self & space
September 14, 2015 § 4 Comments
As we nestle into our new home, I am mindful of the love that crafts a space into a reflection of self. Empty walls and unmarred floors, naked windows and bare cabinets; we unpack our personalities into expressions of ownership with beloved items and thoughtful choices.
Over the past week I have become fascinated by the choices that hint at the authenticity of each family member’s unique spirit. My daughter’s restless need to fill a space with color or my son’s tendencies toward texture, my husband’s need to tailor his space with carpentry or my stubborn dependence on order.
There is chaos in the process of creation but there is also harmony in the language we use to offer belonging and security.
It is more than rediscovering cherished pieces of past experiences, we are similarly sounding out our hopes with invested choices for new objects; furnishings we imagine gathering around and the story we tell ourselves about these expectations. More than function or necessity, there is hope in the value of shared dreams.
Still, there is work in the privilege of choice. We honor one another by making certain the space we share reflects respect for our differences. We are architects of our own experience but guardians of one another’s story, the space of home a safe haven for individuality and belonging.
40
September 13, 2015 § 4 Comments
If I am honest, if I am willing to stand in my own truths and claim the sharp corners of my flaws, I must admit I expected this milestone to deliver a certain knowing. There was an unspoken expectation as glossy as my own filtered social media images.
The day itself dawned painfully unexceptional for the unfortunate happenstance of Mother Nature’s folly. Still my husband honored our morning traditions in a way that tethered me to the simplest of joys and was a happy foreshadowing of countless thoughtful gestures of appreciation.
It was a beautiful day, a harmonious balance of sunshine and moderate temperatures. It was a quiet day with simple pleasures and good company. Still, if I tell the story of my gratitude I am conveniently excluding the complicated pieces of my truth that undermine the complexity of an internal uncertainty.
Perhaps it is better to draw only on the positive, to edit our narrative for our mistakes that we might be remembered for our best.
I was not my best.
I wanted to feel beautiful and young, certain and confident. Instead my body betrayed me and I felt unwell. The day wore against my skin like a dress to small and shoes too large, cumbersome in its inconvenience.
Still those closest to me loved me stubbornly and generously, thoughtfully and gently. It is perhaps the most extravagant gift of all, to be so unconditionally loved for out best in spite of our worst.
40 feels like 29 and a little like 15, too. A contradiction of expectations and experiences, a new knowing of something familiarly uncertain. The girl of my youth and woman I endeavor to model for my children are little more than imperfect characters in an unfinished story.
I’m still thinking on what I might wish for as I count my blessings, grateful for the love of those who let me stumble.
to my daughter
September 3, 2015 § Leave a comment
This week a clerical error in the online enrollment process created an unanticipated complication to your school day. An essential document was missing from your records, legal paperwork designed to safeguard specific supports that insure the best possible environment for your academic needs.
Let me back up.
On Monday morning I sent a casual message to your teachers. Having moved to a new state, new neighborhood, and new school I was looking to weave together a greater sense of familiarity with a more personal connectivity. My greatest concern was that you were settling into larger measures of independence. There were small concerns that I didn’t want to overlook or exaggerate.
A missing calculator and ungraded homework left inside your folder were questionable red flags. Rather than leap to worries that revolved around executive functioning skill sets, I wanted to first make certain that your teachers were not concerned. I offered you simple suggestions that would nurture successful habits, feeling comfortable that most of my worries were symptomatic of an adjustment period given so much change.
Before any of the teachers had time to respond, your vice principal reached out to identify a new concern that he might begin to rectify an unintentional error by changing your schedule immediately. I want you to know that in this moment we were all trying to honor the formalities of your needs. Clumsy and well-intentioned, we were checking boxes and honoring professional and personal responsibilities.
Everyone was frantically trying to do the next right thing by you, but it would be you that lead the way.
On the morning that your classes changed, you left our care open-minded and confident. It was only after school, when you walked stoically to the car before crumbling into tears that I knew we had made a greater mistake. On sobs that stole your breath you forced together words that would draft a new expectation of wellness. You told us that you had been placed in a class you didn’t belong in, that the students in your new space needed attention that you did not, and that this change told you and your community of peers that you were not enough.
I let you tire yourself with every steadfast declaration. Your father and I listened carefully and questioned thoroughly each statement for logic and emotion. We pushed against every sensitive doubt to make certain your conviction could withstand a thoughtful challenge.
I asked you to name your worth and the value of others’ judgement. I questioned how hard you would work if allowed a harder path. I prepared you for a long-term investment and the possibility that you might have to wade into discomfort before others would honor your choice.
