This is my symphony

Of pilot holes

Laurie Larson

January 26, 2026

My Christmas gift to myself this year was a pair of shelves I bought on Etsy, beautiful reclaimed wood with hand-forged brackets. I’d wait, I thought, for my son to hang them when he visited this summer, so after I unboxed them, they sat stacked against the wall. Waiting.

But then I got to thinking. Could I put them up myself?

As basic as it might seem, I’d never installed wall anchors. I couldn’t imagine how those hollow plastic screws would ever get through the plasterboard. I doubted I could do it. But there’s YouTube, after all. And that’s where I learned about the pilot hole, a small, pre-drilled hole that guides a wall anchor and makes it easier to tap in. (And two mangled wall anchors later, I also learned that the instructions to tap the wall anchors should be taken literally!)

And just like that, with the help of a level and trusty Black & Decker drill, the shelves were up. Then I used pilot hole magic again to secure the bottom of the shelf to the brackets. After a few years on my own, another “first” to celebrate.

And now I can’t stop thinking about pilot holes. Or rather, I can’t stop thinking of pilot holes as metaphor–how so many people, places, and things ease our way through life.

My mom, for sure. Not necessarily the way she moved through the world–we were very different people and often at odds–but her values and strong moral compass ran deep, easing my way. When she was alive, I thought we were nothing alike. But in her death, I realized how much we shared. She was my pilot hole.

Books, of course. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, I’m pretty sure I’ve found as much Truth-with-a-capital-T from fiction as I’ve learned in holy books. I’ve gotten a glimpse into the lives of thousands and thousands of people–I’ve watched as they maneuvered through grief and poverty and parenting and dashed dreams. Same as me. Books may not be real, but they, too, ease my way.

Speaking of.

Like Mother, Like Mother by Susan Rieger is a painful study of the distance and disdain that sometimes separates mothers and daughters. The legendary Lila Pereira, editor of the Washington Globe, is a dynamo. There isn’t a Washington pundit or politician she doesn’t know or hasn’t interviewed. She broke important stories. And to do so, she all but abandons parenting to her husband, Joe. Daughter Grace, also a writer, publishes a fictionalized tell-all of her childhood, and it isn’t pretty. The novel only increases the distance between the two, but Grace is certain her life is nothing like her mother’s. She sets aside marriage and children for her career and vows not to repeat Lila’s mistakes. Or does she? Lila leaves Grace a letter, opened after her death, that sets Grace on a search that finally offers insight into her mother’s choices–and Grace a way to heal.

There can be such delight in seeing each moment as a pilot hole for the next. Every memory I make with my grand kids makes days alone easier. Every stitch I take eases whatever weight I’ve been carrying. And every next “first” lets me know with even greater certainty that I am moving forward.

The End

Laurie Larson

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September 11, 2025

The times they are a’changing.

Nights have been in the fifties, summer’s humidity is gone, and last week my home town even squeezed in a few rain showers. Next week our temperatures return to summer, but it’s clear the end is near.

I went to a greenhouse last night for “Mums and Merlot,” a little kick-off to fall event. After the owner gave us a quick tutorial–in case you’re interested, you need a “thriller, a filler, and a spiller”–off we went to choose our annuals. I went out of my comfort zone and chose a brilliant fuchsia Celosia for my thriller, along with three little pumpkin gourds for filler. The greenhouse has two resident cats, Mac and Cheese, and both were a tremendous help: Mac took a nap on my hoodie, and Cheese helped me pick out pumpkins. I have not one design gene in my body, so having the pros there to give suggestions–“You could move the ornamental cabbage over just a bit and squeeze in another …”–was invaluable. (The wine might have helped a little, too!)

The days take on a somber tone, though, for a reader when there’s only one. last. novel. in a beloved series. And that’s the space I’m in with Maisie Dobbs. Last month I finished The Consequences of Fear, and I vowed it was my favorite yet. Now The Comfort of Ghosts waits on my shelf and in a heroic act of delayed gratification I’m resisting the urge to pull it down. I’ve written about Maisie at least six times on these pages, and it’s hard to think she won’t be a part of the blog any more. (My favorite post is here.) It’s time to let Maisie go.

