to my children
October 21, 2015 § 2 Comments
It has become a new favorite time of day, the early morning minutes when your father and I stand quietly, side by side, watching your walk together to the bus stop.
The days have grown shorter, the morning sky still curtained with remnants of the evening’s shadows, I see only the shape of your form as you begin your school day. Some mornings your arms and legs flail amusingly with storytelling and dance, other days I can read frustration in the empty air between you.
It has been a long time since your mornings were aligned for one another’s company; four years to be precise. Each morning, as I watch you walk, memories chase the light.
I remember elementary school days with a toddler in tow and, later, when you accompanied one another to separate lines. In these moments you are every age at once and my heart is full with joy for the friendship between you.
Wherever your paths lead, I hope you always save a place for one another’s company.
Love, Mom
self & image
October 20, 2015 § Leave a comment
Yesterday I allowed a superficial distraction too much importance over my thoughts. One image invited an internal dialogue of unkind criticism for old insecurities; each physical fault a validation of a greater generalization of unworthiness.
In the poorly lit space of the driver’s license bureau, a notoriously predictable bad picture produced an emotional response I couldn’t shake. My husband didn’t understand my reaction any more than my internal voice of reason could command control of my thoughts.
In that moment I was the overweight child in corduroy pants; the teenage girl with poor skin; the young woman navigating an unfamiliar body after baby. I could feel the transparency of each imperfection mocking my performance of self.
Sometimes bad lighting, a poorly timed blink, or unflattering angle distort an image into something untrue, but perhaps our responses are a greater reflection of self. Whatever I sought in my assessment, my eyes looked first to unattractive assumptions.
It was tempting to skip this truth, to stuff inconvenient emotions and unkind thoughts into a drawer like an unflattering photograph; to pretend a greater confidence of character than I felt, but I don’t believe I am alone. I know too many beautiful souls who shy away from what they see in their own image while looking first to the beauty in others.
In this experience I saw a woman who curled submissively into an assumption of inadequacy that informs a one-dimensional expectation of self. A performance of mediocrity that illuminates imperfections without allowing for a metamorphose of a more elegant posture of self.
I didn’t see the woman I am in a photograph or the woman I want to be in my response, but I’m working on the answer.
tasks & tears
October 19, 2015 § Leave a comment
It was a weekend of homesickness and responsibilities. A hodgepodge of half hearted distractions and earnest busyness. Early morning board games and late night movies, afternoon chores and lost hours in between; days that were outwardly unexceptional with moments of tender awareness.
Saturday afternoon our teenage son learned to mow the lawn, a small rite of passage as we simplify pieces of our life and share new responsibilities. My husband gave our son room to demonstrate accountability and our son leaned into the effort with care. I watched my boys, father and son, moving across the yard in their tasks and marveled at the peace and pride between them. Despite the bluster of teenage disinterest, I recognized the poorly hidden attempt to please.
Sunday our daughter crumbled beneath the weight of a heavy heart, lonely for old friends. There are no words of comfort for such loneliness, only patience for the tears that came unbidden. Some days all we can do is move in harmony with sadness. I gave our fiercely independent daughter room to be vulnerable; in response she curled a little closer into my side, reached a little further for my hand.
A chore and a sorrow; unexpected invitations for awareness. Our children do not outgrow a need for purpose and comfort. Maybe the language of their asking is unfamiliar, some days they push against our offerings rather than pulling at our sleeve. Other days the awareness comes more quietly in uneventful tasks and uninvited tears, small questions of purpose and gentle requests for comfort.
to my son
October 16, 2015 § 6 Comments
I gave up. I’m not sure I’ve ever named my cowardice, it’s far simpler to languish in a prose of possibility, but it’s true. I stopped believing school could be a safe haven for your differences and so I hid behind empty promises and hollow confidence.
Things will get better.
Except, they didn’t.
Each school year I would hold my breath for the first kindness that offered sanctuary for my doubts and then balance my fears on the fragility of a single offering. A kind teacher, a patient administrator, a passionate aide. One person. Every year.
Inevitably something would go wrong; an intolerant teacher, a disconnected policy, an ill-prepared aide. We learned to pretend our way through difficult days with a detachment to our community. Surviving is a poor substitute for thriving.
I built invisible walls to ward off disappointment, but rather than guard my joy they invited bitterness and complacency for an unacceptable status quo. I could no longer open my heart to trust in something better; my faith was frayed with the tension of hope weighted against fear. Until today.
Over the years we’ve worked with remarkable educators, therapists, support staff, and administrators, but we’ve never before partnered with a team of educators so cohesive as a community. One person can make a difference, but I’m learning it takes a village to honor true change.
