I have been lucky to see Maya Angelou speak a few times in my life. Three times, I have written about her on this blog. I truly believe her life is a precious gift for so many people and I wish her a very, very happy birthday.

Here are links to my previous posts about this amazing woman.

Of Storms and Rainbows

Thank You, Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou is My Mother

Maybe it’s that I have a lifetime of memories that involve rain, having spent most of my life in the Pacific Northwest, but I truly don’t mind the grey, wet days.

“I hate the rain,” Bubba grumbled as he pulled on his sneakers this morning and grabbed the umbrella on his way out the door for his morning walk.

“I know.”  There was nothing else to say. He knows the rain doesn’t bother me, even when I have to walk in it. Especially on a day like today, when yesterday afternoon brought brilliant sunshine and I was lucky to walk under a canopy of cherry blossoms with the dog, a pink carpet of tissue-thin petals lining the sidewalk.  Everywhere I went, I could smell the sweet perfume of daphne and I watched with a keen eye for the season’s first tulips in someone’s yard.

To wake up this morning to the sound of the water gurgling in the gutters conjured images of fat, shiny worms making their way across the pavement. I could hear the birds in the magnolia tree right outside my bedroom window and I always imagine they are celebrating the rain, anticipating puddles to splash in and the droves of worms coming out for an easy breakfast.

I sit at the kitchen table, the house silent except for the gentle swoosh of the dishwasher and there is something about hearing the movement of water as I watch the rain fall outside that feels cozy and comforting.  The dog, still damp from our morning walk, lies breathing heavily at my feet and out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a huge crow descending into the yard.  My first instinct is revulsion.

Ugh, crow. I think. Why couldn’t it be a robin or that sapsucker I see every once in a while? But I catch myself. Why not a crow? Because they eat garbage instead of worms and bugs or seed?  Because they are big? Because their cries do not sound like songs to me? In that instant, I feel a softening and turn to watch the crow more closely.  A smile spreads across my face as I watch it hop with a little jaunt across the stones toward the planter. He has every right to be here, too.

My pants are speckled with raindrops, the bottom cuffs soaked from puddles we walked through this morning.  The cherry blossoms were raining down on us and are stuck to the sleeves of my jacket like translucent pink polka dots.  The flagstones are shiny wet and I can’t resist stepping hard into the puddle that forms right inside the gate, although I do look around to make sure none of the neighbors was watching.

When Bubba comes back from his walk and leans in for a kiss, I love the way his cheeks feel cold and damp against mine.  He smells fresh from the outdoors and I close my eyes and inhale deeply. This is the scent of Spring.

It is a glorious, sunny day here in the Pacific Northwest, the crocuses and daffodils are showing their gorgeous faces all over the neighborhood, and the dog had a much-needed bath yesterday for the first time in nearly nine months, so I’m feeling great! Plus, it’s Friday and we have a terrific weekend of great meals, catching up with friends, and lacrosse up ahead.

This salad is one of my favorite things these days. Often, I’ll find a recipe that I like and, over time, as I make it, I’ll add a few things or change a few things or tweak something. Not so with this salad. It is absolutely perfect as it stands. I keep shredded kale and brussels sprouts in the fridge along with a container of the dressing just so I can toss a bowl together at any moment. I’ve been known to have it for breakfast when I’m feeling starved and unimaginative.

These cookies are my new go-to snack or quick breakfast option for the girls. I have been trying to find more grain-free recipes, given our gluten-free life and the problems with eating too much corn or rice, and these hit the spot. I do often add a handful of mini chocolate chips to them (because, duh, why wouldn’t you) and I’ve played with different dried fruits. I love the tart dried apricots from Trader Joe’s (blenheim style) and the tart Montmorency cherries that add a bit of zing. Shauna Ahern is one of my heroes, given her thoughtful approach to cooking gluten free so I was delighted to find these on her website. They do take a bit of planning and a well-stocked grocery store, but the chewy, nutty texture is so worth it for this tasty, healthy snack.

This drink is so great! During cold season, I warmed mugs of it up and gave it to the girls and it soothed their sore throats almost instantly.  One morning when I woke up with heartburn and stomach upset (thanks to dinner in a new neighborhood restaurant that was still working out their gluten free options – whoops), I drank some over ice mixed with fizzy water and it helped settle my stomach.  It is relatively inexpensive, non-GMO, and tasty.  The last time I saw it on sale, I bought six bottles to keep in the basement.

I don’t know how the Dalai Lama does it. Except maybe he was never the parent of a teenager. Because when the explosion happens, like a fiery plume from the Deepwater Horizon, up from the depths, burning through water to spray into the sky and rain down, it’s hard to respond with love instead of panic. As the person under fire, I’d like to curl into a ball, tuck my head and limbs underneath me, and slink off to safety. As the parent, I know the thing to do is stay calm, dig deep into the recesses of my brain for parenting strategy, and endure the onslaught as I try to slow it down.

At the end of the talk someone from the audience asked the Dalai Lama, “Why didn’t you fight back against the Chinese?” The Dalai Lama looked down, swung his feet just a bit, then looked back up at us and said with a gentle smile, “Well, war is obsolete, you know ” Then, after a few moments, his face grave, he said, “Of course the mind can rationalize fighting back…but the heart, the heart would never understand. Then you would be divided in yourself, the heart and the mind, and the war would be inside you.”

My war is inside. Not only because I want to fight back, to dispute each thrust (even those that come out of nowhere – from the left and the right when my focus is straight ahead) with an equally adept parry, but because I am her mother. Because while my own wounds are stinging, I hurt for her, for the wound that is the source of all of this, the one thing she won’t let me see.  The one thing I don’t have an answer to because she keeps it so well hidden.  And because I know fighting back won’t change a thing. My head wants to delve in and examine, understand why she is so upset. My heart knows that the only way to fight fire is with water, the only way to fight hatred and fear is with love.

As the insults and hurtful words rain down, I struggle to stay in my heart. I wish that the sheer volume of my love was enough to spill over and fill her up. I want my boundless affection to swallow her anger and fear, consume it and move on like The Blob, spreading love like so much blue slime, neutralizing the pain. I want her to find the part of her that simply can’t accept my love and touch it, probe it, examine it. I want her to push into it even as it hurts and discover that it holds no sway anymore. I want her to discard it like the decoy it is and turn to me with open arms.

As the fireballs fly, it is increasingly difficult to stay open and radiate love. Every instinct I have pushes me to close down, pull in and fling well-aimed water balloons, or at least put up a shield. Eventually fatigue creeps up and I remember to listen to my heart. No matter how much it hurts, the only way out is love. I’m trusting the Dalai Lama and Martin Luther King, Jr. I’m going on blind faith, here, that if I just refuse to fight back and repeat myself, eventually the message will get through. I love you. I love you. I love you. No matter what.