good & bored
June 6, 2016 § 3 Comments
Summer vacation has officially begun, but my calendar is long forgotten. Impromptu evenings with old friends and spontaneous indulgences bookend long days of sunshine squandered in a restless independence. These hours of curious emptiness are a season of their own.
Gone are the lost years of infant naps and toddler busyness, extravagant vacations or overly choreographed afternoons; it is a time of work and rest as we complete tasks and slip guiltlessly into distraction. This first week we labored, collectively, over enclosing our yard then slipped quietly into gentler distractions.
Both children have begun resting later into the morning and playing at old interests; exploring new spaces and toying with creative endeavors. In their contentment my husband and I have had time enough to linger, together, between the bustle of booths at a farmers market, but also to delight in stolen moments of easy confidence with each child, separately.
I am planning less, moving beneath the sun in search of active stillness and cool pockets of shade. It is a time of searching without ambition and delighting in uncommonly beautiful discoveries. A season that invites boredom for the magic of exploration.
second chances & simple truths
May 3, 2016 § 2 Comments
My daughter is applying for an opportunity she was denied at the onset of the school year. The process of answering questions that speak to character and individuality, teamwork and excellence were once easy scribbles she raced through in an attempt to make the cut.
The first time around there was an idea that timelines, more than tidiness, spoke to an unwritten qualification. This time around she has been more cautious, but no less intentional. As we near the deadline for second chances, she’s drawing her letters carefully and crafting her answers, again, mindful of their weight.
It was this matter of timeliness that had us talking over what work was left to complete and when she might plan to turn over her student application and teacher recommendations.
We debated the value of early applications as demonstrative of enthusiasm and late applications as either procrastination or care. Then, to muddle things with my signature tendency toward over thinking, I mused that an early application may hint at a hurried effort and could become forgotten as last-minute applications filter in.
It would seem that I was sounding out a strategy, when mostly I was merely exploring the possibilities of a process we don’t fully understand in the interest of engaging my daughter in an opportunity to connect. These dwindling morning moments when she’ll still let me untangle her hair into conversation before school.
There was no right answer, no sure bet or safe choice. Just an excuse to sound out emotions and opinions. Sometimes, in these moments, I’m certain I’m sharing something important; nudging my children towards a lesson that may, one day, serve them well. It is more likely that I am teaching my children a little more about myself and learning more, still, about them.
On this occasion, after I had exhausted my thoughts on timeliness, it was my daughter who cautioned my questions with a very humble and unceremonious:
Mom, someone has to be first and someone has to be last.
There was an exquisite simplicity to her clarity of consciousness; an uncompetitive acceptance of face value and an equality of worthiness. I wish there had been more space in her application for the uncluttered self-awareness that is so often a hallmark of our conversations.
First, last, or somewhere in between, she’s placing herself in a position of possibility and counting on second chances.
four
May 2, 2016 § 2 Comments
Lessons come into my life at the exact moment I am open to their wisdom. They may feel familiar as the universe nudges me gently on the shoulder, but they become my own only when I allow myself to relinquish my defenses and create unhindered space for understanding.
In hindsight, there are almost always clues that inform a prelude to learning.
My first clue came in the form of a casual read as another writer estimated it takes about 90 seconds to shift perspectives and allow emotions to pass. It was a well-articulated, personal reflection that I respected for insightful honesty. I let this first nudge pass uneventfully.
At almost the same time, in an online course, Brené Brown coached me through a lesson on creating space with conscious, structured breaths for recognizing emotions. I breezed through the exercise detached without something urgent to release. Even as the powers that be tapped my shoulder, I couldn’t quite make the connection.
I was taking note without, yet, recognizing the value in the lesson. Opening myself for the work of practice without the immediacy of necessity.
On Friday my son alerted me to a momentary frustration; a situation symptomatic of an ongoing misunderstanding. I cannot speak enough to how natural it is, as a special needs parent or just a parent, for me to move from empathetic listener to veteran problem solver.
Reactive over receptive.
In those moments when I rush to action, worry communicates to my son he needs my intervention while simultaneously cautioning the school that I stand in judgement of their fallibility. Sometimes help looks a bit like control.
Last week I surrendered in four breaths to a curious evaluation of the emotions I might otherwise act on. Worry, fear, frustration, doubt. These are not the foundations I would choose to advocate for my child or his school. I wanted to feel curious and connected, engaged and empathetic to better facilitate communication for learning.