Internally I struggled between wanting to provide extra academic supports and recognizing the value in self motivation. Ultimately, your father and I decided to support your untraditional request and immediately reached out to your school. We told them that the abruptness of the change had undermined the sense of self and community that you had already established, that we were making personal decisions based on impersonal data. Then we waited.
Late last night, the same administrator who adjusted your schedule to honor your academic needs honored your decision to return to the familiarity of your original schedule. More importantly, he validated your sense of self in the context of your new community. This morning he met you at the school door with a smile asking if you remembered your old schedule.
It isn’t going to be easy, but it doesn’t need to be. You are enough.
Love, Mom
giving & receiving
August 31, 2015 § Leave a comment
Throughout our move I have been humbled by the generosity of others; close friends and companionable acquaintances have consistently shown up in the disorder of our need and stood beside us, actively helping us process the demands of our choice.
On days when I could not see my own needs for the chaos of our work, others provided comfort and care with meaningful offerings of purposeful aid. Meals and muscle, pet care and child’s play; there was no false pride or martyrdom, no posturing of strength in stubborn refusals in my acceptance. I recognized the kindness in each offering and learned a new language of strength by honoring my limits.
I had previously assumed my independence was a greater measure of ability, priding myself on self-sufficiency. I similarly judged others for decisions that placed them in a position of vulnerability with passive aggressive criticisms that were directly correlative to their need and my expectations of accountability. Strength is not so easily measured by need or ability.
For all the years I said “no” to an experience because the unknown demanded vulnerability; for every criticism I privately harbored for someone else’s display of need; for every cautious excuse that allowed me to disengage from uncertain success – I misvalued my community and my worth.
Friends do not wait for permission to love one another with acts of care, we fill our arms with efforts and our hearts with an openness that leaves room enough in our expectations for imperfect choices. This is what I have learned over long days of worries and endless to-do lists. We are stronger together.
breaking bad
August 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
Living in close quarters, without familiar comforts, we explore new choices with a mindset of possibility. Of course, it would be almost as easy to dwell in frustration for lost conveniences, but for our family the days of mindfully navigating suspended normalcy in the temporary space of our hotel habitat have led to fewer bad habits.
We’re offline more, impulse eating less, exercising consistently and resting consciously. Budgeting food costs with attention to problem solving around nutritional needs has pushed us to more consciously consider when and what we eat. Given the physical limitations of our temporary home, we are similarly hesitant to invite snacks that might draw smaller visitors and so we have avoided the temptation to over-indulge in restless boredom. More often we leave our overlapping living space to explore our new community or unwind at the pool.
The novelty of a pool has become an important part of our transition. We play as a family and we sleep more thoroughly despite the distractions of our surroundings. Television and hand-held entertainment offerings have been replaced by a dollar store pool ball that volleys between us over evening hours.
Our days end quickly with sleepy limbs and full bellies until we begin again the next day with a now familiar cold breakfast courtesy of a small convenience. Without our tech savvy home and oversized kitchen, we are sated by a simpler offering. Less is genuinely more. The minimalist mentality of a more mindful appreciation for needs in place of wants is something I hope we unpack into our new home.
To break bad habits with new attentiveness for the simpler luxury of change and choice.
tech support
August 26, 2015 § 4 Comments
It was a predictable problem. Take one new student, place them in the company of children navigating the distractions of online social media, and you have crocodile tears and a self-righteous indignation for the contemporary convenience of cell phones in the unstructured space of the school day.
Today I listened as my daughter made a case for banning cell phones from her school. I paid close attention to her self-awareness when she acknowledged it would be worse to be the girl who took away everyone’s phone than it would be to sit ignored. I waited as she circled sadness and frustration for her to sound out the core of her unhappiness and then I invited someone wiser to offer a new perspective.
Given the source of my daughter’s unhappiness I holstered my phone, resisted the ease of e-mail and returned to school. Mom to educator and administrator, I asked for suggestions to ease the loneliness of our transition. In the space of a half hour we considered how technology use can sometimes be misunderstood; that a child disappearing into a screen may want an excuse to look up. We also considered that it is easier to assume “everyone” is using tech than it is to search out those who aren’t, but we balanced these possibilities by acknowledging the emotions of feeling ignored or left out then brainstorming active ways my daughter can facilitate a more rewarding experience with support.
Tomorrow my daughter is going to purposefully look for peers who aren’t online and she’s going to be more tolerant of those who exercise the choice to connect in a way different from hers. She’s going to hold tightly to her choice, but she’s going to respect other’s right to choose differently. More important than arguing policy from a perspective biased by a singular opinion on a difficult day, she is learning how to advocate for her needs in a way that makes happiness a product of her actions rather than a reflection of her environment. She is learning how to ask for help and how to extract insight from obstacles.
