blank space
November 20, 2015 § 5 Comments
Life disrupts our assumptions at the most peculiar moments, splitting our expectations into places of wondering. Previously at peace with the patterns of my day, I find myself caught in a new momentum; looking beyond the predictable toward something uncertain.
For fifteen years my identity has been structured around my purpose at home. It has been a comfortable, well-cherished, experience; one I hadn’t envisioned for myself before the day it became my own. The girl who tumbled into motherhood was previously a curious student and free spirit, unbound by domesticity with a passion for a different calling.
Those early years I pushed against the leisure of a simpler experience. I chaffed against the loss of academia and the misplaced dream of a professional experience. I couldn’t fathom the challenges waiting in want of a student; the calling of a greater lesson in the unpredictable gifts motherhood invited.
Over the years I’ve watched friends leave careers for homemaking, celebrating their new adventure with the same enthusiasm I congratulate other friends’ promotions or independent pursuits; cherishing the brave souls who tempt fate with a leap of confidence toward a heart song. All the while I wondered at the misplaced certainty that used to guide my sense of self.
It was enough to be my children’s mother and a mediocre homemaker, a part-time daydreamer with an anonymous outlet for writing, until an unhappy interruption challenged the direction of my dreams.
Yesterday I tempted change with an exercise in chance, casting an invitation into the unknown; a resume hurriedly drafted with all the recklessness of childhood scribbles. Bold strokes with an unsharpened crayon crafting a colorful marker of change.
Today is a new day on a different path. An opportunity to awaken a second-chance at repurposing old dreams into something new. A blank space in want of a story.
thin ice
November 19, 2015 § 4 Comments
It has been one of those days, fractured nerves and heavy hearts; hollowed out places where emptiness fills the space of peace. Small wounds chase unhappy thoughts like seams of ice too thin under the weight of our presence.
Tired and disappointed, hurt and defensive, we tiptoe past worry toward distraction; hugging the shoulder of familiar ground with quiet apologies and small gestures of tenderness.
monday
November 16, 2015 § 2 Comments
Today dawned gray and damp, winter chill seeping into the morning air. In quiet rebellion of Monday’s burdens, we lingered beneath our bedding and fought off the minute hand with heavy eyelids.
Rain coats too thin for the cold and fall jackets ill-fitting the dampness, it is an uncomfortable in-between. Our shoes slosh with the inconvenience of persistent puddles and our hands tuck cautiously in determined resistance.
It is a day for heavy blankets and long books, old movies and afternoon naps. Except that my children can no longer hide from responsibilities beneath living room forts and make-believe adventures.
Instead we venture past the dampness toward daydreams of day’s end; their forms bent against routine and their minds clouded with remnants of sleep.
yielding
November 14, 2015 § Leave a comment
Heart to knees I bend my will against the noise of fear until silence lends me peace. Head down, arms long, I push against the weight of uncertainty with the strength of hope.
I yield to the light still visible in the darkness.
prompted
November 13, 2015 § Leave a comment
Playing at uncertain beginnings.
I carry your memory like marbles against my tongue, a weight that pushes against my thoughts even as it holds my words in silence. Your name is soundless in my mouth, a single memory among decades of stolen minutes. On a cold night, in a month I cannot remember and a town I have long since abandoned, we gathered near to where we first met.
or
Stranded in a hopeless acceptance of unhappy desperation, I sit anxiously in fear of loosing something I do not want. I have gathered my spirit into tidy fictions of credibility; lines of manipulated truths that presume qualifications for tasks I am ill equipped to perform. Whatever delusions of grandeur I posses are daydreams borrowed from storylines of another’s telling.
to my daughter
November 13, 2015 § Leave a comment
Last night was your first band concert in your new school. Perched high in the bleachers I surveyed your new gym, noting colorful differences to your previous experience. Gone was the elevated stage and behind the scenes preparations. Children visited across instruments in colorful interpretations of loosely outlined guides for attire.
