I will never admit to possessing boundless physical grace and coordination. In fact, I have had more than my share of embarrassing, uncoordinated moments. I regularly drop things, walk into walls, run into parked objects with a car (that’s another post for another day), you get the idea. I’d like to share a couple of my experiences with you partly because I think they’re hilarious in hindsight, and in hopes that we can all learn something about the power of humor, intentional laughter and self-awareness.

I said goodbye to you tonight.

I knew this day would come; I’ve known it for a long time. I even knew somehow that it would come soon, but I’m still not ready.

This disease that slowly stole you from us the last few years is finally coming to take you for good, and even though the grieving has been a little bit at a time, it never accumulates into anything tangible, and every time I think of you, the sorrow begins anew and my insides ache with longing for what once was.

Does your family participate in the stuffing versus dressing debate at Thanksgiving? Are you sharply divided, or do you all agree? Is it a non-issue, so long as it’s on the table? No one is sure when stuffing/dressing was first created, and the mix of ingredients has changed over time, although the main ingredients of broken up bread and various herbs have mostly remained the same.

I wrote this letter a couple months prior to having my second child.

My precious children,

Life is full of choices. Things do not happen for an unknown reason. Things happen because of our decisions—not because of luck, and not because you or anyone else is entitled to anything. You can only control your own choices, not those of others. Good things are earned and should be celebrated; they happen as a result of hard work, determination, and perseverance. Perfection is impossible; excellence is not. Bad things happen, but even then, life is still good and lessons can be learned.

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Strange.

Emotions stare blankly back at you in a convoluted reflection. Nothing is there.

But sometimes, a wave. Sometimes gentle and lovely and fragrant as balmy summer fields. Sometimes so fierce you exhale in torrents and roughly gasp in the thin atmosphere of agony.

A wave of what? Nostalgia? Remembrance? Reverence? Loss? Love? Hate? Anger?