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.
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
to my son
April 20, 2016 § 4 Comments
I’ve been trying to decide if there’s room in this space for me to introduce your identity as a writer. It’s a gift I’ve kept close to my heart, a secret that I treasured as an exclusive audience to your developing skill.
In much the same way a parent might take pride in sharing an athletic ability or musical talent, it has been my greatest joy to share my love of writing with you.
Until now most of your writing has been forced and shaped by academic restrictions. It’s only in your private writings and personal letters that one can see the contradiction of your internal awareness for your experiences in contrast to your outward mannerisms; it is in these works that your voice and style, confidence and curiosity shape a prose that is enviable.
This brings us to an exciting development. You are writing a book. A witty science-fiction work with a strong storyline and endearing characters, cliff hangers and comical one liners.
I’ve been reading your thread since your first paragraph, but you’ve begun to broaden your efforts to accommodate the work of editing and constructive feedback from a trusted teacher. Something that you once played at has become a passion and your definition of self is becoming broader.
You so often categorize yourself by interest over talent without allowing for a depth of character that invites a life rich with multifaceted experiences. Scientist, inventor, gamer, writer.
None of us are one or the other, we are fragments of everything we know and cannot fathom.
Maybe you will work in a lab or write code, maybe you’ll stay at home and raise a family or craft a novel that inspires new dreamers. The future is still unwritten, but this story that you’ve started is worth finishing.
I wake up wanting to turn the page, to see this next chapter unfold.
Love, Mom
to my son
April 15, 2016 § 2 Comments
Last night we attended a lecture given by your childhood hero, Bill Nye. Walking through the unfamiliar space you began shrugging and snapping, staccato movements on a loop of increasingly rapid repetition; enthusiasm stemming through your limbs like joy tapped into a morse code of movement. In an auditorium crowded with thousands of science-minded fans, you sat at attention as if the room had shrunk to accommodate an audience of two.
Stowed away in my purse was a note you had written Mr. Nye when you were 5 years old. So many years ago I envied this man the fame that you might draft him a letter given your disinclination for writing, the physical demands of shaping letters against the tide of faster ideas often a burden of inconvenience. I reasoned that Mr. Nye must receive so many letters that surely your effort would be lost in his company and as such I should be allowed to keep this time capsule in your penmanship for myself.
Yesterday I confessed my crime of hoarding a letter intended for someone else and had hoped you might gain a signature on the envelope, but the night did not lend itself to a private audience and we left the lecture for a leisurely walk. With long easy strides you casually forgave me my trespass and offered effusive thanks for the evening’s events.
It was enough to be present.
I think sometimes we all forget the luxury of this truth. So often we strive for dramatic performances of appreciation in celebratory moments, losing the elegance of a simpler delight.
In your letter you had invited your hero to play. Yesterday it was enough to find yourself in the same room.
This gratitude for what is and the ability to see wealth in less, it is such a small part of why I am so proud of you and such a large part of why I am better for your gentle lessons.
On the eve of a special birthday, I’m wishing you a lifetime of joy in small moments of mindfulness that you may always find enough within.
Love, Mom
mouthful
April 5, 2016 § 2 Comments
Ever so often, and almost always between seasons, my husband and I commit ourselves, passionately, to a new, good idea. An unfamiliar exercise or a new meal plan, something novel enough to be intriguing without the burden of a long-term mindset. Last fall it was a new cardio routine. This spring it’s a new cookbook. Each, in its own way, a flight of fancy.
Our most recent indulgence required new pantry staples and more invested meal planning. My husband has been blending smoothies and doting over dinnertime. I have been stubbornly resistant, reframing expectations to accommodate those personal preferences that bring me joy.
While my husband stoically drinks his measured water and chokes down protein powder, I have charted compromises. He’s holding steady to the rules, admirably and with more restraint, while I cling devotedly to my morning cup of coffee and conjuring excuses to drizzle honey.
Of all the poor habits I’ve exercised over the years, I am perhaps most proud of my ability to manipulate a chore into an act of playful defiance. I don’t like a one size fits all meal plan and I’m a firm believer in moderation and pleasure.
There will be something new, someday soon, but this exercise of wrestling rules into contrition and cooking up better habits has me smiling in the kitchen, thinking mischievously about good behavior and indulging in healthier bites with smiles.
to my daughter
April 1, 2016 § 3 Comments
Lately there’s a single name that freckles our conversations with frustration over manipulations and mood swings, insincerity and gossip. I would love to tell you that this experience is a temporary discomfort, an unfortunate stage of puberty.
Poor behavior isn’t a hallmark of a common experience or a right of passage, it’s a noisy mistake in want of attention. Sometimes unkindness is taught and other times it’s a messy error. Its hard, in the moment, to tell why someone might speak unkindly. Its trickier still to breathe patience in place of hurt and inform a different standard of respect.
I’m sorry someone has made you uncomfortable in your space, but I’m impressed by your character. You’ve held your ground and offered second chances, owned your emotions and held other’s to their choices. You’ve stayed open where others might have closed doors while refusing to pretend away difficult experiences for an easier fiction.
When another child came to you with assumptions you thanked them first for having the integrity to ask you a question rather than spreading rumors. Then, you shared the facts, copping to your own unflattering behavior.
You can’t know yet what a gift you are, that your normal might be uncommonly exceptional. I hope you never cease to see the world with such innocent acceptance and generous understanding.
Love, Mom
scribblechic 