My children are growing up at a time when technology and social experiences are creating new lessons in communication. It is unreasonable to eliminate technology and irresponsible to make it a scape goat for accountability. It is a learning moment.
Tonight I’m thankful for complicated choices that invite greater consciousness for how we use technology and for the individuals who support us in real-time, offline.
beautiful bruises
August 26, 2015 § 4 Comments
It has been one week since we arrived on the outskirts of our new home; three days since our children began school; days still before we will settle into a greater sense of permanence within our community. Each day dawns full of uncertain possibility as we feel our way through the unknown in search of belonging.
The first day of school my son recounted the numerous hellos met with hollow echoes that never evolved into conversations. It was a long day of polite coexistence and no matter the population of his new school, it was a lonely experience. By day two my son had begun friendships, but my daughter was stranded in the social hierarchy of lunch without a place to eat. On the verge of tears she was saved by someone she might never have met had there been space for them elsewhere. On this, our third day, I stumbled through my own mistakes feeling hugely overwhelmed and alone until I remembered how my children have braved their own discouragements.
There is grace in acknowledging the honesty of our emotions while extending ourselves; standing publicly in clumsy efforts of earnest hopefulness and reaching toward an opportunity rather than curling against vulnerability to feign disinterest or posture a superficial image of strength.
These stories of our days are beautiful bruises, tender badges of effort that allow us to celebrate the path of our imperfect progress.
to my son
August 25, 2015 § Leave a comment
For as long as I can remember you have always been quick with a smile and kindness. My favorite recent memory was a moment of unabashed silliness in full public display. You silently dared your father and I not to laugh as you mimed a personality uninhibited by the company of strangers. We laughed earnestly and you leaned into the sound as if you might get lost in your contentment. It was pure joy made indulgent for the generosity of your offering.
Yesterday, knowing you carried that eagerness to share with someone new I understood the vastness of your discouragement when you didn’t find the same easy smile among strangers. It will come. Maybe not as soon as you would like, perhaps not as easily as you imagined. None of this is a reflection of your worth any more than it is a predictor of what’s to be.
Continue to offer smiles without expectation, to walk in your own certainty and trust in the goodness we cannot always see.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
August 25, 2015 § Leave a comment
Yesterday you raced toward your homework, eager to complete your first assignment. You curved your arm and draped your hair over your work in a move that hid your efforts. Once finished you tucked your paper inside your folder and bounded away to a different perch.
Asking permission to snoop you granted me the right to read your answers but on the condition I wouldn’t edit your work. “I don’t care about making spelling mistakes, I’ll learn.”
You are a self-proclaimed poor speller. It has become as endearing as your dimples, little flaws that invite moments of beautiful admiration. Unguarded in your words you tend to speak clearly through poorly formed words, but here’s the thing: your spelling was much improved.
I had to reread your work for the errors you assumed, because my eyes were first drawn to the honesty and innocence of your answers. I won’t quote the entirety of your work, but I’m saving your assignment for years to come and ending with my favorite excerpt.
Prompt: One day I would like to be a I want to keep on being a kid and when I’m in high school I will worry but right now I want to be a kid!
I wouldn’t change a thing.
Love, Mom
objects in mirror
August 25, 2015 § Leave a comment
Yesterday I watched my daughter hesitate outside the entry of her new school; early and alone, I wondered if she would find a friendly smile that might help her navigate the minutes before her first day. Gauging her image in the frame of my side mirror, I was tempted to rescue her from a solitude that felt larger in a backward glance. Instead I watched as she held a door open for someone else and stole away beyond the scope of my gaze.
It had been easier to watch her brother race, gawky and eager, toward an uncertain friend whose backpack invited an immediate introduction; a shared interest that might lead to a companionable moment on a day that wore a little starched for our unfamiliarity. I worried less about the outgoing teenager who didn’t look back than the child who watched me from the periphery of my mirror. It was the solitary figure who cast a larger shadow across my thoughts; I couldn’t imagine it might be my son who would struggle against the loneliness of missing companions as he raced to make new connections.
By dismissal my worries were exaggerated by the clumsiness of my own confusion at pick-up, congested carpool lanes crowded with children and adults all moving in chaotic circles of rushed energy. I anticipated need in error and allowed my thoughts to race toward false expectations.
My daughter had struggled against all the change with humor and humility, she counted each honest mistake while adding her strengths. By day’s end she stood a little taller in her knowledge, a little more comfortable among her mistakes. It was my son, the outgoing personality who so often speaks uncensored of self-confidence who struggled against a distorted measure of success. There were no mistakes to correct, no uncomfortable moments of embarrassment; only loneliness for friendships not yet formed.
Today I am trying to remember that challenges may feel larger than they appear, that success and error are little more than different perspectives of a shared experience.
scribblechic 