I’ve had great news.  I will will be performing The Tiffany Box, a love remembered in New York City!  This is a dream come true for me.  The show is on November 16th at 9:00 PM at Theatre Row on 42nd street just off Broadway.  It’s part of the United Solo Festival.  Tickets are $18 and can be purchased at www.telecharge.com or 212-239-6200.  Please see www.unitedsolo.org for more information.

Buddy was the most glorious spirit I have ever met.  He had a triumphant enthusiasm that bolted light and love everywhere he went.  He lived with great heart and courage.  He bounded through waves to retrieve balls.  He climbed mountains, swam in rivers. He was beautiful in all aspects.  In spirit.  Physically.  Emotionally.  Playfully.  In his kindness.  He was the king of kings, true royalty.

This past summer we decided to plan our family trip around Buddy.  We drove to Arizona with him in the minivan and spent a week at my father’s ranch where Buddy ran with the boys in the meadow and swam in the creek.  Then we drove to three national parks.  We found areas where he was allowed to play.  He got to swim in the Virgin River with all of us at Zion.  He figured out how to run upstream and then float down to us.  We all laughed watching him learn how to ride the current of the river.

My daughter left for college this fall.  In August, as our family trip was ending, we spent the last night in a Best Western on the outskirts of the Sierras.  We were all in one room.  Two queen beds, my husband, our three kids and Buddy.  I woke early and felt that all was right in the world.  All that I loved most dearly was there with me sleeping—a mother’s sense of peace and heaven.

Three years ago we moved to California, I had a tough time with the move.  That’s an understatement.  Buddy had never been a leash dog as he had lived on a large piece of property in Arizona.  But Buddy quickly learned to love his walks and I learned to love walking him.  He’d smell the flowers and pee on them; I’d see the flowers and think they were pretty.  Noticing beauty helps any problem, so does having a 100 pound lab pull you forward into life. His spirit literally walked me mile after mile back to happiness.

Because I work at home, it’s as if he and I danced together all day.  I’d talk to him and he spoke English.  I’d tell him I was going to write for a bit and that he could go nap and then we’d have lunch together.  Sometimes he’d doze beside me while I worked at my desk.  Other times, he’d go up to my son’s room, sleep on his bed until he heard me clinking away in the kitchen.  We ate lunch sitting on the steps together and I always gave him half.  Often in the afternoon, we’d walk out together to meet the school bus.  So the days went.

The day after Buddy died, I let the boys skip school.  They slept in.  When Scott and William woke, I made pancakes and we told Buddy stories. They laughed recalling the time they made a harness so Buddy could pull them down the street on a skateboard at full speed.  They remembered when they were little and dressed Buddy up in costumes for different skits their sister had created.  They remembered the Christmas where he ate all of Santa’s cookies.  They remembered the fourth of July party where he’d eaten too many hotdogs and watermelon rinds and got sick under the picnic table where everyone was sitting. Scott and William both told me that they felt lost, didn’t know what to do with being so sad because whenever they were this sad, they went to Buddy.

“I feel lucky he was our dog for nine years.  I wanted more.  But I’m grateful we got what we got.  We are really, really lucky to have him as our dog,” William said.  “He’s the greatest dog in the world,” William added and Scott agreed.

“The thing with dogs,” Scott said to me, “Is that when you get one, you know it’s going to hurt, the worst kind of hurt, when they die, because you love them that much, more than anything, but Mom,” he said, “It’s worth it.  It’s worth the hurt.”

Two days after Buddy died I met with my minister.  I told him about Buddy.  I told him that Buddy had attributes that I lacked, that being with Buddy made me feel complete.  Buddy lived without fear, I explained.  He bounded into the world with pure enthusiasm.  I tend to want to dip my toe in the water, again and again, checking and rechecking if it’s safe to dive.  I’ve been known to wait so long that I’ve missed the window to swim.  Buddy always dove in.  He never hesitated when going after a ball he wanted.

“I don’t want to let him go,” I told my minister.

“Don’t,” he said.  “Embrace what he gave you.  Embrace him.”

