to my daughter
November 2, 2016 § 8 Comments
Today is game seven of the World Series, your team is on the verge of something extraordinary, but here’s the bit of magic I hope you remember: win or lose, the real game is about living out a dream with passion no matter the odds.
We’ve watched as seasonal fans waffled between idol worship and pessimistic snap criticisms, but your team keeps showing up and challenging us all to believe. This is the thing, underneath the media clips, there’s hard work and messy failures. The team you champion are made up of imperfect individuals who show up no matter what.
Maybe this is why you love them, because you’ve felt like an underdog and recognize the vulnerability in daring to dream beyond others’ expectations. Perhaps you recognize the burden of carrying others’ hopes among your own and the inner strength it takes to balance that weight.
You’ve dismantled others’ assumptions despite unfavorable odds and set your own goals, doing the unglamorous work of struggling out loud under the watchful eyes of peers and educators. There aren’t awards or cheering sections for failure, it’s the standing back up that counts.
Win or lose, we play for the love of the dream; the song in our heart that only we can hear.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
October 11, 2016 § 5 Comments
This morning, as you finished your last bite of breakfast and I began a second cup of coffee, you told me about an uncomfortable experience at school. A teacher you were secretly certain doesn’t like you.
There were lots of specific details that you tallied as evidence. For a moment I considered asking you to act out the worrisome behavior, but I trust your intuitiveness; you’re pretty good at reading people.
Playing devil’s advocate would only make you second guess yourself and I had a bigger question in mind.
Does it matter?
Beyond respect, can we really expect anyone to like everyone?
No matter how much I love you, it’s possible your teacher doesn’t like you. (Of course, it’s just as possible she does.)
Instead, I asked about your work, if the pace of the teacher’s lectures or expectations had left gaps in your understanding. If liking one another, the relationship you share or don’t, gets in the way of learning. If it is possible to be respectful and fair without posturing an insincere standard of “like.”
It’s a conversation that has kept me thinking all day about my own expectations, of self and others.
On the surface it’s painfully simple to dismiss someone else’s emotions for our own, but it is even more worrisome to twist ourselves into another’s acceptance and loose the shape of our selves. I hope you like yourself.
Love, Mom
borrowed time
October 10, 2016 § 3 Comments
There isn’t always time enough to gather the minutes into record, to hold the emotions on paper while the sentiments are still chasing around my thoughts. This weekend one of my daughter’s oldest friends surprised her with a visit and I wish, more than anything, I could preserve their time with words.
Fragments of their hours together float to the surface of my attention and I smile without effort, unable to shake the joy that stuck to my daughter’s cheeks.
I can still hear the memory of my daughter and her friend singing in off-key harmony as we drove between tourist attractions as loudly as their companionable silences; those times when sitting beside one another the air sparked with the telepathy of their thoughts.
Emphatic statements of generous understanding and empathetic uncertainties, passionate optimism and uncluttered kindness. They didn’t just trade stories, they offered pieces of themselves with fiercely unguarded honesty.
They are kinder, wiser, more curious and less cautious for the sure-footedness of their friendship. Keepers of one another’s emotions entrusted to guard their memories as tenderly as their dreams.
This morning our home felt too quiet and the minutes too short for the fullness of their company and the weight of their goodbyes.
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
to my daughter
June 27, 2016 § 4 Comments
There are many ways I might remember yesterday, but the moment I most wish to capture, I did not see. I can speak only to the minutes before and after, admiring the in between.
You were coveting a small vase at a local art festival with insufficient funds and a determined hopefullness when you asked me if you could approach the artist with an offer for less. I wanted to tell you no; be still, be quiet, be grateful. Let what you have be enough.
Instead I gave you room enough to act. Alone.
I expected the vendor would politely refuse you, but your face told another story.
There was so much joy in your expression; exuberance as you displayed your bright, pink bag.
The artist engaged your question and indulged your request; she sold her work at a fraction of its worth and honored your sense of value in the process.
You were proud, radiant in your enthusiasm as you replayed your victory.
This kind stranger respected the gumption you demonstrated and celebrated your interest in her work by accepting your offer. You taught me a lesson in reckless trust and uncertain effort; leaping toward confidence and gambling hope.