My default is to hang on to good things as if my life depends on it, even when I can’t grip any tighter and my hands are slipping. I’m the gal who has a storage tub of every card I’ve received for at least the last thirty years–and a few even earlier than that. For reasons known only to the memory gods, I sorted through them a week ago. And even though many of the cards hit a tender spot (my mom, a long-lost friend, my husband) it was worth the sting. I found this gem, a blank card (probably circa 1990) I bought at the bookstore where I worked. I remember being drawn to the card as if it held some sort of magic. And I never used it, although it was always in the stash of cards I kept on hand.

It feels just as magical today as it did all those years ago–and maybe even more so. When I picked it out of the pile, I stopped short. Smiled. “I have this,” I thought. “This is my life!” The cat. The backyard garden. A peaceful inside-looking-out kind of life. An it-is-well-with-my-soul kind of life. You can be sure this old greeting card will be framed. As a reminder of, yes, even the good things I’ve had to let go.

And the fact that after every letting go, I begin again.

Celosia, Viola, Creeping Jenny, cabbage, gourds, annual Brown Grass

What matters

Laurie Larson

1 comment

March 4, 2025

I’ve been reading Jacqueline Winspear’s Maisie Dobbs mysteries for a dozen years, maybe longer. That’s not quite one book a year, which doesn’t make sense since I could swear I read a couple a year. But I’ll readily admit numbers aren’t my strong suite, so whatever the case, I’ve only two more titles until the series is complete, and I’ll miss Maisie’s company because she’s become nothing if not a good friend.

I went straight through The American Agent in about twenty-four hours because, to be honest, there’s little work involved reading Maisie. The pages almost turn themselves. I have noticed how much stronger she is in the last few novels. And resilient. I guess a couple World Wars, a broken heart, missed love, and more death than any one person should ever deal with will do that to a girl. Where in the first twelve novels Maisie is often haunted by her experiences, she now makes peace with challenges that come her way. Maisie turns inward to uncover what matters.

In the past several years I’ve come to much the same place as Maisie. The life I once expected to be straight and narrow–where I thought I understood my place–now resembles a winding path that moves forward only to turn back on itself time and time again. And in spite of (or because of) that I’m beginning to make my own sort of peace with the world around me. When life around you is in turmoil, turning inward might be the best course of action.

Which can be difficult in the U.S. today where life is beginning to resemble a sequel to a Margaret Atwood novel. In only six weeks time many of us worry that autonomy and self-determination will soon be a thing of the past. So how to deal with that uncertainty? Some folks fall into depression. Or anger. Some fear the end of democracy is closer than we realize. Others fight for change. Me? Like Maisie I am turning inward, away from the turmoil and toward what matters.

Like many others I have become a kind of indentured servant to the new billionaire class of political influencers. Like I’m working for them. I buy Amazon–Prime and Subscribe and Save. My likes and clicks create revenue on Facebook. I’ve bought into the illusion that these platforms are making my life easier or more convenient, but in reality its the uber-wealthy owners who benefit the most. So I deactivated my Facebook account and my Instagram privacy is about as tight as it can get. I suspended Amazon Prime. (See how hard it’s become to pull the plug completely? But baby steps are better than inertia.) For Lent I’ll take it one step further and fast from consumption. Obviously I’ll need food, gas, and essentials, but other than that it will be forty days of no extra consumption. I might occasionally allow myself a coffee date, but only at local small businesses. If I need to go to a big box store, it will be one that hasn’t given into pressure to cancel DEI initiatives, like Costco. I also unsubscribed to the Washington Post. This one killed me because the writing is so good and the content is reliably left of center. But Bezos did his whole free market censorship thing and I put my proverbial foot down.

Will any of this make a difference? Nope. Not to the billionaires or their bottom line. But it will for me, for my own peace-of-mind. Already I feel like I stand a little straighter. This is within my circle of control. No. way. will I give up my inner peace to political and social chaos. (Although I do wonder what would happen if the 75 million people who voted for Harris reduced their consumption of goods and media. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion the billionaires would sit up and take notice.)

