More Than

It feels like such a small life. This one I’m living.

I want my impact to be bigger. I want to be Ellen. I want to be known by one name and have the power to change people’s lives. I wanna write people huge checks and promote their goodness, launch their businesses, know I’m making a difference.

But me? I can’t do that. I can only do those things on a microscopic basis. I mean, realistically, I’m barely making enough money to support me right now so my contributions to anyone else are insignificant. Launch someone's business? Ha! Every endorsement I make causes no more ripple than a pebble in the ocean. And though I’ve helped many start-ups over the years, by the nature of my work and the nature of human beings, it’s almost guaranteed my contribution won’t be remembered. At most, upon my death, I’ll be mourned by a handful of people and I won’t have made a significant contribution to any one of their lives.

Or
not...

We do this, you know. We decide certain people are important and others are not. It’s a status thing. We have a pseudo caste system here. Our celebrities – I just mentioned Ellen – well, they are certainly ‘more than.’ The same goes for our professional or Olympic athletes. Anyone who has amassed wealth, even by inheritance, is so much more important than the rest of us. We listen to them. What they have to say is somehow relevant and important. We pay attention. We buy magazines to keep up with them and watch shows about them. We follow their social feeds and try their You Tube tutorials.

But when we, in our relatively tiny lives, have a moment of greatness - say, a graduation or a significant anniversary or a wedding toast –  and we walk up to the mic and give our thanks... well, do we say “Kim Kardashian really paved the way for me?" Isn’t it (outside of the obligatory and trite dropping of peace-leaders' names. Ghandi is always good for that, or MLK Jr., or Mandela if you are particularly worldly) - isn’t it always “my 5^th grade teacher” or “my grandmother” or “my little league coach” that we give credit to? If it ever is someone of a certain level - a ‘more than’ - isn’t it only when they’ve stepped out of their lane and taken the time to be present?

Maybe we don’t really need an "Ellen" so much. Maybe we need "us" much more. If I got the chance to stand on that podium, I’d thank God for every forgotten person in my life that are not actually forgotten, but might think they are. If I were receiving an award for philanthropy maybe, or a Pulitzer, or perhaps for just spending 50+ years on this planet without burning the whole thing down, I’d thank so many people. I’d thank the waiter in Caneel Bay when I was on my honeymoon at 19 years old who made me feel grown and smart and crazy savvy at choosing really good wines despite my age. I’d thank the garbage collector, Ray, who always slowed down to wave at baby Dia and made her Mondays the best day of the week. I’d thank the nurses who have always been the best of my healthcare who took time and listened. I’d thank the friends that have served as teachers or cautionary tales or insightful gurus. I’d thank the gardeners and the highway workers, the truckers and the cashiers, the aerobics instructors and soccer coaches, the babysitters and dog groomers. I'd tell my physical therapist that he made all the difference and is the reason I run. I'd thank every volunteer that ever gave up a day of their lives simply because they have kindness in their hearts. These people aren’t living little lives. Without them, where would we all be?  

I’m lucky enough to be reminded regularly of how much an often thankless job can mean to us. I thank God every single week for Juana and Maria who make me feel so loved and cared for. Every night after they’ve cleaned my home, I climb into fresh, clean sheets feeling beyond grateful and content. I'm cocooned in happiness. It’s a comfort I wouldn’t have without them and it may seem silly and perhaps frivolous, but for a person with my past – with my particular trials and tribulations –this is a kind of heaven. This is not something I take for granted.  

So as I think about the many people that make my life ‘more than,’ and despite how much I love Ellen and her grand gestures, I now feel blessed in realizing that I have been lifted up by so many walking angels. I have been given gifts far more than any celebrity could ever furnish. And while I may be a forgotten person too and may never have an opportunity to give the people in my life the magnificent gifts they deserve, somewhere someone is remembering me and is grateful too. 

And that makes all the difference.

The Gallery of My Life

I walk through this gallery of my life. My hand reaches out. My fingers tenderly glance over each photo, each memory. I’m here to reflect on the joy in my life – this was my assignment. “Go into your mind’s eye and take stock of your greatest moments of joy. Whatever they may be.”

