the right light
September 22, 2016 § 9 Comments
For a moment, I felt beautiful. Every limb flexed in repose and still. I might have napped if the dog hadn’t insisted we play.
The picture was an impulsive frivolity. I was bookmarking a place I wanted to find my way back to; trying to remember the landmarks to such gentle contentment.
It was only later, when I viewed the image, that I marveled over the shape of my neck, the happy lines around my eyes, the casual sweep of dirty hair that fell lazily into place.
I wanted to whisper to this other self that I see her. Not the tired, broken woman I look for, but the tender soul just beneath the bravado.
I wonder why it is so easy to search an image for disappointment and criticism, instead of appreciation and kindness.
To see ourselves in the right light.
parenting character
September 21, 2016 § 2 Comments
In so much of parenting, success is a bit of a mystery. We see the difficult consequences of perceived error, but the evolution of accomplishment is not always confined to the tidy measurements of academics. Character is something we craft from challenges, not ease.
Our son is struggling in a particular subject, one I could not fathom performing myself. It is a class he has chosen for himself, work he has struggled through alone. By all accounts he is succeeding in his college preparatory choices, failing at mastery over material.
Our daughter is forever eschewing those interests others deem valuable to her future in favor of her own less notable interests. Recently this created a rare opportunity for her to mentor another from a place of ability in an exercise I had undermined by over-valuing the paths not taken.
Tonight as I juggle a poor grade and unexpected messages of praise, I’m thinking of the way we speak validation and encouragement for personal success in moments of struggle. The ways in which we parent for character over accomplishment and the work of recognizing the difference.
dressed down
September 20, 2016 § 5 Comments
In cultivating a new wardrobe for work, I had time enough to play at dressing up; fitting room productions of curious costumes for uncertain scenarios.
I slipped into elegant pencil skirts and feminine dresses, sharp slacks and pristine blouses. High heels and kitten pumps, practical penny loafers and functional ballet flats. The combinations were endlessly entertaining and mildly exhausting.
I wondered briefly at who I might have been had I ordered my choices differently; turning appreciatively to gauge the stranger that seemed at once both familiar and foreign. Store clerks acknowledged these alternate versions kindly, but I could only weather the work of each effort with disjointed appreciation.
I felt less myself without my feet braced barefoot for balance or fabrics gentle enough to accommodate my tendency to curl into a ball. Beautiful pieces were lost to the hair I more often let fall and the face I prefer washed clean.
For all the years I might have wanted to feel beautiful or sexy, I am most myself undone; happier outside the attention of dress and lost more peacefully to my thoughts.
I wonder if we ever outgrow the art of playing at self. Perhaps I have failed colorfully at growing up by too casually dressing down.
scraps
September 19, 2016 § 4 Comments
As the rhythm of my days adjust to accommodate new routines, I’m noting unfinished scraps of scribbles. To keep them safe for another day and to honor an authenticity in the timelines of my reflections, I’ve decided to publish fragmented musings. The notes to myself you might find hurriedly scrawled on napkin corners or store receipts tucked haphazardly in the messy nooks of my distraction.
Sometimes they are notes of gratitude in a moment of sentiment:
There are people we carry with us our entire life, those who hold us to a place we never fully leave and allow us to be a little more ourselves. Keepsakes of self too often shuffled beneath the responsibilities of the day, the frenzied busyness that interrupts our mindfulness. Fragmented memories scattered to the far corners of our attention, but held present in trust by guardians of the past.
Other times they are an observation on the obvious:
In change so much of what we know is reconfigured into another image of familiarity. It is a yawning accommodation that pulls our thoughts beyond our expectations to allow for something unknown. It is an invitation to make space for discomfort, to clear the energy that surrounds uncertainty of invisible limitations.
Then, there are the longer ramblings of partial truths and play. A piece of a story out of order:
Sometimes I want to say your name out loud, just to hear the sound. So much of our truth is lost in old lines of misplaced time, stolen moments from years past that linger in distracted memories. You are ever here, even in your absence. A ghost of something I cannot speak even as I fight to forget. How is it that two people can know so little and be certain of so much? To be eternally connected and forever apart. To choose, consciously another path, without ever wandering.
Mismatched and messy, I’ve lost the threads of thought that bound them to my words. Here, however unfinished, they are part of a larger whole.
to my son
September 17, 2016 § 3 Comments
It’s been a while since I wrote, but this messy moment invites reminding.
I love you. As you are. No less than your best, more than your worst. Endlessly and forgivingly.
You have a history of struggling against yourself, internalizing false assumptions and pushing away from help.
Note: You’ve nothing to prove, no one to measure up against. You are enough.
These teenage years are not for the faint of heart. Mistakes are inevitable, struggle is predictable; neither is a gauge of ability, only an indication of effort.
Living requires risk enough to fail. You don’t have to be perfect.
Be kind to yourself.
Love, Mom
rattled
September 16, 2016 § 3 Comments
As is so often the case, life gives me clarity in chaos. Pieces of wisdom that lend insight inside inconvenient moments. When my hands are full and my mind is occupied, little earthquakes rattle small truths for alignment.
An online course challenged me to think about difficult choices. I’ve been deconstructing the social truths I gave emotional currency with a submissive, unquestioning validation. Taking back a little authority over self.
A new job pulled me further from the immediate distractions and false urgency of superficial nonsense. Resounding to other’s actions or managing my children’s responsibilities have been shuffled out of my in box.
