The Title Is: Passages

Issue 29

Apr 27, 2022

Team, last week’s newsletter read Issue 27. It was 28. We’re back on track. Let’s go…

My mom passed away one year ago, on Tuesday, April 27. Today is that Tuesday. Happy Death Day, Mama.

We don’t say that. Maybe we ought to.

She’d be proud of where I am. Or, she is proud. Sometimes I try getting in touch with the feeling people describe of their loved ones after they’ve passed. I’m close to noticing it, therefore describing it, but I’m not there just yet. I never feel as if I’m without her, but I don’t necessarily feel with her. As I said, I’m simply noticing. ❤️

Touchdown

Last week, Emma and I visited her, and sat atop her grave, right on her headstone. She didn’t seem bothered. Neither were we. It was lovely, as always. The love darts are plentiful. If we stripped every one, we’d still be there. So we stopped.

Emma had been having a rough day. I “forced” her into the car (her words), and put my foot on the gas without a plan. We drove for several minutes until I remembered the power of my mom’s gravesite. A spot to land, to bring us down from wherever we’d spun off to. “Where are we going,” she said. “To visit Mimo,” I said.

Shortly after I took this photo, a delightfully cheerful and goofy golden retriever bounded toward us with his green ball in his mouth. My friend Josephine lives in a home bordering the cemetery’s hill.

Dutifully, we returned Skipper to Josephine. Alas, this is Skipper’s backyard. He’s free to comfort the visitors and retrieve his ball—whatever he wants, whenever he wants. The hill is his oyster. What a wonderful world.

After visiting Josephine and Skipper, we trudged up the hill and went about our day. Just as I’d hoped, our energy had flipped.

Thank you, Mama! (And Skipper) Touchdown.

His Rite of Passage

Owen’s in Tapalpa, Mexico for two weeks with his school’s 6th and 7th grade. THIS is exactly why he’s at The New Village School. The kids travel each middle-school year after raising money for the majority of the school year. Owen made more almond cakes than he cares to admit (or ever make again).

As I type, he’s immersed in a Mexican village, attending public school, and without contact with mom and dad. No doubt, this is a rite of passage.

Pizza, the night before his departure. He looks like a military kid. He’s not.

My Write of Passage

Did someone say Write of Passage? Currently, I’m on a team retreat with my new-friends-now-colleagues. Tacos in Austin—check! Rad people. Cool city. Exciting work. No complaints here.

Your well-wishes and kind words regarding my job news in last week’s newsletter were gracious and deeply appreciated. Thank you!