I started this post fan-girling on Maisie Dobbs. And that novel I just finished? It was about an American agent working behind the scenes at the American Embassy in London during the blitz in 1941. Ambassador Joseph Kennedy was working hard on behalf of America First (a antisemitic and pro fascist organization) to keep the truth about the threat of Nazi aggression from the American people. He was also using his official position to enrich himself. Sounds as though history repeats itself, doesn’t it?

My son, a reader himself, said it best: “Dynasties rise and fall; civilizations come and go. We might be living through that right now.” But we all know that Chapter Five of a book is not the end. So while there might be moments of fear and confusion, there is also the hope of a happy ending–although it might come after my character has met her end.

Until then I’ll try to keep my head and heart in the right place. My best life will be quieter without the distraction of social media and scrolling, but at least I’m calling the shots, not mindlessly following some 21st century cultural norm. I won’t bury my head in the sand, but I will focus more deliberately on what matters.

And what matters, Dear Reader? Butterflies in the conservatory. Barbie dolls. Crafting. Celebrations. Silly six-year-olds. Fur babies.

The butterflies are blooming at Meijer Gardens

Make like a mouse

Laurie Larson

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January 30, 2025

Ask anyone in my family and they’ll tell you: there’s nothing I love better than a miniature. Doll houses, especially. The tiny plates and chairs. Little beds and pillows. Small parcels of foodstuffs. I had my vintage Little People and Pet Shop and Polly Pockets ready and waiting when grandchildren were still babes in arms.

So when I read the editor’s note in last month’s Bookmarks magazine about her love for the Dutch book series Mouse Mansion, I went down the internet rabbit hole trying to find a copy. Author Karina Schaapman built a (you guessed it!) mouse mansion from cardboard boxes and paper mache` and stuffed the rooms with all manner of hand-crafted miniatures. There’s a cellar, kitchen, music room, nursery, playroom, laundry. I was fully prepared to buy a used copy (in Dutch!) on eBay for way too much money when I discovered a Mouse Mansion website in the U.S. which sells the books in English. And then it was “Merry Christmas to me!”

Long ago I went to a journey group at a yoga studio where the facilitator–drumming and dream weaving–guided us to our totem animal. It was a moving experience, but I pushed aside the animal that came to me because I was embarrassed; it was small, timid, meek, and I willed myself to find another. Yes, my Friend, my spirit animal was a mouse. I wanted so badly to discover within an animal like a bear or a mountain lion. Powerful and feared. Everything I felt I wasn’t.

But today I’m much less likely to turn aside that mouse medicine. We might hide in the shadows, but we are always watching, seeing details others don’t. Mouse people follow crumb trails that lead us on new pathways. (Some native peoples call Mouse the Pathfinder.) We gather provisions for lean times, scavenge what others discard, and build a cozy nest. We can make something out of nothing. And, yes, we do appear to be frightened little creatures, but don’t be fooled. Have you ever witnessed the power of a mouse’s destruction to, say, a loaf of bread in the kitchen drawer or a cushion tucked away in the garage? Mouse people, though small, are mighty.

[And have you heard of the Welsh tidy mouse? Caught on camera, this little guy picks up small items left on a shed bench and places them in a box each night. A pest control expert said mice are like “the magpies of the rodent world.” They gather and collect what they might need during tough times.]

And while I’m de-cluttering my own nest, I find myself hoarding all manner of memories. (Could I be preparing for the day I am not able to join the hubbub of daily life as easily?) There’s that stroller parked under the backyard tree. Savory sweet brisket, smoked on the 4th of July. An Easter basket hidden in the living room. A prom dress. That big yellow lab. A shiny cherry wood casket on a frigid February day. The little boy in a choir robe and the girl who loved the silky on her blanket. Backyard tether ball.That first cigarette. Cocktails on the deck. The tick tick of a banjo clock.