I am trying my hardest to take his spirit into my heart, all one hundred pounds of it.  While he waited for me to attach his leash, he would spin in circles around our entry hall.  When he and I were ready to walk, Buddy would prance out the door smelling the day, taking it in, “Ahhhh, life!  I love life!”  That’s what he’d say.

I want to bolt out the front door with joy and zest, but I’m struggling.  I want to feel that pull on my left hand, the excitement in the leash for what the day has ahead, taking me out into the world.

I try to recall other things Buddy said often so that I can understand the weight of who he was— top of the list was, “I love you sooooo much!”

He also said, “I love to eat! I love food!”

He also said, “That smells soooo good, will you pleeeeeeaaaasee give me a little taste?”

He also said, “Ball? Ball? Ball?” and “Walk? Walk? Walk?”

He also said, “I know you’re sad.  I’m here.  I love you.”

He also said, “Thank you” for food, for walks, for tummy scratches.

The more I take in of who Buddy was, the more I wonder.  What if we’re not supposed to be stoic individuals?  What if we got that all wrong?  What if we’re supposed to let ourselves be profoundly touched, affected, changed by those we love and admire—humans and other living creatures? Maybe this is how we progress as a people, through open admiration and a courage to love and keep loving, even though it hurts when there is loss, great loss—because it’s worth it.

Dan, my husband, came into my office.  “Hey, good morning!” he said to me with outstretched arms.  He’s usually not a morning person by any definition.  I noticed in him a new warmth, a new depth of gratitude for just seeing me.

“Is that my Buddy greeting?” I asked sitting alone at my desk.

“Yes,” he said walking towards me.  “I’m working on incorporating his spirit into my life.  He lived well.”

I smiled and let Dan’s arms embrace me.

For a moment, I could see how a hundred pounds of sadness could turn into a hundred reasons to live a little differently because a lab named Buddy showed us how.

“Are you going to the dentist?” I ask.

I’m sitting on the sidewalk outside the dentist’s office in the shade on the cold concrete trying to write, to not be distracted by kids in the dentist’s office.

The little girl smiles, eyes bright.

“It’s her first visit,” the mother says proudly.

In they go.  The door closes.

My 18 year-old daughter is inside.  It’s her last check-up before going to college.  She leaves in two weeks.  I left her in the x-ray room wearing a heavy apron.  They’re checking her wisdom teeth.

A woman comes out of the dentist’s office carrying a 3 or 4 year-old boy on her hip.  He looks groggy, a bit reserved.

“How you feelin’?” she asks.  “You tired?” Her voice is kind.

He snuggles into her as they go to the car.

A middle school boy and his father walk out.  The boy is 12, maybe 13.  Outside the door, the boy stops.  “See, this is the one that was broken,” he says lifting his top lip to show his teeth.

The dad stops walking, bends to look.

“Now it’s fixed!” the boy says.

The dad pats the boy’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze, they turn and walk on together.

My daughter has been up late sorting through her things–– what to take?  I went to bed before she did leaving her in sitting in the middle of a pile of clothes and magazines, new sheets and towels.

In the morning by the front door there were plastic garbage bags filled with give-away items–– clothes, shoes.

As my daughter starts to make the pile of things to take with her, I want to say, “Take the love.  Take all the love we gave you.  Leave the rest.”

Another mother comes out of the dentist’s office with two young boys.  Both boys carry new treasures.  One has a green plastic camera.

“Say cheese, Mom,” he says.  “Say cheese!”

She’s four or five feet ahead of him.  She turns, stops and says, “Cheese.”

She smiles at him–– a loving I-sure-love-you-a-lot smile.

He clicks the camera.  And they walk on.

My daughter comes out of the dentist’s office.

“No cavities!” she smiles.  I love her smile.  “And we’re waiting on the wisdom teeth.”

We walk to the car together.  Many of her friends leave for college this week.  She’s talking, talking–– telling me about who’s leaving next, how excited she is to go.

