Sometimes life changes gradually and we hardly notice as one phase passes and another takes shape. Other times life changes abruptly and we can’t help but be aware of a grand shift. I am on the verge of one of those abrupt changes this week, as my first-born leaves for college on the other side of the country. This way of being I have known for the last 18 years is about to change in a big way. I am both full of anticipation and excitement for my son and full of loss at the idea he will be far away. It is a good time but a hard time.

When I was pregnant with my son so long ago I had no idea what parenting would be like. I did not have close friends with children. I hadn’t spent much time with children. I knew that, like most other parents, I would have to learn on the job. And learning I’ve done. Much of the learning is quite mundane, but utterly necessary. I had to learn how to feed him and burp him and when to call the doctor. I had to learn how long to make a time-out and how to regulate the Halloween candy. Everything was an education, and sometimes with an audience. The day I checked out of the hospital with my newborn, I had to take off the diaper the nurse had put on him so a doctor could weigh him. I had no idea how to put the diaper back on. I was so self-conscious. I thought the doctor might not let me take him home given my ineptitude!

It seems like the early years are full of so many decisions. At first my husband and I consulted guidebooks. We turned to three or four expert guides to weigh the competing advice. One said we should let our baby cry it out for 45 minutes. The other said we shouldn’t let him cry at all. We tried both. Gradually, though, we learned to make our own decisions that were right for us and appropriate to our child’s temperament. (We did let him cry several nights and he gradually learned to fall asleep on his own. Those were some painful nights!) Just when we thought we had figured things out, we had a second son who was totally different than the first. It took him much longer to learn to fall asleep. In fact I slept at a friend’s house during one of those sleep training sessions just so I could get a good night of sleep.

One lesson I learned early on as a parent was that I could never rest on my laurels. Just when I had figured out one age and stage, another stage would develop. Two naps a day turned into one, then none. A favorite food would soon be turned down in favor of another. Even now, I realize, the reality of living with a high schooler is morphing into that of living with an adult. Currently we check in multiple times a day with our teenager to know his whereabouts and when he expects to be home at the end of the day. In a few days, we won’t be checking in with him much anymore. He’ll be on his own. If he wants to come home at 3 am, that’s his decision.

Recently I came across a photo of our family room from the time our boys were 8 or 9. It looks like a disaster, with every couch cushion, pillow and blanket in the house arranged in the center of the room to create a fort. I realized I tolerated a lot of controlled chaos. Not only were there forts, but there were Thomas the Tank Engine train configurations that spread from one room to the next, 2,000 piece Lego creations, and a pet rabbit that left behind a trail of turds and hay. Then there was all the normal paraphernalia that comes along with kids—the strollers, car seats, high chair, mini kitchen, sports gear, bunk beds, books, and retainers. You learn to live with a lot of stuff and a lot of messiness. In a small way I actually miss those messier days and the way I was able to surrender to it all, get down on the floor, and play for hours on end.

At times it seemed like my son’s childhood would stretch on forever. There were the long innings of Little League games, the daily routines of getting him ready for school and picking him up, the playdates and birthday parties. More recently there has been the anxiety of waiting up late for him to come home and the angst of watching him suffer through the breakup of a relationship. Time slows down with kids. Other “important” work gets interrupted, put on hold. Just in the middle of writing this article my son came home and suddenly my time was his. We laid on my bed and talked for an hour about his day and his plans. It took me another hour after that to get back to writing.

Alas, childhood does not last forever, but certain memories are so fully etched in my mind that just thinking about them brings me pleasure. There was the day, just a year ago, when we had a rare mother and son outing to the beach. It was a perfect day, with no wind or fog (rare for a California beach) and we walked, laid in the sun and played paddle ball. There was another day, about two years ago, when we trekked to the Central Valley for a golf tournament. We played country music all the way there and laughed at the lyrics; that night we flipped through the channels in our cabin and laughed at all the bad late-night TV shows. I can’t hear a country song or see a late-night show now without remembering that trip.