I finished Hilary St. John-Mandel’s Station Eleven last week. I do like an occasional dystopian novel, but for some reason had passed over the Mandelverse for the last decade. St. John-Mandel’s world is well-worth your time. The novel gives us a traveling band of actors and musicians who caravan across the Midwest post-civilization. The situation is bleak: small settlements are wary of outsiders, fearing their limited resources might be plundered. Weapons are de rigueur. Murder, not uncommon. While the times might have been dark and violent, people still flock to watch the Traveling Symphony perform Shakespeare and classical music from “before-times.” And I loved that even in this post-apocalyptic world, people held on to things that no longer had any “value”. The Museum of Civilization, the Traveling Symphony’s destination in the novel, displays cell phones, passports, coins, driver’s licenses, and high-heeled shoes. Kirsten carries her tabloids and snow globe. Scavenged shampoo and bath towels from an abandoned house whisper of times almost, but not quite, forgotten. Things sparked memories. And those tucked away memories lit hope when it was most needed.

Last week, my grandkids had a run of snow days. On the day Mom worked, Dad was at home and little sister down with a fever, so it was off to Grammy’s for an afternoon. Jonas and Alexis helped me start building one of my Christmas gifts: a miniature (of course!) book nook scene. We went slowly and carefully, in no rush to finish. Each took a turn building one piece of furniture, and they worked with infinite patience and attention to detail.

Just one more memory to tuck away.

Crafting

Laurie Larson

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January 3, 2025

: to make or produce with care, skill, or ingenuity.
Merriam-Webster

The annual Grammy’s Christmas break sleepover has evolved over the past few years, but simply must include crafting, hot chocolate, the movie Elf, at least one argument over who will sleep where, more crafting, and pancakes for breakfast. (And did I mention crafting?) It gives this grandma no end of delight that in this age of screens, all four of her grandchildren love nothing more than a pile of paper, pom-pons, glue sticks, markers, paint, tape, stickers, and whatever else is on hand in the craft cupboard. This year my ten-year-old grandson worked on a comic book, and his sisters made a stack of gifts to take home. My role is to make dinner, pour the cocoa, keep the snacks a-comin’, and nod, “Uh-huh” and “Oh my goodness that’s so pretty” and “You are so creative!”

Grandma has returned to her own craft basket and is busy stitching a new pile of Mr. Socks. After serving this past year as home base for my rescue kittens, I took my sewing room back–organized my stash, rearranged, purchased some new wool, and got out the ol’ Viking 3310. (forty-three years old, to be exact!) More often than not, my stitching is a kind of meditation or–dare I even say it?–of prayer. The colors, the patterns, the feel, the repetition. Poke, nudge, pull. Poke, nudge, pull. I’m guessing it’s that same soothing that calls us all to craft.

Last week I finished Anne Tyler’s French Braid. I “met” Tyler in 1987 when I worked at the bookstore, and The Accidental Tourist was a kind of required reading for us on staff. From there I moved backwards and read her previous novels, then forward as she published each new one in turn. I love that Tyler writes about families that aren’t picture perfect, that there’s always something (or someone) askew–slightly out of focus, maybe, or crowding the frame or missing altogether. French Braid is no different.

Mercy and Robin Garret’s love saved them, until it didn’t. Following the path set out for them in the fifties meant that Mercy set aside her dreams of becoming a painter and Robin took over his father-in-law’s hardware store. They raise three children who grow into successful adults. But then there’s that off-kilter photo Tyler is so good at. Those siblings, with families of their own, rarely see each other even though they don’t live far from each other. Resentments from the past shadow every interaction. And Mercy. Goodness! She rents a studio, begins painting again, and over the years moves sweater by sweater and pot by pan into the studio, sleeping there (at first only a night now and then) then returning home in the morning to fix Robin’s breakfast and pack his lunch before she returns. It’s the family secret everybody knows and no one mentions. When both Mercy and Robin have died, their son David–now a grandfather himself–muses that families are like French braids: “You think you’re free of them, but you’re never really free; the ripples are crimped in forever.”

Anyone who has, like me, lived for sixty-seven years has had their fair share of fractured relationships, fissures that develop over time even between those who were once close. My initial reaction is sorrow for what is no longer, and that’s especially true during the holidays. But, you know what? Those “ripples [and] little leftover squiggles” are still there, part of who I am. There’s a sweet kind of comfort in that. I don’t know what the future holds for me and these much-loved grandchildren. It’s possible that in true Anne Tyler fashion we may (God forbid!) grow apart one day.

