full circle
May 27, 2016 § 2 Comments
This morning both children paused patiently to accommodate an end-of-the-year photograph. Long after the bus had delivered them to their last day of school, I was drawn to the image; remembering a photograph from their first day this past August.
In both pictures our son looks rooted to an easy confidence in complete uncertainty. That first fall morning he did not yet have a class schedule for his new school, but he was undaunted. Today, despite lingering anxiety over final exams, he stood unhurried in a moment of delayed sentiment for the significance of the moment.
The greater difference was our daughter.
Leaning against our son this morning, our daughter had shed the tender discomfort of last fall. In August she stood burdened with supplies she held tightly in a backpack pressed securely to her chest; an armor of necessity to ward off sadness and uncertainty. Today her posture was open, unguarded; a genuine mess of ease. The baseball cap that has become her signature accessory and her binder slung haphazardly, cutting the length of her torso as she leaned into a playful posture of amused contentment.
We’ve come full circle, but it’s so much more than milestone photographs and school year celebrations.
Our children are settling into their new community, making our house a home, but they are also becoming more of themselves. This past year they have settled into discomfort in a way that has demanded they look inward for a sense of self they might have previously found in others.
seasons & self
March 31, 2016 § 2 Comments
Last fall I sent my children off to new schools in an unfamiliar community buoying them daily with encouragements to strike up conversations and invite introductions; to intentionally look for opportunities to connect.
I nudged my children purposefully, firmly, toward vulnerability. I watched each child work through the emotions of creating new connections, the tender fractures that come from opening themselves to chance.
Disappointment and acceptance created an emotional topography of self and community that we used to map the experiences of friendship and the complexities of risk as they created a space of self somewhere new. In these early days I contented myself by disappearing into the background; centering the unfamiliar in new routines and borrowed comfort.
It was only when I found myself standing, alone, in an atrium that echoed with the casual greetings and easy exchanges of old friends that I remembered the awkward sense of displacement that comes from feeling lost in a crowd.
Gone were the early morning confidences, lunch dates and PTC meetings. There were no more after school conversations at the playground or fragmented exchanges between grocery store aisles. It has been a year of invisibility as my husband and I lost ourselves in time shared settling our home and beginning again at something new.
There have been weekends shared with old friends nearby and longer weekends with friends from a place we still remember as home, but most days I am still a ghost among strangers; indulging in the whim and work of quieter pursuits.
As the winter battles spring in the work of changing seasons I am lost to memories of summers past. Rain rattles against the windows and I wonder if there is magic enough in sunshine that new hellos might stick to our hearts like sand against our skin.
perfectly disorganized
February 21, 2016 § 2 Comments
I was methodical in my organization as we packed our old home into storage for our move. Before anything could be neatly preserved with overly articulated labels, they were first sorted by necessity, keepsake, and nonsense. I took full advantage of a heightened consciousness of what we needed and loved, then quickly and painlessly dispensed with the excessive waste that had accumulated in dusty corners and holiday storage bins.
There were things we could not take with – a tiny ant penned by my daughter’s hand into a small dent on the stairway; a smiley face stubbornly swept into the clear varnish on a window sill; my son’s map of the world wallpapered to his old bedroom. The one that pulled hardest at all of our heartstrings was the growth chart inked against the kitchen door frame; hurried lines and proud dates made official by our children’s carefully printed names.
We briefly considered removing the wood and packing it for our move, but compromised over a thoughtfully detailed list of measurements to be transferred to a place of honor in our new home.
Recently, my daughter asked about this paper. Promising myself I would no longer procrastinate, I retrieved the list and congratulated myself on the industry of my thoughtful organization. It was just as it should be, neatly waiting precisely where I had stored it away.
I tucked the paper in a place just under my nose and then proceeded to lose it with record efficiency.
Today I retraced every step trying not to think of the ways I tend to shuffle miscellaneous papers into wastebasket storage with reckless insensitivity. I’ve laughed privately over the irony of my distress while apologizing in panicked disbelief to my children.
Tonight it occurs to me that there is something of a lesson in my loss that I might want to store someplace safe for the future.
to my daughter
January 30, 2016 § 3 Comments
This week you were missing last year’s teacher. You lamented the injustice of having moved so far from the possibility of impromptu visits. It was a rite of passage, returning each year, chasing old memories across abandoned classroom desks to find your place.
Teachers are masters of recognition, holding past students present with a quick smile and easy hug.
Maybe for just a day you wanted to walk old footsteps with new confidence, feel wiser and revisit familiar certainties. Perhaps you wanted to disappear in sentiment or find a reflection of self in another’s hello.
It could be you just wanted to know everyone is where you left them and that you still belong.
We all need to know that we matter. Go first. Hold a place for someone else.
Write a letter, send a picture. Keep those who are important to you close with intention.
Meanwhile, let’s dig up last year’s end-of-the-year gift. Remember it? A collage of words collected by your teacher and classmates, shaped into art and framed for importance. They chose words to describe you, to hold a place for you, even before they knew you were leaving.
We’re overdue to hang the image, but it isn’t too late to write your teacher a letter.
