Last week, while at conference in Orlando, I observed families joyfully journeying to the land of magic – where dreams come true.  In 1993, Tim and I took Katie, Bethy, and Brendan to Disney World.  I was seven months pregnant with Brigid, and we opted to go because the children were at such easy ages.  At age six, Katie was a trooper, walking all day along side the strollers where Bethy, age five, and Brendan, nearly three, relaxed and wondrously took in the sights. Echoes of “It’s a Small World” and sensations of swooping through the Peter Pan ride permeate my thoughts when I recall that trip. In each shop, Katie marveled at the long,  translucent tubes of the Tinker Bell wands as they sparkled on the displays. She’d finger the purple, pink and silver ribbons, smile, and quietly ask if she could have a wand. Ever practical, often overly frugal  and envisioning a crushed $25.00 trinket in the suitcase, I repeatedly said, “No.”

Ten years later, we returned to Disney World with all five kids, and I remembered Katie’s request. I asked her about it, and at sixteen, she tilted her head, smiled and sweetly replied, “I just thought you didn’t want me to fly.”

I did buy Katie one of Tinker Bell’s magical treasures that day, but when I gave it to her, I realized it was too late. The magic was gone.

Now I know why grandparents are so grateful. They get another chance.

I look at my cell, see it’s a call from Brendan in LA, and immediately smile, inside and out.

“What’s new, Mom?” He asks with genuine interest making me feel like my life is filled with wonder and excitement.

“Well, Brendan, you won’t believe it. This morning, I did a headstand in yoga. I’ve always been afraid I would fall on my head.”

“Mom, I think it’s really admirable that you would pick up a new hobby at your age.”

Watson doesn’t care that we can’t get out of our driveway. He doesn’t care that piercing winds threaten to toss the deck furniture. He doesn’t care that today’s snow accumulation may break records. He doesn’t care that we want to relax, sit by the fire, and read our books. He doesn’t care that Thomas Merton is changing my life. He waits patiently on high alert – ready to leap, explore, and discover –  faithful that his orange sphere will soar out the sliding doors and into the woods. I suddenly glean the etymology of “doggedness” – persistence, resolve, commitment. Some students need to take lessons from this energetic bundle of curiosity. I might just see if some want to take him out to play.

According to Susan Cain in her TED Talk: The Power of Introverts, we must take time to remove ourselves from the chaos of our lives and make time for creativity and reflection. She argues that like great philosophers, we need to “find our wilderness.” Today in Valparaiso, IN, it’s very easy to do: step outside.

This morning, I made my fifth trip to a Chicago airport in three weeks. The journeys to Midway and O’Hare remind me of the days before the kids got their drivers’ licenses, those fleeting pre-sixteen years when they needed rides to games, practices, rehearsals, friends’ homes, anywhere. Scrambling into the passenger seat, they settle in and talk. Free from eye contact, distractions, and agendas, the children embrace the freedom to share, dream, and problem solve. I bask in marveling about their adventurous, independent lives – paper assignments, quirky roommates, worries, friends, trips, projects, presentations, memories. No texts, no tweets, no phones, they courteously wait until they are out of the van to check their cells.  Too bad there are planes to take Katie, Bobby, Brigid, and Brendan back to the west coast. I’d like to drive them.

Move more. Nibble less. Listen more. Read more. Talk less.  Explore more. Think more. Write more. Watch less. Give more. Share more. Simplify more. Value more. Consume less. Marvel more. Praise more. Sing more. Dance more. Play more. Complain less. Smile more. Laugh more. Wonder more. Connect more. Accept more. Embrace more. Judge less. Pray more. Kneel more. Thank more. Forgive more. Love more. Live more.

My fitbit fizzled. There’s no light, no “Way to go, Nancy,” no “Get moving,” no “Almost there. Just 2236 steps to your goal,” no “You’ve earned another badge!” At first, it was a hoot to banter with Katie and Tim about how I was dominating in steps calculated, a luxury of working on a college campus. I liked checking my progress on my 15,000 steps and the satisfaction of far surpassing that milestone. But I’ve been without Mr. F for three days now, and I don’t miss his electronic encouragement. I don’t miss the daily check to see if I’m wearing it. I don’t miss running back in the house because I forgot it. I don’t miss misplacing it, searching for it, and having to remember where I put it. I don’t miss having to keep track of one more thing.  Now if only I can get this freedom from my cellphone.

Quivering, I answer, “St. T’s. St. Teresa’s. I lector at 8:00am mass.” I look at the clock on my dashboard: 8:00. “Valparaiso Police Department. Can I see your driver’s license and registration, please?” Why can’t I leave home on time? Hands shaking , I pass my license through the window. I reach across to the glove compartment as books slide to the passenger’s side floor. 2007. 2010. 2011. I know I have the new registration in there. The officer waits silently. Valparaiso University stickers embellish my windshield 2005-2007, 2006-2008, 2008-2010, 2010-2012, 2012- 2015. Evidence of years gone by in a flash. The van screams old, worn, and educated. Still I fumble, the officer’s stoic presence juxtaposed to my growing anxiety. As I open the bottom glove compartment, tampons tumble – don’t need those anymore, dental floss, Starbucks napkins, directions to the Walshes cottage in Culver. The clock reads 8:05. It’s only been five minutes? Relieved, I hand over the 2014 registration. “Wait here, ma’m.” Shame, remorse, grasping hands, stone face. Why can’t I just leave at 7:40? An extra mile or two? E-mail? Laundry? Dishwasher? Thank-you note?  Dust on the dashboard, coffee stained carpet, tiny red dog hairs on the radio buttons. I have to clean this van. Swimsuit  and towel hung on the back hook, briefcase stuffed with papers to be graded, cloth grocery bags strewn across the floor, Watson’s crate perched the rear space, VU nametags shoved between the front seats, Rosary beads ready in the console. “I’m going to give you a warning, Ma’m.  You were going 38 in a 20. When that yellow light is flashing, you have to slow down. We love our children in Valparaiso, and we want to keep them safe.” Stunned, I whisper, “I won’t do it again. Thank you, Officer.” Flashing yellow? He pulls away as I look in the rear view mirror: Be the Difference – Marquette, Indiana University, Northwestern, Seattle University, Loyola, my children. I wonder, “Where am I headed?” Prison? The edge? Take a breath, make a pledge: Slow down. My babies grew up fast; make it so others can, too. Resolve to savor time; end the daily dash;  delight in spare moments, in every millisecond. They all count.     

Please, no more mountains. ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.