“Dear Macie …”

Most would consider it a waste of time to write a letter, let alone a note like this, to someone who’s not yet able to read, write, or even speak, someone who, just yesterday, celebrated the 4 month anniversary of their arrival on the planet. And, a few hours ago, I probably would’ve agreed with them. But, somewhere between miles 2 and 3 of my early morning walk, I was reminded that the folly actually rests in believing there will always be another time, a “better” time, a “right” time to say what’s on our hearts to those who matter most. It’s a fantasy, Macie, one that, if I’m to be honest, I indulged for far too long: the belief that there will always be tomorrow, heck that there will be another two seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, or years to say the things that matter – that the expression of meaningful thoughts, feelings, and words can wait. But, they can’t and they shouldn’t. Your mom taught me that – and so much more – by “swallowing” enough of all three for 3 lifetimes as, regrettably, have I – and so many others. Fortunately, she and I now know better. And, they say, “when you know better, you should do better.” So, here I am eager to ensure that, where you and I are concerned, a few “things” – important things – aren’t left unsaid.

First things first: Without addition or subtraction, you are beautiful beyond description. Everyone – family, friends, complete strangers at neighborhood mailboxes, servers at restaurants, cashiers at the local grocery store – comments on that, on your strikingly beautiful appearance: your eyes and eyelashes, your smile, the tone and texture of your skin, even the curiously adorable wisp of hair on the top of your ear, which I view as an affectionate homage to one of your four-legged “sister’s” most endearing traits. And, all of that is true. You are beautiful to look at, Macie. But, your real beauty resides in parts of you that no mirror will ever capture. I hope one day you see those unique pieces of you as clearly as I already do and that you’ll surround yourself will other “Noticers” who will not only see, but celebrate, nourish, and replenish them the way I long to: the well spring of joy in your heart, your tender, but feisty spirit, your quiet, but determined disposition, the many faces and phases of your already quirky and engaging personality, and your boundless curiosity. You have a warmth and calmness about you, Macie that are soul-soothing, a magnetic and infectious playfulness, a seemingly insatiable desire to share closeness, and a snugglability factor that is off the charts. The world will do its level best to convince you otherwise, to make you believe that there are missing or misfitting “pieces” of you, that you need a little more of this or a little less of that to be enough, to fit in. Don’t be misled. Wrap yourself instead in this word hug and cling to the truth about you.

Here’s the second thing: You are cherished beyond measure and you have been since efore you were born. I hope you already know and feel that. But, if you’re anything like your mom and me, which I suspect you are, there likely will come a time (or two – thousand) when, for one reason or another, you will question, lose sight of, and maybe even refuse to believe it, which is why I want to give you a few word pictures of what YOU being cherished actually “looks” like, so that you can pull them out as a rainy day reminder. It looks like your mom fighting through hours-a-day nausea for months and your dad’s unwaveringly support of her and you every step of the way. It looks like enduring 36 hours of sometimes excruciating pain to bring an “I’m-actually-pretty-comfortable-right-where-I-am” you into the world. It looks like a desperate, around the clock team effort to get you to eat, when all your exhausted self wanted to do was sleep during your first 48 hours. It looks like tag team feedings in the midst of unpredictable work schedules. It looks like play time, tummy time, feeding time, bottle cleaning time, laundry time, consoling and comforting time, diaper changing time, being-thrown-up-on (all the) time – all in the same day – and getting up to do it all again the next. It looks like Nana commuting (daily) to ensure your every need is met and your heart is secure while mom and dad are at work – and Syeira asleep – with one eye open – outside your nursery room door at night. It looks like all that – and so much more.      

Which brings me to the final “thing” (at least for now). You are a gift– to your mom and dad, to me, to Nana, and to a World in desperate need of all that you are: a living, breathing testament to answered prayer, to the sustaining, transforming, healing and redemptive power of sacrificial love, to innocence and authenticity, to the sanctity and preciousness of life itself, to the fruits of immeasurable courage, to the resiliency of the human body, spirit, to the spoils of never giving up – and others never giving up on you – even/especially in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, to where and who we all once were and need to find our way back to, and to hope for a brighter, gentler, softer, more compassionate tomorrow. There is so much already imbedded in your story, Macie – a story that is your parents’ to tell – and I hope one day they will. But, there is at least one piece of it that’s mine – and Nana’s – to tell and now is as good a time as any. Your mom has been through a lot in her life and Nana and I have too. Many times along the way – when things were very dark and appeared hopeless – she asked us how we could and why we would continue to love and stand by her, hold, comfort, and encourage her, keep offering our open arms to provide a moment’s respite in the midst of the storms swirling around her. I’m sure there was even a time or two where she gave us “permission” – maybe even insisted – that we walk away. Each time, my – and Nana’s – answer was the same: “Someday you will understand.”

