to my daughter
October 29, 2015 § Leave a comment
Last night was pretty exceptional; anger and tears that transformed homework into a moment of tender self-awareness. You’re struggling a bit with two classroom projects. On the surface it would appear you’re a little behind, maybe disregarding your work, or ignoring responsibilities.
In some ways it’s the easier way to interpret unfinished material. To hide behind other people’s’ assumptions and carry the burden of their ignorance with silence or casual disinterest. It’s easier to assume something is wrong with you, to see your differences as failings rather than gifts when they clutter your effort with failure; less hurtful to pretend you don’t care when you do.
Asking for help is tricky when you aren’t sure why you can’t simply perform tasks the children around you appear to complete without struggle.
How do you explain to a teacher that you understood the directions when your inference is different from their intent? What happens when you listen closely, but can’t remember later what you understood previously? Who would expect the smiling child that is eager to help another or quick with a smile, someone who appears confident, may actually be masking insecurities over perceived inadequacies?
Imperfect work doesn’t speak to the years of growth behind confusing mistakes any more than unfinished work illuminates effort. Similarly, the determined set of your chin doesn’t inform the emotions that threaten tears of embarrassment. Compounding these challenges is the unfamiliarity of your surroundings; gone are the friends who might have previously prompted you gently or rallied beside you with gentle encouragements.
Here’s the good news, at any given moment we can learn to ask for help; change the language of our needs.
Last night you started to identify your struggles in a way that was exceptionally intuitive to your needs, but you strained against how to seek help. Ferociously independent, you worried that asking for assistance might make you appear to beg preferential treatment, you didn’t want others to call you “teacher’s pet” or to look at you with sympathy.
Sometimes strength requires we walk against the grain of our fears. Asking for help isn’t a weakness any more than struggling alone isn’t a demonstration of strength. So we came up with a plan would acknowledge need and facilitate independence; numbered steps in a specific list that might guide you over the hurdles of your projects.
Last night you helped me compose a letter to your teachers so that we could honor your sense of independence and need for privacy while seeking a specific partnership for success. You let your teacher’s see the struggle behind the gaps in your work that they might understand your effort. More importantly you outlined a willingness to accept help.
I’m not saying the work will be easier or the struggle less frustrating. Recognizing need and asking for help are imperfect, ongoing practices. It’s a beginning.
Love, Mom
gift of grace
October 28, 2015 § 4 Comments
Yesterday I struggled to string a cohesive thought among ideas. My mind was caught on the emotional experience of moving; the immediacy of our environment and the distractibility I feel lately. The subtle disconnect from urgency as we nestle into a gentler pace.
Then, as if life were trying desperately to capture my attention, I missed an appointment. A calendar date that wasn’t inked into my schedule, something that I wouldn’t have forgotten four months ago.
I could return to my previous efforts to communicate the nervous energy of our move, the cautious attention to detail that has unraveled into a distracted calm, but I want to preserve, instead, yesterday’s lesson in grace.
The forgotten appointment was with our children’s new therapist. A service in our old community that functioned with an impersonal protocol of strict attention to 24 hour cancellation policies and impersonal accountability for human error despite the predictability of lengthy waiting room delays. Understandable, but inflexible.
When an unfamiliar local phone number announced my error with a concerned phone message from our new therapist, embarrassment hid behind an experience of defensiveness. I felt immediately disoriented by my forgetfulness and ashamed of my shortcomings of such a manageable responsibility.
I reacted with an expectation of blame, judgement, and clinical billing.
A quick phone call to our therapist’s voicemail was cluttered by frantic apologies and nervous embarrassment compounded by anxiety over mom guilt for our absence. When a second call reached the direct attention of our therapist, I was gifted a unique moment of forgiveness.
Our therapist offered me grace for my mistake at the cost of her time. She dismissed me the financial responsibility of her fee and cited the reality of human error while rescheduling our appointment. No matter the emotional distractions or logical practicalities that might have explained my mistake, there was no call for excuses or windy apologies. I was allowed error and forgiveness in equal measure.
Today I am thinking of the lesson in my mistake, the generosity of another’s kindness, and the forgiveness that accompanies such an expectation of error. Challenging myself to offer another the same measure of grace without explanation or apology, embarrassment or shame.
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
self & image
October 20, 2015 § Leave a comment
Yesterday I allowed a superficial distraction too much importance over my thoughts. One image invited an internal dialogue of unkind criticism for old insecurities; each physical fault a validation of a greater generalization of unworthiness.
In the poorly lit space of the driver’s license bureau, a notoriously predictable bad picture produced an emotional response I couldn’t shake. My husband didn’t understand my reaction any more than my internal voice of reason could command control of my thoughts.
In that moment I was the overweight child in corduroy pants; the teenage girl with poor skin; the young woman navigating an unfamiliar body after baby. I could feel the transparency of each imperfection mocking my performance of self.
Sometimes bad lighting, a poorly timed blink, or unflattering angle distort an image into something untrue, but perhaps our responses are a greater reflection of self. Whatever I sought in my assessment, my eyes looked first to unattractive assumptions.
It was tempting to skip this truth, to stuff inconvenient emotions and unkind thoughts into a drawer like an unflattering photograph; to pretend a greater confidence of character than I felt, but I don’t believe I am alone. I know too many beautiful souls who shy away from what they see in their own image while looking first to the beauty in others.
In this experience I saw a woman who curled submissively into an assumption of inadequacy that informs a one-dimensional expectation of self. A performance of mediocrity that illuminates imperfections without allowing for a metamorphose of a more elegant posture of self.
I didn’t see the woman I am in a photograph or the woman I want to be in my response, but I’m working on the answer.
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.
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.
itch
October 12, 2015 § Leave a comment
It isn’t melancholy, the word alone feels unexceptional against my tongue; missing the bite of desire just off-center from calm. I scratch at my thoughts to name the unrest, something far removed from unhappiness but akin to unsettled. A need or want just shy of trouble with harmless intentions; an urge to disappear in a directionless pursuit.
little white church
October 11, 2015 § Leave a comment
Just around a bend, in between our home and our children’s schools, there is a little white church that sits like a forgotten memory.
A place not mine, peace gifted like a blessing from an unexpected offering.
Stolen moments under the hush of a golden sunset. Forgiveness and faith folded in silence.
I think of this when my days curve around the shape remembering.
Then I whisper my thoughts like a confession to an old friend; a prayer of thanksgiving and promises to keep.
scribblechic 