“It’s so hard with my friends,” she tells me.  “I go to say good-bye and I’m sad they’re going, really sad.  It’s hard to be the one who is left,” she says.  “But they’re excited, so excited that I have to suck it up and be excited for them.  You know what I mean?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

I can see it.  We arrive at her dorm.  Walk around, see things, get her settled.  And then it’s time to leave.  She hugs me and I hug her.  I snuggle in–– smelling the scent of conditioner, lotion and youth.  And then I give her shoulder a squeeze.  She smiles, eyes bright.  And off she goes.  She bounces past me.  She’s wearing a white cotton sundress, her wispy blond hair pulled up into little barrettes.

I hear a child’s voice, a young child, say to me, “Say cheese, Mom.  Say cheese!”

They purchased water balloons and spent hours filling and launching balloons–– sometimes at nothing, sometimes at each other and sometimes at pretty girls on rafts.

Boy heaven.

The other day my youngest son and I were going for a swim.  It was hot at last after a summer of cold days.  The sun was shining.  We dove in, delighted to cool off, but still surprised by how cold the water was that lurked under the top six inches.

We quickly determined if we floated on our backs the water was all warm.  Our dog, Buddy, a100-pound male Labrador retriever, sat on the dock and watched us.  He had a summer lifeguard disposition as he casually tracked our movements but he was more inclined to enjoy the soft breeze passing through his fur.

My son and I were trying to decide which buoys to swim to.  We would stretch out, get a little exercise and then swim in.  Then William had an idea.

“I know Mom, what if I launch a tennis ball and we swim for it?  I bet I can get it out 200 yards.”

The idea sounded fun to me.  Given I was never a 12-year-old boy, I often try to take the opportunity to do things I’ve never done before.  This means I’ve had the pleasure of shooting airsoft guns, wiping on a skateboard, and eating sour candy before 9 am.

Here was another activity I could add to my list of experiencing life as a boy.

William swam into shore and found a tennis ball under a raft on the dock.  Buddy perked up.  “Hey, someone gonna play?”

William put the ball in the funnel, stretched the bungee cord tight and let go.  I watched the tennis ball arc high in the air and then soar past me.  It was a beautiful launch.  I heard the ball land.  I swam for it.  Delighted with the game, I reached the ball, grabbed it and turned and started swimming back for shore.

I had gone a hundred feet or so when I paused.  It was a challenge trying to swim free-style with a tennis ball in my hand.  I considered tucking the ball in my suit.  I could even hold it with my teeth.

I treaded water, doing a slow doggy-paddle as I reviewed my options and then I looked up.  There on the dock were William and Buddy.  They were watching me, waiting as I retrieved the ball.

There are moments in life when one pauses.

At least William hadn’t yelled, “Fetch Mom!” when he launched the ball.

“Come on Mom!”  William said.  “Bring it on in.”

At that point, I decided after I got out and shook myself off, I’d  nap in the sun and savor the thought that in a few hours someone would feed me dinner.

When my high-school senior called during school hours, I could tell from the background noise that she wasn’t at school.

“Where are you?” I asked. 

There was a pause. 

“I’m in the city shopping for swimsuits,” she said.  “We’re allowed five unexcused absences.” 

I remembered her learning to count.

When I began to fret, her freshman brother tried to comfort me, “She’s an angel compared to other seniors, mom.” 

“I’m still her mother,” I said to him.

The craziness of Senior Spring is upon us–– that attitude of “we’re out of here soon, so let’s live for today” is what keeps mothers awake.  Ask most adults and they remember spring of their senior year.  Most don’t remember their mother. 

The recent bulletin home from the school confirms my uneasiness.  “Senior Reminder: to maintain appropriate behavior for the last few days of school.” 

Graduation is this week.  Today I’m taking the younger brothers in for haircuts.  Grandparents arrive the day after tomorrow.  I bought a new dress for me and made reservations at an Italian restaurant for 7:00 after the 4:00 graduation ceremony.  I started the day making lists.

But more than all of these details, is the hope and prayer that I’ve done enough right. 

Tomorrow my daughter turns 18.  Two days later, she graduates from high school.  The other day she asked me to go shopping with her so she could select bedding for her college dorm room.  This was the week before finals.

“We’ll have time this summer,” I said. 

But she’s D-O-N-E.

