counting down & saving up
May 3, 2016 § 6 Comments
Yesterday my son bemoaned Monday with the comfortable familiarity of routine irritation. I commiserated with an empathetic encouragement: Only three more Mondays to go until summer vacation!
Immediately I reveled in the tiny number that seemingly shrunk the weeks ahead to days until I could almost see past the month ahead. We can endure the necessary demands of the day; an end is in sight. Early mornings of monotonous predictability and days toiled at tasks of someone else’s choosing.
Except, if we’re lucky, there are a lifetime of Mondays to come and that mindset doesn’t account for the sweet spontaneity of pleasure each day offers.
I don’t want to save up my joy, to dwell so completely in something uncertain, that I miss the moment standing before me. If each week is divided by labor and love, then I want to create patterns in my day that inspire pleasure without procrastination. Monday should get to dress up in Friday’s eagerness and borrow a little of Sunday’s grace. I want my children to look for possibility alongside responsibility, play and work in the same day.
For me, part of that joy is counting down tomorrows; childhood paper chains we trim to mark the days and whimsical X’s to strike a path of pleasure across paper squares of time. It is an act of faith in goodness to come that overflows into today; anticipation that creates a spark of delight.
This morning my thoughts and smiles are snagged on how I live anticipation, in the present. Where I save up happiness for another day and where opportunities present occasions to make this moment count.
four
May 2, 2016 § 2 Comments
Lessons come into my life at the exact moment I am open to their wisdom. They may feel familiar as the universe nudges me gently on the shoulder, but they become my own only when I allow myself to relinquish my defenses and create unhindered space for understanding.
In hindsight, there are almost always clues that inform a prelude to learning.
My first clue came in the form of a casual read as another writer estimated it takes about 90 seconds to shift perspectives and allow emotions to pass. It was a well-articulated, personal reflection that I respected for insightful honesty. I let this first nudge pass uneventfully.
At almost the same time, in an online course, Brené Brown coached me through a lesson on creating space with conscious, structured breaths for recognizing emotions. I breezed through the exercise detached without something urgent to release. Even as the powers that be tapped my shoulder, I couldn’t quite make the connection.
I was taking note without, yet, recognizing the value in the lesson. Opening myself for the work of practice without the immediacy of necessity.
On Friday my son alerted me to a momentary frustration; a situation symptomatic of an ongoing misunderstanding. I cannot speak enough to how natural it is, as a special needs parent or just a parent, for me to move from empathetic listener to veteran problem solver.
Reactive over receptive.
In those moments when I rush to action, worry communicates to my son he needs my intervention while simultaneously cautioning the school that I stand in judgement of their fallibility. Sometimes help looks a bit like control.
Last week I surrendered in four breaths to a curious evaluation of the emotions I might otherwise act on. Worry, fear, frustration, doubt. These are not the foundations I would choose to advocate for my child or his school. I wanted to feel curious and connected, engaged and empathetic to better facilitate communication for learning.
It’s hard to listen when you’re talking, so I kept breathing quietly into a place of patience; assuming the best for more genuine cooperation.
In that unplanned moment when I consciously created space to learn, the scale of my emotions and the urgency of my reaction shrunk to accommodate a mindset of possibility over reactivity. Peace over panic.
I don’t have a perfect number of breaths or an easy answer to my son’s experience, Friday my only answer was four deep breaths. I’m learning.
restless
May 1, 2016 § 2 Comments
As the rain relentlessly pelts the already soggy ground, I can feel discomfort chafe at my pleasure.
The question of what we could do pulling the joy from beneath the perfection of empty hours. Harmony cloaked in a blanket that scratches at the tenderness of stillness.
There is no thread to pull, no itch to scratch, only a pesky question to challenge the simple elegance of nothing.
I start over, determinedly, with gratitude until I forget the shape of my unrest.
It is a predictable predicament, this hastily exaggerated need; a pattern of fault that speaks light to the shadows of my best intentions.
