to my son
February 24, 2016 § 4 Comments
On the days I worry about you, I marvel at the strength of character with which you navigate the complexities of your daily experience. The honest vulnerability of your words and the steadfast faith in self despite conflicting cultural messages of conformity that denounce diversity with lessons in mainstream manipulations.
Special education* is still a work in progress, measuring success too often by an ability to perform dominant expectations – “normal” behaviors. Inclusion is meant to create a space of acceptance, so why do we still discount the differences that inform a more genuine image of the world we live in?
There are books and speakers, all who commit themselves to crafting lessons on modeling neurotypical behavior, but what of the unexpected wisdom of your experiences? What are we to make of those uncomfortable reflections of “normal” that highlight an inequality in empathy and discrepancy in worth?
These are the days that must happen to you. – Walt Whitman
It would be nice if they didn’t. It would seem to me they needn’t. But, alas, they do and we are changed, often for the better, because of them. Messy miscommunications create a dialogue, however imperfect. Just as you are learning about others expectations of you, you are teaching others about your expectations of them; one conversation at a time.
I love that you stand up for your beliefs with a passion equal to the sincerity with which you listen to other’s perspectives. No matter how many times you are asked to concede to a majority expectation, you advocate for your unique experience of an alternative sense of normal.
Sometimes even I get distracted by my expectations without considering yours. After all, you don’t ask me to change, you simply fill in the gaps of my understanding with your truth – patiently and with acceptance for my ignorance.
I’m sorry.
I remember the first time you drafted a letter of apology. A school aide implied by her word choice that you had behaved in a way that was difficult or disrespectful. I asked you to own your behavior with a note of apology. In your elementary penmanship you did as I asked, but then you spoke to your behavior and intentions. The aide acknowledged to me the truth of your perspective and complimented your character.
Yesterday you were asked to write another letter explaining a classroom conflict with a new aide. Thoughtful penmanship and specific quotes spoke to the same honesty in your experiences; a willingness to own your thoughts and feelings, responsibly and without excuse, while holding others to their behavior as well.
I’m thinking of framing the write-up, not because you were right or wrong, but because your integrity and confidence are admirable qualities more valuable than mainstream social niceties. In a handful of sentences you apologized, valuing another’s expectations and emotions, while gently affirming your worth.
You were teaching even as you learn.
Love, Mom
*I want to take a moment to acknowledge and celebrate the individuals who have been remarkable companions in my Special Education journey. We’ve a way to go, still, but I’m a better advocate for my children for your knowledge and kindness. Thank you.
to my daughter
February 23, 2016 § 8 Comments
This weekend you confessed to me that you felt singled out for help in a class setting, an experience that reinforced old insecurities.
It makes me feel stupid, Mom. I can do it, it just takes me so much longer than the other kids. I’m a slow reader, but I can do it.
I was tempted to underplay the emotions, to tell you that it was no big deal – that your teacher was only helping, but I realize how fortunate I am in your confidence. The truth is our experiences are as real as our perceptions.
I couldn’t imagine sending you back to a setting that undermined your sense of self. How lonely to feel perceived as unable without confidence enough to voice ability.
I drafted a brief letter to your teacher, asking questions and offering understanding. Her response was almost immediate; she outlined the areas where your performance suggested need and volunteered to let you initiate support.
We talked after about how this new awareness created space for you to experiment with greater independence, speaking up in a setting where the boundaries have been safely established. I suggested you begin with a word of thanks, to transform a dialogue of defensiveness into a conversation with mutual respect.
Help comes in many forms, it’s really how we choose to see others’ actions or words of concern relative to how we see ourselves.
Take, for example, your theater teacher. At the same time that one teacher responded to your frustration, another sent a message of acknowledgment.
In a different setting, with a different personality, a teacher saw struggle and used creativity to inspire confidence. When you couldn’t demonstrate mastery of a specific goal, your teacher offered you a new expression of knowledge and your effort was not only accurate, but beautiful.
In both settings there was a need and a mindset of help. In one setting you felt empowered, in another helpless. The only consistent variable between both classrooms was you.
Take note: knowing your challenges and understanding your strengths informs a perception of possibility. You can do hard things.
There’s nothing wrong with needing help.
It’s ok to struggle, to not know, take longer than your peers. It’s also ok to ask for help, try again, rework a problem or request a little more time. We are all more than our mistakes, we’re the sum of our efforts.
