Cheryl Ann Mull Moody

Purple Rose for Our Theatre Queen

Wild, funny, big-hearted, snarky, wonderful crazy woman. We met in high school backstage. One of the first things she did for me was wrangle a furious girlfriend who just found out the guy who'd started dating me had stopped dating her. Opening night, minutes before curtain up, that girl was going to deck me. The show must go on! Cheryl Ann did big deeds for people and spurned gratitude, but wow – cross her, and she'd take you out at the knees. She always loved her people wholeheartedly.

Many years later we were roomies in my Detroit house we called The House For Women on Their Way to Do Something Else. She would hear of a woman who could use a room, and in she'd move. Tennessee had a cousin Alabama, who just moved north. Come on in. Cheryl Ann had Tennessee roots her own self. Stinkin' Creek Road, if I remember correctly. We got introduced to peanuts in Coke.

Cheryl asked - soon after moving in - if she could use the oven. Sure! I said. She came back into the living room - did you know there are books in there? Oh, that's where those went! We both read the books she dragged out of the oven immediately. Forget dinner.

We all pitched in for household bills, and had a Chinese puzzle box on the coffee table for other stuff. Like psychics. And parties. And stuff. If you couldn't get the puzzle box open, you'd had enough stuff already.

She had pet names for all of us. She always called me Linda Ruth. She called my sister EA. I called her Cheryl Ann, with a hard CH and a twangy Tennessee accent.

Cheryl ran phone interference for everyone in the house. Is she here? I'll check. If she got a head shake no, she'd tell the person on the other end whatever story she thought up. If it was my mother, she just told her I wasn't in. She always knew what her friends needed.

I left the Christmas tree up until April one year. Cheryl Ann told people I wasn't going to take it down until the hostages came home. She always covered our foolishness.

So many wonderful memories. We laughed more than we did anything else. She loved to laugh, and did often and deep.

Among the pictures is a welcome home dinner she did for me. Fancy tablecloth, sign, apron et al. I had probably been gone 3 days. She did thoughtful things for people her whole life.

One of the men I was dating was older. Cheryl called him Dad. We'd take the roomies who were home on dinner dates. Cheryl would start a ruckus before we got down the driveway. "Are we there yet?" "Dad, she's poking me." "I have to go to the bathroom."

At one of the parties, 3 men I was dating all showed up. The house was big enough, and this party was on all 3 floors and in the back and front yards, so Cheryl would find me, warn me, head him(s) off, and I'd duck up down and around like a cartoon whodunit. She always had your back.

She saved me more than once, and with love and, when appropriate, a good scold.

We said when we were old ladies in the nursing home, we'd have a big couch. She would read on one end, and I would read on the other. She's now reading on the big couch in heaven, and one day, I'll take the other end.

I will always love her. Always.

Grace in a Bottle

How do we keep grace? Do we hang out at the table in Whole Foods where we first experienced the feeling, hoping for its return? Whose grace was granted? Why did Carol and I share that moment? May we experience grace with others? Can we ever explain what happened? I don't know. Perhaps what is new for me is I am okay with never knowing. We have wonderful friends. We share. When I am with graceful women, I feel graced, too. We are compassionate and gentle with each other. This is grace. My sisters replenish my supply of philosophy's amazing grace bath gel each year. I love it (and them) for the fragrance, but mostly for the copy on the bottle. I borrowed a piece of the wisdom for my profile. On the bath gel, philosophy defines grace as compassion, gratitude, surrender, faith, forgiveness, good manners, reverence, and the list goes on. My therapist, the gifted and graced Rosemary Jozwiak, said years ago that all I was missing is faith in a good outcome. And thanks to friendship and belief, I now have the missing piece of the philosophy puzzle. I intend to keep grace alive and to grow the love.