It’s hard to listen when you’re talking, so I kept breathing quietly into a place of patience; assuming the best for more genuine cooperation.
In that unplanned moment when I consciously created space to learn, the scale of my emotions and the urgency of my reaction shrunk to accommodate a mindset of possibility over reactivity. Peace over panic.
I don’t have a perfect number of breaths or an easy answer to my son’s experience, Friday my only answer was four deep breaths. I’m learning.
Murphy’s Law
April 19, 2016 § 5 Comments
It is an infallible inevitability that whenever my husband must travel for work, something will go wrong. In fact, I plan accordingly for chaos; I fold it into my expectations the way my husband neatly packs his bags. Sometimes I wonder if a cartoon cloud has been assigned my schedule or if I am responsible for inviting rain with the force of my thoughts.
Less a pessimist and more a planner, I persistently endeavor to ready myself for worst case scenarios. The truth is we are never truly prepared; we rise to challenges by choice.
Here is what a spontaneous hour at the veterinarian reminded me:
- We create space in our lives for risk. Dogs, like children, do not defer to convenience and our commitment to them demands we detour as necessary.
- Children are more capable than we assume, they thrive with responsibility because it validates their unique strengths and reinforces messages of ability over need.
I’m not in a hurry to do yesterday over, but I’m pretty proud of myself and my children. We were present for one another and accountable for ourselves. Our pup is on the mend and we’ve added a new story for when my husband returns home.
Murphy’s Law might dictate anything that could go wrong will, but I like to think everything worked out just fine.
dog training
December 13, 2015 § 4 Comments
Our dog’s leash caked in a layer of mud to match the stretch of filth that reached from tip to tail, pulled me from the evening’s holiday plans. I cursed myself for allowing her to chase after a new friend into unknown nooks of our neighborhood, but the joy between the two had been contagious and I had released her to play.
It was only after I called our dog back to finish our walk, that I considered the unlikely events that must transpire before our company arrived. Sixty pounds of mud and fur would need to be carried up a flight of stairs to be cleaned. I’m not sure I’ve previously noted her fear of stairs, but there was no doubt that she would not be bribed our commanded in the direction of the available bathroom given an equally unfortunate fear of baths. Then, our oversized, dirty chicken would need to be bathed.
I began in my head with all the inconveniences. Trotting them out for show, naming them and sulking in their company. By the time we returned home, I had set aside the frustrations of the moment and began moving through a checklist of necessity.
It was a comedy of error, our sweet pup watching through the shower door as I struggled into my bathing suit; a small precaution in anticipation of my own inevitable bath. She was patient still as I scavenged our cabinets for the shampoo I had over organized into unlikely storage. It was only when I filled a large bucket with water that she curled in protest against the tiles as I began earnestly scrubbing the layers of mud from her fur.
As she settled into a helpless trust, I too let go; dismissing my regrets and thoughts of inconvenience to the task at hand. I stopped worrying that my hair would be undone or that the bathroom would soon be a mess of fur and water. I put off the hour and thoughts of our company, focusing on the work that demanded patience and let the irritation chase the mud that circled the drain.
This is the blessing of loving a dog; they challenge us to get lost in an unpredictable moment where small fears and inconveniences allow us to center ourselves completely in a moment of care. Our priorities get shuffled and we uncover minutes we had previously allocated to other plans, we let go of the false idea of control that so often hurries our actions and distorts the importance of our distractions.
We teach less than we learn.
blind spot
June 12, 2015 § 4 Comments
I’ve been thinking about the ways I comfort myself with easy untruths, kind dismissals. The way I talk around my fears and hopes until I push them a little further from the edge of my day, letting myself feel safe and inviting a quieter harm in procrastinating the pursuit of undetermined potential.
They are a blind spot of my making.
It happens predictably and unexceptionally. I skip the pool to hide physical insecurities, old demons of poor self-image. I sidestep confrontation for passive aggressive disinterest. I pass on opportunities from the sidelines of uncertainty. In most cases, the avoidance does less to shelter me from discomfort than it does to feed the voices of doubt that inform remorse.
They are often so habitual, these behaviors and self-talk, that I don’t see their harm until I change the pace or direction of my attention.
It happened most recently when I was perusing social media and noting the accomplishments of so many old acquaintances. Here’s an ugly truth, I remember thinking I was destined for something bigger than them. Years later I was a voyeur to opportunities differed; places I assumed I would travel, careers unexplored, tough goals tackled and public imperfections atoned.