Love, Mom
perfectly disorganized
February 21, 2016 § 2 Comments
I was methodical in my organization as we packed our old home into storage for our move. Before anything could be neatly preserved with overly articulated labels, they were first sorted by necessity, keepsake, and nonsense. I took full advantage of a heightened consciousness of what we needed and loved, then quickly and painlessly dispensed with the excessive waste that had accumulated in dusty corners and holiday storage bins.
There were things we could not take with – a tiny ant penned by my daughter’s hand into a small dent on the stairway; a smiley face stubbornly swept into the clear varnish on a window sill; my son’s map of the world wallpapered to his old bedroom. The one that pulled hardest at all of our heartstrings was the growth chart inked against the kitchen door frame; hurried lines and proud dates made official by our children’s carefully printed names.
We briefly considered removing the wood and packing it for our move, but compromised over a thoughtfully detailed list of measurements to be transferred to a place of honor in our new home.
Recently, my daughter asked about this paper. Promising myself I would no longer procrastinate, I retrieved the list and congratulated myself on the industry of my thoughtful organization. It was just as it should be, neatly waiting precisely where I had stored it away.
I tucked the paper in a place just under my nose and then proceeded to lose it with record efficiency.
Today I retraced every step trying not to think of the ways I tend to shuffle miscellaneous papers into wastebasket storage with reckless insensitivity. I’ve laughed privately over the irony of my distress while apologizing in panicked disbelief to my children.
Tonight it occurs to me that there is something of a lesson in my loss that I might want to store someplace safe for the future.
reading & righting
February 19, 2016 § 9 Comments
Confession: I’ve never read “To Kill a Mockingbird.”
As an avid reader and English major it would seem an unlikely truth, an illogical possibility, that I could have avoided this inevitability.
For years, when others spoke to me in broad sweeping assumptions, I relished the misconception that I must have done something I knew too well I hadn’t.
This passive accomplishment became a bit of a private delight and guilty secret. I liked being other than others assumed.
Until this year, today, when I unceremoniously purchased a paperback copy.
I cannot explain the timing of my choice other than it suddenly felt urgent and necessary. Personal.
A penance for my sin.
defining friendships
February 19, 2016 § 5 Comments
The past six months I have been recklessly uninhibited among our neighbors, quick with a wave or casual conversation, but reserved in nurturing new friendships among my children’s schools.
It was tempting, initially, to volunteer time to school commitments that might nurture invitations to friendship. A little voice with panicked urgency whispered at the importance of such belonging.
Except, without the routine of martyred obligation I realized that years of external demands on my time had exhausted the spirit of generosity behind the busyness. Sadly, it had also revealed that beneath so many polite conversations there were few substantial relationships.
Over the years I had become tired and disconnected from the disingenuousness of school yard politics. I had stood too close to so many casual unkindnesses not to be disheartened by the gossip of grown women.
That is not to say I do not occasionally long for the borrowed belonging. Rather, I have come to a place in my life where genuineness means infinitely more to me than the superficial whimsy of popularity; gone is the grade school eagerness to belong among the security of a chosen few and their coded ramblings or noisy gestures of inclusion.
Less is, infinitely, more.
There is a weightlessness when we forgo pretending for the substance of integrity. Give me those women who live passionately attuned to modesty and are indulgent in an intuitive intelligence. I love my high school girlfriend for the intentionality of her words and comfort of her silence; my college neighbor for the authenticity of her actions and sincerity of her beliefs; my friends in motherhood whose greatest extravagance are a generous heart and steadfast presence of character.
These women, however scattered physically, are my whole and they create a standard of respect and vulnerability that spoil me for the simpler experiences of superficial belonging.
feeling the way
February 17, 2016 § 5 Comments
Last week’s worries were a field of noise. Uncertainties and anxieties that screamed at private insecurities and emotional decisions. It seemed every corner of our family’s days were pulling at my attention for big answers.
Rather than view what wasn’t working from a perspective of need; I decided to begin from a mindset that informed an appreciation for what was possible. I listed what was going well and looked at the good for clues.
Then, borrowing a page from Danielle La Porte’s course work, I asked my loved one’s how they wanted to feel and started mapping the shortest route there.
Passion and joy, purpose and value are ideas our children understand without hesitation; uninhibited truth with an indulgent attention to inspiration. They speak in grand certainties that adults too often caution with worst case scenarios.
So, we dreamed big. Together. Out loud.
I wrote down needs like a grocery list and incorporated requests into an agenda no more complicated than school day class schedules.