There was a cautious cacophony of sound; families making their way to congested seats, younger children impatiently filling the waiting with restless wiggles, urgent shuffling of papers and easy banter. Then, you began a collective warm up and I was in awe of the singular sound 192 children created.
The hair on my neck bristled with the quiet perfection of a singular harmony.
There was something exquisite in the uniformity of sound juxtaposed against the kaleidoscope of individuality. The sharply contrasted colors of attire and the eloquent introductions from student guides who lead each performance.
I had expected to miss the consonance of black bottoms and crisply starched white shirts or the humor of a well-loved teacher’s wandering narratives and easy humor. Familiar is not always better.
There was a lovely humility in change. We stack our expectations against the joy of discovery.
You looked well placed in your company; prideful and poised. Dressed in your favorite color and settled into your space on the page, you became luminous among your companions. Serene in sound.
It is a new favorite memory, the image of you finding your way home.
Love, Mom
to my son
November 5, 2015 § Leave a comment
You were so casual as you left, playful and confident. It’s a big day, your first job interview; a lucky opportunity to use your experiences as a special needs child as a service to other children with diverse needs. Ironically, this experience places you in a position of support in an athletic setting, a space where, both academically and extracurricularly, coaches and peers were consistently missing the resources to provide an inclusive experience for you.
That’s not to say there weren’t a few exceptional individuals along the way; a student teacher who invited a personal connection during gym and a climbing instructor who challenged your natural abilities. There was the gym teacher and aide who muscled through the misery of running with an appreciation for your resilience and the Tae Kwon Do teacher who recognized inner strength in form.
Unfortunately these individuals came long after uninvested little league coaches and unkind elementary games. Choruses of negative directives from uneducated coaches and unsportsmanly misbehavior from peers signaled an exclusivity from the joy of sports. Lessons in team work and community were really politically correct statements of inclusivity; words without the substance of actions.
These early disappointments and the encouragement of those rare individuals who would later challenge previous experiences created a unique spectrum of understanding; an empathetic awareness for the value of each individual no matter their natural talents or need. This new opportunity allows you the work of modeling a truer practice of teamwork. It is a rare and remarkable invitation to use personal experience to foster positive change for yourself and others.
Sometimes people get lost in disappointment, but you have been determinedly enthusiastic about improving the space you consume. Your confidence in self and others has created a legacy of self-respect and love that informs an expectation of kindness in the game of life and the spirit of play.
I’m proud of you, but also excited for you. I hope you learn as much as you teach.
Love, Mom
telling stories
November 3, 2015 § Leave a comment
I’ve been looking for words, straining against doubt for the love of an impossible task. I promised myself, now that we are settled, I would reserve a space in my day, at this moment of my life, for the work of fulfilling a private goal with a longer writing exercise.
Arrogantly I assumed fortune would accommodate my intentions with remnants of my lost story, a thread that would unravel into completion. Instead the mechanics of creativity have been more painfully laborious.
It’s far simpler to capture words when they flow from fleeting inspiration. A moment’s awakening materialized. It is much harder to push against the resistance of finding those hidden treasures in the dark of silence. Some days my muse is a stubborn companion.
The timing of my endeavor serendipitously coincided with a national writing program; one I have not enlisted for support. It was tempting to engage an existing community for direction, but, perhaps mistakenly, it feels as if the work of writing should begin from a more solitary pursuit.
Still, I admire those souls who gather in a public place of accountability for the completion of a personal goal. It is quite brave to wear your heart on your sleeve; to sound out your mistakes in a voice of determined vulnerability.
As November marks a time of mindful appreciation for the bounty of our good fortune, I am thankful for you, those generous companions in my clumsy meandering among imperfect musings. Thank you for this safe space of creativity and accountability.
to my daughter
October 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
Last night was pretty exceptional; anger and tears that transformed homework into a moment of tender self-awareness. You’re struggling a bit with two classroom projects. On the surface it would appear you’re a little behind, maybe disregarding your work, or ignoring responsibilities.
