It's 3:30 in the morning and here I sit typing. Something about the death of Robin Williams is hitting me as though I knew him.  My heart hurts, as though he were a friend.  I've always respected his work, found some of his movies brilliant and some embarrassing, but I've always liked him.  And now his passing feels like another thread pulled from my tapestry, leaving a gaping hole.  Why is that?

I'm not surprised that he killed himself.  On some level I've been waiting for it for years.  How could a star that burns that brightly not burn itself out?  The poor thing.  It must have been exhausting to be that brilliant, that kind, that talented.  He took so much out of his own hide.  Is it any wonder he had trouble with alcohol and drugs?  I can certainly see why he would try to quiet the raging forces of his mind.

His movie "What Dreams May Come" was not a big hit, but I saw it in the theater years ago and became completely unglued.  The movie, in case you haven't seen it, involved a couple who lost their children in a car accident, then the father (Williams) died trying to help someone in an accident in a tunnel, then the mother killed herself in grief.  The images of heaven that followed were so eerie.  There is no way to describe it other than "it felt like a memory" even though I know that sounds ridiculous and pretentious.  Heaven was tailor-made to fit the expectations of whatever one needed to see.  For him it started as an impressionist painting, the pigments coming off on his hands and clothing.  Things got more solid and clearer as he settled in.  I'm doing this from memory and it's probably been twenty years since I've seen it.  But the feeling remains vivid.  You just had to sit on your toboggan and go along for the ride.  I'll have the opportunity soon, since I just ordered the DVD copy I've been promising myself for years. 

I'm deeply sorry for his family, and for all of us, too.  We have lost someone special who was more important than we realized.  I regret that the joy he gave us had to come at such a high cost for him.  God has already welcomed him home, I'm sure, and I hope he likes his new digs.  At last he'll find peace there, although he has left the world a lot duller for the rest of us.

I am no longer the mother of teenagers.  Today my younger son turns twenty, and I am astounded at how fast that happened.  It seems only yesterday that the sky turned black, the thunder and lightning shook the hospital, and I turned to my husband and said, "I hope the lady in the next room is having the Anti-Christ and it's not us".  Well, it wasn't, because there has never been a more delightful kid than this one.  He is brilliant and sensitive, nerdy and funny.  Most of all he is kind.
We've been away for a few days for what I hope is not our last, but is  probably one of our last getaways as a family before people start careers and families and all that.  To have the opportunity to listen to some of the ideas that run through his head at top speed is both dizzying and wonderful.  The world fascinates him and he takes it apart piece by piece and examines it from every angle, coming away with a sense of awe at the mysteries of the universe.  This is nothing new.  At the age of four every sentence started with either, "You know what?" or "Can I tell you something?"  I learn something every time I talk to him.

He's not big on words.  He is, however, the first one to put an arm around my shoulders when he senses that I'm having a tough day.  He makes me a cup of tea. There are a million layers to him, and I feel as though I've only scratched the surface.  He is deep and complicated and keeps many things to himself.  I suspect I'll never understand him completely, but I am always amazed and impressed by him, and his presence makes me smile.

He's heading back to his junior year of college next week.  His big brother leaves on Saturday of this week.  The house will echo.  My curiosity at how this all turns out takes some of the sting out of the emptiness for me.  These guys are something else, and if I never did one other thing I have raised the average of the universe by setting them loose on the world. Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.

You are one of a kind! :)

Sitting out on the front porch with a cup of coffee and a very aged paperback book, I was distracted when a butterfly alit on a dandelion at the foot of the stairs.  Now, said butterfly had plenty of dandelions from which to choose, because we all know how good I am at gardening, but it chose this one and I started thinking.  The weed I haven't gotten around to pulling gave this graceful creature a place to rest for a brief moment.  My sister always identifies butterflies with my mother, who is doing her own flying and alighting these days.  It was a sweet thought on this birthday when I qualify for Social Security, that Mom is still around and checking up on me.

On this quiet summer birthday with an overcast sky I can't help thinking of all the people who used to send me cards and aren't around to do that anymore.  I miss them, and the nature of my birthday has changed because of their absence.  Jim Flanagan, Maggie Cox, Jim Webb, David Brudnoy, Jack Morris, Rosemary Reilly, Helen Barry, not to mention my brothers, my niece Barbara, and my Mom and Dad, they're all in my heart in a special way today.  I feel their presence although I can no longer see their faces.  But they're here and always will be.  Meanwhile, 114 Facebook greetings later I am overwhelmed at the number of people who take the time to say they care and to celebrate with me.  My sons and husband are waiting to shower me with love and attention, but that can wait until a little later.  I'm just hanging out here with the butterflies and feeling the love and oceans of gratitude for the people who have been sent into my life.