead you visit the icy loveliness of Princess Frostine.  No peanut brittle house.  Now it’s Gramma Nutt’s peanut farm.  The molasses swamp is chocolate now.  What kid even knows what molasses is these days?  At least it’s not all carrots and raisins and celery sticks.  Even Cookie Monster has been forced to admit that cookies are a sometimes food.  Candy Land survives, even if it’s been gentrified.

Today was a sick day for my sport model daughter, so we spent a while on the living room floor playing Candy Land.  She’s gotten a lot better at it in the two years we’ve been playing it.  She remembers which game piece is hers and I don’t have to remind her which direction the path goes.  The counting is a cinch.  She’s even learning to overcome her need to win every game.  She remembers to celebrate every victory with a high five and a cheer of “GOOD GAME!”

frostina250She’s even learned to cheat.  This afternoon, I told her to go set up the board game.  When we were just about to begin the game, she chirped, “I’ll go first!” as she was organizing the deck of cards.  She tried to be cool, but I caught her peeking at the top card.  It was Princess Frostine, the special card that takes a player about 20 spaces from the end of the game.  That little minx had stacked the deck against her own mother!   But this ain’t my first rodeo.  “Aren’t you going to shuffle those cards?” I asked.  Her eyes twinkled as she tried to think of a reason not to.  She knew she had been caught.  I twinkled right back at her.  She shuffled them, went first…and won the game anyway.

The cool thing about Candy Land is that it is a game of pure luck.  No need for strategy or memory or any skill.  It’s just about taking turns and enjoying the game.  Now, with all that said…she beat me four times in a row.  On the third game, I was RIGHT THERE, within reach of the Candy Castle and damn if I didn’t draw Gramma Nut.  Busted back to Gramma Nut.  Vivi didn’t crow as she sped past me to the win.  I still got a high five and “Good Game, Mommy!” but DANG.  We played “one more game” for an hour and as I continued without a W in my column I got a little desperate.  There was a turn where I accidentally picked up two cards that were stuck together and I could have gone with the double yellow but I took the single blue.  It crossed my mind to cheat but I overcame it.  BECAUSE IT’S CANDY LAND, ASHLEY.  

By Game Five, I was in a real crisis of self confidence.  Princess Frostine and her icy perkiness was starting to piss me off, like I could never reach her chilly perfection.  If she lived in this world, she would wear tiny yoga pants and make stevia-sweetened yogurt parfaits for birthday parties.  There I was, back with Gramma Nut and her fluffy apron, sensible sun hat and gardening gloves.  No glamour, no frills.  A peanut farmer.  

Was it taking it too far to go to the Hasbro website and do a little recon on these women?  Well guess what I found out.  

Gramma Nutt

Gramma Nutt, a matriarchal figure who lives in a peanut-brittle house, is one of the most well-loved and recognizable Candy Land characters. She carries a basket, presumably filled with peanuts, and has a small dog shaped like– you guessed it– a peanut.

Queen/Princess Frostine

Symbolized by an ice cream cone, the character of Frostine has also changed over the years. Until 2002, Frostine was a matriarchal-looking queen with white hair. Now she is portrayed as a blonde-haired young woman and has been remaned Princess Frostine. Her domain is called Snowflake Lake and signifies frozen desserts.

So we started out with two matriarchal figures.  One of them ended up getting soft around the belly, living in a nuthouse with a little dog.  The other one aged in reverse, turned blonde and started hanging out at the lake.    

I think it’ll be best for all of us if I go back to work tomorrow.  Because it turns out they’ve updated Frostine in the 2010 version of the game.  Get a load of THIS:

new Frostine

“Have you thought about what you want to do with the house?”

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882452_10200322608460867_1820283952_oThis is an essay I wrote last summer for my Leukemia/Lymphoma Society website.  It’s been stomach bug weekend at our house…so not much time for writing.  Today, Carlos got stuck under the side table in the living room and started yelling “Tuck!  Tuck!”  I thought he was saying “stuck” but he was trying to get this truck.  He loves that toy, probably because it has old fashioned rusty metal and sharp corners.  Enjoy!  

“Have you thought about what you want to do with the house?”

That’s the question Richard asked me, one snowy day in the end of February 2005. We were sitting by the window of his room in the Sidney Kimmel Cancer Center. Outside, the low gray sky was filled with huge snowflakes, cartoonish in their size and pure white color. The kind of snow that makes a Georgia girl stare. Richard was writing his last will and testament. His mother was there, relaying changes to the lawyer, and I was trying to stay out of it. But he looked up at me and asked, “Have you thought about what you want to do with the house?” I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t find words.

Of course I had thought about what I wanted to do with the house. We had made lots of plans. I wanted to see the azaleas that we had planted spring back from that severe pruning he had given them in May. I wanted to find a rug that fit the dining room because the one we bought at that auction was two inches too long. I wanted to take out that cherry tree that was crowding the hemlock, even though it bothered my heart to cut down a cherry tree. I wanted to sit on the deck together, covered in sweat and dirt and contentment and look out over what we had made of this house. I wanted to get rid of that fruit wallpaper in the kitchen. I wanted, I wanted, I wanted.

