Category: Reflections

I’m sitting in my office, watching the sunrise at a desk that looks out over a wooded area in the backyard.  The leaves haven’t yet appeared; spring is just beginning to show herself in the tiny buds on the branches.  But the birds are active.  I don’t know birds, really.  I can identify a Robin and a Bluebird, and maybe a Chickadee.  But I find myself drawn to the peacefulness of watching the birds flit about on a spring morning.  I never would have taken the time to notice before. 

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We have settled in to a strange new normal.  It mostly looks like this: 

6-8 am, wake up, go for a walk, shower, coffee, news

8-9 am breakfast, check schedules, wake kids

9-12 pm – work and school, on separate devices in separate rooms

12-1 pm – lunch & connect

1-3 pm – do something.  Go outside, bake, build legos, play games, clean. 

3-5 pm- check school work, email, prepare lessons

5-7 pm- prepare and eat dinner

7-9 pm- watch tv, read, write

9-10 pm- say goodnights

10 pm – sleep

Some days are better than others.  Some days, we feel more connected.  Some days, we’re in our own little worlds.  Some days are filled with too much screen time, and some days we stay outside all day.  Some days feel manageable.  Some days are full of tears.  

Today, I went to the grocery store.  I’ve done this a few times since we began our isolation, but this time was different.  This time, this strange, dystopian reality took my breath away.  I had heard that they were limiting the number of people in the stores.  I had heard that we were advised to wear masks and gloves.  I knew about the plexiglass barriers and the tape on the floor.  I knew about it…. But I hadn’t FELT it yet.  

People waited outside the store, 15 feet apart, waiting to be admitted.  Everyone wore masks.  Nearly everyone wore gloves, too.  It was eerily silent.  

More so than all of these visible differences, the intangibles weighed on me.  Our faces covered, we could no longer offer a reassuring smile to a stranger.  Our gloves and our masks only amplified the palpable fear in the air.  People waited awkwardly for others to pass, allowing the maximum radius of personal space.  People flinched as workers passed by with their carts to restock; perhaps they were too close?  

I usually enjoy my grocery shopping.  Today I couldn’t wait to get out of there.  The tightness in my chest didn’t go away until I was safely back in my car.  And logically, I know that even that is unreasonable.  I had already exposed myself.  I had already exposed others to me.  If damage had been done, none of us would know it for weeks.  

This whole experience is such a strange roller-coaster.  On Tuesday, I spoke with my therapist on the phone.  I sat in my car (the only place I could get a little privacy) and I sipped my coffee and I told her about how GREAT things have been.  The kids have been creative.  I’ve been working on my personal goals.  I’m re-evaluating what is most important and prioritizing and creating and all kinds of cool things.  I explained that there’s something empowering about deciding what I WANT to do, instead of checking off the list of things I am SUPPOSED to do.  On Tuesday, I was feeling good.  

And there are a lot of days when I actually feel pretty good.  I’m noticing some positive changes within my family.  Our time together is less forced.  There’s more room to explore our interests.  I enjoy that the days have a sort of natural rhythm, unencumbered by arbitrary times on the clock.  With so many fewer priorities, I don’t feel as guilty when I take time to do things just for me.  

Of course, there are things that are hard.  Online teaching and learning are super stressful.  I cried twice last week about work.  I want to do a good job and connect with my students, but sometimes the obstacles seem insurmountable. I want to help my own kids and keep them on track, but sometimes the days don’t feel long enough or the battle doesn’t seem worth it.  I worry about my family and friends who are struggling.  Sometimes the thought of another load of laundry is enough to put me over the edge.  Sometimes the filth in the bathroom prompts a banshee scream that frightens my family. 

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I’m sitting in my office, looking out into the dreary, gray, dimness of a rainy afternoon.  But the branch just outside my window is gathering tiny droplets of rain.  They pool in the valleys of the tiny branches, glittering a little, despite the dreary weather.  I sit and watch a particular droplet.  I watch it slowly grow as the moisture accumulates.  I stay focused on the droplet until it swells just enough to let go and fall into the yard below.  I never would have taken the time to notice before.  

