Maybe the Worst Thing

 

My Weekly Blog Paragraph (or a few more. But not much.)

Which is what you end up with after you spend a good part of the week working on a piece that just isn’t coming together. Which is not too surprising, since you are thinking a lot about Cynthia Bourgeault’s book, “Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening,” and trying to share what you are learning from it. Except it is dense stuff, and your writing about it is barely limping along.

Since you have a streak of more than a year of posting a blog entry every week, the time has come for writing something completely new, and not taking too long at it, since it is already nearly 8:00 pm on Saturday night, and you did 5 ½ hours of massage today, and you are a little worn. Nevertheless, something needs to show up on the blog this week.

One of your first writing mentors, Arthur Jones, who was the Washington D.C Bureau chief for the “National Catholic Reporter” newspaper where you worked as an intern decades ago, had a saying that you’ve remembered:

“Robin. The time has come, that if it’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing poorly.”

I love that.

Also.

My thoughts keep drifting tonight to 16-year-old Kiely Rodni, who disappeared a week ago from a party in Truckee.  I can’t imagine the terror her mother, her family, her friends, are experiencing. Her mom said that she got a text from her daughter as she was about to leave the party. She said she would be home soon. The text also said, “Love you, Mama.” That was the last she heard from her.

I think this is pretty much the worst thing that could ever happen to a parent.  Even worse, I think, than a child’s dire medical diagnosis. Because in that case, as terrible as it is, your child is still with you. In this case? She’s just gone.

Anything I’ve ever complained about? Anything I’ve worried about lately (and if you scan this blog’s entries, you’ll find a lot)? None of it compares to what it would be like to have your daughter disappear. All of us who can look around and see our loved ones safe, sound? We are blessed beyond all blessings. Even if the car check engine light comes on. Even if milk is $5.00 a gallon. Even if a fire sweeps through our town and destroys it all.  Even if. Even if.

None of it matters.

I just talked to my daughter, who called me from a food truck festival in Santa Monica, because she wanted advice on what special food to try. We debated the different options (not swirly, curly potatoes, because, you know, you can make potatoes at home. Not pasta, because, same! Also can make at home!) and finally decided on fried noodles (because frying noodles is an entirely different thing than boiling them). Also, there is something called “ube” that she might get for dessert, and she tried to explain what it was to me, but I could not understand what she was talking about at all. She finally spelled it out for me and said to Google it.

Newsflash: “Ube” is a purple yam.

Now, possibly, you have learned something, too.

There is nothing more beautiful than having your daughter call on a Saturday night just to discuss the merits of different food truck options. Can’t stop thinking about Kieli’s mom and family tonight. Hoping against hope that they will be back together again soon.