in good company
February 10, 2017 § 5 Comments
This morning the library was a contrast of sunlight and shadows, soundless save for the quiet industry of my work; staccato keystrokes interrupting the gentle hum of a singular overhead light. The effervescent conversations that drift across Friday’s desks were replaced by the intermittent punctuation of unanswered calls as the telephone marked time with tones that wound through the air like the plastic cords I once twirled around empty thoughts.
I nestled into the noisy silence with the delight of my childhood fondness for the company of books, moving between the dust motes as I navigated well tread routines to a soundtrack of solitude. The occasional scrape of metal against the book depository or the weighted thump of materials tumbling into the carpeted recess of the cumbersome bins were mischievous reminders of my luxury. I was a child left to wander familiar nooks, curiosity curbed by the holiest of admiration for the sanctity of so many carefully constructed stories.
Hushed footsteps and squeaky cart wheels I drifted down empty rows of sleepy books, while outside the sun chased away the new fallen snow as the gutters shed their burden in pregnant raindrops against the concrete.
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.
pace, rest, joy
September 25, 2016 § Leave a comment
This year my One Little Word has been an active exercise in mindful balance; a bending and flexing of conscious intentions. More than years past, this year the monthly directives have complimented the serendipity of my life’s change with invitations to greater presence.
Designed by Ali Edwards, the guided monthly prompts keep me more firmly tethered to the spirit of my New Year’s Eve’s wishes. September’s assignment directed me to consider the pace of my days, the space of rest, and celebratory acknowledgments of simple joys as they pertain to my chosen word: wholehearted.
The timelines of this prompt allowed me to reflect on the day-to-day experience of my family’s adjustments as I stretched beyond familiar routines to embrace new experiences outside our home. I’ve shuffled priorities and adjusted my expectations, created new rhythms from old routines.
The pace of my days has been unhurried and intentional. I’ve taken comfort in the predictability within my priorities; I’m utilizing my time more productively, but I’m also resting more intentionally. I’m grateful that our schedule as a family was calm enough to incorporate change without toppling our collective patience even as I recognize that we are in the honeymoon phase of change.
For now there is still time enough for the quiet cup of coffee before sunrise and a simple homemade breakfast. My husband and I still cherish the short walk to the bus stop to see our children off to school. At this moment change has been less a sacrifice and more a reorganization of existing responsibilities.
I no longer indulge in late nights between pages of a new story or lengthy morning bike rides. There isn’t time enough to write in the familiar hours with reckless disregard for time. Instead I am making time intentionally for those beloved interests, while spending less time drifting between errands. Gone is the urgent impulse to move, in its place is a physical contentment with mid-day stillness as my thoughts chase new ideas over temporary distraction.
If rest is as much about nourishment in activity as it is replenishment in sleep, then joy is an old friend and a new awareness.
I’ve found greater joy in existing practices at home and discovered happy surprises at work. I like the simplicity of my tasks at the library, the sense of accomplishment in measurable goals. I’m remembering how rewarding work used to feel; the purposefulness and appreciation of a task well-done the same way I’m savoring my children’s curiosity and pride in my new adventures.
Joy is also countless small things with little rhyme or reason.
This month I’ve celebrated the crunch of early autumn leaves and late summer sunshine, birthday cake and sappy love stories. I’ve delighted in a friend’s remembrance of my childhood love of elephants and the sound of other friends singing to my voicemail. New classes and weekend dinners with old friends.
September has been a month of happy celebrations and everyday moments bound by joy and mindfulness. Even as the days shorten and the air turns cooler, I am holding the lesson of this month close as we usher in Autumn’s traditions and Winter’s holidays.
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.
one day
June 9, 2016 § 3 Comments
I spotted the beach last weekend and wondered if both children might discover a new sense of familiarity this first summer away from old routines. Each season since our move brings memories that awaken a disoriented contentment, a loneliness for something uncertain or a guilty exuberance over an intangible certainty. Home is a memory of something simultaneously old and still unknown.
I wanted only an hour of their time, without guarantee they might one day return. It was all I asked for – time enough to explore a new idea for possibility over permanence.
I suggested both children consider the unfamiliar beach an experiment and reinforced my encouragements by traveling light. Faded towels and hastily filled water bottles, sunscreen and a last minute football. No books that might stretch on through shifting sun patterns or sketchbooks that would demand extra care. No elaborate sand tools or snacks. I left the unused, inexpensive inflatable rings buried in my bag as a leftover intention from another day.
A gesture of optimism or guilty bribe.
The beach was quietly busy with comfortable stretches of space between clusters of children; room enough to bury our feet long past the edges of our towels without our conversations reaching our neighbors. Toddlers wielded clumsy shovels against misshapen castles and teenagers waded past the reach of adult reminders.
My children settled into a solitary excavation of distracted amusement. Hours fell comfortably like the sand that dried against our skin and I held my thoughts while stealing photographs of their uninhibited joy least they change their minds and ask that we return home.
In the end we stayed until the temperature threatened good sense, both children bartering our leave with promises to return. One day for another and more to come after. A new pattern emerging in the sand.
counting down & saving up
May 3, 2016 § 6 Comments
Yesterday my son bemoaned Monday with the comfortable familiarity of routine irritation. I commiserated with an empathetic encouragement: Only three more Mondays to go until summer vacation!
