My mother made amazing pie crusts. In fact, because it was so good, and because she taught my eldest sister how to replicate her goodness, and for many years she gave me packets of uncooked piecrust for my freezer, I never bothered to master the art.

Until Covid.

Like millions of people across the country and around the world, I’ve decided it’s time to stretch my culinary muscles.

I mean seriously, I can whip up a four-course gourmet dinner with unpronounceable delicacies and intricate sauces. What on earth is keeping me from adding a perfect pie crust to my repertoire? It can’t be that difficult. Right?

Ha!

Over the years, I have ventured into what I hoped would be pie crust heaven only to find myself in a hell of a mess. Dry crust. Too moist crust. Unrollable crust. Heavy, tough crust. I’ve made all the mistakes. Which probably accounts for the reason I generally opt for crusts I can pat into the plate without any need to roll the beastly thing out!

No more I told myself! It’s time to conquer my fear of pie crust hell.

On Saturday my odyssey began. I watched some videos. Checked out recipes and then got to work on making a crust for Chicken Pot Pie. Let me just say, the filling was excellent. The crust? Well… that’s a whole other story of woe.

I’m sure if my mother is watching from on high, she is rolling her eyes and cautioning me to follow the directions, treat it all with loving care and slow down. Be patient. Be kind. Be gentle.

It’s all your fault mom. The fact I don’t like following directions. The fact I tend to speed through things I don’t know how to do. The fact, I don’t like doing things I don’t know how to do!

Remember. You used to always get so upset with my need to ‘Do it my way’. As a teenager I enjoyed the tension that brought into our relationship a lot. In fact, I’d often do everything the way you didn’t just to make my point. I wasn’t you and didn’t want to be!

I mean seriously! I didn’t want to be you, but it’s all your fault I’m me. Hmmm… Now that made lots of sense.

Fact is, for many years, my litany of your faults made my life one big messy pie for which, albeit not true, I like to believe you were to blame. Things like, my inability to follow directions. My lack of being able to tell left from right. North from south. My poor discipline when it comes to weight loss. My untidy bedroom, even my unmade bed.

All of that was your fault. And don’t get me started on the big things… My failed relationships. My need for perfection. My fear of failure. Ooooh… that’s a biggy!

Yesterday, I decided to dive into my fear of failure by taking a second foray into blending flour, water and shortening into pie crust.

My second attempt is not perfect – rolling it out was still an anxiety-riddled adventure that resulted in a few patches here and there. But all in all, it isn’t too bad.

And that’s where I have to thank my mother. To get it all to roll together, I had to incorporate many lessons she taught me throughout my life.

To be patient in the face of my fears.
To incorporate kindness into everything I do.
And, to be gentle with the world around me.

My pie crust yesterday didn’t turn out as perfectly as I wanted, but then, life seldom turns out to be the perfect road we want it to be (just as our mothers could never be the maternal goddesses of our dreams). But life is always the road we need to travel to find ourselves right where we are and our mothers are always the perfect teachers of what we need to learn so that we can become the person we want to be.

Thanks mom. I know it’s not your fault my pastry crusts haven’t had the flaky tenderness of yours. Just as I know you’re not to blame for the challenges (and misadventures) I’ve encountered on my road.

To be clear, though, I give you full credit for the lessons you taught me on how to weather life’s challenges with patience and humility. And, I am forever grateful for the gift of love you gave me always. The gift that enriches my life every moment, because, no matter how challenging I was in our relationship or how many challenges I faced in my life, you taught me how to turn up in the world with kindness, grace and a heart full of love. Always.

Namaste.

This morning I cried. I cried and let my tears fall unchecked by thoughts of why I needed to stop and pull myself together.

These tears do not pull me down. They do not pull me apart.
They set me free.

Free to love myself and all the world. Free to love these tears of sorrow, of grief, of sadness, of anxiety, of fear.

These tears are for me, for you, for our city, country, world.
They are tears for all humankind as we journey together while staying apart, through this pandemic that is radically changing the world as we knew. They are tears for heartbeats stopped and lives slipping away as the world keeps turning and the virus keeps spreading.

Last night, on a zoom call with a couple of friends, I mentioned how I was struggling to stay positive.

Well, you can’t be positive all the time, one of my friends suggested.

She’s right.

There is no virtual wall of positivity strong enough to keep my emotions dammed up. They must be released. Tears are the pathway to my heart beating free of fear.

Fearlessly breathing with all my heart, I find myself drawn by courage to ask, “What does the world need now?”

This morning I cried and allowed my tears to flow freely. In their release, my heart opened and I flowed freely into the sacred intimacy of the moment, without fear, without trepidation. Embraced by the sacredness of ‘the now’, my tears washed down my cheeks and I sank into the deep still waters of life flowing around and within me.

