sorting self
April 1, 2015 § 4 Comments
I am minimalist in my preferences with little need for material keepsakes or decorations. Clutter in the context of home carries a burden of distraction that suffocates my serenity. It is a comfort I grew to recognize as I stumbled through absent-minded gestures of nesting in the earliest days of marriage and motherhood; a trial and error of expression first based in assumptions of expectation and later honed to a more sophisticated sense of self.
My initial efforts at creating a home were centered in hand me down necessities and frivolous decorations; inexpensive trinkets and dated discards that anchored our home in a mismatched hodgepodge of others’ generosity and my well-intentioned eagerness to fill nooks with expressions of the Us we were ever evolving into. Our first home was a time capsule of nervous uncertainty; each choice made with desperate hopefulness for traditions newly formed and fears poorly hidden.
It was only in moving, discarding everything for something unknown, that I grew into my preferences. This awakening was slow then sudden; it began as we prioritized what we no longer wanted against what we could not bear to leave behind. Somewhere in the interim between leaving our first home and living through the construction chaos of our second home, we learned to live with less and became more intentional about items that brought us joy and purpose; individually and collectively.
The more complicated pieces of home, the most colorful and uncoordinated accessories were never the discarded relics of outgrown phases of interest, but rather the less functional evidence of uncertainty as each of us grow into new curiosities. Those items we purchase or keep to moor ourselves to something intangible, they are the objects that clutter our spaces with divided sincerity that pulls at our attention with remorse or resistance.
It is a lesson I have yet to master as I look past the distraction of my children’s untidy spaces to the more recklessly procrastinated and deceptively attended uncertainty of long overlooked corners of self.
to my daughter
March 21, 2015 § 4 Comments
I wish I could capture the texture of a moment in type, to preserve what my mind will revisit in dreams and my camera could not contain. My fingers have been twitching with the words constricting the fullness of my joy, my mouth eager to whisper your news.
You can fly.
I’m not certain how we will convince your father you are earth bound. I keep imagining he will see the air that tugs at your feet or the windswept hair that hints at adventure, rosy cheeks and distracted smiles cautioning a secret. It seems impossible he will not read the difference in your gait or pride in your stance.
Today you road a bike. Pushing off of old fears no longer propped up by stubborn refusal, you swept across the cracked cul-de-sac of your friend’s front yard; eyes bright with certainty and your body leaning determinedly into each effort.
You are saving this revelation for your father’s birthday, gifting him something he has wanted for you longer than you wanted it for yourself; accidentally discovering pleasure along the way. Already, an hour later, I can see the temptation to try again in your restlessness.
You did this without me, my hope was too noisy. Now my joy feels too big, like I cannot possibly keep my happy still long enough to surprise your father.
I can hardly wait to watch him see you fly.
Love, Mom
forgiveness (v)
March 19, 2015 § 5 Comments
Forgiveness is a tricky blessing, it dismisses us of the burden of our armor while leaving our hearts more susceptible to harm. We are at once both liberated and bound by faith in want of trust. It is an awkward, painful experience of hope. A terrifying leap without a net.
I am, by nature, a creature without wings. My feet drag against the earth unwilling to fly; to undress my armor and leap.
Today I spoke clearly and firmly of old hurts, pushing past the trembling voice of anxious defensiveness; laying down my pride. I honored an invitation to truth by purposefully naming needs without blame in search of understanding. Digging my heels into the moment I listened forcefully, making myself honor another’s courage to step vulnerably within painful memories.
Tonight my mind, body, and spirit are heavy with the muscle memory of letting go and holding on. I feel as if I fell through the looking glass and landed hard on uneven ground. Our normal feels too loud, uncomfortable and too eager, but it also feels like hope.
Forgiveness is a verb.
when you were me
March 19, 2015 § 2 Comments
Do you remember when we first met? When you gathered your grievances into an introduction and named the injustice of your treatment as a daughter-in-law? You itemized each indiscretion, pointing an unforgiving finger at your husband’s family; the alcoholic father-in-law who was verbally abusive, the emotionally recluse mother-in-law who treated you as insignificant despite your best efforts to please, the favoritism in treatment of your children, their grandchildren, or the value of money over relationships.
I never met your father-in-law. I barely knew you when I watched your mother-in-law die, this stranger whose memories had been stolen by Alzheimer’s. What she forgot, you remembered. Perhaps she filled such a space in your mind it was inevitable you might become her or assign me your role; accidentally or intentionally you have created a cycle of unhappiness that has consumed any kindness between us. We are living your past, but I will not become you.
Do you remember when you were me?
secret keepers
March 18, 2015 § 4 Comments
We bought my husband’s childhood home, begrudgingly; overpaying at the expense of our pride. It was a decision layered with gestures of false generosity and cautious hope, like the wedding we did not want, we acquiesced to parental requests in an effort to please. Our home, our wedding, and the years of silence all payment for a peace that never came.
My husband could not live among his memories; truths that are not mine to share but read a sad tragedy, an impossible fiction of reality. He moved doors and ripped out dry wall, tore up the floors and built new walls; still the secrets reside like scars hidden in fresh coats of paint. No amount of windows or light can disperse the ghosts who haunt our joy; flesh and blood they move among new boundaries with old demons.
