Category: Reflections

Thoughts and stories about life in general…

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Hide and Seek

It’s 30 degrees on April 15th, and I’m content to sit on my couch with my computer and a cup of tea. I’m under a fuzzy blanket, and I’ve given up on the ideal of productivity for today.  I’m reading a book that’s stretching my brain and reminding me of the beauty of words and the transformative power of a phrase previously unheard. I’m texting Bea upstairs because she’s being reclusive and I’m not above bribing her with takeout.  I’m enjoying the sound of my husband playing Tom Petty on the guitar while the kids and their friends shout a combination of accusations and friendly insults that punctuate an intense game of preteen hide and seek. While I listen to their shouting, wondering if I need to intervene, I can’t help but think about the dynamics of this timeless game and how much learning happens in the context of these unscripted social interactions.

I love that my boys have friends to play with.  I love when they choose to be active instead of sitting and staring at screens.  I love hearing them laugh.  But the game always turns sour.  Someone gives up.  Someone is cheating.  Someone steals someone else’s hiding spot… and they need to solve it.  They need to work it out.  And the deepest value doesn’t come from the running and the laughing or even the exercise.  The deepest value is in the struggle.  It’s in navigating how to disagree and still remain friends.  It’s in learning how to stand up for yourself without trampling someone else.  It’s in learning how to behave when you’re called out for having done wrong.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind, and I’ve been a car spinning my wheels; first stuck in the mud and then careening toward a tree because the rubber finally met something solid and unexpected. I haven’t been feeling very grace-filled lately.  I’m feeling stressed and tired and pulled in too many directions and overall a little edgy.  I’ve spent a lot of time procrastinating and cleaning up dog pee and making slapped together sandwiches and overanalyzing mundane events.  I haven’t written anything publishable in a while, mostly because my writing has been too personal and raw and incoherent to share with the world.  I haven’t yet had a chance to sort it all out in my head, but I am compelled to write anyway, so here I am.

Maybe it’s the dreary nature of an April that feels like January; maybe it’s the pressure of a job that sometimes feels thankless; maybe it’s simply the repetitive nature of mothering, day after day after day… the endless refrain of “be nice to your brother” and “where are your shoes” and “get the guinea pig off the kitchen counter.” Regardless of the cause, the result is a sort of mild depressive state, wherein I seek solace, not in comfort foods, but in comfort beverages; flavored coffee, chamomile tea, chardonnay.  These are what I look forward to when I leave my classroom with a bag full of papers to grade and the knowledge that my children will likely greet me with requests for homework help and the persistent, daily desire to be fed an evening meal.

I know how this works. I’ve been here before.  I even know how to get out of this rut. I need connection and exercise and play and laughter and a night away with my husband. There is seeking that needs to be done. When contentment and gratitude and peace are evasive, it’s part of a natural cycle.  They haven’t disappeared; they’re simply waiting to be found. So I search.  I try to eat well and laugh and stay motivated and accomplish things so as not to fall into a rut. But how do I cope when all of those things feel like effort, and I have nothing left to give?

Sometimes the pressure to be grateful and content feels like more of a task than I can manage. I feel the need to take action, to solve the problem, to just keep looking until I find peace.  But what if I’m going about it all wrong?  What if I’ve forgotten to take my turn hiding?  What if I need to settle in a warm, comfortable, quiet place?  What if I’m being called to be still?  How often do I forget that the hiding has to balance out the seeking?

This rut that I’m stuck in won’t last forever.  Eventually, I’ll gain momentum and my tires will find solid ground.  The contentment that seems so hard to find during the last portion of our endless winters will come out of hiding and settle at the kitchen table or in the backyard hammock. The sun will come out and the rhythm of the school year will become less of a drudging beat and more of a frenetic rush to the close.  The kids’ spring fever will be satisfied by longer days and higher temperatures and more time outdoors with friends.

As I sit here surrounded by this cacophony of noise, there’s a palpable relief in thinking that I don’t have to jump up and intervene with every shout.  There’s comfort in thinking that my inaction may be as important as my action.

Maybe my cozy blanket and my cup of tea and my good book are not so much an escape, but rather an integral part of the interaction.  Maybe I crave connection so much because I need to be able to hide with the firm knowledge that my people won’t let me stay in this dark, quiet place forever.

As we go through our phases of searching and waiting to be found, it’s comforting to know that we’re not alone.  I’m grateful to be surrounded by amazing people who help to remind me that is beauty in the struggle, that there are lessons to be learned from failure, and that there is a time for both the hiding and the seeking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Friendship

I’m at a point in my life where my friendships fall into categories. I have high school friends and college friends. I have book club friends and church friends. I have teacher friends and mom friends and almost-friends.

I recently had the chance to get together with some college friends. Three families, including ours, gathered in our small cape, set up some air mattresses, and reconnected. Sixteen people- six adults and our combined ten children- shared one bathroom and a dozen old memories and hundreds of laughs. We bravely conquered the commuter train and the New England Aquarium with our brood and a backpack full of juice boxes. It was chaotic and crazy and absolutely fantastic. We played board games and watched movies and made meals together. We reminisced and we disagreed and we herded children, and having this crew in my house made my home feel more home-y.