I had spent nine months watching leukemia take Richard from me—cell by cell, ounce by ounce. He was leaving. Now it wanted my home, too? Did I want to keep our house and rattle around in the memories? Did I want to sell it and start over somewhere else? Did I want to decide now with him or decide later…alone?

He waited for my answer. I fluttered my hands around and made a choking kind of sound when I tried to say all the words and none of the words. I don’t even remember if I made a sentence. He understood what I meant. I’m not sure I knew what I meant, but he got it.

Richard and I stood on that too-big Persian rug with its Tree of Life motif when we married in the backyard of our home. The azaleas bloomed a few weeks after he died. He had been right—the pruning made them flourish. Months later, my brother cut down the cherry tree while I hid inside the house and the hemlock thrives now that it has more room to grow. I sit on the deck sometimes and remember and it is sweet.

Now the wallpaper has fallen! G and I have spent a couple of weeks working on the kitchen—stripping the walls, patching, spackling, scrubbing. The other day, some magic people arrived in a big truck and swapped out the countertops, put in a sleek cook top and installed a sink that gleams. After they left, that question popped into my head and has been dogging me for days—“Have you thought about what you want to do with the house?”

I certainly never thought, on that snowy and empty day, that I would do THIS with the house. I hadn’t thought that every bedroom would be filled with sleeping kids. I hadn’t thought that the living room would look like a Fisher Price showroom after an attack by Godzilla. I hadn’t thought about how the downstairs is perfect for a teenager suite. I hadn’t thought about a gingko for the backyard, but G gave me one for my 40th birthday. I hadn’t thought I would have a son born on a silent, snowy morning.

Richard gave me many gifts, but the dearest one is my home. It was our home, then it was my home, now it is my family’s home. His picture is in the living room. Shells he picked up on the beach in Panama when he was a boy line the bathroom window. G found a gizmo when we were working in the kitchen and we figured out that it was a wonton dumpling press and it must have belonged to Richard, who could make a mean pot sticker. Carlos has discovered Richard’s old Tonka fire truck. He flips it upside down and spins the wheels around and around.  Around and around and around.

The Engagement Fart

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600px-Fart.svgOK, OK.  I’ve spent most of this week plugging away at the inspirational posts about authenticity and embracing YES and making yourself into the positive person you desire to become.  Enough!  Let’s get back to the REAL reason for this blog–fart jokes.

I’ve mentioned Fartbuster before (aka my first husband, starter husband, ex-husband, waste of my 20’s, etc).  He wasn’t known for his farting or anything; my dad dubbed him Fartbuster after the divorce to sum up his utter uselessness in regards to what he had contributed to my life–a lot of hot air and a generalized unpleasant stink that dissipated pretty quickly.  Ten years of my life–broken like the wind.  Pffffft.

We had been together for about four years when we decided to marry.  There was no official proposal.  Our decision to get married was made over chicken quesadillas on a Tuesday night.  It was more of a, “We could get married.  I guess?  Pass the salsa.  Yeah, OK” kind of magic moment.  Bwahahaha….my spellchecker just suggested “peccadilloes” instead of “quesadillas.”  If only, word processing gods, if only.

I was tasked with picking out my own ring, because, y’know…it was so much trouble.  Meh.  I found one I loved and we ordered it from a guy I knew.  I didn’t know how long it would take to make, so I wasn’t really looking for it anytime specific.  Romance just oooooozes from this story, right???  Ours was a passion built on discounted Mexican food.

A few weeks later, we went away for a quick weekend trip to Chattanooga.  Fartbuster was acting stranger than usual.  Shady.  We got to town late in the afternoon and still hadn’t had lunch, so I was antsy as hell to go find food but he kept making dumb reasons to go back to the hotel room.  He told me to go to the car to look for a book.  I told him it could wait.  He suggested I go fill up the ice bucket.  I pointed out that it would be melted by the time we got back to the room.  The problem was that he had the ring hidden in his suitcase and was trying to get it in his pocket so he could surprise me.  I was the monkey wench in that plan.  We went to the aquarium and didn’t get engaged.  We went to Rock City and didn’t get engaged at Lover’s Leap.  We went to dinner and didn’t get engaged.

When we got back to the hotel, Fartbuster turned on the TV to veg out.  I took a shower.  While I was brushing my teeth, I could feel him acting weird again.  He was lying on the bed just looking at me.  “Waaaaht?” I asked, through a mouthful of foam.  He didn’t say anything.  I wore glasses back then and didn’t have them on, so this was all a blur.  I shrugged and turned back to the sink.  I spat, put my glasses on, and came to bed.

There on my pillow sat a gray velvet box.  That’s what he had been acting all goofy about.  I squealed and took out the ring.  It was perfect–heavy gold band with an emerald center stone and diamonds all around.  I loved it and I loved him and all was right with the world.  Of  course, I did say, “Wait!!!!  We can’t do this!!  People are going to ask where you proposed and I have to say, ‘in bed!’  That is so trashy!”