People told me to cherish the time I had with my child and I am so grateful for their advice. I have tried to be mindful and thankful every day I have parented. I will miss the big and small joys and even some of the challenges. I will miss my son’s creativity, hugs and enthusiasm for life. How many kids do you know who organize their own Mardi Gras parties or who invite people over for a Spanish dinner and costume contest complete with awards? My son is never short of ideas.

I take comfort in the fact that my son’s presence in my life has not ended. He’s changed me for the better. I’ve learned from him how to relax and enjoy life, how to make friends and how to laugh. I know I’ll keep learning from him for years to come and I look forward to our ever transforming relationship.

Sound.  What does your house sound like? I can tell you what mine sounds like: a dog barking as he monitors the front window. A teenager chatting with friends over Skype as he shoots down an enemy in a videogame. Another teenager watching election news on CNN.  The occasional chirp of a cockatiel. A laundry machine swishing around. A dryer buzzing.

It’s amazing how we become so accustomed to the sounds around us. What might seem like a cacaphony of chaos to someone else is normal to me, even soothing. I’ve learned to work and play, read and write, with a variety of sounds. When any of them are taken away, it becomes unsettling.

Many years ago my beloved dog Susie died. I missed her companionship a lot but what I most noticed was how quiet the house was. There was no clicking of nails across the hardwood floor as she ran around. There was no barking when the mailman approached or someone rang the doorbell. The whole atmosphere of the house changed without her sounds. Several years later we got a new dog and it was interesting how quickly the house became full of dog sounds again. I welcomed it.

When I moved to Madrid for a year in 2011 I experienced big changes in my “soundscape” as well. Transitioning from suburban Northern California to urban Madrid meant I heard more horns honking but less birds chirping. Our apartment came with its own collection of beeps and buzzes. We quickly learned to tell the sound of the dishwasher cycle ending apart from the washing machine ending. The apartment walls weren’t thick. We could hear animated arguments in Spanish from our neighbors next door who had teenage children. (We once even heard plates smashing.) On the other side, we would hear an elderly couple’s cuckoo clock regularly sound. In the quiet of the night I would hear the elevator going up and down and wonder who in the building was out so late. On Sundays we could hear the shouts of the Ecuadorians and Columbians playing soccer on the sand lot down the street. I would say it took me a good month to get used to all those new sounds.

Some sounds are so engrained that they even show up in our dreams, years after we have encountered them. When I was growing up, I could often hear the fog horns on the San Francisco Bay at night. I don’t know why I noticed the fog horns more at night. Maybe there was more fog then? Maybe the horns stood out in the quiet of the night? In any case, one night in college, when I was living thousands of miles away from any fog horns, I stayed up late studying and fell into a half sleep. Suddenly I woke up, convenced I had heard a fog horn. Was it a dream or was there maybe a truck outside that reminded me of the sound? I’ll never know for sure but I was convinced I heard a fog horn.

I have to admit, pure silence is difficult for me. This week my kids both started after school sports teams and for the first time in many years neither of them is home or needs a ride anywhere after school. This means the house is quiet for several more hours than normal. It’s uncomfortable. I like the sounds of other people, even if we aren’t interacting. I find I turn the radio on more frequently. I know the NPR schedule like the back of my hand. Who knows, maybe I’ll even start listening to podcasts. On the other hand, silence could be good for me. It’s Lent after all, and maybe my discipline this Lent can be to embrace the silence.

Last night I attended our church’s Ash Wednesday service. The atmosphere was solemn and prayerful, with candles and soft music. Several times our pastor asked us to prostrate ourselves (kneel) on the floor. At the end of the service we received ashes on our forehead as we were told, “For dust you came and to dust you shall return, for God gives life.” It was and is a reminder that we owe our existence to God. He gives us life and allows us a short time on this earth to enjoy the wonders of living. I appreciated the quiet service to stop and ponder that thought and I look forward to more quiet this coming season.