A momentary indulgence or lingering want that distracts me from the uncomplicated ease of contentment.
at the table
April 29, 2016 § Leave a comment
The sweetest meals are those served with stories. Last night our son was still laughing at his own private joke.
In class yesterday, his teacher experiencing a rare lapse in patience over the inattention of distracted teenagers, pointedly chose a child to answer the question posed. When it was clear to my son that the student in question was desperately disengaged, he whispered urgently an irrelevant number only to have said child blurt the wrong answer.
Emphatically.
Another day I might have worried over the other student’s feelings or the teacher’s frustration, but today I’m still laughing at the game our son was playing. This child so often accused of lapsed social skills was clearly demonstrating mastery in my favorite shade of sarcasm.
sick day
April 27, 2016 § 4 Comments
The morning unfurled itself around the unexpected, a sick child who only hours previously had shuffled sleepily through her routines without the slightest clue something was amiss.
My husband and I had procrastinated our breakfast as I curled over my thoughts, head bowed over busy keystrokes of curious rambling. The day was settling into the loosely choreographed comfort of modest efficiency when our phones interrupted our efforts and reprioritized our attention.
Gathering our daughter from school we traded tasks, moving busily through the mechanics of washing away the early morning stories with empathetic giggles and gentle encouragements. Tending in generous swaths of presence.
It was only after toilets had been scrubbed, school clothes washed, and shared areas sanitized that I turned the corner on my daughter’s room to find her face partially hidden beneath her sick bowl; not in misery, but good humor.
Balanced atop her head, as if it were the most unexceptional accessory, was the silver bowl meant for emergencies repurposed for entertainment.
Pridefully impulsive costuming that turned everything upside right and back to normal.
These are my favorites. Remarkable moments of personality that dress up the predictable childhood experiences with indulgent individuality; shorthand of self in a universal language of play.
another me
April 26, 2016 § 6 Comments
I remember the sky seemed to shed her last rays of light just as you lumbered into focus; your silhouette on fire, you plucked me from the shadows of the evening’s heat with curious amusement.
It was an hour of adolescence when time seemed a fabrication of authority and rules were something you leaned against for weight.
We were ghosts of something wanton chasing after stolen moments of spent youth. There was no afterthought in our distraction, only the urgency of fleeting freedom.
You chose me and I marveled at my good fortune. Moving recklessly against whim I let your contentment fill the vacancy of my certainty as I quickly disappeared into an extension of your pleasure.
There was no one to hear the quiet panic in my acquiescence, the silent loss of time squandered in determined hopefulness. I was less myself after you left, hollowed out and angry; unraveled and awake.
And so we became strangers long after we first met, speaking in a muddled language of shared memories and complicit ignorance.
A snapshot of self forgotten except in the light of summer’s first arrogance when I miss the girl who held her breath for magic. The girl I knew before you.
to my daughter
April 23, 2016 § 4 Comments
If your big brother kept falling in love a secret, you are wearing your first crush with the sweet enthusiasm of bubble gum blushes. Your cheeks are the most endearing shades of happy and your smile sticks to your words with a crooked permanence.
At first this boy was just another story. Someone from school who did something that made you laugh. Then, suddenly, every story was wrapped in his name; an excuse to sound out new feelings.
This week you offered clues to your crush in confidence to classmates turned confidants. Each day has brought a new telling of the mock horror of their playful taunts over the inevitable disclosure of your affection. You’re too young to date and quick to qualify the fascination for what it is, so we’re just talking our way through the newness of this moment.
I’m letting you enjoy those effervescent butterflies behind your blush while listening carefully for opportunities to learn more about the values you hold dear in others and yourself.
I like that you admire people first for character over image and that you aren’t intimidated by popularity or pressured by peers to pretend a persona that isn’t true. Like your brother you’ve allowed yourself to be vulnerable without losing the backbone of authenticity. We’re having real conversations about issues that are tangent to your emotions and I’m learning more about how you perceive yourself and the world around you throughout this new experience.