We laughed together and enjoyed our sweet moment, but it had been a long day.  He went back to watching TV and I rolled over to admire the ring twinkling in the lamplight.  After a while, I fell asleep.

And then.  Well.

Have you ever farted so loud that you WOKE YOURSELF UP?  I have.  I did.  Right then.  Blame it on excitement, travel, fried chicken, nerves…what have you.  But seriously, the first thing I knew, I was jarred awake by a megaton explosion of fart.  KAPOW.  Then I realized it was ME.  Like any proper Southern lady, I played possum.  I lay perfectly still, hoping that he was asleep and hadn’t heard a thing.  For a good five seconds, I thought I had gotten away with it.

Then he shouted, “Good GOD, woman!  Give me back that ring!”

Old Fartbuster had his moments.

Here’s To Yes!

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By Jessica Tam (Smile) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Jessica Tam (Smile), via Wikimedia Commons

Happy Friday!!

 

Click on that cheerful little smiley face to treat yourself to a positive message about hearing YES!  

Honey, you deserve more yes in your life.  

Here Comes the Sun

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daffodils

Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you.   –Maori Proverb

Today is the day that it all takes a turn for the better.  Yesterday was the March equinox, the day that light and dark are equal, but from here until the solstice, every day gets longer and brighter.  Ahhhhhhhh.  Lightness.

We had rain a few days ago and I swear I looked out the window today and the greening switch had been flipped in the backyard.  I can hear it buzzing.  Our front yard is ringing with the daffodils we tucked away in October.  As we were pulling into the garage, Vivi delighted at the sight of the neighbor’s apple tree in full bloom as if she had never seen it before.  Two days ago it was bare and now it is a cloud of hooray.  Soon, the Yoshino cherry trees will bloom.  Their light pink froth makes the soft movement of the air visible again.  I remember that every space around me and inside me is filled with boisterous molecules.  I feel like I can breathe again…even if it ends up in sneezing.

I’ve been humming “Here Comes the Sun” for weeks now.  I love that “the quiet Beatle” wrote that lovely, simple song.  Last week while we were waiting on an over-priced chicken finger lunch, Vivi pointed out the picture of the Beatles from the Abbey Road cover from the mural in a TGIFridays.  She asked what those men were doing and that led to a discussion of who they were and what they were each famous for.  Then she asked if they were still alive and I had to break the news about John and George.  George lived a long and peaceful life but his body stopped working.  What about the one in front?  Well that’s John.  He died when a bad man shot him with a gun.  Why did the man do that?  I don’t know.

I hated to leave it on that note because we had been having such a good talk.  I said, “Hey, do you wish treeremember that tree in Washington DC that we tied wishes to?”  She did.  “John’s wife came up with that idea.”  I scrolled through the pictures on my phone and showed Vivi the wish she had drawn onto a white paper tag then tied to the bare branch of that tree at the Hirshhorn Sculpture Garden.  She had drawn a cat.  That was her wish–a cat.

On my wish, I wrote my favorite quote about gratitude:  “For all that has been, thanks.  For all that will be, yes.”   I think “yes” is my favorite word, and that word brings us back to what John loved about Yoko–her yes.

In a 1971 Rolling Stone interview with Jann Wenner, John told the story this way:

LENNON: I’m sure I’ve told you this many times. How did I meet Yoko? John Dunbar, who was married to Marianne Faithful, had an art gallery in London called Indica and I’d been going around to galleries a bit on my off days in between records. I got the word that this amazing woman was putting on a show next week and there was going to be something about people in bags, in black bags, and it was going to be a bit of a happening and all that. So I went down to a preview of the show. I got there the night before it opened. I went in – she didn’t know who I was or anything – I was wandering around, there was a couple of artsy type students that had been helping lying around there in the gallery, and I was looking at it and I was astounded. There was a piece which really decided me for-or-against the artist, a ladder which led to a painting which was hung on the ceiling. It looked like a blank canvas with a chain with a spy glass hanging on the end of it. This was near the door when you went in. I climbed the ladder, you look through the spyglass and in tiny little letters it says “yes”.

So it was positive. I felt relieved. It’s a great relief when you get up the ladder and you look through the spyglass and it doesn’t say “no” or “fuck you” or something, it said “yes.”

I peeked at some of the other wishes around ours and the one that will stay with me for many years was from a little boy.  It said, “If David asks Mom to marry him, please let her say yes.”

Vivi and I visited the wish tree in the dead of winter, when the pavement around it was slippery with ice and the wind tossed the white wishes until their strings were tangled and knotted.  Tying a paper wish to a tree is a kind of offering, returning the paper to its source.  Despite the darkness of winter, each simple white wish sprouted from the bare limbs like a bloom.

Wishes are hope.  Wishes allow us to believe in yes.

I think NOW is the time of year for resolutions.  This is the time of newness and growing and coming back to life.  The Zoroastrians are celebrating Nowruz with fire and green grass.  The Christians mark Easter.  The pagans thank Ostara, the Germanic goddess of the dawn for bringing light into the darkness.

Turn your face to the sun today.  Hum a few bars of George’s song.  Say yes.