Love, Mom
to my son
October 16, 2015 § 6 Comments
I gave up. I’m not sure I’ve ever named my cowardice, it’s far simpler to languish in a prose of possibility, but it’s true. I stopped believing school could be a safe haven for your differences and so I hid behind empty promises and hollow confidence.
Things will get better.
Except, they didn’t.
Each school year I would hold my breath for the first kindness that offered sanctuary for my doubts and then balance my fears on the fragility of a single offering. A kind teacher, a patient administrator, a passionate aide. One person. Every year.
Inevitably something would go wrong; an intolerant teacher, a disconnected policy, an ill-prepared aide. We learned to pretend our way through difficult days with a detachment to our community. Surviving is a poor substitute for thriving.
I built invisible walls to ward off disappointment, but rather than guard my joy they invited bitterness and complacency for an unacceptable status quo. I could no longer open my heart to trust in something better; my faith was frayed with the tension of hope weighted against fear. Until today.
Over the years we’ve worked with remarkable educators, therapists, support staff, and administrators, but we’ve never before partnered with a team of educators so cohesive as a community. One person can make a difference, but I’m learning it takes a village to honor true change.
Things are getting better.
I expect there will be new challenges, life is an imperfect performance of hope, but I’m ready to trust in your newfound sense of belonging and the generousness of our new community; it’s time.
Love, Mom
a tale of two desks
October 15, 2015 § 4 Comments
Our home is new, the walls were built quickly and the floor echoed only with the pattern of curious day dreamers; potential buyers in want of a moment’s recognition that hinted at belonging. There are no hidden doodles on the stairway, no layers of paint to hint at past favorites or failed curiosity. The floors have not been refinished and the carpet does not conceal a forgotten treasure. It is our work to create a story; to weigh each corner with evidence of life.
The hollowness of such space has become an invitation to lend substance, to moor the emptiness with new importance. There was much we did not bring with; the space of new rooms a poor fit for old pieces. In trade we sacrificed previous belongings for used replacements. Welcoming pieces of furniture that read like unfinished chapters in lingering signs of wear.
The first was a heavy, oak desk. A tidy workspace that hinted at school days past; a teacher’s desk still proudly adorned with a pencil sharpener. I wondered at the children who may have once flocked to the invitation for movement; restless students roaming the tidy rows of an unknown classroom, chatty conversationalist seeking a fleeting word of connection, the eager worker bee or wordy writer with a worn tip.
I fell in love with the metal cylinder that proudly boasted the name of our former home and wanted to gift our daughter a piece of something lost in our move. The weight of home and a solid space to dream on paper. Deep grains and superficial scratches that promise a labor of love.
It was a similar joy that drew my husband’s eye to an old science desk; the slightly marred black work top and tidy wooden legs of an old classroom workspace. Too large for our son’s room, it has the promise of a project as my husband and son will craft it into a new desk. A love note to our son’s enthusiasm for science and sentiment for a favorite teacher.
I envision heavy microscopes and notebooks with doodles, smelly liquids and messy mistakes. Peers leaned into a lesson and friends chatting over open tables. More importantly, I see a childhood interest in a familiar shape.
These pieces are in stark contrast to the new nightstands and blank walls of our children’s rooms. Workspaces that tell stories and guard a place of creativity as we sound out the colors and textures of home; the past and present converging in weathered wood.
To my children,
Your desks are your place to take risks. Write what you feel and draft new ideas. Make messes and take chances, this is not the place to be cautious. The work of childhood awaits your mark.
Love, Mom
making space
October 14, 2015 § 6 Comments
Prior to our move I cursed lost storage given to unwanted wedding gifts. Kitchen and dining room doors and drawers consumed with an outdated extravagance that sat unused for want of an occasion. Rows of crystal and china canvased in dust; a page torn from someone else’s great expectations.
My husband and I did not choose a wedding or the responsibility of begging gifts that did not suit our wants. We begrudgingly acknowledged my in-laws’ requests for ceremony and accordingly registered for traditional items out of respect for their ideals. Simple and unpretentious in our needs, these gifts felt false hidden in plain sight behind the doors of our daily routines.
As we prepared to move I considered selling these objects at a loss, just to be free of their cumbersome bulk. I engaged multiple buyers in genuine invitations to purchase old patterns hoping to ease our move. I set goals that each corner of our new home would be limited to a functional beauty unhindered by unused objects.
Then, I did something I might never have predicted given fifteen years of rambling diatribes against the frivolousness of these objects. Yesterday I unpacked each piece and placed them in a new corner of our lives.
Front and center, in a bookcase of glass and pine, I stacked plates beside rows of crystal for a new expectation. Tea with my daughter and Sunday dinners, family holidays and daily decoration. Marveling at the simplicity of their elegance against the humble lines of unpolished wood shelves, it seemed remarkable that these same pieces had been so long untended.
Distractedly I let myself remember the day my fingers first traced the pattern around so many choices and childhood afternoons past at my grandmother’s kitchen table; recalling intuitive moments of aesthetic appreciation for something intimately known. Fleeting moments of forgotten daydreams and dress up without the pretentiousness of pretending a grander purpose.