But I do know that the ripples of the love we’ve shared “are crimped in forever.”

To Be Continued …

Laurie Larson

1 comment

July 5, 2024

When my friends and classmates were reading Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, and Bobbsey Twins in fifth grade, I turned up my nose at their lack of imagination. Pshaw! Why read about the same characters over and over? Now mind you, I often read the first book in a series–but after that, why bother? So yes, Anne of Green Gables–but not Anne of Avonlea. Or A Wrinkle In Time, but not A Wind in the Door. There were rows of books! shelves of books! that called out to me in my library. Series seemed so … lazy.

For nearly sixty years I was able to avoid series’ quite successfully. Until I couldn’t.

Last week I finished another book in the Thursday Murder Club series, and I couldn’t put it down. (Or figure out why I’d read the previous two!) You see, it’s not really my type of novel. I wouldn’t call the series literary reading (sorry, Mr. Osman …). The characters–if not exactly flat–are fairly stereotypical, the plots twists are more like gentle curves.Elizabeth and Joyce and Ron don’t struggle with stretching a pension or dipping into savings to replace a roof. Reality–at least my own–it is not.

And then I realized that for several years I have been budgeting out Armand Gamache and Maisie Dobbs and Flavia De Luce (series all) reading them when I most need a pick-me-up. My eleven-year-old self would have been appalled. But I’m not eleven anymore. I’m no longer part of the working world. I live alone. And choices I’ve made have circumscribed how I previously assumed my life would play out. So why do I find my life suddenly populated by Armand and Jean Guy and Ruth? With Maisie and Pris and Maurice?

Because, dear Reader, they’ve become friends. And what every person of a certain age needs are friends to return to again and again. Adult children are preoccupied with their own lives. I’m no longer anyone’s daughter; extended family is fractured. We live in a world that no longer weaves elders into the warp and woof of daily life, so a single like me isn’t folded into a neighbor’s barbecue as might have happened in the past. Even friends close the circle around family. Because times (and people) have changed.

Around the sixty year mark, I realized I’d made no new friends in years: work colleagues held that place, as did a husband and couple friends. Of course I’ve got my Ride or Dies. But let’s face it: at some point our group will begin to lose each other to illness, infirmity, or death. So I set out to nudge my friend account balance into the black: I joined the YMCA and chit-chatted in class; I sat in the hot tub and joined the conversation instead of remaining in my own bubble. I invited a neighbor for coffee. I made lunch dates after church meetings, and I started a book club–of strangers, no less!

Slowly but surely Barb and Melissa and Jill and Kathy and Leslie became part of my life–and are every bit as essential as Maisie and Armand and Flavia. I hope I’ll keep reaching out as I age–and that these new friends enrich my life like books in a series: to be continued …

Make like a hobbit

Laurie Larson

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March 30, 2024

It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life.
J.R.R. Tolkien

My morning pour-over, the cat on my lap, and a peek of the sunrise over the field out back. Teaching my grandson how to play Scrabble, bending into a stretch at the YMCA, a stack of books waiting. That, my friends, is magic.

Except we’ve been sold a different bill of goods, haven’t we? One that entails a well-stamped passport. A showcase home. Winter in sunny climes. Drawing on years of savings for that comfortable retirement.

Don’t get me wrong. That’s exactly where I thought I was headed. But those dreams went *poof* up in smoke. So what’s a girl to do when she ends up taking a path that left her miles from where she was headed?

She summons her inner Hobbit, that’s what she does. She chased after the Ring, lost a few battles, and had nothing left in her but to head back to Bag End. And that’s where the magic begins: the coffee, the cat, the books.