Love, Mom
beauty marks
June 23, 2016 § 4 Comments
Before our move I tried on each piece of clothing in my closet determined to keep only those items that fit, were in good shape, and made me feel beautiful. It was an indulgent experiment, a consciously minimalist exercise in less that lightened the work of moving while creating a need to replace a few necessary wardrobe staples.
For the past year I have happily managed without many new purchases, until now. As I filled the gaps in my children’s summer wardrobe to accommodate winter’s growth, it became obvious that my own choices were sincerely lacking. I spent an afternoon drifting between stores, struggling to find clothing that was neither matronly or juvenile, only to find myself confronted with an unhappy reflection of unflattering choices.
This was what drove me to seek direction with an outsourced service based on tidy measurements and instinctive preferences. Impersonal details that might communicate greater possibility to someone uninhibited by my skewed sense of self how I might look in something unfamiliar.
Today was my third attempt in as many shipments. The first two forays into this new experience were frustratingly disappointing. Sizes were a little off, but fabrics were hopefully delightful. Prices were reasonable and styles were novel to my daily uniform of denim and cotton. Colors and design elements began a new conversation in form and function, need and pleasure.
There have been a couple close misses, tops or dresses I wanted to keep but could not rationalize for poor fit or inconvenient practicalities, but today’s dress was a beautiful disaster. I fell in love with the lightness of the fabric as it spooled through my fingers. A whimsical design that felt immediately romantic for the ribbons of flowers and birds that chased the length of a skirt with slits cut discreetly along each leg.
For a moment, I wanted to keep the object that lulled me nearer a fantasy so I smiled as I twirled for my daughter. It was as I was smiling that she noted my wrinkles then quickly qualified them as something good; a sign that I smile so much.
In that simple acknowledgment I felt more beautiful than the elegant pattern I knew I would fold neatly to return; the dress that I wouldn’t wear for the ill-fitting design of a top too small and a style more impulsive than timeless.
I’m keeping, instead, the lines on my face and a new smile for a stolen moment of dress-up. A snapshot to hold safe this memory for another time. Grateful for the keepsakes of old smiles in telltale laugh lines.
to my daughter
June 7, 2016 § 3 Comments
Some days I want to gather memories into one of the many eclectic containers that litter corners of your room, your personality like bits of confetti that stick to my days making everything more interesting for your company. Little moments that cannot be strung together but only collected into a cacophony of sentiment.
Over the past week I have held turn of phrases over, delighting in fragments of humor and gentler expressions of fiery certainty. The way you cocked an eyebrow when I suggested a chore to demonstrate responsibility; the tilt of your chin as you rebutted with a demur, “we both know that won’t last.”
Or maybe I could capture the way you spontaneously unearthed painting supplies to capture a movie because you couldn’t quite sit still and touching paint to paper helped you fall further into the story line; cloaking yourself in colors as the sound lead your hand to create.
There’s catching you long past bedtime cleaning your room by balancing everything precariously from the tip of your walking stick and the way you bundled your stuffed animals curiously into a noose. I understand the moment is temporary and that the structure of your organization cannot be decoded, but there is a simple gesture of appreciation in the illusion of order.
Most definitely I would gather your language. Early speech struggles still interrupt eloquent exclamations and I may never outgrow the way you structure what everyone else sees from a perspective just askew enough that we still piece together your meaning first by shades of colorful interpretation. I must write these before they are lost to poor memory.
There was a moment only last week when you caught a music video for an artist you like and you mused over an inner turmoil when the visual presented contradicted the strength you had inferred in her talent; pieces of overly sexualized imagery that felt disjointed invited an impromptu conversation on objectification and body image.
I wonder what color your passion for individuality might inspire. Consistently inconsolable over the injustice of “girl colors” you intentionally choose objects in shades that challenge generic assumptions of femininity for creativity. Gladiator sandals to pair with your animal print blanket shaped into a toga and held by a turquoise belt and anchored by a backwards baseball cap to hide a nest of tangles.
These moments only hint at larger truths; you are profoundly insightful and playfully uninhibited, cautiously aware and tenderly curious. Flecks of spirit are ever present pieces of self; prisms that catch the light as you shape your lines of thought.
