body of thought
January 15, 2017 § 2 Comments
It started with an excruciating pain during an unfamiliar exercise. Despite my admonishment of physical resolutions this year, I was swept up in a sudden need to move and threw myself enthusiastically into a new routine.
My efforts at stillness had quietly underscored the way I use movement both for avoidance and empowerment. Restless distractions that allow me to cloak worry in productivity are intimately related to the way I use exercise to purge those feelings I struggle to name.
Yesterday, inventorying for injury in a posture of submission to a very immediate sense of vulnerability, I tested the smallest movements with patience and settled among my thoughts.
Our bodies are great teachers in crises.
My body demanded I identify the harm and tend to the moment at hand. There’s a certain power in naming what hurts, allowing ourselves to speak directly without apology for weakness.
There is also humility in acknowledging what worked once may not serve us now. Freedom in accepting that our needs and abilities change over time.
Images can be deceptive; a body may appear healthy, but hide a deficit of strength. Similarly one can appear weak while exercising great strength.
Lastly, we teach our children as much in good health as we do in injury and sickness. It is natural to tend to another in need, but there are great lessons in self-care.
In those moments of stillness as I tested my body for stability and considered how I had changed, what I might need, and the actions that would best nurture healing, the thoughts I had been circling in movement all week settled into place and I marveled at the way life invites us to presence.
This past week my son wrapped up another academic term with finals. The end of anything brings the beginning of something else and we’ve been chasing significant change with unconventional choices in anticipation of his new term.
There has been great joy in the anticipation of these adjustments, but also remorse and grief for the years I held my son accountable to a pattern of commitments that contradicted his needs for another’s impersonal trajectory of success.
For all my efforts to parent outside the mainstream language of success, I’ve bought into patterns of parenting that conflicted my earliest days of motherhood; days before labels invited comparisons that bred fear and worry. For years I gauged good enough and belonging by unfortunate standards akin to fitting in.
While verbally celebrating my son’s individuality, I was shaping his future with a mass-produced machinery of normal. If A, then B. Never accounting for a factor of C.
There is so much more to this moment. I’ve been gathering my thoughts, privately, trying to decide how to mark this milestone in writing as we embark on a new adventure. It was strange that a physical injury is my introduction to sounding out these changes, but so it is:
Name the harm.
Understand what worked once, may no longer apply.
Recognize that images are deceptive, one can appear weak while exercising great strength.
Our actions speak more loudly than words, our children are listening to our choices.
full circle
May 27, 2016 § 2 Comments
This morning both children paused patiently to accommodate an end-of-the-year photograph. Long after the bus had delivered them to their last day of school, I was drawn to the image; remembering a photograph from their first day this past August.
In both pictures our son looks rooted to an easy confidence in complete uncertainty. That first fall morning he did not yet have a class schedule for his new school, but he was undaunted. Today, despite lingering anxiety over final exams, he stood unhurried in a moment of delayed sentiment for the significance of the moment.
The greater difference was our daughter.
Leaning against our son this morning, our daughter had shed the tender discomfort of last fall. In August she stood burdened with supplies she held tightly in a backpack pressed securely to her chest; an armor of necessity to ward off sadness and uncertainty. Today her posture was open, unguarded; a genuine mess of ease. The baseball cap that has become her signature accessory and her binder slung haphazardly, cutting the length of her torso as she leaned into a playful posture of amused contentment.
We’ve come full circle, but it’s so much more than milestone photographs and school year celebrations.
Our children are settling into their new community, making our house a home, but they are also becoming more of themselves. This past year they have settled into discomfort in a way that has demanded they look inward for a sense of self they might have previously found in others.
second chances & simple truths
May 3, 2016 § 2 Comments
My daughter is applying for an opportunity she was denied at the onset of the school year. The process of answering questions that speak to character and individuality, teamwork and excellence were once easy scribbles she raced through in an attempt to make the cut.
The first time around there was an idea that timelines, more than tidiness, spoke to an unwritten qualification. This time around she has been more cautious, but no less intentional. As we near the deadline for second chances, she’s drawing her letters carefully and crafting her answers, again, mindful of their weight.
It was this matter of timeliness that had us talking over what work was left to complete and when she might plan to turn over her student application and teacher recommendations.
We debated the value of early applications as demonstrative of enthusiasm and late applications as either procrastination or care. Then, to muddle things with my signature tendency toward over thinking, I mused that an early application may hint at a hurried effort and could become forgotten as last-minute applications filter in.
It would seem that I was sounding out a strategy, when mostly I was merely exploring the possibilities of a process we don’t fully understand in the interest of engaging my daughter in an opportunity to connect. These dwindling morning moments when she’ll still let me untangle her hair into conversation before school.
There was no right answer, no sure bet or safe choice. Just an excuse to sound out emotions and opinions. Sometimes, in these moments, I’m certain I’m sharing something important; nudging my children towards a lesson that may, one day, serve them well. It is more likely that I am teaching my children a little more about myself and learning more, still, about them.
On this occasion, after I had exhausted my thoughts on timeliness, it was my daughter who cautioned my questions with a very humble and unceremonious:
Mom, someone has to be first and someone has to be last.
There was an exquisite simplicity to her clarity of consciousness; an uncompetitive acceptance of face value and an equality of worthiness. I wish there had been more space in her application for the uncluttered self-awareness that is so often a hallmark of our conversations.
First, last, or somewhere in between, she’s placing herself in a position of possibility and counting on second chances.
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.