I sat cross-legged on the hard floor of the library, a chill running down my spine. It was nearly Halloween and the usually cheerful librarian had decided to give my eighth grade class a scare by reading us “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allen Poe. In case you don’t remember, in this gruesome story, a man is haunted by an older man’s pale blue eye and sets out to kill him. Every night the man peers in at the older man sleeping until one night he literally scares him to death and proceeds to dismember him and bury him under the floorboards of the room. Unfortunately, the old man’s heart keeps beating even under the floor. The police arrive at the scene, called by concerned neighbors who heard a scream, and the murderer at first remains calm because there is no evidence of the deed. (He has done the dismemberment in the bath tub.) But the sound of the beating heart overwhelms him with guilt and he admits that he has killed the old man.

I can still remember studying the floor of the library as I listened to this story. Was it really possible to bury someone under a floor and not leave a trace of evidence? Would a heart really keep beating? Could there be someone under this floor right now? I wanted to get out of the library fast and onto the sunny safety of the playground. I never again entered the library with a completely neutral mind.

If you are like me, you can probably remember times as a child when a particular story made an impact. Did you cry when Charlotte in “Charlotte’s Web” died? Were you sad and incredulous at the brutality of humanity after reading Anne Frank’s diary? Were you jealous but captivated, like I was, by the adventures of Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys? As humans, we seem to be drawn to stories from childhood on. In her most recent book, researcher and storyteller Brene Brown says we are “wired for story.” She cites the work of neuroeconomist Paul Zack who says that “hearing a narrative with a beginning, middle, end causes our brains to release cortisol an oxitocina. These chemicals trigger the uniquely human abilities to connect, empathize and make meaning.”

It seems that now, more than ever, our lives are filled with stories. I find it interesting that my son will often ask a friend, “Have you seen my story?” He’s talking about his latest post on SnapChat, the app that teenagers favor over Facebook. Similarly, sites like Humans of New York let us read brief accounts about the lives of everyday people and their remarkable stories.

In the last few years I’ve become a fan of audio books. Thanks to technology that allows me to download books onto my phone, I can easily listen to books while I’m driving, walking my dog or waiting for an appointment. There is something powerful about listening to stories that makes the experience different from reading or watching them. A particular actor can only use his or her voice to convey the drama of the story. In some cases, an actor nails it. Sissy Spacek does a great job reading “To Kill a Mockingbird,” for example. Her soothing Southern accent works well in capturing the voices of Scout, Jem and Atticus. Likewise, the actress who read my version of “Wuthering Heights” (Patricia Routledge) perfectly captured the Yorkshire accents of Heathcliff, Cathy and the others in Emily Bronte’s classic. She was so good, in fact, that I could not understand her rendition of the thick brogue of one of the servants in the novel. I didn’t mind that though; I felt it was a realístic potrayal. On the other hand, Toni Morrison does an almost too good job of reading her novel “Beloved.” The story itself is already heavy, focusing on an escaped slave and her new life trying to escape the ghosts and violence of her past. But Morrison reads with such a breathy, slow and downcast tone that the story became utterly depressing. I had read the whole thing in college and liked it, even found it transformative, but I only made it about halfway through the audio version before deciding to find something more uplifting.

Of course, great literature, and all stories, aren’t just great entertainment or the source of emotional connection. Sometimes they have the power to change. About a year ago I listened to a book by a Catholic priest named Greg Boyle called “Tattoos on the Heart.” In this book Boyle recounts his decades spent working in innercity Los Angeles with hardened gang members. Boyle is a great storyteller and he tells story after story of the lives of inviduals he helped navigate away from the world of drugs and crime into a productive life working for his organization, Homeboy Industries. He treats each person with respect, love and care and they begin to believe in themselves with his friendship. Boyle doesn’t shy away from reality, however, He recounts how several gangmembers couldn’t escape the life they had once led and even though they had left their gang, they were shot and killed for their one-time association. There is no completely happy ending or simple solution to this book. Still, the book made a deep impression. I was amazed with Greg Boyle’s connection with his work. He perfectly fit his calling, much like Atticus Finch fit his as a lawyer and father. His compassion, perservance and creative solutions with people were extraordinary. It made me think about my own calling in life and what gives me joy. I realized, for one thing, the value of doing creative work, such as writing, and sharing ideas with others. Sometimes creative work seems superfluous (like creating art or writing a blog), but this book taught me it may be necessary.

