last minute
December 21, 2015 § Leave a comment
There are three more days of school before we break for the holiday. Three days for last-minute gifts and groceries; time enough to plan a little magic in this, a new season, of joy.
Gone are the years of elaborate gingerbread houses, little fingers sticky with frosting and candy scattered to the far corners of progress. No longer do I wrap our packages with intricate bows or hide the seams of my wrapping by laboring over the folds with hot glue. I’ve stopped staging our home for a Christmas card, becoming almost reckless in my disregard for dramatic details.
In the beginning I was performing to the expectations of impossible standards to please my husband’s family and delight my children with a storybook fairytale. I thought I might preserve make-believe with carefully choreographed awe and excessive measures of enthusiasm. Except, I was exhausted by the work of performing a disingenuous act of joy.
I was raised with a simpler experience of magic, the company of loved ones and the smell of baked goods. I cannot remember a single gift, but I can close my eyes and remember the generosity of peace that marks my memories and the wealth of love made invaluable by time spent with family. I wish I had honored these traditions earlier, before I adopted the superficial demonstrations inherent in my husband’s memories.
Our children rallied against unhappy traditions, in want of simpler experiences almost as soon as they could speak their mind. Unimpressed with the decorative packaging that was my husband’s family’s hallmark, they hated the seams that would not tear beneath layers of glue. They bemoaned the nagging directives in sharp tones from grandparents who demanded they preserve each ribbon. They endured with sullen postures the formality of Christmas morning brunch; traditional foods set against pristine table cloths and heirloom quality place settings with little room for cheer.
For some time I tried to please both generations.
New traditions became apologies for patience. To drown out the demands of unwrapping gifts, I let my children scatter their mess with joy. We saved the ribbon but buried our floor beneath hastily torn wrapping paper. I packed away my china and snuck donuts onto countertops, a small concession for the menu of dreaded hash. I created a new dress code that restricted our children from properly dressing for the day and refused, myself, to change out of pajamas.
Little changes that acknowledged the brevity of childhood. Still misery found its way to our doorstep with sharp tongues and crude demonstrations of excess. So we tucked our happiness beneath tolerance and waited for each departure to relax into an uncomplicated contentment for simpler traditions. We swept away the wealth of material gifts for more charitable purposes and settled into play.
This year we have invited new guests to preserve a spirit of love that embraces less with gifts of mindfulness. Magic guarded by a menu of frivolous fun with a few special gifts wrapped with haste to be opened with abandon and cheer. Last minute festivities to linger across years of happier memories.
I’m still holding sacred gingerbread houses of Christmases past with gratitude for a less cluttered season of now.
goodnight, home
December 13, 2015 § 2 Comments
The day is done, it is already tomorrow. Rain drums heavily against the darkness in the early minutes of a new day. Our dog is curled into her corner, sleeping peacefully to the quiet hum of the dishwasher. My husband and children are already lost to dreams, limbs heavy with contentment.
As our home settles into sleep, I admire the confetti of chaos that illuminates an evening of happy distractions. Leftover dishes and the lingering smell of delicious indulgences. A minefield of Legos and remnants of construction paper creations; discarded toys unfinished storylines of play.
For every guest we clean our home in a gesture of care; sweeping the floors and counters, tidying the restrooms and storing away evidence of our mess. We do this to tend to comfort, but it is a cozier home with imperfect corners of shared time.
The footpath of daily life creates a gentler expression of home. I forget this each time until goodbyes, when I look to dirty dishes that speak of full bellies and the scattering of toys that hint at creative curiosities.
As I wish our home goodnight, I promise to leave the mess for new memories.
boots & burdens
December 6, 2015 § 4 Comments
It is a morning of traditions stacked neatly into children’s boots and sleepy worries for imperfect days under the festive distractions of holiday cheer. Too often we forget the uncomfortable sharp corners of everyday experiences clouded by sentiment and nostalgia for holidays.
Beneath the magic of white lights and the haze of holiday music, even tireless nutcrackers cannot guard against error or illness, unkindness or the mundane. There is still work to be done, homework and laundry accumulate in our distraction; a sick child and difficult disappointment do not consult the calendar for invitation.