Mind you, I’m not a Tolkien reader. I fumbled my way through The Hobbit; I watched Peter Jackson’s Fellowship of the Rings, just barely. Because, really? How many goblins and wargs and dwarves and dark lords does one need? I delighted in The Hobbit when Bilbo was tucked in Bag End with its paneled hallways and coat pegs and round green door and tea for elevenses. But you start creeping around in mines and staging thirty minute battle scenes and I’m off to load the dishwasher and start a load of laundry. Ain’t nobody got time for that.*

When Bilbo, after all his adventuring, settles in to write his book, he realizes “… where our hearts truly lie is in peace and quiet and good tilled earth. For all Hobbits share a love of all things that grow. And yes, no doubt to others, our ways seem quaint. But today of all days, it is brought home to me it is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life.”

And simple though its been, the past couple weeks have been just the magic my soul needed. I finished my time at the museum, facilitating sessions in the fur trade for third-graders. I’ve got a new roof over my head–literally. After winter snows left a couple shingles on my deck, I knew it was time to replace the twenty-five-year-old roof–a noisy, messy process if there ever was one. I had a day to love on my sick granddaughter when day care was out of the question and then a week later join her on a field trip when mom had jury duty. This year I even fought through my aversion to bible studies and attended a Lenten book discussion at the Catholic Information Center, finding to my surprise that I loved being part of a group that tackled some hard questions about faith and community. And after watching You Are What You Eat on Netflix, I’m making my way towards eating “plant forward,” which, after fifty years of cooking, is helping me climb out of my cooking rut.

I ticked another one off my TBR list: Saturday Night at the Lakeside Supper Club by J. Ryan Stradl. In fact it was this novel that got me thinking again about what happens when we find ourselves off track. Mariel and Ned Prager thought they knew where they were heading–a life centered around food and family. Mariel had her grandma’s supper club to anchor her, and Ned was heir apparent to his family’s step-up-from-fast-food restaurant chain. But tragedy derails them, and they spend years trying to correct course. Stradl has the Midwest ethos right down to the olives and cheese spread on the relish tray. This is the third book of his I’ve read, and it might be my favorite. (The Lager Queen of Minnesota is a close second.) As a Midwesterner of almost seven decades, the work ethic, church ladies, and family dysfunction he writes about ring true. And while Stradl pokes fun at our Midwestern weaknesses, he does so gently, with a sort of admiration for the values that make us who we are.

I know it for certain, dear Reader: there is magic in the most ordinary of things.

* For Tolkien fans everywhere: be gentle! I know you are legion, but I decided early on in my struggle to read his books that I would take what I like and leave the rest.

Three things my mother taught me

Laurie Larson

1 comment

February 12, 2024

In Psalm 31, the psalmist praises a mother of noble character–a woman who was virtuous, strong, and selfless. This is my opportunity to rise up and call our mother blessed, to (as it says in the psalm) honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise.

Mom’s life taught me these three things:

Home is where the heart is

Mom worked full time outside the home most of our lives: in a law office, a university library, an insurance office, a doctor’s practice. She was behind the scenes, running other people’s businesses smoothly and efficiently, but her heart was always at home.

We moved every year when I was young and within a couple days Mom had our house unpacked, everything in its place–our bedrooms and the kitchen always taking precedence. She canned peaches and tomatoes and pickles and jam. Jeff and I grew up with homemade cookies in the cookie jar and a homemade pie or kuchen on the counter every Saturday.

Raised in poverty, Mom’s own home was evidence of God’s unending provision and great love for her. Mom loved weekend visitors–especially family from Ohio–and company dinners. She opened her door for bible study and visiting missionaries and holiday dinners.

Mom took God’s call to show hospitality very seriously, and I’ve no doubt she entertained ‘angels unaware’.

It’s a wonderful life.

If you’re ever tempted to hang back and sit on life’s sidelines, remember my mom.

God took a poor Cleveland girl and showed her the wonder of His world: France, the Netherlands, Spain, Mexico, Panama. Her beloved Yosemite. St. Croix to visit my cousin Connie. Mom’s bus trips took her and friend Sue to Mt. St. Helens, the Rockies, New England, Alaska. To celebrate turning 60, Mom took a hot air balloon ride. A skate dancer in her teens, Mom was 83 the last time she went roller skating. Mom married my step dad Gene in her sixties and loved him to the end.

