home & self
October 10, 2013 § 11 Comments
Occasionally I will look at my home with the removed curiosity of an anthropologist. Familiar items and assumed routines become evidence of our home’s inhabitants’ lives; clues that encapsulate our personalities, sometimes betraying little secrets.
My children are harmless hoarders, they store pieces of unremarkable items with the reverence of explorers gathering evidence of their journey with peculiar treasures. Pant pockets and book bags are weighted with pieces of discarded objects and scraps of paper. Both children’s rooms are fun house mirrors of identity, elements of their space orchestrated to nurture play and rest; their truest selves are most apparent in corners marked by personal distractions. I could outline their reflections in the shape of their clutter, but it would only dismiss me of looking inward.
Our home is a kind guardian of my own secrets. For all the care I place in the appearance of structure, there is a quiet chaos; like creaks in floor boards that whisper of stories past, just beneath the surface old ghosts slumber. My weaknesses are tucked in drawers and dark corners, poorly hidden but ever present. Insecurities and personal failing piled haphazardly out of sight. If I disappeared from my day, I wonder how long my truths would hide in the shadow of assumptions.
Distracted by books I tend to lose myself in stories rather than draft my own. I look to reference books to navigate the unknown; inspirational encouragement to contain fear; and fiction to escape reality – small coping tools that underscore my uncertainties. I gather pieces of favorite memories into tidy boxes to guard them against harm rather than unfolding them more casually into the fabric of our home.
In many ways these little personal truths are my oldest companions. Looking back to early days as a child navigating my divorced parents’ homes, I remember creating my space in such a way that my treasures were near but guarded from harm; projecting reflections of self into foreign space while holding tender pieces safe by hiding in the pages of novels. The uncertainties of my earliest worries manifested later in my teenage years as eating disorders and poor choices, pleasure and control masking sadness and need. I wonder how many of these same fears and insecurities linger in corners of my home; self concealed in a safe haven.
Book titles that hint at worries and unfinished projects that speak of inconsistencies; missing purchases that anchor me to tasks undone; dusty surfaces and unvacuumed corners that betray my distraction; beloved treasures stored safely out of sight to guard a memory. How much of my story could be divulged in the details of home?
spoken word
October 5, 2013 § 4 Comments
In the tidy space of one day, both children inspired pleasure and amusement with off-the-cuff commentary that left me temporarily speechless.
With an utterance unladylike but honest, my daughter interrupted our bedtime story to acknowledge the villain with an uncluttered, under-the-breath exclamation of character assessment. Her sweet voice projected a more worldly declaration of devious bastard. Smitten with her choice of devious, I was slow to process the noun in her fragmented statement. Accurate and indulgent, appropriate in application and inappropriate for her age, I set aside the book we shared to applaud and inform both word choices; context and comprehension suspended just long enough for me to revel in her language.
Still distracted by my daughter’s unexpected exclamation, I soon found myself pausing over my son’s passionate declaration that school is a husk of broken promises and lies in response to a routine, How was your day? Promised the company of scientists speaking at his school, he piled misfortune on top of misplaced promises to hold adults to empty assurances. I empathized with his disappointment and acknowledged the imperfection of good intentions, while savoring the elegance of his frustration.
Each utterance as sweet as their infant mastery of naming; echos of discovery and exploration in language that carves out space and colors their experiences with self.
forcing habit
October 1, 2013 § 4 Comments
Often what I share evolves as a response to my environment, an organic evolution of experience that I sustain among words to recall later for reassurance or redirection. This week I stripped my schedule of outside commitments, determined to recommit myself to small, essential gestures of care that sustain me in times of illness and disharmony. Rest, balanced meals, exercise, meditation, conversation, and creativity. In the busyness of everyday life these essential elements are the first to be compromised for efficiency.
Writing a dear friend this morning I hurriedly stated: I was thinking of how sometimes those acts that nourish us are the small moments that we dismiss as a force of habit – until we fall out of habit and have to force ourselves to make time for the little things.
almost october
September 30, 2013 § 2 Comments
Outstretched limbs ablaze with golden hues cast a sense of awe as we stand on the threshold of October beneath a canopy of magic. A month of worries cast to the wind like dry leaves somersaulting across tender blades of grass. I am gathering light and air, washing away the musty emotions of the month past to better dress my home in gratitude and hope. September falls in the shadow of Autumn’s glory as I eagerly turn the calendar ahead to tomorrow.
threads of thanks
September 28, 2013 § Leave a comment
Motherhood has been a happy accident of intentional relationships; exceptional moments of kindness creating connectedness between strangers. This past week was freckled with moments of gratitude for familiar faces lending strength in smiles and new relationships threading themselves among the old inviting hope. Our story is a marriage of chance and intention sweeping across adversity towards possibility in conscious acts of friendship. We learn and teach in the company of individuals who share our days, some from afar and others walking beside us. In each image of friendship I recognize reflections of experiences I cherish and faith in a future shared.
This morning, as I linger over my coffee in a quiet corner of our home, I am casting a silent note of thanks for the kindness of strangers who have gifted me the company of friends.
hypocritical oaf
September 26, 2013 § 2 Comments
Capturing pieces of my experiences among words I endeavor to be true to self without inflicting injuries to others. It is ironic then that the words I do not voice are the source of recent unrest, the contradiction between intentions and emotions creating an internal dialogue that begs forgiveness for wounds uninflected but whose harm slumbers in subconscious unrest.
