Sacred Pauses: The Music of the Moment

Reflecting on the power of the Sacred Pause.

Those moments filled with a palpable energy – tension, fear, hope, joy.

Pure Presence.

Music is Magic. Chris and I came to Lexington, KY last night to see one of our favorite musicians, Peter Frampton, on the last show of his RAW tour, an acoustic and storytelling show, at the historic Lexington Opera House.  We value these intimate and stripped down performances so much.  It got me thinking about how present we are for these experiences.  And, the moments we enjoy so much, the sacred pauses.

As I pondered this idea of the sacred pause, here’s what came to mind…

The first few moments between placing the needle on a record and hearing the first notes of the song.

When the lights go down in the theater and the show is about to begin, just before the performers take the stage.

When a tear streams down your face because the beauty of those notes and that voice taps into a part of your heart and soul.

When you hear a song and are immediately transported to another place and time. And it’s amazing, or it’s heartbreaking.

When you’re on the stage, just before the curtain comes up and you hear the applause and roar of the crowd, and you know your friends, your parents are part of the ruckus.

When it’s over and you feel the rush of relief and excitement and the crowd gives you their feedback in the form of applause and getting on their feet.

At the top of the hill, in formation, at attention, just before the percussion section starts the cadence and we begin our march to the field.

When the band finally gets through the whole song without being stopped by the conductor because of a mistake.

When your name gets called and you begin the walk to take your chair to perform your piece at competition.

When you’re at the roller rink, hanging out, and your song comes on, and you scramble to get onto the floor and take your place in the line of skaters who are strutting their stuff around the edge of the rink.

When the slow skate announcement is made and you wonder if you’ll be asked to skate.

When the slow song announcement is made at the dance and you wonder if you’ll be asked to dance.

When your son and his friends, who have worked their entire young lives to be on that stage, at that show and they are announced, and they walk out, and the smiles on their faces fill your heart with so much joy you think you might bust.  And, you don’t even care that it’s 150 degrees and 100% humidity.  Because, it’s that moment.

When you take your kids to see the first American Idol concert and your 12 year old daughter loses her mind.  I mean screaming, going bezerk, over Justin & Kelly.  And you look at the rest of your family and smile and laugh and she keeps losing her mind.

When you take your son to see a legend, a Beatle, and he leans over to you and says, one day I’m going to be on a stage like that with a guy bringing me different guitars for every song, and you swell with joy because you know he’s just created a powerful possibility.  And, you were there to see a Beatle together for the first and last time.

When the runaway smash musical Hamilton inspires a movement and you run up on stage during an event with a community choir to belt out songs from the show. And you don’t even care that most of them are 18 or under.  You sing your heart out.

When you and your lifelong gal pals are at the same show, sharing the same love and joy for the music, and THAT song comes on, and you all look at each other, and express your joy and excitement because it’s THAT song and you cheer and you dance.

When the whole audience sings and the venue is filled with thousands of people, united in harmony, in the moment.

What are the musical sacred pauses of your life? Share in the comments or on Instagram. #SacredPauses

That Kind of Woman

I stand at the shore.

I feel the urge to joyfully and freely frolic into the sea.

My representative stops me.

She tells me I’m not safe.

She must first scan for threats.

There are too many, of course.

I am frozen.

I am resigned to her wisdom.

I resent, but respect her.

The beach is my happy place.

I am always more at peace, more at ease and more at home in my body when I am in the presence of the sea.

The blues and greens of the water.

The white or tan sand.

The crashing waves.

The cadence of the surf.

And yet.

When I get near the water, I am compelled to STOP.

Every fish.

Every jellyfish.

A threat.

I am vigilant.

And I wonder.

What would it be like to be the kind of woman who just goes out into the sea?

A woman who frolics into the surf?

What would it be like to be that free?

What would it be like to be married to that woman?

What would it be like to be loved by that woman?

What would it be like to have that kind of woman as a mom? A nana?

What would it be like to have that kind of woman as a friend?

What contributions would a woman like that make in the world?

What would it take for me to become that woman?

Because the question has been asked, the journey has begun.


Becoming Nana

It started with a phone call. And then I realized news like this had been shared before. Twice. A tale of unplanned pregnancies and the journey to becoming nana, becoming whole.

The Sound of Sunshine

The sound of her ringtone, an excerpt from Mr. Wendel by Arrested Development or her “tweet” text tone always made my heart smile. Since she’d moved to California the number of times I would hear her voice or see her smile were random, highly prized opportunities. Like the weather, this one was hard to predict, changed her course on a whim and could knock the “power” out of us all with one of her big decisions.