We build a life around these secrets, with the wisdom of a professional who guards these truths and family friends who stand witness to old harms and new, releasing us from the burden of someone else’s unhappiness. They stand witnesses to the past we do not name out of respect for those we love but cannot live with. Guardians of the past, the secret keepers who remember even as we struggle to forget.
blarney
March 17, 2015 § 4 Comments
Years ago, when my daughter was young enough to be passionately invested in a pristine pair of starched white socks, I accidentally washed them into an unexpected shade of green. Eager to distract my daughter’s disappointment, I suggested it may have been a leprechaun up to a bit of mischief for St. Patrick’s Day.
This morning my daughter began her search for evidence of shenanigans. A silly sabotage to favorite socks has inspired a series of traditions that are now hallmarks of our holidays with a promise of playful pageantry. Easter bunny “accidents” on the stairway, a curious confectionary mess, and April Fool’s meals made into mistaken menus, savory turned sweet and once visa versa.
Today, as I shuffle green pencils in place of our trusty yellow number 2’s, I am thinking of the sweetness of these early years; playful accidents of good fortune that permit us all to linger a little longer in poppycock and blarney.
the things we keep
March 16, 2015 § 4 Comments
There is a delicate balance to mothering children to love a family member who is abusive in their mental illness; to teach the innocent to love unconditionally what they recognize as wrong and experience as hurtful.
We accept injury often as inseparable from the individual’s identity. It is less a matter of forgiving and more a narrative of acceptance for the inescapable truth we cannot edit with a fallacy of make-believe.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.
In motherhood I perpetually make excuses for familial unkindness, a trick of distraction to keep my children safely outside the line of harm while near enough to the madness that they might learn forgiveness and empathy; to claim their heritage honestly without shame. I am cautious to whisper my worries in privacy; to never speak ill, accuse or criticize in a manner that might offer judgment or blame to my children’s ears as we stand witness to the spiraling decent into cruelty.
In time the truth is not so easily hid. My children have heard hate in its native tongue, each small harm hardening the tender places of vulnerability against trust. There is no magic I can conjure to change what is and I am exhausted by the burden of untruths we bear in the name of love.
reading & retirement
March 14, 2015 § 3 Comments
Five years ago our daughter couldn’t read. Despite our best efforts and expensive programs she was slipping further behind her peers academically and her self-esteem was drowning in the shame of self-awareness. In a procedural pairing with a Reading to Intervention school program our daughter began to navigate her struggle to literacy with a hope that became the cornerstone of every set back.
One woman, a quiet spoken, kindhearted soul created a safe space for our daughter to succeed among her errors. The work of reading became an adventure and along the way we fell in love with the educator whose lessons tethered our lives with stories long after our daughter graduated from her company.
This is our daughter’s last year of elementary school and our friend’s last year guiding struggling readers through the emotions and mechanics of reading challenges. It is an impossible and inevitable truth of change and yet, I cannot imagine our lives without this woman. We are better versions of ourselves for the smile that makes us all sit up a little straighter in our efforts.
When I shared with our daughter her former teacher would soon retire, there was an immediate shock that quickly spiraled into grief, wide eyes with tears that threatened to spill unchecked. That’s impossible! Who would they ever get to replace her? What about all the other kids that won’t ever get to work with her? Then, a stubborn nod of her head. She must be moving to another school to help other kids.
This is my wish for so many of the irreplaceable educators who have shared our path, that you know the boundless love of the children whose lives are better for the lessons that extend beyond the school day. Thank you.
measures & meanings
March 12, 2015 § Leave a comment
Yesterday report cards came home from my daughter’s elementary school. Normally I mark the date with a simple reminder, an understated annotation on the calendar that prompts me to shake off traces of my childhood anxieties so that I will not accidentally infuse the language of my children’s learning with a legacy of my father’s impossible expectations. Unhurried and collectively, as a family, we gauge these measures of mastery for markers of growth and areas of concern as opportunities for improvement; assigning value and extracting meaning.
I want both my children to seek room to grow with the same ease they enjoy success; to never tire of learning with a natural, self-driven curiosity for knowledge; to question and claim the process of learning as their own. It is an imperfect, ongoing dialogue.
To my daughter,
You came home yesterday eager to rush through your report card. I had forgotten the day and so you retrieved your papers without waiting for your father or me to accompany you. Scanning the rows of neatly typed standards I watched your smile slip from your face, while darker emotions simmered quietly beneath a steady gaze.
You contested subpar grades with a determined confidence that argued your accomplishment as passionately as you disclaimed success that had come too easily. Raking through the form you couldn’t find the image of self that you sought.
I moved aside, patiently cautious not to coddle your frustration or ease the sting of disappointment. Your body curled against your pride until you were bent in to a tight ball of defensiveness. You wondered when you might be “enough” and I stepped gently into your fears offering light.
Bright girl, this is the first year since Kindergarten that you have not been pulled from classroom work for a supplemental path. You are working among your peers after years of chasing after your place. I want you to stop here and absorb what this means, breathe in the strength of your resolve.
The arc of your progress is a breathtaking measure of persistence. Don’t allow your heart or head to be so closely bound to a shorthand for success that you lose sight of your worth. You were never less than enough.
Love, Mom
home
March 8, 2015 § 2 Comments
I am thinking this morning of the sounds of a home, the stretching and settling of the body not unlike the sounds of life from within. Friends whose company lends music and family that stretches patience with the crackle of strain. The gentle scratch of puppy paws across the grain of routine and the thunder of children’s footsteps chasing distraction. The crinkle of book bindings unfolding an adventure and the scrape of pencil and pen translating ideas onto paper with an easy haste. It is a harmony of movement and stillness that fills the corners of our day with a lyrical language of comfort; a heartbeat that counts off the day’s song.
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