Rather than working towards good, we began from someplace better and let that energy create a change that stuck to our actions.
february 10
February 16, 2016 § 2 Comments
In a rare moment of deferred presence, I’m posting thoughts tucked away like a torn piece of time.
It’s been a long week and we’re only at Wednesday.
This morning I entertained pulling the covers tighter and pretending away this day, skipping ahead and taking a pass. After all, what is the point of growing up if you can’t write your own excuse for a quick escape?
Except, my emotions are secondhand – on loan from those I love most. If we must all survive this day, and we must, then I want to do so gloriously that each footprint becomes a revolution of will.
I don’t just want to endure these moments, I want light up a new path so those I love know where I stand.
I’m prioritizing self-care for everyone and writing permission slips for kindness.
If I have to get out of bed, then I’m going to dream loud enough that we all wake up to change.
off script
February 11, 2016 § 4 Comments
Last night I had the privilege of watching my daughter’s classmates dress-rehearsal for their 6th grade school play.
There were delightful surprises and scene stealing characters. A meaningful, well-written story with witty one-liners and lessons disguised as puns. It was everything you could wish for opening night, with a few glorious mistakes that stole the show.
In a moment of honest forgetfulness, a main character realized he had lost a line. Center stage, without any distractions, his face processed the revelation and he owned the silence with pitch perfect honesty. He told his parter on stage he had forgotten the line and even asked them directly to “say something.”
The audience’s patience and empathy was as tangible as the actor’s error. We leaned into a moment, completely committed to one another, and I thought:
What if we could all do this in life? Stand center stage to our own experiences and forget ourselves, own our mistakes and move on. Invite others to help while standing tall in humor and humility. Acknowledge the audience without sacrificing self.
Other flubs would follow. Underplayed utterances, small improvisations, hurried lines and voices too quiet or hurried to hear. Colorful strokes of nerves that made the students personalities more amiable than the characters they portrayed. They were, all of them, brave in their own right.
Last, but not least, I want to shine a light on the silent actors who fashioned a beautiful backdrop for the stories acted front and center. Student directors, sound and lighting crews, prop and make-up, set and advertising. Shadows that raced between scenes for weeks to prepare the stage, faces that we didn’t see until curtain call begged a moment’s applause.
Many will remember the handful of stars who stole the spotlight with perfect affectations of difficult accents and seamless character portrayals. I’ll remember the beautiful honesty of imperfect scenes and the whimsical scenery that spoke colorfully of the cast in its entirety.
the condition of loving
February 8, 2016 § 7 Comments
This summer, in anticipation of our move, I sorted the long procrastinated corners of cluttered shoeboxes, unmarked envelopes, and half-finished family albums for photographs; gathering keepsakes more intentionally into a single box of memories. Images of my childhood and my children’s haphazardly overlapping in a beautiful chaos of sentiment.
As we settle into our new home, I have come to visit these images regularly; a practice that speaks love and connects me more tenderly to the girl I was and the woman I have become. It is an indulgence of time I cherish, meditative and nourishing to my soul. In these moments, I am at once both daughter and mother. More myself and less of myself.
Today my heart rested on a rare image of my father and I. It is the way I most remember loving him; completely and effervescently, eagerly and devotedly. Without pretense or hesitation, with blind trust and unconditional faith.
For those who know me best, it is a relationship complicated by the contradiction of emotions and experience. We are broken and bound by imperfect love.
My mother tells me stories of how my father loved me, but I am most torn by what I do not remember. I have no memory of my father holding me or the sound of his voice forming words of love or praise, encouragement or pride. There is grief in this knowing even as there is peace in his absence, it is no more and no less than the truth between us.
My father is a faded reminder, not of his love, but of my own; paper that holds crisp the condition of loving.
Whatever disappointment may have once accompanied my memories, there is now only a mindfulness for the preciousness of love and the richness of distributing it enthusiastically to those I love least they live unaware of their worth.
I let the love I wish for the girl in those yellowed photographs illuminate the love I give my own children, unconditionally.
sunday
February 7, 2016 § 2 Comments
It is the quietest of days, a gentle spirit that bows to an unhurried pace; an inward attentiveness and outward gaze.
Gone is the restless fidgeting of childhood sermons against unyielding pews. In its place, crisp foot treads against windblown snow and the easy company of my canine companion.
On empty sidewalks of slumbering homes, along barren fields and woods still cloaked in snow, I list my blessings with a grateful heart.
Given to a private exercise of faith.
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