I went back to work today.  Correction: Today I went back to the building I USED to work in, before we embarked on this crazy ‘teaching from home’ experiment. 

When we first found out about the closure, many of us struggled to answer the question, “How will we move our classrooms online?”  Inevitably, the answer was, “We’re not sure… but we’ll make it work.”  

Teachers began to gather resources and collaborate virtually and create shared documents for ideas.  We were slightly comforted by the direction that we weren’t required to present new material; only review to keep kids connected and engaged.  

When our district made the choice to move from optional, flexible online review to something more permanent and structured, the panic set in a little. How would we manage teaching with our own small kids at home?  What would the schedule look like?  What about kids without access?  Struggling learners?  We had so many questions, and not enough answers.  Once again, most conversations ended with some version of, “We’re going to have to make it work.” 

 Administration offered us the chance to come in and gather our materials.  Teachers signed up for time slots.  No more than ten of us could be in the building at once, and we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and head back home.  We were asked to respect social distancing and not to gather and chat.  

I joked with some friends that this time would feel like the game show, “Supermarket Sweep.”  I expected it to feel a little frantic and silly. 

It did not.  

I had prepared myself with a list of materials to gather.  I had brought along milk crates and bags to load up.  I reminded myself to grab my hand sanitizer (purchased with my own money, for those who are concerned).  I thought I was ready for the task. 

But what I had not prepared for was the wall of emotion that hit me when I walked into my classroom.  The date and a graphic organizer were still written on the board.  Completed work sat in the bins to be corrected.  My planbook was on my desk, filled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists that were no longer relevant.  This space got frozen in such an optimistic time.  We had all expected to come back the next day and continue learning and working in this little community we had built.  

As I gathered materials, I came across lessons and projects that are a part of our classroom traditions.  The popsicle sticks to build a Trojan Horse- a project the kids look forward to each year that won’t happen for this particular class.  The poetry library that I won’t be able to share with them.  The Holocaust Unit that is too intense and emotional to teach virtually.  

I hadn’t fully considered these losses until that moment, and the ache moved from my heart to my throat.  I cried.  

The empty hallways and empty classrooms were further reminders of what we’ve lost.  A few teachers exchanged awkward greetings in the halls, staying a full 15 feet apart and pretending that everything is okay.  

As much as virtual teaching and learning is a struggle, thinking about what we’ve lost is even harder.  Today, I’m going to let myself mourn a little.  And tomorrow, I’ll unpack all those materials and do my best to figure out how to do amazing things with my students in a totally different format.  Because that’s what we do.  

We’re teachers.  We make it work.  

In recent years, the “Self-Help” section of bookstores and libraries has changed to “Self-Improvement.”  I know this because it’s one of my favorite sections to browse.  I’m a lover of books in all forms, but I especially love ones that weave together psychology and science and personal stories, exploring the myriad ways that humans have endeavored to become better humans.  I love learning about how our brains and our environments work together to motivate our actions; I’m fascinated by all of the ways that we can change our own habits and personalities; I’m amazed by all of the factors that work together in our conscious and our unconscious to make us who we are.  

And I like the name change.  Self-help implies brokenness, and I don’t believe I am broken.  I do, however, believe that all things can be improved.  Myself included. 

In fact, I believe that it is our obligation, while we’re here on Earth, to become the best possible versions of ourselves.  I believe we owe it to the world and to our creator and to our families and friends and neighbors and to OURSELVES to keep learning and growing and improving.  

So, I find myself here, in the New Year, thinking about resolutions, which have become little more than the butt of a joke.  On January 3^rd, people ask, “Have you broken your resolution yet?”  Most of us will violate these promises to ourselves in the first few weeks of the year.  Resolutions work for some people as a form of self-improvement.  But a resolution is so rigid.  It’s a vow.  And it’s usually a vow to make some sort of large change which we have previously been unable to sustain, despite multiple attempts.  

Does the date make a resolution somehow more attainable?  Perhaps there’s something about starting on the first of a new year that appeals to our sense of order, but my most sustainable changes have started on, oh, say…. a random Wednesday in October. 