I’m pondering what I’ll listen to next. A classic or a new book? Non-fiction or fiction? With Halloween around the corner, maybe it’s time to return to Poe. 

I didn’t want to go to my friend Meri’s memorial. Meri was only 60 years old when she passed away and it didn’t seem fair. Until a short time ago, she had been full of life, enjoying her garden, spending time with her grandchildren and making yearly excursions to Hawaii with her husband. Then she got cancer—an inoperable type that affected her blood—and it spread quickly. The last time I had seen her she had lost a lot of weight and when I asked her what her prognosis was, she said she didn’t want to know. In fact, she only lived a  year after her initial diagnosis.

For me memorial services are always sad but at least when the person who passes is older, they make sense. Last year I attended two memorials for people in their 80s and although it was still a shock to lose them, we could celebrate their lives, knowing they had lived a long time. In Meri’s case I felt she had been dealt an unfair hand—going so soon and so quickly. I imagined her memorial would be a depressing affair.

I first met Meri 25 years ago when I visited the church I would later join. At the time the church still had a choir, outfitted in swishy blue robes, and Meri was the enthusiastic arm-waving and always smiling director. Later, when the church adopted guitars and drums, Meri continued leading worship. She had a beautiful soprano voice and loved teaching us new songs. Meri also worked in the church’s front office, cheerfully greeting everyone who walked in and genuinely concerned with each person’s life, whether it be the pastor, little kids or those down and out of luck. On top of this, Meri also was a preschool teacher at the church’s preschool for many years and she cared for both of my kids at various times.

Twenty-five years is a long time to know someone and my husband and I watched Meri go through the ups and downs of life. She and her husband Rusty had three adopted children of different racial backgrounds and when we met they were almost teenagers, struggling with teenage things. Not long after that Meri and Rusty went through a difficult divorce. They had to sell their house and move. Rusty left the church. Meri met her second husband, Michael, at the church and they decided to start their new life at a different church. We missed them greatly.

Given all this history I knew I should attend Meri’s service, at least out of a sense of loyalty and support. The invitation said we should dress in “aloha” attire, given Meri’s love of Hawaii. So a few days beforehand I scoured Macy’s end-of-summer sale rack and bought a bright pink shirt with flowers. My husband checked his closet to make sure his faded Hawaiian shirt was still there.

Apropos to the Hawaiian theme, the day of the memorial was one of those rare hot days in the Bay Area. The church was packed with colorfully dressed people fanning themselves with the program. I looked around the room and saw many familiar faces, some of whom I had not seen in 20 years. Instead of feeling sad, I felt happy to see old friends and looked forward to talking to them afterwards. Then the music began. A simple band with a singer, guitar placer, piano and drums played some familiar and unfamiliar songs. They sounded great, more like a professional recording group than an amateur church band. After a few songs the pastor got up. He told us that Meri had planned all the details of the service, including who would sing which songs, what her biography would say and who would read it (her daughter), and who would share memories of her life. Meri had even thought to include a hula dancer midway through the service, a nice touch. I began to realize that this service was Meri’s final gift to us. She had done what she always did best, which was to bring people together and celebrate music and life.

After the service was over, we were invited to a reception. You might be able to tell how much someone is loved by the quantity and quality of food. There was tons of food, including lots of fresh sushi. As I made my way through the food line an old friend, who I hadn’t seen for years, invited me to sit down next to her. “I really want to hear what’s going on with you,” she said, in exactly the style Meri had always used. We had a great conversation about kids, writing and spiritual life. We agreed to get together again to chat more. I talked with several more old friends and was so engaged that I lost track of time. I had the strange sensation that Meri should be here to participate in all this, but then again, she was here in a way, creating this atmosphere.

In the end, I felt enriched by Meri’s service. I felt like I wanted to live a more joyful life and follow Meri’s example of care for others. I will miss Meri but I realize her impact has not ended.