State of Grace

Carol and I met on a Tuesday at Whole Foods in Ann Arbor. We had a croissant, a beverage and were sharing how we feel, what we understand is happening to us and the universe, and what, if anything, we can do to dissipate the year of spirit cloudiness we both are experiencing. I said something about locking ego in the closet in the basement. Carol softly spoke of the bittersweetness of aging. Then everything changed. One moment we were swathed in mist, and then we were alight in clarity. The experience was profound, dimensions beyond anything we knew before. What just happened? we asked each other. Lights had auras. The chatter in my head disappeared. We were bathed in an aurora borealis of calm warmed golden light. Carol pinched herself. Had we just ascended? I held Carol's hand. If she ascended, I was not going to be left behind. She handed me the dried seed pod from the vase on the table. This is a lotus, she said. We took off our glasses and stared at the ceiling. We laughed. We rejoiced, awed with serenity. What just happened? Carol said this is grace. We are in a state of grace. Amazing grace.

To Beckie: In This Life and Any Other

Thinking of Beckie as we approach the end of the first year without her beloved company on earth. Written June 5, 2009, after three weeks in hospital where she would live for over a year:

My best friend Beckie and I met on August 12, 1995 at 8:30 a.m. It was a bad day for me: first day at a new job. I was grieving about my youngest niece starting day care, after being with me for 3 years. I was close to tears all morning. It was a job I did not want, for a company I could not possibly like. My workspace was isolated, in a big room that was gray. It was hot, humid, miserable and I was wearing pantyhose.

And there was Beckie. She had bronze hair, and purple eyes. She was serene and glowing. She would laugh to read this. She emanated. I walked right up to her and introduced myself, a thing I'd never done. We meet people occasionally and wonder if we've met somewhere before.

Beckie and I didn't think about that in those early friendship months. We enjoyed as much time in each other's company as we could. We ate lunch together, we finagled our workspaces to be together, and had breakfast on Sundays at Clairpointe. We shopped for shoes. We laughed. We talked. Beckie has a functionally thoughtful, deeply grooved brain. If we have met before; if reincarnation is true, Beckie brought the previous brain with her each time she showed up on Earth again. Supernumerary brain. Her life view is ancient; her responses, fresh. Being in her company is like taking a sunlight shower, a moon bath. She is wise, reasoned, and soft-spoken. She is a humanist, and an excellent human.

We are both women of strong opinion, and commonality of opinion makes our relationship satisfying, but we are unconditionally devoted to defending each other, whether we agree or not. People who choose to confront Beckie have both of us to face, and vice versa. Beckie has the better diplomatic skills and has physically stood between me and the object of my ire more than once. Where I am volatile, she is steady; my weakness is countered by her strength.

She has a scientific mind, analytical and crystalline. And a warm, accessible soul. She can multitask with each of her otherworldly brains separately, and in combination with her soul. With two young sons growing fast in her home, she could still focus on designing and laying out a college textbook on ancient Greek papyrii. In Greek.

Beckie is quietly accepting of my wandering in metaphysics and general Piscean goofballiness. Yet it was Beckie who wrote a note suggesting that perhaps we had met in another life, and more than once, and maybe I might want to write about that? For two years after I was diagnosed with cancer, Beckie carried my consciousness for me; a sacred and profound oath of friendship, to be there in the world for me while I was not capable. I love her unconditionally. Fiercely. Eternally. Beckie is our Mother Earth; majestic, mysterious, magical. She is the rock that will take on the hard place if someone she loves is in between. I wonder if the ancients may have assigned to their deity of choice the qualities Beckie embodies in her human form. She causes me to want to be the best possible person I can be.

As she has taught me, I will focus on being stronger, accepting, and radiating hope; abandoning anxiety, false control and rage. If I've stuck one hesitant toe in the waters of heavenly energy before, now I will immerse all and summon the light to be with her always with love.

A Letter to a Friend

What to do with this snowing day? I can blog about microfinance, union-busting, my Dad's guybonics, the remarkable book I read "If You Want to Write" by Brenda Ueland. I sat at my desk, staring at my fountain pen. I have fistfuls of writing implements, reams of beautiful paper, art cards from galleries on my travels, notebox gifts from friends. Healing Garden Journal published my article about avoiding by collecting titled The Last River. Today I moseyed through the writing paper and notecards, chose some, picked up the fountain pen and wrote a letter to a friend. Then I wrote to another friend. And another. I used artcards I bought on a wilderness trip in 2003, never opened. I wrote on banana paper from South America. Wrote on Geri's Christmas gift notecards. A letter to a friend is the best possible use for beautiful paper, glossy ink and a full heart.