And, really, about 90% of my resolutions have been some form of ‘lose weight’ over the years.  

I’m hesitant to write about this, for fear of messing it up.  You see, I have been learning a lot about health and body positivity and self-acceptance, and much of that is fundamentally at odds with my inner desire to be thinner.  

And my inner desire to be thinner is fundamentally at odds with all I believe about human variation and the inherent value of people and our shallow cultural assessment of beauty. 

I’m not going to write about those things, because lots of educated, intelligent people have written about those things.  If you’re interested, you can read personal stories and scientific research and cautionary tales.  

If you’re fascinated by the brain, you should read, “Thinking, Fast and Slow” by Daniel Kahneman.  If you’re into self-improvement, you should read “Atomic Habits” by James Clear.  If you want to learn more about being healthy and fat, you should read about ‘Health at Every Size.’ 

And what I’m going to write about is how I’ve taken all of those things and squished them together into a vague plan of how to be a better human in 2020.  

I’m trying to find a better balance.  I’m building habits that make me feel better about myself, instead of playing into all the ways that the world wants me to think that I’m not good enough.  Does that even make sense?  

Because, the truth is, I do think it’s possible to believe that you are ENOUGH, and still know that you can be better.  But the only way to do it is to find YOUR version of better.  What will make you a better YOU?  

A better ME would write more.  Writing makes me feel more myself.  I know I’m doing something I’m meant to do when I write. 

A better ME would spend more time in nature.  Being outdoors brings me peace. 

A better ME would spend more time enjoying my children. My kids remind me what joy looks like, if I only take the time to see it.  

The list goes on and on.  It’s too much to tackle all at once.  But I’ve learned a little about habits and since October, I’ve started “habit stacking.”  What this means is… I take a habit I want to develop and I attach it or ‘stack’ it on top of a habit I already have. 

For example; I’m terrible at flossing.  I hate it and avoid it and then feel like a petulant child at my dental check ups when they tell me that I need to floss more.  But I do brush my teeth every day.  So I stacked flossing on top of that.  Every time I brushed my teeth, I was reminded of my commitment to floss.  It was yucky and irritating at first.  But that was months ago.  Now it’s just part of my routine.  And once I added the flossing, I stacked ‘take a multivitamin’ on top of that.  So with very little effort, I managed to add two small habits that, cumulatively, will likely have a positive impact on my health.  

I did the same to make a shift in my breakfast routine.  A few months ago, I generally ate nothing or some sort of egg sandwich; neither option was healthy.  But I ALWAYS had coffee.  So I stacked ‘eat fruit’ on top of the coffee.  Every morning with my java, I also had an apple or a banana or a handful of raspberries.  On weekend mornings, I might still have a bigger breakfast with my family, but fruit first gets me off to a better start.  

I don’t like myself when I’m dieting.  I become compulsive and obsessive.  I have an all-or-nothing attitude and I become self-deprecating and cranky.  The numbers on the scale dictate my mood and I ride a roller coaster of self-congratulating and self-loathing that totally sucks.  Newer evolutions of weight-loss programs are beginning to acknowledge this unhealthy cycle through things like “non-scale victories” and ‘small changes.’  But those programs still make their money by making us feel like we’re somehow broken and in need of fixing.  

I’m not buying into it anymore.  I’m not broken.  In fact, I’m pretty amazing in a lot of ways.  And the ways that I can improve aren’t about the way I LOOK at all.  Here are my goals for 2020:

– Walk the dogs more.  Get outside.

– Do more yoga. 

– Spend 1:1 time with at least one kid every week.

– Find and cook new, delicious recipes.  

– Be more present. 

– Write.  Write a lot.  

I’m not going to do this all at once.  I’m going to stack my habits and make small changes and enjoy feeling like I’m becoming the best possible version of myself.  

Whether you made a resolution or not; whether you’ve stuck to it or given up or changed it, know that you are enough, right now, in this moment.  Make sure anything you vow to change takes you on the road toward being MORE you.  

And the rest of us will be abundantly blessed just to know you.  