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.
to my son
April 4, 2016 § 1 Comment
Unhidden in the chaos of your school papers, I found these playful term test strategies:
I love that you still hide funny messages where you know I’ll look; fragments of borrowed smiles and innocent mischief that hint at your sense of humor.
Thank you for laundry day laughs.
Love, Mom
monday’s child
January 4, 2016 § 5 Comments
Sleepy heads and heavy feet, full hearts and forgotten routines. We’re back to early mornings and long days, heavy backpacks and extra circular commitments.
I struggle against school mornings. Waking my children to herd them through breakfast and dress to catch their bus before the sun has dismissed the evening sky it’s labor.
Already it seems they have begun to outgrow their childhood like ill-fitting clothes that cannot contain the limbs of their dreams. Most mornings I watch them travel the short distance to their bus stop and marvel at how quickly the days pass.
Last night I set my alarm a little earlier, that today I could quickly prepare an unexpected treat. Something simple and warm, playful and sweet to stretch the morning hour.
Monday began with homemade pancakes and new shoes, under dark skies and over snowy sidewalks. Small protests against the cool air and early hour, last-minute objects and extra hugs.
So often we race through the week, eager to chase our responsibilities for play. Today I’m begging stillness in the frenzy of our demands that I don’t hurry the blessings of this day.
to my daughter’s science teacher
December 26, 2015 § 5 Comments
On Wednesday, my daughter showed me a narrow strip of colorful paper with a message written thoughtfully by hand. I can tell you without looking that it is already buried beside a stack of paper rewards in a messy drawer; a treasure of kindness my daughter keeps to herself.
You gave thanks for her gentle heart, her creativity and the way she looks at the world. It was a message that would make anyone feel valued; a gesture that invites respect for others and invests emotionally in individuality.
You did this for every student and that is what my daughter cherished. More than her own words, she noted that you had taken the time to write individual messages to everyone.
It’s a lesson that extends beyond textbook subjects, one that informs a standard of appreciation for individuality, collectively, that was not lost in the excitement for the season.
On the days when you are tired, discouraged, overwhelmed or uncertain those hours of personal time invested in your students are worth the cost of thoughtful details, they are.
Thank you.
self made
December 18, 2015 § 4 Comments
It began with a classroom assignment, a Social Studies lesson asking children to create a model example of ancient technology. Our daughter was cavalier in her efforts right up to the day she appeared with a colorful stack of construction paper piled onto her bed. In a single evening she cut and folded unlikely material into the shape of her assignment.
There was a moment when I first saw her bent over the stack of paper, that I was tempted to entertain a trip to a craft store for materials that might be more pliable and polished. Instead I watched as one-dimensional pieces of paper began to evolve into wheels with intricate spokes, suffocated in layers of scotch tape.
I cannot remember an assignment in our old community where children weren’t required to purchase materials for projects or when parents didn’t fashion their handiwork into their child’s task. I worried that our daughter’s efforts would appear laughable next to more elegant models, but I couldn’t bring myself to undermine her independence.
It was a happy surprise, when my husband and I attended her class museum, to see similarly fashioned models. Construction paper artifacts and Lego creations, repurposed toys and hand drawn examples. It is a standard of excellence that speaks to effort and attention over end results.
Today our daughter will present another project, this time for Science. When asked to create a solution to a problem, our daughter started engineering something I didn’t understand. There was a temptation to ask questions or offer help; an instinct to guide under the guise of support. Then, I read a quote tagged to a message from her Science teacher.
“Too often we give children answers to remember rather than problems to solve.” Roger Lewin
So I created space, offering our daughter room to struggle a bit against her assignment. There were times she came to me worried she might be wrong and we looked together for what those doubts might mean. I challenged our daughter to honor her big idea and I trusted her teacher to recognize the value in each mistake.
Last night our daughter asked that she go it alone today; that her father and I sit out her presentation. Gone are the days of elementary parties and hands-on help, our youngest is coming into her own; standing proudly independent at the culmination of her work.
adding up
November 6, 2015 § Leave a comment
Wednesday our daughter lead us through her school, sharing the space of her routines with hands on demonstrations of learning. Student lead and thoughtfully orchestrated by educators and administrators, each classroom presented a unique snapshot of school day experiences. We were able to look at lessons and play classroom games, review work and visit with teachers while our daughter was afforded an opportunity to articulate ownership of her effort.
It was not a time to check in on performance or address concerns; so I was pleasantly surprised when a teacher volunteered a more personal exchange with a meaningful interruption.
At the time, our daughter was bent over the work of a math equation. Her posture was casually confident as she ran through the problem step-by-step in a conscientious execution of mastery. It was while she was working eagerly through a second equation that her teacher paused to offer praise.
It wasn’t the privileged acknowledgment of a child to whom learning comes easily, her teacher offered statements of recognition for the resilience of character and the work of progress. Credit for thoughtful enthusiasm and earnest effort for comprehension; perseverance to establish mastery despite struggle.
My husband and I hadn’t realized that the work our daughter was modeling was a source of accomplishment beyond a correct solution. Our daughter had been flexing a new muscle.
Strong Girl,
When you asked to be dismissed from the supports of special education services, I was proud of your courage; secretly though, I worried you might have leapt prematurely toward independence.
Math and Reading were still areas of concern. Knowing this I asked you to be responsible for seeking help and acknowledged the importance of mastering difficult skills. Then, as all parents must do, I let go.
When you fell apart last week over projects, I worried you were struggling. I inferred need over ability.
Then, this week, you reminded me that progress comes imperfectly; that mistakes and determination add up to strength. Struggle isn’t always cause for concern, sometimes its cause for trust.
Love you.
Mom
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