I’m reminded of being pregnant.  There was a lovely time, maybe it lasted a few weeks–– it was between morning sickness and swollen feet and I loved being pregnant.  I loved feeling the baby move inside of me, her stretches and hiccups, her graceful swirls and twirls.  I remember seeing a foot glide across my belly pushing my skin from the inside out.  I could see the imprint of a tiny heel, the ball of the foot and toes.  Otherworldly?  Definitely.   

And then the mystery and awe of that time gave way to physical discomfort.  She elbowed my rib.  She kicked my bladder.  I had indigestion and ate antacids all day and all night.  I waddled.  I didn’t sleep.  She wanted out.  She wanted more room.  I wanted her out.  And then she was born.

And now, at age almost 18, she’s ready to go again.  I watched her clean out her closet and give two bags of clothes to neighbor girls.  Early this morning, she was stressed trying to print out a high school physics portfolio, but how much can it really matter when you’ve already packed for college?

Even the phone call from my mother-in-law added to my concerns. 

“We didn’t want to fly in on her 18^th birthday.  I remember my 18^th birthday, and I sure wouldn’t have wanted my grandparents around.”

When the children were young, I didn’t go to church regularly.  I found the daycare centers germ-infested and the stress of getting everyone ready and out the door not worth it.  But these days I go.  I go every Sunday and I stop in church mid-week as well.  I’m asking for help.  God’s help.

As a teenager, I remember touring cathedrals in Italy and France with my family.  In every church, there were towering arches, beautiful stained glass windows and tiny old women kneeling and mumbling prayers on worn wooden pews. 

I had no idea why the women were there.  Now I know.

I don’t know how to let a child go.  It’s against everything I’ve been creating as a mother­­–– arms to hold her, a home to hold her, a school that would hold her–– until she started kicking.

She’s starting to outgrow the house.  She’s starting to outgrow me.  I suppose this means my job is almost D-O-N-E.  Words of wisdom I say don’t matter anymore, don’t stick.  From her perspective, I’m overprotective, worry too much, am overly concerned with safety and consequences and basically, know nothing. 

The more I talk, advise, suggest, counsel, fret, beg, plead, threaten, get angry, cry… tell stories from my life, tell stories from friends’ lives, use fancy metaphors and plain English, the more she’s ready to go.  

“Grandpa had a dear friend who died spring of his senior year,” my husband told our daughter during a serious conversation.

Later I asked my husband about it.  “I never heard that story,” I said. 

“I made it up,” he said.

When church service ends, I find comfort and inspiration when the minister says, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

Can you imagine me saying to my daughter as she’s on her way out the door to her fifth graduation party, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord”?

What can I say to her?  To myself?

Know that when you go that I did the best I could, in my wounded way, in my human way.  That I loved you.  And will always love you.  And I release you.  I release you as I always should have into the hands of God.  Who is there always for you, who has always been there for you.  Who will guide you in ways I can’t.  Who will show you your purpose, in ways I’m not meant to.  Who will love you through people and places I will not know.  You are here for important reasons, to do important work, to shine in your way and your way alone.

I’m sorry I didn’t take you to church, that you don’t have a more traditional hand-off.  But I didn’t find God in church.  I found God in you.  In the mystery of being pregnant, of a tiny newborn reaching her hand out to grab mine.  In your first laugh. Dad and I marveled with awe at your every new stage.  You made us see the beauty that is life.  And because you changed so quickly, you reminded us that life is fleeting and if we didn’t notice­­­­-–– breeding hamsters, wearing braces, having lemonade stands–– it was over.  So we tried to notice and to savor.

Last Saturday I spent the day going through old pictures to create a collage for graduation.  I saw pictures from everything—cake decorating to dance recitals, stuffed animal birthday parties to high school prom. 

I called a friend of mine that evening, “I had the best day,” she said, “I spent all day in my garden.”

I laughed.  “So did I,” I said.  “So did I.”  What a beautiful garden of memories and love it is. 

These days, the teenagers look young and the women praying in church don’t look so old.

I slide into a wooden pew and all I can say to God is, “Watch over her.  Guide her.  And if you love her half as much as I do, it will be enough.”