The thing is: I wasn’t sure she ever would, but thanks to the gift of you, I think she finally does …

With All My Love, Papa Don

But, Today I Did …

It’s been a minute since I set out on a 5 mile walk at 4:45 in the morning. But, today I did and I’m glad, because – at every turn – I was captivated by the sights and sounds that reside in the space between the darkness and the dawn – and by just how beautiful all of it is when seen and experienced through the lens of silence that only a still-sleeping-world can provide: the rustling of leaves in the soft Spring breeze – nature’s wind chime; the scratching of a possum’s claws on the asphalt as he scampered (safely) across the street likely aware that the darkness he covets would soon be giving way to the light; the babble of a nearby stream as it happily chased its tail across ever-smoothing stones; the faint rumble of distant thunder; the piercing eyes of a mother racoon reflecting back the light of my disturbingly too bright headlamp; a low-hanging nest full of newborn baby birds already clamoring for their first meal of the day; a commune of sand cranes lined up along the edge of a moon-lit lake shaking the sleep from their eyes and bantering with each other no doubt about the day ahead – to mention just a few.    

I have a vague recollection of doing it decades ago, when sleep was more elusive and less important (or so I had convinced myself) than it seems to be these days. What I can’t recall, however, is ever being able to quiet the cacophony of voices in my busy brain – coaxing, taunting me to “do more,” “do better,” “do faster” – long enough to allow me the space and tranquility I needed to see and feel the subtleties of it all. But, today I did and I’m grateful, because – in the pause – I was able to stop (repeatedly) and breathe in the palpable sense of anticipation, eagerness, bordering on urgency, curiosity, and expectation oozing from all the living things around me as they stood poised to greet a new day: the almost-budding flowers that line the sidewalks; the jonesing-for-their-morning-stretch-in-the-sun roots, limbs, and leaves of 100 year old oaks and pines; the piston-legged hawk perched anxiously on a nearby streetlamp, perhaps hoping its light will provide a head start on his search for breakfast; the lake life – all of it – the quacking and croaking, swimming and soaking, bathing and feeding; and the wildlife too numerous to mention here all seemed, rather impatiently, to want a piece of whatever the new day had to offer – and soon they would have it.

“You seldom allow yourself the grace to experience moments like this anymore,” I thought to myself as I continued on. But, today I did and I’m glad, because with it came a soul-shifting realization: Ever since I was a child, I’ve equated darkness – real and metaphorical – with emptiness, aloneness, the absence of light and life, a place that is cold and unwelcoming, as something to be feared, approached with trepidation, or avoided https://tinyurl.com/2rumj35j – a space where danger lurks. This morning offered a very different, far more life-affirming perspective: As deep and impenetrable as the darkness was at times, there was no mistaking the fact that it was teeming with life, with energy, with anticipation, with a sense of breaking through, with hopefulness. Under the moon’s soft and reassuring glow, far from the harshness of the mid-day sun and the deafening noise of the world awake, darkness was serving a purpose: It was providing cover – and a moment’s peace – for all of creation to catch its breath, to replenish, regroup, restore, and renourish, a staging area for the next installment in “A New Day” – a wildly unpredictable, always engaging docudrama that, in a matter of minutes, would be opening in theaters everywhere – and it was indescribably beautiful.

As I turned the corner and started home, I passed what appeared to be a couple of friends lost in mindless conversation about yesterday’s news and, moments later, a well-suited young man in a luxury sedan speeding anxiously to work to no doubt try and tackle today’s. I wanted to freeze time, to scream, “STOP! You need to see this! You’re missing it – the moment, the magic!” And, then I thought about all the days I’d missed it too – walked, ran, or driven right by it without giving it a second thought, let alone the awe it deserves –  23,624 to be exact. But, today I didn’t. Today, I stopped and, because I did, I will never look at darkness – in any of its forms – the same again.

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