This morning I see a child on the early side of toddler, snuggled like a well-placed puzzle piece in his daddy’s arms.
He smiles at me, reaches out with one arm, as if I will be a wonderful new discovery. I reach back…
I stood in the elevator, faced the doors and waited. I’m not sure how long. Somehow I noticed the problem—“Oh, I need to push the button.” Has that ever happened to you?
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From behind the wrapping paper doorway, I saw the glow of the Christmas tree lights and I knew magic awaited. My parents, in their genius, “wrapped us kids in” so we would not peak for Santa or packages until it was time. We’d sit by the paper like meowing, hungry cats, pretty much pawing for the unveil. When it was time, we’d burst through the paper like linebackers at the big game. BAAM!
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I CANNOT live my life like I eat nachos. They are one of my favorite foods, and I should enjoy EVERY bite. Instead, I’m always looking ahead: “Look over there, that one has the most cheese potential.” I don’t fully chew a bite before plotting my next one.
Further confession: it’s worse when I share nachos. Certainly in “real life” I want others to enjoy the good stuff too. But I’m selfish with this particular tex-mex meal. I want to pay attention to “my favorites” in life, and not be too focused on the “the next” and miss the present. Therefore, I write this corn chip confession...
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If I’m honest—really honest—I’m afraid of cooking a turkey. It’s not about the worry of something tasting bad; that’s a whole other article of vulnerability. No, it’s that sack of guts that lives inside the turkey. Some turkeys don’t even have it in a sack. You have to be a pilgrim or pioneer and go in there blindly. I SHUDDER.
Something—no, everything—about this sack of guts grosses me out. I try not to think about it. But something in this “small” moment of fear seems relevant. Let’s dig into these past weeks.
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My brother’s costume idea confirmed it: Joshua was a kid genius. He was probably ten and declared, “I’ll dress up as Frankenstein and you girls can take turns being Igor.” According to him, we would have the opportunity to push Frankenstein door-to-door in the wagon. My twin Rachel and I were actually excited about this idea. Some adult must have stepped in...
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Last month, Oprah, Will Smith and Stephen King were all in DC. Our Nation’s Capital powerhoused the National Book Festival and the opening of the National Museum of African American History and Culture: big people and big moments. However, true to Brave Tutu, I’m going to focus on a small striking moment: a kid with a self-made cape. This child ignored stretching lines for famous authors like Katherine Patterson and Salman Rushdie. Instead, he laughed and laughed, chasing his friend as the red power source flowed behind him.
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This September many celebrated Roald Dahl’s birthday, the famous author would have been 100. I reread his book, The BFG, and knew I needed to share—Brave Tutu style—how Dahl’s words make me look up from my everyday life. Small moments with his small character Sophie took me into memories of family road trips. I remembered my Mom reading us the book and as the Texas terrain slowly passed by, I imagined I had a giant friend that let me ride on his ear as we galloped across entire countries. This possibility felt palpable. My hopeful imagination blurred the lines between dreams and reality.
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Real talk, last week I was excited to wear my UT sundress and cowgirl boots. It was Labor Day weekend, and no part of me thought I would get into THE opening football game: University of Texas vs. Notre Dame. Amidst the Austin tailgates, I couldn’t wait to surf the sea of burnt orange, smell the BBQ and hear the roar from the stadium.
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