I have outlined errors from the safe vantage of my perspective while erring in judgement as I trip over emotions into the messy business of blame. Anger and disappointment undermining patience and tolerance. Indignation chasing humility demanding to be heard. I coddle frustrations with patronizing tones of harmony, tempering my emotions with logic. Life isn’t fair seems an overused, insincere simplification for small tragedies of injustice.
Today I am giving myself permission to hold tightly to the uncomfortable emotions that have been clamoring noisily between exercises in forgiveness and acceptance. Allowing myself to hold each unpleasantness gently, relaxing my guard against unwanted thoughts to better see uncomfortable truths. Naming and releasing, owning each emotion to make room in my mind and heart for tolerance and hope.
underwater
September 24, 2013 § 4 Comments
These past weeks my mind has moved through the days distractedly, worries pushing against thoughts and routines disrupted by uncertainties. Physical, mental, and emotional exercises in everyday gestures carry the burden of gymnastics exerted underwater; each effort absorbed by resistance, slowing progress and creating fatigue.
Decisions for the future feel eclipsed by details of the day. Self care shuffled out of mind until anxiety erodes away serenity and I began to unravel in slow motion. Disjointed thoughts and directionless activities have left me run down, consumed by resistance. Today, without apology, I allowed myself a window of emptiness.
My children at school and husband at work, remnants of worries rattled in the silence undermining rest. An inconvenient cold, not unlike uncomfortable doubts, stubbornly distracting me from efforts to indulge in the restorative calm of quiet.
Then with a transparency that mirrored my worries, a simple truth occurred to me: symptoms of weakness are often disproportionate to ability.
For now I am standing still within the problem to lessen resistance, practicing gentle acts of self-care to better nurture a spirit of wellness and balance; weighting myself in strengths and informing my decisions with goals that are written in kindness.
postmarks
September 22, 2013 § 4 Comments
I have spent most of my life drafting letters to loved ones, a habit born of a childhood shuffled between my parents’ homes. I fold pieces of my days into words that travel over time and place to those who are never far from my thoughts.
Last week a new indulgence, whimsical stationery intended to inspire my children to practice letter writing, gifted me a beautiful surprise. Inside the carefully packaged envelope was a sentiment that seemed to encompass my affinity for a handwritten letter; the very essence of my affection eternalized in poetry.
More than kisses, letters mingle souls. – John Donne
The promise of sharing one’s self in lines of thought etched into paper is an intimacy of thought and intention between writer and reader that even time cannot fade. I sometimes wish I could gather old letters to chart my life in language; the block print of early efforts blending into carefully structured cursive that later looped around teenage heartache and then swept more hurriedly into long, sinuous letters.
First loves and cherished friendships, childhood companions and mentors in motherhood; my life is richer for the individuals stretched across my past between letters often lost along the way. So many people measure the value of relationships in finite language, beginnings and endings. I measure love in postmarks that travel across time connecting us to reflections of self and memories shared.
musical chairs
September 18, 2013 § 10 Comments
Last night I sat beside my son navigating assignments and redirecting his attention as I watched my husband and daughter move with well rehearsed choreography around the perimeter of the dining room table, careful not to disrupt our efforts while lonely for their place in our company. By evening’s end we traded time for tasks, shuffling our needs for responsibilities; the music gave way to silence leaving each of us lonely for a chance to trade places.
My son moved from school work to bed, restless and resigned to the loss of leisure that balances academics and replenishes his spirit. Envious of his sister’s more carefree evening, she coveted my company from the corner of my eye. When at last I moved between children to find a place beside my daughter I traded play for conversation, borrowing minutes from sleep before dreams absorbed her thoughts. Standing alone my husband gave me room to mother, needing a companion to share the burdens of his day but giving up his chair.
This morning we found our way back to the beginning of the song, each of us circling around the table and taking our place. Moving into the melody of togetherness.
september 12
September 12, 2013 § 2 Comments
Tragedy has a tendency to inspire passionate reaffirmations of consciousness. We honor loss with statements of gratitude and pledge to hold difficult remembrances alongside joy to keep ourselves accountable for the truth of tragedy. Anniversaries of loss are often haloed by memorials and gestures of shared grief, but what of the day after?
Public tragedy and personal heartache, calendar dates darkened by grief remind us to gather loved ones close, to speak kindly, forgive our neighbors, and extend a hand of friendship to a stranger. We shuffle our priorities to align with our ideals, then move slowly into the busyness of tomorrow our minds once again preoccupied by details that distort our commitments to one another and ourselves.
Yesterday I imagined husbands and wives, parents and children whose lives were orphaned by tragedy. I moved through my day cognizant that without warning we can wake to an experience empty of familiarity and the comfort of routine; my own good fortune measured in gifts of kindness as my husband and children, family and friends attempted to ward off the shadow of loss with a celebration of life. My birthday an intimate reminder of the blessing of time.
Today I woke mindful of the little things, details otherwise overlooked were swollen with sentiment. The smell of paint drying as my husband finishes up bookshelves for our daughter’s room, the cluttered countertops that signal a meal shared before starting our day, the sleepy conversations between home and school when side by side we have nowhere else to be but in between destinations together.
Perhaps to live consciously we have neither to trade mundane moments for extravagant exercises in living nor set aside our plans for tomorrow to dwell in remembrances. Maybe to honor yesterday we have only to be present in little moments that nurture our spirit and enrich the lives of those around us with small acts of love and kindness; today and tomorrow.
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