Beautiful fragments that leaving me scurrying to remember fleeting minutes of days that pass too quickly into years.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
May 24, 2016 § 3 Comments
Yesterday you came home casually piecing together a misunderstanding that left you feeling misplaced. A mistake born of good intentions that made you feel silly, then guilty, as other’s reacted to your error.
Beneath your tough exterior and flippant shrug, there was a tenderness that belied your dismissive attempts at humor.
Last night I wanted to help you piece together the moment; if not to fix it, then to create peace in place of frustration. This morning I am more humble for my own experiences.
Saying something without intending to upset someone else, the tone and texture of your words or mannerisms chafing at another’s emotions until the moment becomes unintentionally hurtful. Loosing perspective between another’s reaction and our defensiveness.
The things we might have said and the way we guard our heart. The balance of fact over truth. Blame over burden.
Maybe everything doesn’t need to be understood, perhaps it is enough to be present in our own experiences and have faith in others’ goodness.
Sometimes we let the broken pieces lay where they fall and trust others to see past the mess to our best.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
May 20, 2016 § 5 Comments
I don’t know what this moment will feel like years from now, but today rejection feels intimately unjust and impossibly unfair.
For the second time in nine months you have been rejected for a voluntary leadership role, a peer mentoring experience that would have placed you in a position of service. It’s a responsibility in which you would have excelled, but where integrity and character felt second to chance.
You were so intentional in your second application, so thoughtful and cautious in your effort that I thought for certain fate would acknowledge your resilience with opportunity. Perhaps we were wrong to feel confident, but I cannot imagine teaching you to practice for disappointment.
I could tell you that life isn’t always fair or reassure you that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes things don’t work out and all we are left to choose is how we handle ourselves in the face of disappointment.
I’ll confess there was a panicked moment of desperate temptation to rearrange events to conspire for joy; to temper emotions with action. Except I didn’t want to puppeteer a false sense of accomplishment for a hollow achievement or undermine a decision that should be made independent of parental interference.
Then, when you bemoaned those veteran ambassadors who sometimes act unkind, I realized you might have been spared a complicated company in which you could have felt a burden to belong greater than a call to service.
Life isn’t fair. Sometimes things happen for a reason.
Here’s what you can do: advocate for those small improvements you felt passionately could strengthen the integrity of the program.
Encourage those who make the decision to share how they eliminate candidates and to identify what they look for in student applications. Allow the process to become a learning opportunity that nurtures growth.
Propose limited terms so that more children have an opportunity to participate.
Let the school know that you think children should be told in person not on paper that they were not chosen. I love the generosity of that opinion.
Each of these small changes have the potential to create a legacy beyond spirit days and building tours.
Most importantly, keep yourself open to possibility when you most want to close yourself off against further disappointment.
Love, Mom
post script
May 10, 2016 § 2 Comments
It’s over. Your solo is done. I’m still holding tightly to the memory of your performance and the exuberant message you sent me just moments after your evaluation.
I did AWESOME! I made a couple of mistakes, but otherwise I was amazing!
This day was not easy, nor was your performance perfect. There were hours of dreaded anticipation and moments of panicked uncertainty. I may have wished you an easy performance, but your mistakes were glorious for your stubborn resilience and tender courage.
You walked in to your test withdrawn, hunched over your fear like it was holding your place when your accompanist directed you to lead. Swinging your body toward the sound of his kindness, you tapped your beloved boots to tempo as you raised your instrument to a smile.
Audacious and fiercely genuine, it was a glimpse of the girl I know at her most comfortable in her least comfortable setting. Then I heard the sharp squeak of a single note scrapping out of place.
It seemed traitorous that this lost artifact of early practices would betray you just as you had relaxed your guard. I wanted to push myself through the monitor and tell the man observing you that only yesterday you were home sick, unable to breathe and exhausted; to will you a second chance at a truer performance of ability.
You, however, didn’t falter.
One deep breath as your eyes kept place and you were back. No tears or apology, no excuses or awkward explanations. It was better than if you had played without error.
I did AWESOME! I made a couple of mistakes, but otherwise I was amazing!
And so you did, you were, you are.
Love, Mom
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