It was there that the answer to my tears arose.  “What the world needs now, is Love. Sweet Love.”

In this crazy-messed up, virus-bewildered world, there is so little I can give or do to relieve the pressure we all feel in this time of Covid-19.

And so, I give all that I can. Love.

I give you Love.

I have Love for you.

It is the only medicine I can carry into the darkness of these days where uncertainty grapples with my peace of mind as I struggle to find my balance in the turmoil of the unknown.

Love.

It is all that I have to share with those who are sick, those who have lost someone they love, those who are struggling to save lives, to care for lives, to take care of all of us sequestered in solitude in our homes.

Love is all I can give those who are scared. Lonely. Fearful of their next breath. Fearful of their next touch.

Love.

I give you my Love this morning. I give you my Love, always.

It may not stop this virus from sweeping across our planet, but Love is the only thing that can transform the fear that stalks our every breath into something we can hold onto so that we can all breathe freely.

Love. Sweet Love.

Namaste.

_________________________

It is light outside when I awaken. Night has slipped away and I have slept through its departure.

Day has begun.

I am grateful.

For the past several mornings I have been unable to sleep beyond 4am. The days grow tiring with little sleep the night before.

Yesterday, I napped in the afternoon.

A gift. A respite. A welcome interlude in my day.

The rhythm of my day has not changed much with the ‘stay home’ order. Something has shifted within me though. It’s as though, without the freedom to come and go, a restlessness invades.  A teenage angst stirs. ‘No one tells me what to do’ the voice of years past declares inside my head.

And I want to heed it. I want to say, ‘Hell ya. You got that right.”

I ignore it.

It gets louder. “This is ridiculous. It won’t hurt just to go to the grocery store, or wander around the mall.

I keep ignoring it.

It doesn’t like that. It raises its voice. “You are such a goodie-two-shoes. You know, that’s what they called you in high school. Ya. Goodie-two-shoes. Little Miss I’m so perfect I don’t even know there’s another side of right called wrong.”

I catch myself thinking about stopping at the grocery store on the way home from the park with Beaumont.

I quit taking my wallet with me.

We have been sequestered in solitude for 21 days now. Ever since my mother’s celebration of life and our family members returned home. We dropped them off at the airport, drove home in separate vehicles and when my beloved and I walked back into the house we knew what we had to do. He has a medical condition that puts him at the top of the ‘at risk’ chart of potential suspects. We knew we had to stay home. We could not risk his health and well-being to this virus slithering through the shadows waiting to infiltrate through any crack in our defenses. It does not respect the sanctity of human life. We must take care.

And the teenaged angst rises up, “But you’re not sick. You’re just old and chicken.”

I ignore the sting of its words and its reminder of the fact I fit into the ‘seniors category’.

I’m still struggling with that one. It’s been one and a half years since I slipped over that societal border of middle age to senior. I like being a woman of this distinctive age, I just don’t like the label. Senior.

The teenager quickly grasps at this new opportunity to stick it to me, “If you weren’t so old you’d be out there doing things instead of sitting in here doing nothing.”

I want to refute its insistence I am doing nothing. I want to fight back. Ward off its declaration of my uselessness with words of my own. I want to set it straight.

And then I remember the advice I’d been given when my daughters were teens, “Do not fight back. Step closer.”

I take a gentle breath and step into the hard edges of my teenaged angst. “I hear you. I hear your fear. Your worry that the world will end and you will never get a chance to live. I hear you.”

The voice quietens. It stops to take in a breath and in that gap between words and breath, I wrap my arms around my own self and say, “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re doing the right thing.”

And my teenage angst and I embrace one another and together, we cry.

It’s okay, I whisper to the one inside who wants to rise up and rail against all that is going on, all that it cannot change, all that it cannot do.  It’s okay.

And we cry. Together.

Tears are my prayer for well-being in all the world today. It is good to cry for the world. There is so little I can do to make it different. My tears are my offering that wash away my fear. In the cleansing wake of their falling, Love flows freely.

It’s okay.

That tightness in your chest. That restlessness. That angst and listlessness. It’s okay. It’s just fear crying out for release.

Where there is fear, love is also present. All you need to feel its gentle breath and healing touch is to let your tears wash away your fear so Love can flow freely.

Namaste.

__________________________________

It was one month ago today that my mother took her last breath.

On our family zoom call on Sunday, my sisters and daughters and I were talking about how grateful we are that we had that time with her. That her last days were not spent under the social distancing necessary to fight the spread of Covid-19.

We are so grateful.

This morning, my tears and prayers are for all those families who cannot be with their loved ones who lay in isolation, who cannot say good-bye, surrounded by their families and friends.

This morning, I light a candle and send you my prayers for peace and gentleness of heart so that you may stand, strong of back, as you weather your burdens of loss sequestered in solitude.

May peace be with you.