Stolen moments curled into my daughter’s stories or braced against my son’s frustrations invited connection over concern. I’m listening more actively from a place of purposeful stillness.
A new book shone a light on old assumptions and adjustments to routines shifted my energy. I’m moving and thinking in ways that spark small fires; lighting me up from within.
It’s all too much for the tidy word count of a spontaneous post, but there is something exquisite to the raw tenderness with which I am living inside the skin of greater awareness.
For today it is enough to mark the moment and section off space to rest inside wakefulness.
love letters
September 14, 2016 § 2 Comments
It should have been a day of learning co-workers names and memorizing workday routines, but I faltered at each corner. Between every tidy shelf of books was a love story I couldn’t dismiss. Picture books from bedtimes past and chapter books that bookended forgotten passions.
Hand to heart I held the books of my children’s childhood just long enough to remember the weight of clumsy hands tangled in my hair as they distracted themselves from the temptation of thin paper pages. Eyes that watched my mouth conjure shades of sound from black shapes on white pages.
As the books lengthened into the thick binding of lost afternoons, I could see the outline of my children bent over the work of reading or curled beside me as I tumbled freely into my own escape. Cold months under warm blankets and summer afternoons inside the shade.
Old friends and new loves, quietly waiting for the next chapter.
on this day
September 13, 2016 § 2 Comments
Sleep was an impossibility, my joy for this day is effervescent. Happiness enough to balance the restless sleep and heavy footsteps of a cold I cannot shake. To find my place among so many new faces and endless pages, I am at once both child and woman. Purposeful and whimsical.
Honoring my first day with unedited notes on nerves from the eve of my interview:
Thursday is such an unfortunate runner up to Friday. It is a day of eager anticipation for the possibility of the weekend’s indulgences; rest or play, time enough for unfinished tasks or celebratory gatherings. Thursday holds the space of enthusiasm, while Friday parades its promises with the prideful showmanship of a skilled ringleader.
Today is my interview.
I don’t know how to quantify the value of one phone call; the sheer joy that comes from being invited to show up for a conversation I no longer remember the words to.
And so begins a new chapter.
to my daughter
September 9, 2016 § 5 Comments
Earlier this week you were scheduled to have multiple teeth extracted. I anticipated your fear, understood that this appointment would carry the burden of dread. I did not prolong the moment with unwanted reminders. I delivered the news quickly, acknowledging your emotions but underscoring simply the necessity of the appointment with short, staccato statements of must and will.
I let you sulk in the car, distracting myself as much as you with stories from my day. You were a silent companion the entire ride right up to the moment you walked stoically into the office. There was no resistance in your posture, only a quiet unhappiness; a peaceful protest. Fear and frustration coiled tightly in your muscles.
You accommodated each of the technicians’ requests, settling into the directions but holding your body rigid. I sat just out of sight, until the tears came. I understood there was no way to stop the procedure, to interrupt would be disruptive – so I placed my hand on your ankle. Such an insignificant offering to the scale of your muffled misery.
Of course, in this instance, I understood you were safe, but the fear was no less real. Your need to catch your breath and feel in control were tangible. The technicians couldn’t understand that the pain had validated your fears and erased whatever comfort or trust you had tried to offer. Their encouragements were hollow against your experience, so they worked through your emotions alongside you.
Your sounds were a primal language of fear, a flexing of muscle against logic; an uncomfortable demand for permission to claim your needs. I love this about you, your willingness to speak up even in the company of those with more knowledge or strength. I admired the messy, emotional declarations that interrupted the expected and took ownership of your fear with fierce tenderness for your own vulnerability.
You were not silent in pain, but you were no less respectful for your honesty. You did not flail your arms or clench your teeth, but you did not make yourself small either.
You are one of the strongest, most gentle spirits I know. I hope you always speak through your fear and disrupt expectations. I hope you take up space with questions and never settle for rote encouragements.
No one in the room thought less of you for your tears, no one shushed your sounds or undermined your fear. Every inch of your body is your own, to love and protect. Instead they honored the fear, called it by name and gave it weight. When we said you did well, everyone understood that you had not endured the discomfort but found your way to safety.
Love, Mom
less of more
September 5, 2016 § 9 Comments
This past year I had the luxury of dressing in humble, leftover staples of comfort. Long walks with our dog and errands afforded me an unexceptional excuse to recycle my wardrobe in varying combinations of unintelligible shades of largely, shapeless neutrals.
In moving I intentionally packed light; making a conscious commitment to a minimalist mindset that inspired an unintentional exercise in creating a capsule wardrobe. Most days I could have dressed safely in the dark and there was a certain pleasure in the elegance of less.
As I prepare to work outside our home I recognize there is a need for a more structured series of basic interchangeable pieces. I’ve no desire to shop trends or splurge on seasonal whims any more than I want to invest in poorly tailored objects that might fall apart with moderate wear.
Yesterday I spent hours drifting between storefronts, exploring the cuts and colors of borrowed style in search of a familiar self. Tempted to shape myself into an image of something predesigned to escape the exercise in choice, I was slow to recognize the work of self-expression.
I marveled over how quickly we can conform an idea of self by the offerings of cleverly marketed offerings. The fleeting confidence of finding my size in someone else’s image doesn’t allow me to move authentically through my days.
I want my clothes to continue to serve as a background for my thoughts and actions, an understated expression that requires less burden of extravagance. To move seamlessly among my threads.
scribblechic 