Today I am prioritizing my perspective with an appreciation for the imperfect moments of holiday cheer; choosing to look for the promise behind difficult experiences. Like tiny chocolates behind cardboard doors, I’m beginning my day in search of sweet discoveries.
seasons of joy
December 2, 2015 § Leave a comment
The tree is settling, stretching its humble branches in want of ornaments still nestled in last year’s memories. For now its earthy scent fills the air with a fragrance as clean as the dusting of snow that blankets our morning lawn.
I have only begun to unpack forgotten keepsakes into newly familiar corners of our home. Anticipation and nostalgia linger over bins filled with colorful remnants of holidays past; elementary school wreaths crafted from construction paper handprints and wish lists drawn in earnest childhood print.
There is a quiet beauty in the undone beginnings of this season, a grace born of simple traditions that thread our days with mindfulness for the fleeting magic of childhood holidays.
Joy spills like Christmas carols across the silence and my cup runneth over.
paper dragons
December 1, 2015 § Leave a comment
So much of parenting is an illusion of control, boundaries we map around unpredictable chaos in an effort to guard against harm. Rules and decisions, values and expectations aligned to insure safety. Sometimes danger is costumed in a camouflage of our only experience of normal.
I’ve spoken gently over the years about the impossible heartache that accompanies parenting children in an abusive familial setting; mental illness and emotional abuse, alcoholism and narcissist manipulations. It is an experience that reads like fiction, a harm you cannot contrive to predict and a threat you cannot battle for the insidiousness of its destruction.
Day to day there is an uncertain hesitance under the burden of such illness. You clear safe places to relax your guard against small intrusions, while accepting the eventuality of harm. Years pass creating a legacy of disconnect; volumes of memories set to a soundtrack of unkindness.
When your children no longer ask for the complicated company of these relatives, you honor their happiness with space enough to guard against further harm. Then, as illness is oft to do, it appears in the midst of peace in search of something to consume; misery feeds greedily on the happiness of others. When it is not invited to the feast, it crafts paper dragons, extravagant gifts and cards lined with cash, to beg attention in place of emotion.
Except, empty endearments etched onto paper do little to outspeak the memory of unkind words. Bribes of indulgences cannot bridge the vastness of empty relationships. The dragons tumble into the space between old memories and new happiness, slayed by the hand that crafted them.
We are, finally, at peace.
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
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.
homecoming
September 27, 2015 § 2 Comments
For our children it was a week of school celebrations; traditional fall festivities in a place only newly home. Football games and formal dances without the comradery of old friendships and familiar colors. By Friday it was tempting to toss ourselves into the frenzy of other people’s enthusiasm, to assimilate into an expectation of good cheer for the sake of belonging.
Except the act of pretending demanded an energy we did not possess. Our daughter was homesick, our son disinterested, my husband and I were exhausted.
Sometimes we muscle through the difficult days, demanding joy, but Friday it was peace we sought. Everyone else’s noise had reminded us of a quieter absence and we found comfort in our shared contentment with a simpler experience of our new community.
We skipped the formalities of a high school dance for outdoor music at our local farmer’s market; the colors of our new school for the kaleidoscope of flowers bundled into humble bouquets. Here, among strangers, we belonged for the sheer serendipity of our experiences.
A beautiful fall day with small children and large dogs, warm food and cool drinks. Colors that threaded the bustle with a harmonious cacophony of lazy busyness.
We gave ourselves permission to belong only to the moment. There will be other games and new friends, community events and school celebrations, but this weekend was an exercise in coming home.
truth & trust
September 27, 2015 § 2 Comments
Over the past week my husband and I have navigated complicated conversations with legal counsel. It has been emotionally exhausting, this necessary madness, as we protect ourselves against false accusations and unethical manipulations of those we endeavored to honor as family.
For years I’ve attempted to speak in generalities out of respect for the privacy of those I felt a burden of obligation, to preserve whatever legacy of belonging I might will my children in the absence of memories. This week I buried whatever hope remained.
Phone calls from family friends cautioning threats and legal counsel advising us in our employment against personal accusations. Words and deeds that cannot be so quietly swept among the skeletons we guard.
I understand the illness that has fed the spiral into such demonstrations of contempt and gestures of control, but even tolerance and empathy cannot sustain so many assaults against truth.
It would be easy to name each lie, to shame those who act with little regard for truth. I’m choosing instead to trust right over wrong; holding the written evidence of others’ untruths for a different legacy. Stealing myself for peace and preserving integrity against those who trespass love in the name of family.
Truth is a patient witness, trust a tender guide.
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.
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