When a peer said your crush had a boyfriend, you respected he may be gay and were just as comfortable imagining friendship as you were when another friend said he had a girlfriend. As your well-meaning friends line up reasons for doubt, cautioning you from disappointment, you’ve stayed true to your gut. Through out all the inferences of differences between you, I like that the only change in you has been the flush on emotion that colors your speech.
Most important, you still tend to your friendships and family. You haven’t lost your sense of self even as you fall.
Love, Mom
to my son
April 22, 2016 § 2 Comments
This week I came upon a letter you wrote to someone else. The discovery was a curious accident of poor organization, papers mixed up and gifted to me unintentionally, but the act of reading your thoughts was a violation of trust.
I struggled with the decision to confess my guilt. It would have been simpler to feign ignorance, but I wondered if acknowledging my mistake might one day help you to initiate a difficult conversation with me. I also wanted to be able to begin a conversation about some of what you said and I couldn’t ask you to be honest without first offering the same transparency.
We’ve spoken already, you registered mild embarrassment, initially, but quickly forgave my trespass against your privacy. As teenagers go, I count myself lucky that you are so openly vulnerable and fiercely forgiving. We went on to talk about the girl you care for, how you came to meet and the emotions you had kept so closely guarded.
Tonight a copy of the letter in question is tucked away for your future self, packed alongside holiday wish lists and an emotional goodbye you wrote our first family dog; mementos of your childhood like breadcrumbs that might forever help you find your way to a boundless enthusiasm and untarnished certainty, innocence we too soon outgrow.
Love, Mom
to my husband
April 22, 2016 § 1 Comment
While you were gone I picked up your birthday present. I know it’s late and that we don’t dwell on gifts, but this time the object is less material and more an investment in time spent together.
I was passively procrastinating purchasing your gift when my good intentions and last minute plans were rerouted for an unscheduled trip to urgent care the morning of your birthday. I rallied that day just long enough to honor our family birthday traditions, all the while simultaneously relieved and remorseful that I had failed to follow through on an old promise.
I almost let myself off the hook, noting the obvious intervention of Fate, when the store closest to home sold out of their inventory. Three days later we celebrated our son’s milestone birthday and it felt as if the moment to revisit your birthday had passed.
Except, this past Christmas, when I told you exactly what I wanted in a rare and specific request – you made that happen. Even when our daughter spoiled the surprise, discovering my gift hidden in an unusual place, I was no less grateful that you listened.
This week, when a small window of time presented itself, I rerouted my attention and traced down your gift. Two stores and almost ten days later, I bought a bike. For me. For you.
We’ve been married long enough that we can laugh at my (lack of) balance on wheels with the same honesty I curse your fantasy of family bike rides. But what is marriage if not a compromise of dreams and imperfect performances of balance?
I’ve been listening.
Love, Me
space between
April 21, 2016 § 4 Comments
At the beginning of this last semester of the school year, I bridged a complicated discussion with my son. We had just met with his advisor and despite my intentions, I was suddenly letting my fears for his future drive the language I used.
Less than inspiring, I was passively critical. I judged his effort and dictated what my expectations looked like. Then, my son, after patiently allowing me to rant, asked: What if that’s not what my trying looks like?
That’s it.
There was no impassioned speech or angry barb, no defensive posturing or rebellion. Just a question that created space between us to really listen. I wrote his question down and have returned to it often.
This is what I’ve come to realize. There is a space between the stories we tell ourselves and our truths, the uncomfortable gap in assumptions and perceptions that can muddle our peace of mind. Fears that whisper to our insecurities and feed doubt, undermining our relationships with ourselves and others.
I don’t want to clutter these last years of high school living for an uncertain future with a manic mindset that fosters panic over presence. I think there’s a tendency towards fear of missing out that discounts simpler certainties.
Whatever the future holds for my son, right now he’s sharing his fears and hopes, connected to his family and invested in others’ well-being. He’s a good guy with a great sense of humor and an easy gratitude for less.
Equally important, my daughter is listening and framing her understanding of how we talk about what trying looks like.
In our home, I want there to always be space between us to question honestly and talk openly.
scribblechic 