the condition of loving
February 8, 2016 § 7 Comments
This summer, in anticipation of our move, I sorted the long procrastinated corners of cluttered shoeboxes, unmarked envelopes, and half-finished family albums for photographs; gathering keepsakes more intentionally into a single box of memories. Images of my childhood and my children’s haphazardly overlapping in a beautiful chaos of sentiment.
As we settle into our new home, I have come to visit these images regularly; a practice that speaks love and connects me more tenderly to the girl I was and the woman I have become. It is an indulgence of time I cherish, meditative and nourishing to my soul. In these moments, I am at once both daughter and mother. More myself and less of myself.
Today my heart rested on a rare image of my father and I. It is the way I most remember loving him; completely and effervescently, eagerly and devotedly. Without pretense or hesitation, with blind trust and unconditional faith.
For those who know me best, it is a relationship complicated by the contradiction of emotions and experience. We are broken and bound by imperfect love.
My mother tells me stories of how my father loved me, but I am most torn by what I do not remember. I have no memory of my father holding me or the sound of his voice forming words of love or praise, encouragement or pride. There is grief in this knowing even as there is peace in his absence, it is no more and no less than the truth between us.
My father is a faded reminder, not of his love, but of my own; paper that holds crisp the condition of loving.
Whatever disappointment may have once accompanied my memories, there is now only a mindfulness for the preciousness of love and the richness of distributing it enthusiastically to those I love least they live unaware of their worth.
I let the love I wish for the girl in those yellowed photographs illuminate the love I give my own children, unconditionally.
sunday
February 7, 2016 § 2 Comments
It is the quietest of days, a gentle spirit that bows to an unhurried pace; an inward attentiveness and outward gaze.
Gone is the restless fidgeting of childhood sermons against unyielding pews. In its place, crisp foot treads against windblown snow and the easy company of my canine companion.
On empty sidewalks of slumbering homes, along barren fields and woods still cloaked in snow, I list my blessings with a grateful heart.
Given to a private exercise of faith.
to my daughter
February 5, 2016 § 4 Comments
Hands in your hair and only minutes from goodbye, I was mindlessly patterning a braid this morning when we fell down a rabbit hole into a story.
I love these casual outpourings. Much like the confetti of broken treasures you used to covet in your pockets, clues to your days discovered in the wash, these snippets of humor and heart are my favorite minutes together.
The teacher who taught a lesson on kindness and empathy with a tender childhood memory; the boy who tested mature language with a misshapen compliment; witty one-liners and curious critiques of superficial nonsense. Fragments of whimsy and philosophical musings freckled with questions and certainties.
Colorful bits with imperfect edges, words that tumble over one another and long thoughtful pauses with dramatic performances. Prisms of personality that capture your light in your telling.
Love, Mom
silence
February 4, 2016 § 4 Comments
It is my favorite sound. Second only to my children’s laughter or our pup’s eager paws scrambling an anxious greeting.
Peace pregnant with ideas that move fluidly in the space between speech; truth we hold tightly against the brashness of daylight, like a sacred mantra of self.
In my stillness I am more intuitive, less responsive to my surroundings; more attune to a gentler voice.
This week I can feel the conflict of thought against the noise of the mundane, the friction of demands that interrupt a sanctity of silence.
Words like promises on the tip of my tongue, lost to a language of busy distractions.
Rather than wrestle the noise, I am moving more stubbornly within it; reaching just past the cacophony for quiet.
book ’em
February 2, 2016 § 9 Comments
On Sunday I escaped the loosely configured routine of our typical Sunday to explore our new public library with both children. It was a homecoming of sorts, a happy reunion of lost afternoons; memories of old experiences in an unfolding moment of discovery.
For the past nine years we had lived in an unincorporated neighborhood, where the cost of joining our local library was beyond the limitations of our budget – with one exception. On a singular occasion, several years past, we invested our holiday savings into twelve months of indulgence; scooping piles of books into heavy bags, weekly, to fill endless hours of adventure.
At the conclusion of that year, we returned to supplementing our personal library with our children’s school libraries, friendly exchanges, school book sales, and e-readers. Still, we reminisced the luxury of squandering afternoons among shelves of unread stories. The liberty of endless titles.
Frequently, as our errands lead us past the grandness of a building to which we so fleetingly belonged, we would find ourselves lost to sentimental musings of that year among her walls. We resigned ourselves to contentment with the library we built at home.
Books gifted from family friends, keepsakes of my husband’s and my own childhoods, beloved series of our children’s early favorites and required school readings endlessly stacked and reorganized with great affection.
Here, in our new community, it took me too long to consider the possibility of a different experience. Having moved at the start of the school year, my children’s backpacks and hands are perpetually filled with those titles that follow them home from school.
Sunday, I was more a child than my own children.
I visited familiar stories as I sought specific titles, let my hand linger in acknowledgement along well-worn bindings. It was the place of every library I’ve loved and ever story I have lost myself to.
I was a child with a wagon and a girl with large dreams.
A new mother in our first family home, a closely knit community with a modest library just an unhurried walk away. The place of my son and daughter’s first library cards, hot summer days and cold winter afternoons given to stories.
A mother to older children squandering savings on a passport to a year of privilege among so many pages.
A reader and dreamer once more entitled to travel the world of storytellers and sages for free.
a mused
February 1, 2016 § 4 Comments
I worried for a time my joy was too intricately tied to my children’s. From the moment they were born, I could lose myself just marveling at their presence; counting fingers and toes as if to challenge the impossibility of their reality.
Its undeniable, children radiate the most gorgeous, extravagant love. It’s the purest, most uncomplicated and terrifyingly all consuming affection.