Immediately I reveled in the tiny number that seemingly shrunk the weeks ahead to days until I could almost see past the month ahead. We can endure the necessary demands of the day; an end is in sight. Early mornings of monotonous predictability and days toiled at tasks of someone else’s choosing.
Except, if we’re lucky, there are a lifetime of Mondays to come and that mindset doesn’t account for the sweet spontaneity of pleasure each day offers.
I don’t want to save up my joy, to dwell so completely in something uncertain, that I miss the moment standing before me. If each week is divided by labor and love, then I want to create patterns in my day that inspire pleasure without procrastination. Monday should get to dress up in Friday’s eagerness and borrow a little of Sunday’s grace. I want my children to look for possibility alongside responsibility, play and work in the same day.
For me, part of that joy is counting down tomorrows; childhood paper chains we trim to mark the days and whimsical X’s to strike a path of pleasure across paper squares of time. It is an act of faith in goodness to come that overflows into today; anticipation that creates a spark of delight.
This morning my thoughts and smiles are snagged on how I live anticipation, in the present. Where I save up happiness for another day and where opportunities present occasions to make this moment count.
to my son
April 15, 2016 § 2 Comments
Last night we attended a lecture given by your childhood hero, Bill Nye. Walking through the unfamiliar space you began shrugging and snapping, staccato movements on a loop of increasingly rapid repetition; enthusiasm stemming through your limbs like joy tapped into a morse code of movement. In an auditorium crowded with thousands of science-minded fans, you sat at attention as if the room had shrunk to accommodate an audience of two.
Stowed away in my purse was a note you had written Mr. Nye when you were 5 years old. So many years ago I envied this man the fame that you might draft him a letter given your disinclination for writing, the physical demands of shaping letters against the tide of faster ideas often a burden of inconvenience. I reasoned that Mr. Nye must receive so many letters that surely your effort would be lost in his company and as such I should be allowed to keep this time capsule in your penmanship for myself.
Yesterday I confessed my crime of hoarding a letter intended for someone else and had hoped you might gain a signature on the envelope, but the night did not lend itself to a private audience and we left the lecture for a leisurely walk. With long easy strides you casually forgave me my trespass and offered effusive thanks for the evening’s events.
It was enough to be present.
I think sometimes we all forget the luxury of this truth. So often we strive for dramatic performances of appreciation in celebratory moments, losing the elegance of a simpler delight.
In your letter you had invited your hero to play. Yesterday it was enough to find yourself in the same room.
This gratitude for what is and the ability to see wealth in less, it is such a small part of why I am so proud of you and such a large part of why I am better for your gentle lessons.
On the eve of a special birthday, I’m wishing you a lifetime of joy in small moments of mindfulness that you may always find enough within.
Love, Mom
mouthful
April 5, 2016 § 2 Comments
Ever so often, and almost always between seasons, my husband and I commit ourselves, passionately, to a new, good idea. An unfamiliar exercise or a new meal plan, something novel enough to be intriguing without the burden of a long-term mindset. Last fall it was a new cardio routine. This spring it’s a new cookbook. Each, in its own way, a flight of fancy.
Our most recent indulgence required new pantry staples and more invested meal planning. My husband has been blending smoothies and doting over dinnertime. I have been stubbornly resistant, reframing expectations to accommodate those personal preferences that bring me joy.
While my husband stoically drinks his measured water and chokes down protein powder, I have charted compromises. He’s holding steady to the rules, admirably and with more restraint, while I cling devotedly to my morning cup of coffee and conjuring excuses to drizzle honey.
Of all the poor habits I’ve exercised over the years, I am perhaps most proud of my ability to manipulate a chore into an act of playful defiance. I don’t like a one size fits all meal plan and I’m a firm believer in moderation and pleasure.
There will be something new, someday soon, but this exercise of wrestling rules into contrition and cooking up better habits has me smiling in the kitchen, thinking mischievously about good behavior and indulging in healthier bites with smiles.
calendar girl
January 2, 2016 § 2 Comments
We find remembering like blossoms beneath dried leaves, signs of life forgotten in seasons of slumber.
Years ago I would draw clean lines on blank paper, cataloguing my days into calendars. I did this with a concentrated, meditative calm; sharp lines and curving script that wrestled the chaos of responsibilities and daydreams into the promise of time and attention.
I have a fondness for paper and pencil, order and time that was ever-present, but untended in the space I so often look to guide my hours.
This morning I borrowed my daughter’s new artist pad and marker, free handing an old love onto a clean page. In the familiar lines I remembered grade school calendars etched onto ruled paper and college calendars doodled into the margins of my notes; it was the way I counted my way through difficult experiences and the measure by which I held anticipation close.
“Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
Such a little thing, a block of days to remember the past and map the future. More than necessity or function, they were a love letter to the minutes that collected beneath my pen. How could I have forgotten such a simple joy in so obvious a place?
Today I am drawing my own calendar, imperfect lines and favorite quotes; encouragements pledged in my own hand. Still, there is something more to this moment I want to guard, for myself and my children; a lesson too easily lost in plain sight.
To my children,
Note those easy distractions that your hands reach for with muscle memory, the soul whispers that inform joy. Unconventional materials shaped into familiar objects, wood carvings, and written ramblings. There will come a time when the burdens of your responsibilities will threaten to distract you from these exercises in self – guard them. There is time enough in every day for joy.
Love, Mom
scribblechic 