Life dealt her many setbacks, but she was never defeated–in part because of her indomitable spirit, but in whole because of her faith.

Cast your love deep and wide

A measure of my mom’s love is all of you–just look around. Really look around. I see dear friends. Work colleagues. Parishioners. Gene’s union buddies. Volunteers from Emmanuel Hospice. Neighbors. Step-children. Beloved grandchildren. Great-grandchildren. Mom never missed an opportunity to chat up a bank teller or a grocery store cashier–something that drove me crazy when I was younger–and she never met a stranger she didn’t love. Jeff and I probably disappointed her many times, but we always knew that in her eyes we were loved. “Jesus loves you and so do I” was her signature sign off on her voicemail, and she meant it with every fiber of her being.

Mom taught us never to be stingy when it comes to love. To reach out to help others even when–or perhaps especially when–lonely or sad or tired. To see the best in everyone.

“Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.” We will miss you, Mom, but wait with faith to meet you again.

You might notice that this post sounds like a eulogy. Indeed, it was supposed to be. I wrote it the week before Mom died, after asking her permission to speak at the funeral. Two days before the service, the pastor called to tell me that the church council wouldn’t allow me to speak–even after the funeral liturgy–because it “wasn’t done” at Messiah Lutheran. Let’s just say it was an impersonal funeral that lacked even a hint of comfort for me.

This year as I anticipated the second anniversary of her death, I figured better late than never. So this one’s for you, Mom, from the bottom of my heart.

Leaning into the turn

Laurie Larson

1 comment

February 10, 2024

Last month we had one of those Midwest snow storms that closes schools, interrupts travel, and keeps many of us shoveling every few hours to keep up with the drifts. It is only my second winter living alone, and let’s just say I’ve never been more happy to have the companionship of a little fur baby than I was in January. My go-tos for staying connected to others–the YMCA, grand kids, and dinner with friends–were impossible to access. For a day or two I rode the wave of excitement that these storms often stir up. I baked. I decluttered. I shoveled with enthusiasm. I read.

And then I was over it. So over it. I spent more time than was healthy surfing the internet. Even though I had declared a spending freeze for January, Amazon became my best friend. I watched hours–and hours–of Ken Burns on PBS. I even searched for airline tickets to someplace warm in February before sky-high ticket prices dissuaded me. (I did, however, reserve an Air B&B in Florida next February!)

When city plows had finally made at least one pass on major thoroughfares, I braved icy snow-covered roads for swim class at the Y. As I rounded a corner onto an unplowed side street, I found myself leaning in the direction I turned–much like I’d do if I was riding a bicycle. And later, as I sat at a stoplight, I saw other drivers doing the same. We were all leaning into the turn.

I’ve learned a lot about adversity in the past several years. I lived with a loved one’s addiction and the financial fallout of that addiction; I honed my Spidey senses to recognize when a mental health crisis was imminent. I cared for my mother in the months before she died. And although it was painful, although I wouldn’t willingly choose the difficult situations, I learned through years of therapy and “doing the work”, as they say, that I alone was responsible for my happiness. I accepted that there were things I couldn’t change, and I began to develop the courage to change what I could. Fighting against my circumstances did nothing but create distress. Only by leaning into them would I be at ease.

And while a winter storm is a far cry from death and divorce, I realized that weathering this storm would be much easier if I didn’t resist the isolation. Or, for that matter, the cold and the shoveling and the temptation to worry about the massive icicles that hung from my roof.

I needed to lean into the turn life had (however briefly) taken. Despite being shut in, when was I happiest? In those first two days when I didn’t fight it. When I putzed around the house. Enjoyed extra time to read. Snuggled the fur baby who has so brightened my life.

And sure enough, two weeks later, the snow has melted. I’ve shed my heaviest winter coat for a lighter one. The sun decided to reappear. And robins and bluebirds have returned to my yard. My discontent changed not. one. thing.