I wondered if that energy would change as they matured into new phases and tested expressions of self. It didn’t. Their humor and compassion, the messy mistakes and the perfect clarity of innocent wisdom still leave me winded with gratitude for their presence.
In motherhood I found a new calling of self, too.
I make it my work to assign value to the hours my children are absent in my days, to fill my day with purpose and interest, accomplishment and engagement. The small pursuits and larger dreams that by day’s end reflect my light in their company.
We inspire the best of one another, for one another, together.
This first day of February, I am dwelling in a sentiment of love, a muse of gratitude.
to my husband
January 31, 2016 § 7 Comments
It’s been an exciting couple of days. You’re on the road, re-introducing a body of work that has been a labor of love for many years; something that was previously a hobby is now your chosen occupation.
We’ve only spoken on the phone, briefly, but already the smile in your stories tells me everything I need to know. That’s the thing about doing what you love, it lights you up from the inside. You speak and act from a truer place and that energy is infectious, it draws people and opportunities into your life that fan the flames of passion.
I’m proud of you and excited for you, inspired by you and confident in your ability. I’m also encouraged by the message you are providing our children about living beyond the status quo; showing them with your actions the value of believing in yourself by taking charge of your dreams and making self a priority.
In all the daily demands of grown-up responsibilities we can lose sight of joy, shy away from risks. It’s so easy to strive for stability; consistency and predictability offer essential measures of peace – financially, mentally and emotionally. As parents we are providers of necessities, but also of inspiration.
We encourage our children to dream big and believe in themselves, but we must first demonstrate the work of living a dream with confidence.
This past year was difficult, it would have been easy to give in to hurt, anger, or disappointment; to be submissive and defer your happiness to predictable pursuits of less fulfilling work. You might have chosen something to get by, a job that you endured for chunks of time until you could dream out loud, but instead you invested, confidently, in self.
This is not to say the path you have chosen is easy. The pursuit of happiness demands attention and care.
You are teaching our children the work of dreams and the value of self so that they, too, might choose a path less traveled. I’m looking forward to hearing more about the past of couple days, excited about the work of months to come as you carve your way.
Love, Me
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
fifteen & eleven
January 28, 2016 § 2 Comments
This is the secret I’ve come to appreciate of fifteen and eleven – for all the fiery independence of their age, both children still clamor for borrowed time.
Some days I forget how little effort that takes.
This morning I leashed our dog and invited myself along for the short walk to their bus stop. Not because either child needed me, but because I could. There was no obligation to intervene in their time together and no vote to challenge my whim. There was also no resistance to my company.
The lawn crackled its protest against our footprints as we cut a path around the ice that mocked our cautiousness. Together we marveled at the pattern of stars scattered across the sidewalk as the moon lit the snow and ice with magic. Little clouds of happy exclamations against the crisp winter air.
I had forgotten how much there is to see and hear in the fleeting moments before dawn. So often I watch both children lingering distractedly over invisible interests, wondering at their amusement, but today I let myself entertain their discoveries.
Minutes stretched in frivolous excess, turning nothing much into something extraordinary for the effort.
As both children boarded their bus I turned my footsteps to walk my afternoon path in reverse; waving one last goodbye as the bus circled the neighborhood en route to school.
Stealing a moment for myself.
raising sheldon
January 26, 2016 § 8 Comments
If you have a child on the Autism Spectrum you are probably pretty comfortable with unexpected statements – some call them blurts.
I don’t love the word blurt, it sounds more like a bodily function and implies an absence of control that interrupts the peace leaving a foul impression.
Around our home unexpected statements are what keeps us on our toes, they create interesting tangents and spontaneous laughter. I’ve come to appreciate the honesty of my son’s speech and the innocence of his errors.
When he was little, my son would spout extravagant facts he’d memorized from the mountains of books that littered his days. I spent a decent amount of time verifying information with my own research so that I could participate in his interests.
This same natural ability created an entire vocabulary of funny one-liners from favorite books and movies. My son and husband could hold an entire conversation with direct quotes taken out of context.
Most days my son’s comedic timing and memory for details is a gift. Some days it’s a burden.
This week a store manager who my son’s school partnered with for practical exercises in social skill building determined it was too much work after my son commented on a customer’s groceries.
If you’re wondering what he said, I’m not telling. I don’t want to shame my son, the customer, or the store manager.
What he said, specifically, isn’t the issue. Some of his statements would make you laugh and others would make you scratch your head. There was one statement that I could conceive was mildly offensive, but most of them were simply misplaced.
I wish I could explain to the manager that my son’s blurts are more exaggerated when he’s nervous; that he will work over-time, verbally, to impress a stranger or make them laugh. Another week and the anxiety might have eased, reducing the instance of unfortunate efforts at humor.
I understand, I do. Unexpected statements present challenges, but they are also opportunities.
What might have happened if the manager stood up for the teenage boy with special needs and communicated to his customer and community that “we’re working on it.” What an awesome message one business might have made to a population of children, parents, and strangers of tolerance and empathy.
The last business did.
We’re going to be ok. Actually, we already are, but I’m sad for the store and it’s customers that they didn’t model the commitment their partnership with special needs families implies. Relationships require an investment in one another, work.
My son isn’t Sheldon Cooper, there is no laugh track to his impressive library of memorized facts or social fumbles. In the real world his embarrassments are not so easily written off and the laughter isn’t always kind.
I spend a lot of time talking to my son about others’ expectations, he’s spent years navigating social norms with the forced attention of a second language; to understand and connect in a world that does not always conform to his expectations.
This morning I wanted to speak on behalf of my son, hoping that maybe someone else might consider an unexpected statement an opportunity to exercise a different perspective and, maybe, a little patience.
scribblechic 