 I’ve set a writing goal.  One blog post a week, plus another thousand words that I don’t post.  This is week three.  

The thousand words I don’t post come pretty easily.  They’re not necessarily focused or organized.  They’re a bit rambly and full of emotion and they pour out of me.  

But the blog posts? They’re hard to write on a deadline. Because my best posts come from an emotional place.  They come when I’m going through something that I need to process or share or work through.  But it’s got to be just the right thing.  It can’t be something too sensitive.  It can’t be something too raw or recent.  

I’m realizing, as I write this, that I don’t post anything that I’m even a little ashamed of.  I’m inspired by Brene Brown’s work on shame and vulnerability, and her perspective has helped me be a little more authentic. But none of us likes to be judged. 

When I write online, I am open to sharing some pretty raw and vulnerable stuff; partly because I know and trust most of my readers, but also because, deep down, I’m pretty proud of what I share.  

I’m proud that we brought Bea into our family; I’m honored to be a part of this loyal, strong, smart young lady’s life.  I’m proud of Lee and who he is; not only his identity, but his artistic talent and his sense of humor and his inquisitive mind.  I’m also proud of the way our family has supported him. I’m proud of Cal’s quick wit and kind heart. I’m proud of my stepsons; their loyalty and their work ethic and their willingness to shift their beliefs and expectations to make room for the changing dynamics of a family.  I’m proud of my musical, handy, impulsive husband, who is the reason anything big ever gets done around here.  

I’m proud of this chaotic, messy, beautiful life we’ve built.  And even when I’m sad, or frustrated or lonely or afraid … I can tell you that, too.  Because it’s real, and honest.  

But it’s hard to share shame.  When you know you were wrong.  When you know you didn’t give your all.  When your negligence or laziness or messed up priorities led to someone getting hurt.  

And what I’ve learned about all that is that it isn’t necessarily the EVENT that’s so hard to deal with.  It’s a reconciliation of yourself.  It’s figuring out what to do with a juxtaposition that has you questioning your own identity.  If you believe yourself to be an honest person, and you did something dishonest… what do you DO with that?  Do you blame others?  Pretend it didn’t happen?  Hide under your covers?  Give up and become dishonest always?  

If you consider yourself to be responsible, but you made an irresponsible choice, the hardest part is figuring out who you are now.  Are you still the person you thought you were?   

It is in this vulnerable place where I find my faith to be so valuable.  If I can convince myself, in that agitated state, that I am loved and beloved, JUST AS I AM, then I can find the next step.  

I can look at who I am and who I want to be and know that, even while I am improving, I am still whole and valued and loved beyond measure.  That’s the power of faith and forgiveness.  

I think it’s easier said than done.  I think it takes a lot of mental and emotional work.  But it’s so worth it.  We do it for our kids, right?  Think about it.  We don’t tell them they’re BAD KIDS.  We tell them that they’re GOOD KIDS who made a bad choice.  We tell them that we love them no matter what and that we’re going to help them make better choices.  

That’s what grace is. So today, I’m going to extend myself a little grace.  I hope you will do the same.  

It’s 6:30 am on Thanksgiving Day.  I’ve been up for hours; not because of stress or worry, but because I am so full of gratitude I feel like I could burst.  This is one of those rare moments of joy before the chaos begins.  I lay in bed this morning, thinking of all of the ages and stages of this life.

I reminisced about the Thanksgivings of my childhood; about making place cards and setting the table with my grandmother’s good china while my mother made the broccoli casserole and my dad prepped the turkey.

I thought back to the Thanksgivings early in my marriage, when I showed up at my mother in-law’s house with that same broccoli casserole, tentatively presenting my offering to this new family, hoping it (and I) would be received with love.

I recalled the first Thanksgiving I hosted, for a few family members in our tiny upstairs apartment.  Our kitchen was the size of a closet, and we ate in the living room that year.  To this day, I’m not sure how we made it all work.

I remembered the year that I filmed Cal, dancing in the kitchen as he gently placed alternating white and yellow cheddar slices on a tray, occasionally declaring that this one was ‘broken’ before taking a bite and grinning at me with those freaking dimples.