Just as the snow was melting, I finished Amor Towles’s novel The Lincoln Highway and talk about leaning into the turn? Emmett Watson and his younger brother Billy are poster boys for taking things as they come. Emmett, newly released from a work farm, arrives home after serving his time to find his the farm sold and his eight-year-old brother packed and ready to set out towards a new and better future. (No worries about Emmett’s character. He is at the reformatory because after a fist fight to defend his father’s name, Emmett’s antagonist dies. He might have a temper, but there’s not a mean bone in Emmett’s body.) Emmett plans to settle in Texas and start a construction business. Billy, however, has other plans. After their father dies, Billy finds postcards from the mother who left them years earlier and uses them to map out the route she took after leaving–and figure out her whereabouts. But their best laid plans are upended when Emmett finds two of his work farm buddies, Duchess and Woolly, gone AWOL and hiding in his barn. And so begins a wild ride across the country from Nebraska to New York–sometimes by train, sometimes by automobile–where the boys experience set backs and betrayal, as well as miracles and remarkable serendipity. Like many odysseys the escapades they take part in are so far-fetched it strains credulity. But this is one tall tale that works.

So if you find yourself in a funk when life twists and turns, don’t fight it. Just lean into the turn.

(After writing this post, I realized how many novels I’ve read that center around road trips. Try The Widows Adventures, for one. And The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet for another.)

Take a seat

Laurie Larson

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December 19, 2023

In many ways it’s been a typical holiday season: decadent food, festive gatherings, cozy nights. Friend Mary and I took in our town’s new Christkindl Market and it didn’t disappoint. Although it’s only a sliver of the size of Christkindl Market on Daley Plaza in Chicago, the folksy wares, yummy food, and–of course–gluhwein were spot on. I attended my grandchildren’s Christmas program and offered a kids’ craft table at our parish’s annual celebration of the Feast of St. Andrew. Of course the house is merry and bright with holiday cheer and I’m actually baking this year, something I haven’t done in nearly a decade. My best gift came early: a one-year-old kitty named Dory.

Not that I live a greeting card kind of life by any means. I spent Thanksgiving cooking for one and will for Christmas, as well. I miss my mom every. single. day. Distance–some geographical, some relational–separates me from much-loved family. Grief over the loss of my marriage has become an almost comfortable companion. And the worry of aging alone keeps me up at night now and then.

I read recently about the idea of glimmers. Triggers, off course, have become part of our modern vernacular. We understand that some experiences stir up feelings associated with past trauma, often moving us back into our fight-flight-freeze responses. Glimmers, on the other hand, are those cues which remind us of feelings of safety and calm. So that gluhwein? The Christmas pageant? Baking cookies? All glimmers taking my nervous system back to a time when life was less complicated, more certain.

Last night I watched Patrick Stewart’s A Christmas Carol and was reminded, once again, that we have some agency in what manifests in our lives. When Scrooge attends Fezziwig’s Christmas party with the Ghost of Christmas Past, Scrooge hears his mentor say to his younger self, “Ebineezer, when happiness shows up, always give it a comfortable seat.” Simply put, we are more than our suffering. I have come to recognize the many glimmers that lighten my day–if only I open the door, pull out a chair, and invite happiness to take a seat.

Of course it should come as no surprise that some of my most satisfying glimmers come as I read. In fact, I’ve got a nice little TBR pile waiting for Christmas week reading. Friend Denice lent me Thanksgiving by Ellen Cooney and it will become a yearly read for me, as it is for her–although I’ve got to get my hands on a copy. The story begins with a young married woman in seventeenth century New England named Patience. Her husband’s actions while hunting for a turkey set in motion the stories of succeeding generations, finally ending in this century. Each chapter is named after an element of the Thanksgiving table (dishware, tablecloth, pie, turkey) and centers on one woman in the family: her challenges and trials, her hopes and dreams. But it is just as much the house’s story as it is the women’s, and we are brought along as it is updated and added on to, as land is sold off and people move in and out of the family and the house. When compared to my own experience–many houses, distant family–the novel has the sweet taste of a fairy tale.

This holiday day season can be a tough time, no doubt about it. But whatever weighs us down lightens when we recognize the glimmers that show up. And when they do, grab Happiness by the hand, show her your most comfortable seat, and ask her to sit and stay for a spell.