I see the first time I held Dia. A girl! A girl! I couldn’t believe it, nor could I reconcile why that fact made me so happy, but here she was. And she was perfect and she was whole and so was my love for her.

I see the night before she was born when Tim, speaking for a stuffed moose as if it were a puppet, had Cheyanne and I in stitches with laughter so uncontrollable that I'm quite sure it was what brought on my labor.

Oh - and there's a good one! A similar night – the formal night on our Alaskan cruise - where Tim commandeered a plush chicken and a towel that was craft-fully folded into a frog. With his quick wit and tremendous silliness, he rendered us all useless and in need of a new coat of mascara before we could proceed to our fancy dinner.

I laugh out loud as I see the day Cheyanne brought the first real belly laugh out of Dia. Dancing and singing "Ain't No Other Man" like a crazed lunatic while Dia, just 3 months old, laughed louder and longer until we were afraid she’d start crying or lose her breath.

I see the night in New Orleans when Cheyanne came back to the hotel room with a Huge Ass Beer she'd purchased on Bourbon Street and, without hesitation, the photo op shenanigans ensued. 

There is the time in the Chimney Rock house with its ridiculously large kitchen. Tim, Chey and three ridiculously large stuffed animals and I had a dance party to "Upside Down (Boy You Turn Me)," dancing and spinning the animals upside down and back again and managed - somehow - to make it through the entire song on our feet despite the giggles that weakened our knees and tendered our bellies.

And as if I'm watching a video play, I can see me dancing with an infant Tim in the living room of my first house. I can see the smile in my heart and can feel the start of the deep crinkles that would impress the corners of my eyes from that moment on.

I see one of the moments those wrinkles deepened. Peeking down from my pile of homework, I see a wee Cheyanne sitting at my feet, cheerfully drawing circles around the three holes in my binder papers and delicately singing "bop, bop, bop" with each circle. 

Oh and there's the time I took her to school with me! Sitting carefully in the back row so as not to disturb the other students with my child, she busted out in innocent childhood laughter as my social psychology prof displayed a film of kangaroos fighting. The entire class went silent and then, almost in unison, began to laugh along with her. The prof's only comment as he laughed along: "That was the correct response to what we just witnessed. The rest of you are far too serious." 

The gallery continues through parties and Thanksgivings, through every single Christmas we've ever had, through Must See TV nights and Fridays out to dinner. There are Momma days and Hotel Nights. There is the day at the Dunes and a hundred more at the beach. There is the fireworks display where the cardboard from the blown rockets rained down on us and the Fourth of July where Tim, as a toddler, exclaimed "Ooooo! A gween one! Oooooo! Another gween one!" (and I have never viewed fireworks the same since). The walls are covered with photos of picnics and Easter egg hunts, roller coasters and theme park rides and the crown moulding is a ticker tape of shared inside jokes and obscure lines from movies.

It is a wonderful display - all these memories - and it's difficult to pry myself away. Tearfully, with a bittersweet tap, I place a tender kiss on each one before I return to the world outside.

As I exit my gallery, I begin to assess. I can easily think of a million times I've smiled, been proud, loved or was loved. I think of my friends and all the people who have been angels on earth to me. I look back on a life of incredible luck and beautiful souls who have crossed my path at the exact right moments. I love so many and am grateful for even more. When I started out meandering through my gallery, I thought I'd see the time I actually scored a goal in soccer. I thought I'd see the moment I finally got that title that deemed me legitimate in my career. I thought I'd see the sweet words or a tender moment with a lover. I thought I'd see one of the baseball games or concerts that I've attended. I thought I'd see me independent of anyone else. Instead, all the pictures had my children in them because that was the assignment. I was to view my greatest joys. After all - in my life - there has been no greater.

I don't know why I'm compelled to share this. I have no sweeping conclusion or lesson to share. I guess I just wanted to thank God and make it public. I know I am so blessed. I love to laugh more than anything else and these three have kept that a constant in my life. So ... thank you.

"I can't say what I might believe, but if God made you he's in love with me." 

Five for Fighting