Things are getting better.
I expect there will be new challenges, life is an imperfect performance of hope, but I’m ready to trust in your newfound sense of belonging and the generousness of our new community; it’s time.
Love, Mom
a tale of two desks
October 15, 2015 § 4 Comments
Our home is new, the walls were built quickly and the floor echoed only with the pattern of curious day dreamers; potential buyers in want of a moment’s recognition that hinted at belonging. There are no hidden doodles on the stairway, no layers of paint to hint at past favorites or failed curiosity. The floors have not been refinished and the carpet does not conceal a forgotten treasure. It is our work to create a story; to weigh each corner with evidence of life.
The hollowness of such space has become an invitation to lend substance, to moor the emptiness with new importance. There was much we did not bring with; the space of new rooms a poor fit for old pieces. In trade we sacrificed previous belongings for used replacements. Welcoming pieces of furniture that read like unfinished chapters in lingering signs of wear.
The first was a heavy, oak desk. A tidy workspace that hinted at school days past; a teacher’s desk still proudly adorned with a pencil sharpener. I wondered at the children who may have once flocked to the invitation for movement; restless students roaming the tidy rows of an unknown classroom, chatty conversationalist seeking a fleeting word of connection, the eager worker bee or wordy writer with a worn tip.
I fell in love with the metal cylinder that proudly boasted the name of our former home and wanted to gift our daughter a piece of something lost in our move. The weight of home and a solid space to dream on paper. Deep grains and superficial scratches that promise a labor of love.
It was a similar joy that drew my husband’s eye to an old science desk; the slightly marred black work top and tidy wooden legs of an old classroom workspace. Too large for our son’s room, it has the promise of a project as my husband and son will craft it into a new desk. A love note to our son’s enthusiasm for science and sentiment for a favorite teacher.
I envision heavy microscopes and notebooks with doodles, smelly liquids and messy mistakes. Peers leaned into a lesson and friends chatting over open tables. More importantly, I see a childhood interest in a familiar shape.
These pieces are in stark contrast to the new nightstands and blank walls of our children’s rooms. Workspaces that tell stories and guard a place of creativity as we sound out the colors and textures of home; the past and present converging in weathered wood.
To my children,
Your desks are your place to take risks. Write what you feel and draft new ideas. Make messes and take chances, this is not the place to be cautious. The work of childhood awaits your mark.
Love, Mom
making space
October 14, 2015 § 6 Comments
Prior to our move I cursed lost storage given to unwanted wedding gifts. Kitchen and dining room doors and drawers consumed with an outdated extravagance that sat unused for want of an occasion. Rows of crystal and china canvased in dust; a page torn from someone else’s great expectations.
My husband and I did not choose a wedding or the responsibility of begging gifts that did not suit our wants. We begrudgingly acknowledged my in-laws’ requests for ceremony and accordingly registered for traditional items out of respect for their ideals. Simple and unpretentious in our needs, these gifts felt false hidden in plain sight behind the doors of our daily routines.
As we prepared to move I considered selling these objects at a loss, just to be free of their cumbersome bulk. I engaged multiple buyers in genuine invitations to purchase old patterns hoping to ease our move. I set goals that each corner of our new home would be limited to a functional beauty unhindered by unused objects.
Then, I did something I might never have predicted given fifteen years of rambling diatribes against the frivolousness of these objects. Yesterday I unpacked each piece and placed them in a new corner of our lives.
Front and center, in a bookcase of glass and pine, I stacked plates beside rows of crystal for a new expectation. Tea with my daughter and Sunday dinners, family holidays and daily decoration. Marveling at the simplicity of their elegance against the humble lines of unpolished wood shelves, it seemed remarkable that these same pieces had been so long untended.
Distractedly I let myself remember the day my fingers first traced the pattern around so many choices and childhood afternoons past at my grandmother’s kitchen table; recalling intuitive moments of aesthetic appreciation for something intimately known. Fleeting moments of forgotten daydreams and dress up without the pretentiousness of pretending a grander purpose.
I let go of the formality of someone else’s expectations and started creating a simpler dream for beautiful pieces; making space in our lives for something old and something new.
itch
October 12, 2015 § Leave a comment
It isn’t melancholy, the word alone feels unexceptional against my tongue; missing the bite of desire just off-center from calm. I scratch at my thoughts to name the unrest, something far removed from unhappiness but akin to unsettled. A need or want just shy of trouble with harmless intentions; an urge to disappear in a directionless pursuit.
little white church
October 11, 2015 § Leave a comment
Just around a bend, in between our home and our children’s schools, there is a little white church that sits like a forgotten memory.