I went back to the year that we stumbled with our pronouns; our whole family working to ensure that Lee felt loved and safe and supported.

Some of these Thanksgivings blend together in my mind; I can’t recall which years we spent here and which ones we spent away.  Some of them were stressful and chaotic; some were quiet and relaxed.  But there are themes that run throughout.  Love.  Gratitude. Acceptance.  Abundance.

And this morning, my heart is bursting with those things.  Grateful feels like too small a word.  What’s bigger than gratitude?  What is gratitude and peace and joy and love pushing so hard at your heart that it brings tears to your eyes?

Maybe it sounds dramatic. Maybe it sounds like too much. But those tears really are pushing at the edges of my eyes and the only reason is because I am remembering to remember all of my blessings.  Like…

My husband.  This guy is cranky and rough around the edges and a little bit gruff.  And he is the epitome of loyalty and commitment.  He is full of love and he cries at movies and he always does the right thing, even when the wrong thing is easier.  He provides for us and cares for us and when I’m at my worst, he just shakes his head and takes a deep breath and keeps on loving me.  He is my rock and he is an incredible role model for these kids.  He is tough and soft all at the same time, and what on earth would I do without him? Thank you, God, for this incredible man.

Bea.  What an incredible young woman.  The holidays are so hard for her.  She’s been through a lifetime of hardship in her short 16 years, and she still faces each day with grace and strength.  Watching her grow has been one of life’s little miracles for me. When I first met this plucky fourth grader, she had the soul of an old woman and the smile of a cherub (when you could get her to smile).  I had no idea that she would become a part of my heart like she has.  In our first year as a family, I worried about how to make her feel welcome in our home and how to balance the addition of a new family member. I worried that we weren’t enough, or maybe we were too much, and I tried so hard to make it all less awkward.  And now, I can’t even remember what it was like before she was here.  She’s been a part of my heart for so long, and now she’s a part of my family, and we are all better for it.  Thank you, God, for this amazing young woman.

Lee.  Oh, my heart.  This kid.  This kid is awesome.  As in, awe-inspiring.  Incredible. Brave, funny, smart, strong, perceptive, loving, and honest.  This kid is going to change the world.  He is going to bring his whole self out into the world and teach tolerance through love and humor.  He is going to care for his menagerie of pets and use his incredible powers of observation and his scientific brain to accomplish incredible things.  And in the meantime, I get to watch him transform like a butterfly.  Can you imagine that?  We all have hopes and dreams for our children… but I’ve gotten to watch my child grow in ways I never imagined.  He surprises me at every turn, and he brings me immeasurable joy.  His laugh and his heart and his head on my shoulder; they all take my breath away.  Thank you God, for this inspiring, incredible kid.

Cal.  My baby.  My sweet, silly, stubborn little guy.  The one who probably gets away with too much because he’s the baby of the family and I’m a sucker for those dimples.  But Cal is my cuddler.  He’s the soulful one; a deep thinker who seeks God in all of the places.  He’s the one who will spontaneously lead us in prayer, or ask questions about heaven when I tuck him into bed.  He’s sensitive and kind and always wants to do the right thing. He’s my go-getter.  When presented with options of things to do, the rest of the family will say ‘no, thank you’ to all of them; Cal will ask why he can only choose one.  He’s athletic and musical and his guitar skills are on track to surpass his dad’s someday.  When I hear them play together, I get a lump in my throat.  Thank you God, for this sweet, sassy little man.

I am grateful today for all of these blessings; for my stepsons and my parents and siblings and my in-laws. For lifelong friends and new friends and the unconditional love from my dogs.  For a warm, safe home and a log in the fire and new throw pillows.  For our church family and a supportive community and cinnamon flavored coffee.  For the sound of laughter and a shoulder to cry on.

Dear God,  thank you for all of the blessings of this life, even the ones that appear as hardships.  Help me to cultivate gratitude and share it with others, and help me to remember this moment of calm once the chaos begins.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  May you be abundantly blessed.