I let go of the formality of someone else’s expectations and started creating a simpler dream for beautiful pieces; making space in our lives for something old and something new.
nesting & flight
October 10, 2015 § Leave a comment
Settling our home there is little we brought with us from our move, the space of our new house would not accommodate our old pieces and so we began with less. It was both a whimsical and cumbersome choice, one that required we tend, almost immediately, to decisions of necessity after the tiresome practicalities of moving while simultaneously freeing us of past choices.
Prior to moving, the decision was very liberating, we were unbound by worries of damage; spared the unpleasantness of unhappy discoveries had we transported larger possessions between homes. Furniture was sold or donated to new homes to simplifying the experience and expense of moving. Unfortunately, this choice also necessitated we scavenge our new community for replacement pieces.
The first weeks, during our time between homes, this was a source of amusement and adventure. We explored salvage shops and boutique offerings alongside online storefronts and large scale retailers for new furniture. There was no urgency to our search as we discussed preferences in favor of necessity and comfort over extravagance.
Like children playing house, the weight of each choice was lightened by the limitless possibility of dreams. One Days and Maybes unburdened by practicalities of budgets and the confines of space or time restraints.
It was only after we moved from the temporary space of our hotel to the permanence of our new home that our choices began to accumulate into a greater urgency. Empty rooms demanded a place to assemble over a meal; space to gather company; accommodations for rest. Of course, by this time, we were exhausted from the emotions and physical demands of our move.
It must be noted, here, that I do not flourish under the restraints of urgency, my thoughts become scattered by the sheer volume of choices that invite second guesses with each decision. My appreciation for quality contradicts the frugality my cautiousness affords. Additionally, while I admire objects of beauty, I am more endeared to the substance of less.
My husband, by comparison, is intuitive in his choices; more daring in his impulsivity. He is less inhibited by the temptation of so many possibilities and more certain of abstract elements. We are, at best, a comedy of doubt and decisiveness.
Over the past weeks we settled into an unexpected series of choices; quick decisions and those we struggled over as we muddled through the madness of a frenzied demand. Elements that thoughtfully incorporated pieces of our first homes and unfamiliar choices that stretched our expectations.
Everything from kitchen hardware to window treatments, everyday dishes and furniture is slowly evolving from abstract choice to reality. Contrasting materials and complimentary colors forming a new background for the noise of everyday life. Simple comforts and extravagant hopes in a harmony of uncertain anticipation and joy.
I underestimated the volume of choices that would accompany this move, but I have been inspired by the lessons in self this change gifted me. Small exercises in chance and creativity, compromise and certainty.
I’m further from my comforts and the illusion of control, more reckless in certain indulgences; less guarded in my risks. More than homemaking, it is a season of nesting and taking flight.
introductions
September 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
Today we met a new therapist, someone to replace the doctor who first outlined the invisible needs of our children’s well-being. It is a unique part of our story, a professional advisor to everyday details. Someone to document the challenges and prescribe care, monitor progress and offer perspective.
I procrastinated change, cautious in my commitment to someone new. Personal recommendations and professional qualifications were balanced by simpler considerations like convenience of hours and the practicality of location. For all my care, the greatest measure of compatibility was the character of a thoughtful listener.
I was a quiet guest to my children’s introductions. I had expected dry, medical questions to flush out diagnoses and personal history, but I was rewarded with a casual conversation sprinkled with humor and reflection.
Intentionally and insightfully, each child identified themselves by defining their relationships and outlining past experiences. I marveled at the grace and maturity of their language as they shaded questions with patient answers.
They did not pretend away difficult memories under the guise of a false ideal or exaggerate details. They were genuine and accountable in their acknowledgment of personal weaknesses and strengths, open and trusting in their welcoming.
I was proud, not for the ease of their answers, but for the sincerity of self. My son’s humor and philosophical rambling. My daughter’s storytelling and mischievous smile.
At the end of our time I was pleased to note that we had stumbled into a safe sharing with a kind stranger and thoughtful professional. More importantly, I recognized my children already possess a place to rest worries and honor complicated experiences, celebrate our past and dream out loud.
Listening to my children I realized we’ve become closer in our shared displacement, more confidant of one another and gentler in our company.
Despite all my worries and imperfect days, we’re ok.
green & gold
September 28, 2015 § 2 Comments
This morning was my daughter’s first morning at the bus stop. We waited together in the early morning quiet, the grass around us still kissed with dew and sticking to our feet.
It is a small change to a still new routine with curious discoveries. The neighbors we have not yet seen as they stirred from their homes and the sounds of the street as it woke to the day’s activity.
We hesitated, uncertain of our placement, as we watched the street for a hint as to the direction the bus might appear. When the yellow arch crested the hill, we delighted in a run to the other side.
Even in the fleeting displacement, our disorientation in an unfamiliar routine, there were smiles enough to chase away the awkwardness of our clumsiness.
This is the beauty in standing still with someone you love; mindfulness allows us to catalogue discoveries we might otherwise deem unexceptional. For a moment, we were adventurers in a work of art; saturated greens and brilliant yellow. Smiles that sounded like bells against the quiet.
A sweet moment on an ordinary day made exceptional, everyday magic.
scribblechic 