A place not mine, peace gifted like a blessing from an unexpected offering.
Stolen moments under the hush of a golden sunset. Forgiveness and faith folded in silence.
I think of this when my days curve around the shape remembering.
Then I whisper my thoughts like a confession to an old friend; a prayer of thanksgiving and promises to keep.
nesting & flight
October 10, 2015 § Leave a comment
Settling our home there is little we brought with us from our move, the space of our new house would not accommodate our old pieces and so we began with less. It was both a whimsical and cumbersome choice, one that required we tend, almost immediately, to decisions of necessity after the tiresome practicalities of moving while simultaneously freeing us of past choices.
Prior to moving, the decision was very liberating, we were unbound by worries of damage; spared the unpleasantness of unhappy discoveries had we transported larger possessions between homes. Furniture was sold or donated to new homes to simplifying the experience and expense of moving. Unfortunately, this choice also necessitated we scavenge our new community for replacement pieces.
The first weeks, during our time between homes, this was a source of amusement and adventure. We explored salvage shops and boutique offerings alongside online storefronts and large scale retailers for new furniture. There was no urgency to our search as we discussed preferences in favor of necessity and comfort over extravagance.
Like children playing house, the weight of each choice was lightened by the limitless possibility of dreams. One Days and Maybes unburdened by practicalities of budgets and the confines of space or time restraints.
It was only after we moved from the temporary space of our hotel to the permanence of our new home that our choices began to accumulate into a greater urgency. Empty rooms demanded a place to assemble over a meal; space to gather company; accommodations for rest. Of course, by this time, we were exhausted from the emotions and physical demands of our move.
It must be noted, here, that I do not flourish under the restraints of urgency, my thoughts become scattered by the sheer volume of choices that invite second guesses with each decision. My appreciation for quality contradicts the frugality my cautiousness affords. Additionally, while I admire objects of beauty, I am more endeared to the substance of less.
My husband, by comparison, is intuitive in his choices; more daring in his impulsivity. He is less inhibited by the temptation of so many possibilities and more certain of abstract elements. We are, at best, a comedy of doubt and decisiveness.
Over the past weeks we settled into an unexpected series of choices; quick decisions and those we struggled over as we muddled through the madness of a frenzied demand. Elements that thoughtfully incorporated pieces of our first homes and unfamiliar choices that stretched our expectations.
Everything from kitchen hardware to window treatments, everyday dishes and furniture is slowly evolving from abstract choice to reality. Contrasting materials and complimentary colors forming a new background for the noise of everyday life. Simple comforts and extravagant hopes in a harmony of uncertain anticipation and joy.
I underestimated the volume of choices that would accompany this move, but I have been inspired by the lessons in self this change gifted me. Small exercises in chance and creativity, compromise and certainty.
I’m further from my comforts and the illusion of control, more reckless in certain indulgences; less guarded in my risks. More than homemaking, it is a season of nesting and taking flight.
to my son
October 9, 2015 § Leave a comment
I keep hesitating to write you. These days feel a little like a dream and I am cautious with my words, frightened I may scatter your good fortune if I name my joy.
You are in a better place, academically. At rest you radiate contentment and engaged you offer a familiar attentiveness. You smile more often and there is an easy confidence to your posture; you are the spirit of your younger self.
I have missed the gentle, unguarded nature of your early years. Your eagerness to learn and faith in others. These past years I wondered at each unhappiness if you had lost these treasures with small violations of trust; disappointments that might have chipped away at the wholeness of your spirit.
I’m not sure I would have endured your experiences with such grace of character. We all struggle against the burden of other’s expectations and perceived limitations with gifts of ability too often overshadowed by intimidation; a false acquiescence of another’s ideal. Some of us cease to dream out loud, not you.
You still dance without music and smile hello; you still draft impossible goals despite doubt or rejection. The difference is you are no longer expected to pretend another form of self.
At an age when so much of your days revolve around school and dreams are aligned by education, you are newly positioned among educators and administrators who honor your individuality. There is no talk of reshaping you into a different image of success. No longer are we mapping accomplishment by a language that silently assumes a generic performance of ability.
You have the benefit of teachers who are endeared to your humor and value your ability. You are suddenly visible again in your day, no longer lost in the margins of a hollow performance. Your work has become more meaningful, your performance more invested.
This is my joy, to see you racing once more toward knowledge and community; learning and dreaming in tandem.
Love, Mom
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