On the afternoon of February 19, 2013 she mercifully ended a 14 day silence, which extended beyond the previously agreed upon 7 day rule. More than 7 days without hearing from here and I would begin Operation Sunshine. I would book a ticket, fly to San Francisco or wherever she’d last been seen and begin talking to every happy hippy I saw with one request. “Take me to the one you call sunshine.”

Elated to hear her voice and to have a clear connection, the inquisition began. Where had she been? How had she been? Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she hungry or in need of money? Who was she with? Was she ok?

Cue the long distance eye-roll.

 “I’m fine mom, gosh! I’m sorry it’s been so long, really sorry.” There was a series of pleasantries and then the familiar “sooooo…….” that typically preceded a request for money, assistance or an announcement of some kind.   I was prepared, or so I thought.

“I’m pregnant.”

And then came the pregnant pause.

The tension was palpable.

The Sound of Silence

Mine…wanting to say exactly the right, best thing to convey my surprise, without revealing my panic and shock while also conveying my love and support.

Hers…waiting to see how I would respond.

In the warmest, calmest, kindest and most loving tone I could imagine, I spoke.

“Woooowwww.   How are you feeling?????”

“I’m feeling good Mom. I’ve been really confused and not really sure what to do, but I’m feeling good and I’m gonna have the baby.”

“Oh darlin, congratulations.” Immediately followed by “Well honey, you’ve had a good run. You’ve had some great adventures and done some fun things.”

She laughed, said she still had a few great adventures left in her and we carried on.

In talking with her about this recently, she remembers nothing of the thoughtful and deliberate first response and just that I said “Well kid, you’ve had a good run!”. I still give myself points for this initial response.

Going Deeper

The next series of questions needed to be asked delicately.

Tentatively, I asked…“Are you planning to stay in California honey?”

“Yes Mama, I’m gonna probably stay out here. We’re gonna figure this out together.”

Ah, WE are gonna figure this out.

I knew better than to ask, who’s WE and just went straight for the answer I really wanted.

“Who’s the father honey?”  

“This guy I’ve been hanging out with out here, you know, I told you about him, me and Steph gave him a ride from the last show and we’ve been hanging out and well, we’re gonna make this work.”

“What’s his name?”


“Right. Ok. So, I guess since he’s the father of my grandchild I get to ask this next question without a lot of fuss. What’s his whole name, his given name?

Cue the Mission Impossible Music

Laptop at the ready to do an instant background check. Thanks internet!

She reluctantly responded to my request for all the relevant details about the father of my future grandchild. Dripping out details slowly.

He was there. Listening to her share his pertinent info, I could hear his anxiety level rising through the phone.

“Congratulations to you both sweetie. We’re here for you and will be all the way. You know that, right?”

“Yeah Mom, I do. Thank you soooooo much.”

“Have you called your Dad and brother yet?”

“No, not yet, I will though!”

“OK darlin. Do it soon. They’ll want to know.

Are you nervous about telling Dad?  You know he’ll be OK as long as you are OK, right?”

“Yeah Mom, I know. I just need to do it. It’s all happening so fast.”

“I love you honey.”

“Thanks Mama. I love you so much. Gotta go. I’ll call you soon.”

Three beeps and the screen fades.

Call ended.

Bomb dropped.

Gag order in effect until Dad and brother get the news. Damn.

My husband, having overheard my end of this conversation from the comfort of our bed, was primed as I entered the doorway to give him the news.  We recognized that life, for her, for all of us, was shifting into a different reality.  A new season was upon us.

My next step was to create.

I picked up a crochet hook and started making a blanket for my new grandchild. I focused on the blessing of a baby. I thought about when I found out I was pregnant with her. The recollection of that moment and the similarities began to soak in.

And then it hit me. Hard.

This kind of news had been delivered before. Twice.

Once by my own mother, a young woman of 18 in 1965 who found herself pregnant following an affair she defined as a relationship and he defined as a fling. The stigma attached to unwed mothers in 1966 was strong. Ultimately, it was stronger than her. She would commit suicide when she was 21. I was 19 months old and my family would conceal this from me until I was about 8. They left me at the sitters until the sad news was over and never came straight out and told me what happened. They strong-armed the biological father out, believing it was in my best interest, had him sign over rights. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t talk about her. They still don’t.   Any of the answers I needed I sought out myself with my Mamaw, her mother, who was my biggest advocate and greatest love. Sadly, she died when I was just 15 and I haven’t gotten a straight answer from anyone in my family since then. A story for another day…