In some ways it’s the easier way to interpret unfinished material. To hide behind other people’s’ assumptions and carry the burden of their ignorance with silence or casual disinterest. It’s easier to assume something is wrong with you, to see your differences as failings rather than gifts when they clutter your effort with failure; less hurtful to pretend you don’t care when you do.
Asking for help is tricky when you aren’t sure why you can’t simply perform tasks the children around you appear to complete without struggle.
How do you explain to a teacher that you understood the directions when your inference is different from their intent? What happens when you listen closely, but can’t remember later what you understood previously? Who would expect the smiling child that is eager to help another or quick with a smile, someone who appears confident, may actually be masking insecurities over perceived inadequacies?
Imperfect work doesn’t speak to the years of growth behind confusing mistakes any more than unfinished work illuminates effort. Similarly, the determined set of your chin doesn’t inform the emotions that threaten tears of embarrassment. Compounding these challenges is the unfamiliarity of your surroundings; gone are the friends who might have previously prompted you gently or rallied beside you with gentle encouragements.
Here’s the good news, at any given moment we can learn to ask for help; change the language of our needs.
Last night you started to identify your struggles in a way that was exceptionally intuitive to your needs, but you strained against how to seek help. Ferociously independent, you worried that asking for assistance might make you appear to beg preferential treatment, you didn’t want others to call you “teacher’s pet” or to look at you with sympathy.
Sometimes strength requires we walk against the grain of our fears. Asking for help isn’t a weakness any more than struggling alone isn’t a demonstration of strength. So we came up with a plan would acknowledge need and facilitate independence; numbered steps in a specific list that might guide you over the hurdles of your projects.
Last night you helped me compose a letter to your teachers so that we could honor your sense of independence and need for privacy while seeking a specific partnership for success. You let your teacher’s see the struggle behind the gaps in your work that they might understand your effort. More importantly you outlined a willingness to accept help.
I’m not saying the work will be easier or the struggle less frustrating. Recognizing need and asking for help are imperfect, ongoing practices. It’s a beginning.
Love, Mom
gift of grace
October 28, 2015 § 4 Comments
Yesterday I struggled to string a cohesive thought among ideas. My mind was caught on the emotional experience of moving; the immediacy of our environment and the distractibility I feel lately. The subtle disconnect from urgency as we nestle into a gentler pace.
Then, as if life were trying desperately to capture my attention, I missed an appointment. A calendar date that wasn’t inked into my schedule, something that I wouldn’t have forgotten four months ago.
I could return to my previous efforts to communicate the nervous energy of our move, the cautious attention to detail that has unraveled into a distracted calm, but I want to preserve, instead, yesterday’s lesson in grace.
The forgotten appointment was with our children’s new therapist. A service in our old community that functioned with an impersonal protocol of strict attention to 24 hour cancellation policies and impersonal accountability for human error despite the predictability of lengthy waiting room delays. Understandable, but inflexible.
When an unfamiliar local phone number announced my error with a concerned phone message from our new therapist, embarrassment hid behind an experience of defensiveness. I felt immediately disoriented by my forgetfulness and ashamed of my shortcomings of such a manageable responsibility.
I reacted with an expectation of blame, judgement, and clinical billing.
A quick phone call to our therapist’s voicemail was cluttered by frantic apologies and nervous embarrassment compounded by anxiety over mom guilt for our absence. When a second call reached the direct attention of our therapist, I was gifted a unique moment of forgiveness.
Our therapist offered me grace for my mistake at the cost of her time. She dismissed me the financial responsibility of her fee and cited the reality of human error while rescheduling our appointment. No matter the emotional distractions or logical practicalities that might have explained my mistake, there was no call for excuses or windy apologies. I was allowed error and forgiveness in equal measure.
Today I am thinking of the lesson in my mistake, the generosity of another’s kindness, and the forgiveness that accompanies such an expectation of error. Challenging myself to offer another the same measure of grace without explanation or apology, embarrassment or shame.
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