The biggest difference between myself and familiar strangers was a leap of faith into uncertain success at the risk of uncomfortable error. I’ve led a beautiful life, safely.
So today I’m thinking a little about where I tip toe away from the edge, the places I retreat with my dreams into invisibility. I’m shining a light and paying a little more attention to where I disappear; trying to conjure a greater presence of self.
on remembering
May 17, 2015 § Leave a comment
This year a woman I barely knew, a forgotten acquaintance from years past lost her battle with a terminal illness. The news found me last fall in the complicated algorithm of a social media news feed; a familiar smile disclosing the intimate heartache of a tragic diagnosis.
In the months to come I followed this woman’s story, cautiously counting my blessings with a guilty mindfulness for the unfathomable cruelty of another’s misfortune. I let her courage and kindness guide my attention.
Then I forgot.
Consciousness comes in waves. In one moment I am lost to my own distractions, caught in the machinery of the mundane as I move among my obligations. Then I remember the blessing of this moment, the complete irrelevance of so many cluttered details, and I unravel into a simpler attentiveness.
In these moments I say yes where I might have said no, I apologize or forgive where I might have lingered in harm, and I bend the rules to steal extra minutes with those I love. I’ve let the house get messy and I’ve been more adamant in cause for celebration.
I am trying to honor another’s life while demanding purpose and presence of my own.
We meet others at tender intersections of vulnerability and we invite their story into our own. In a world congested with differences, we are bound by the minutes of possibility between us.
silver linings
April 19, 2015 § 2 Comments
In each loss the sad pieces are made bearable by beauty we cannot always see until life moves us out of our own way. Yesterday’s loss was unbearable, my mind snagged on each irretrievable image in a miserable goodbye until my daughter held my attention with kindness enough to invite perspective.
Mom, we still have each other and we can always make new memories.
The most important of my blessings cannot be measured in print. Photographs and words are poor substitutes for my children’s company.
I cannot undo what is lost, but I will be more responsible in my guardianship of technology in the future. I was lazy in my use and ignorant in my application. I will be more intentional in my care.
My truth is, I hoarded excessive images; hastily snapped photographs of fleeting importance. There were other images too structured in their effort. Moments of life interrupted for forced documentation; we were here. Among the thousands of images I lost, there are very few I can’t imagine living without.
For all my minimalist tendencies, the unseen space of my unprinted photographs and unshared words were stashed in the darkest most cluttered corners of appreciation. So much joy shuffled out of sight, marginalized in my priorities.
Sometimes we have to lose something of value to recognize the value of change and be more intentional in our actions.
stations of living
February 2, 2015 § 2 Comments
My experience of death has been largely abstract; loved ones who disappeared outside the routine or physical space of my days. My world was small enough that I escaped the nearness of loss; my grief lonely and private.
This year I have watched acquaintances and friends mourn illness and loss in contrasting shades of peace and sorrow. A young mother taken inexplicably early; parents and grandparents lost unexpectedly. In each passing the grief was as tangible as the life within the loss.
As a witness to another’s memories, I am humbled by the fullness of lives that intersect our own. Like passengers on a train to nowhere in particular the details of old joy and passion remind us of our own years, lost enthusiasm and hard-earned personal accomplishments.
I am left wondering which platforms we might revisit and what journeys linger in want of a beginning.
to my daughter
September 25, 2012 § Leave a comment
Yesterday my phone buzzed with an early morning message from your teacher, eager to celebrate a classroom success. In an area where you often struggle, you had demonstrated mastery. Your accomplishment cast ripples of joy across the day connecting those of us who witness your determined efforts and discouraging challenges.
I want to capture this moment in a snapshot, saving this well-earned success for future reference; to unfold these lessons and write them on the walls of our home. We succeed not because of what we know, but by the way we approach learning. Our strengths are not measured by what comes easily, but how we face that which challenges us. Our accomplishments are a reflection of our choices, not chance.
You, my sweet girl, worked hard for this moment. Hold tightly to this knowledge, the sense of satisfaction and pride that accompany long evenings exercising new concepts. Be comfortable with the discomfort of working through confusion to find clarity. In life these lessons in resilience will bring you strength in the face of adversity. You will do well, not because life is easy, but because you move through your days consciously embracing opportunities to learn.
scribblechic 