Beckie

Rebecca Carolyn [Conrad] Raupp went home to the energy that created her early this morning. Her sons and family will need to feel that energy from this Wednesday for all the days they will be missing her smile, her guidance, her warm and solid presence. I want to believe Beckie will be there for all of us, in our hearts, molecules and awareness. In this hard world, dimmed today by her physical absence, I believe more sincerely and calmly that she will. Hour by hour we will absorb more deeply the lessons she taught, the love she shared and maybe soon I will stop asking why she had so short a life among us. I will be grateful to her, and for her for the rest of my life. Until we meet again, dearest Beckie. Nakemiin.

Happy Birthday, Beckie

Rebecca Carolyn Conrad was born on this day in 1969. She had a childhood like all children have; their stories are personal in how they remember the tale. It is not my tale to tell. She grew up, worked and gathered the skills, knowledge, opinions, feelings that became the incredible woman I met in 1995.

She changed my life that year.

Beckie has a beautiful, discerning, analytic, no-nonsense mind. She is an excellent teacher, a stalwart ally, an incomparable creative, and a gifted mother. Beckie was able to accept the original medicine she was born with, and add other gifts she gathered along life's path. Like her own video game, she landed on the caches of special powers that would be valuable and useful as she journeyed through this life.

Beckie inspires the people she meets to do the best they can. We've all met people who have this special gift, and they make finding a good path and the work in doing the right thing much easier.

For two years, when I was struggling mightily with cancer, she held my consciousness. It was not weighty or burdensome for her, and she quietly went about her own life with love, while ensuring that mine was as peaceful as could possibly be. She is a powerful and awesome spirit and I admire her strength of character and will. She is an evolved human being. I hope we will see more people like her come into the world, and take their place among the healers and peacemakers of the future. We need heroes like Beckie, with her unconditional love and clear-eyed vision.

On your day, beloved Beckie, I light a white candle to honor you, and wish you joy, comfort, peace and the company of a glorious host of more human beings just like you.

Laughter and Friendship

Today started on the dicey side. My driver door won't open: I've got various aches and pings from clambering over and around the seats yesterday to get behind the steering wheel. The injury to the door has been diagnosed as hooked by a snowplow blade.

Money didn't arrive as expected. It will, but not today. Came home from the empty post office box, to find the Intrepid Space Invaders (including the dog) in my living space.

Got an email from a lovely friend, who is working on a screenplay (fantastic!) but hearing critics' voices in her head (argh!) and I wanted to offer substantive support.

I went to the web, looking for the poem about soaring, "to break the surly bonds of earth" and found a Boeing 737 technical link that got me laughing so hard, I need to share.

Isn't it amazing how the universe conspires to shower us with laughter just when we need it most?

Reading, Writing and Loving Both

I just signed on at goodreads.com with the recommendation of a friend of a friend.

Thinking about the books I've read, owned, borrowed, donated, traded, swapped, loaned, lost and got lost in, the people I've met around and about books, joining was irresistible.

So much adventure! Sail with a diabolically obsessed sea captain in pursuit of the final conflict? I've done that. Climb Mt. Everest, paddle around Australia, pursue trolls and redemption, escape treachery and bad hair days, get hoodwinked, hornswaggled and bit. Bit by werewolves, corrupt politicians, crazed first wives, and secret character flaws. And always a sigh as Our Hero triumphs over villains of every ilk and ire, internal and external through the centuries.

I've shared countless adventures in every corner of the galaxy and I never once had to buy a toothbrush I forgot to pack.

We're now wild about Jasper Fforde. Can you imagine being a biblio-detective? Jasper Fforde can, and he shares Thursday Next's life with us joyfully.

As writers, we tut-tut over the pop culture vampire craze, and behind the library meeting room door, huddle up to discover if we can contribute to the next fabulously successful subject.

We share book news, publishing trends, journal entries, writing books. As writers over 55, we wonder if we really ever did recognize a mass market miracle about to happen. Did we really have it once? Can we get it back?

We're learning how to be comfortable in the world of writing that doesn't necessarily have paper underneath it. We blog.

When we're feeling powerful, we email mslexia and ask them once more to please, please bring us a North American edition.

And we make new friends. I'm looking forward to reading Dusty Waters: A Ghost Story by Laura J. W. Ryan

I hope you will, too.