As I reflected on my own discovery that I was pregnant with my sunshine it wasn’t my family I turned to for support and guidance, it was my friends. I was 23 and in a tumultuous relationship with the manager from the restaurant I worked in. We were in love. This carefully curated group of girls and boys with great parents and families became my family in ways my adoptive family couldn’t. I trusted these strangers instantly more than my own family. Eventually I shared the news with those who should be told. My adoptive mom was accepting and had that “well, ok honey, it’ll all be okay, don’t worry.” I don’t even remember my Dad’s response.The boyfriend and I broke up. I explored my options.  I pondered abortion and adoption.  When the weight of making this decision on my own finally broke me, I went back to tell my ex-boyfriend that I’d decided to keep her and he was happy. We were a wrong fit, but had big hearts and big hopes that we could work it out. A baby would create a focus that was greater than our relationship and respective baggage.

And then, the baby comes….

I was born and loved as best I could be while my Mom and Mamaw were alive.

I was loved by my adoptive family the best they knew how, and still am.

My sunshine was born and was loved, is still loved, by us all. A committed quad of co-parents who each fill a special place in her heart.

Acacia Cadence Estock came into the world on August 5, 2013 in Grass Valley, California.   She was loved, is loved and represented a kind of healing and wholeness I hadn’t felt since I’d been with my own mother and grandmother, nearly 45 years prior.

That moment I walked into that hospital room after traveling all day from Kentucky and saw my two girls, embraced them together, was a healing I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sufficiently capture in words. It was a coming home to myself. I felt as though I’d been made real, that my very existence was now confirmed, now undeniable. I was at home in this union of souls and hearts and looking into the eyes and faces of two girls who looked just like we did when we were born.

The trio of women I’d been missing for most of my life, the composition of the hole in my heart and my soul – my grandmother, my mom and me together – was reshaping itself. I felt this coming home in every cell of my body. I was home with these girls in my arms. And they were too. And we are here for each other in ways I never understood people could be there for each other.

The healing that Acacia has brought to my world is being radiated backwards and forwards in my maternal line. Just as the birth of my own children gave me a deeper desire to KNOW my own parents and my own story, Acacia’s birth and presence have given me a deeper connection to my mother and grandmother. They are here. They are looking over us. They are our angels. And we are together again in ways I couldn’t have predicted. And I am forever changed.

Coming Attractions

There’s a new grandbaby on the way. Lorelei Brooks Spurling is due in February of 2016. I received that call from my son. And my response was a little different. But that’s a story for another time. Stay tuned.

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A Defining Moment

Her final moment became my defining moment. Setting myself free would become my life’s work.

February 5, 1968

She couldn’t bear the weight of the world.

She couldn’t take care of me the way she wanted or needed to.

She ended her life.

So began a defining moment of mine.

I was 19 months old.

My mind doesn’t hold the memories, but my body remembers everything.

It was during this traumatic, confusing and tender season when my representative was born. (something I’d not been able to articulate until I read Glennon Doyle Melton’s memoir, Love Warrior.)

She would protect me.

She would examine the motives of all those who would interact with me and report back if it was safe to come out or if I needed to stay hidden.

She would determine how and when I should show up, be seen, be heard based on her experiences of the world, of others.

She would go on to dictate the majority of decisions in my life.

She would go on to guide the majority of the interactions and relationships in my life.

I am 50 years old.

Decades of therapy, body work, energy work and personal development have brought me to this defining moment in my life.

My representative has concerns.

She would hardly approve of the level of vulnerability and exposure, of risk that writing my truth invites.

She would caution me that it’s not safe to be me.

She tells me that she’s the only one who can run “this place” the right way.

I’ve presented my representative with an early retirement package.

She’s reluctantly accepted.  She’s exploring her options.

The Birth of a Blog

To the women who have been brave and bold enough to tell their stories, I give thanks. Elizabeth Gilbert, Cheryl Strayed, Brene Brown, Ann Patchett, Glennon Doyle Melton, Ann Lemott.

To the mentors, guides, healers and therapists who have encouraged me and seen the real me, thank you.

To the friends and family who have been patiently waiting for me to step into my truth, to the truth and beauty of who I am and who I can be – things are about to get really interesting. 😉

To the friends and family who aren’t interested in my truth, I say, I get it.  Carry on.  I release any need to convince, convert or otherwise ask for your interest or blessing.  Spoiler alert.  Should you choose to read and follow, things are about to get a little uncomfortable.

This is my truth.

Not what I think I should or shouldn’t write.

Not what I think I should or shouldn’t share.

Not what I think you want to read or what you want me to share.

Not what I think you can handle.

This is my expression of freedom.

This is my expression of truth.

This is my expression of self.

This is my work.

My name is Whitney Bishop.

This is my experience.