The aftermath of this visit had me thinking a lot about friendships. Who ARE my closest friends? Why? How are my friendships impacted by time and distance and life’s circumstances? How can I still feel such connection to people I haven’t seen in years? Why can’t I be more connected with the teacher down the hall, who I see almost daily? Why do those friendships from my childhood (and I’m old enough to think of college as part of my childhood) hold so much more strength than the ones I formed as an adult?

As an adult, I think friendships are harder to find; primarily because we’re looking.

Finding adult friendships seems to me a little like internet dating; it’s too easy to dismiss someone for the wrong reasons. Poor grammar? No way. She homeschools her kids? Nope. She eats all organic? Forget it. You see what I’m saying? We all do it. We make ridiculous snap judgements about whom we should befriend based on stupid, superficial things. At least, I know I do.

But when I get together with these college friends, I am reminded of how little these things matter. We disagree about things. We have different parenting styles. We have different likes and dislikes. But the thing is, we’re friends first, so none of that means anything. What’s true is that we love each other in spite of our flaws and our differences; maybe even because of them.

I met these friends twenty years ago, and I’ve known them more than half my life. I cherish these friendships tremendously. So if one of us eats vegetarian, it’s not a deal breaker. If somebody makes an off-color joke, it’s not a crisis. If somebody screws up the bacon, the only one who rides her about it is her husband. The foundation is so much stronger than anything we set upon it.

The same is true for my book club. We meet once a month; these friendships are also lengthy and cherished.  I met these women my first year teaching. But if you had asked me 17 years ago (when I began my career), who I thought would be part of my life when I was pushing 40, I’m not sure these are the women I would have named. We taught together for fewer than 5 years, but we’ve remained in touch for more than a decade. We get together once a month, and while we do actually read the book (contrary to popular belief), these monthly gatherings are more importantly about showing up. We show up to celebrate and grieve and support each other. We show up to share and laugh and debate. And by showing up, month after month and year after year, we’ve built something beautiful and honest and strong. These women anchor me, and I am so grateful for them.

My newest group of friends is a group of women from my church. It’s been a long time since I’ve formed a group of friends so quickly, and it feels really good. We’re similar but also incredibly different. We push each other out of our comfort zones and then provide comfort during the tough times. When someone is mourning a loss, we pray and we cook and we offer condolences. When someone is questioning a choice or facing a challenge, we listen and we support and we show up with wine. When someone has a flat tire, we pitch in to pick up the kids and put on a spare. We don’t have a long history (yet), but we all seem to know what the foundation is. We don’t need to agree on all things. We don’t need to pretend to be something we’re not. We just need to keep showing up.

I haven’t stayed connected to all of the people I’ve ‘clicked with’ in my adulthood. I’ve stayed connected with the people who made it a priority to show up through the ups and the downs, the good and the bad. So as I look to build better adult friendships, I feel like I’ve figured out where to start. The good news is, I don’t have to try harder or be better or change who I am. All I have to do is show up.

 

 

 

 

 

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Politics

This post has been brewing for a while. It’s going to be a tough one to write, because I have a tendency to censor myself so as not to offend anyone.

But when you have difficult conversations, somebody’s bound to get offended… that doesn’t mean we should avoid difficult conversations. Just because there will be disagreements and discomfort doesn’t grant us permission to isolate ourselves in little enclaves of support and assume that the rest of the world is evil and malevolent.

I’ve read a few books that have helped me to hone my opinions on this subject… one was Difficult Conversations (Stone, Patton, and Heen), another was We; a Manifesto for Women Everywhere, by Anderson and Nadel, and the most recent was We Need to Talk, by Celeste Headlee.

Reading these books has helped me to shift my awareness of my own conversations, and there is nowhere that impacts me more than within my own marriage.

This political environment has shaken the foundation of my marriage. Does that sound extreme? Good. Because it feels extreme. For 13 years, my husband and I have driven to the polls together, stood in line, provided our shared address, entered our separate booths, and effectively cancelled out each other’s votes. Then we were able to walk out holding hands.

We consistently and respectfully argued and listened and sometimes shouted and often agreed to disagree. But when it came down to it, we agreed on the things that mattered most. We were always able to keep that in perspective.

I’m trying to figure out what changed that. Is it Trump? Is it Facebook? Is it click-bait and media sensationalism? Is it simply because the stakes feel so Goddamned high right now? Is it the environment that changed? Or is it us?

For a while, our fights got bad. Like ‘do we even have anything in common anymore?’ bad. Like ‘why did we even get married in the first place?’ bad.   It felt like I didn’t know this guy all of a sudden, and it was terrifying.

But here’s the thing. He’s the same guy. He’s the same guy I married. He’s the most loyal man I’ve ever met. He’s the guy who ripped down the anti-trans joke posted in the bathroom at work and when his boss asked him about it, he’s the guy who staunchly defended our son to the man who signs his paycheck. He’s the guy who didn’t hesitate when I asked if we could take in a child he barely knew and love her like one of our own. He’s the guy who gives up his Saturday to create a guinea pig habitat in the basement with his kids. He’s the guy who lets a 120 lb dog climb up into his lap because he can’t resist her charms. He’s the guy who is not afraid to rip apart the bathroom because he knows he’ll figure out how to put it back together. He’s the man who freezes his butt off in a hockey rink cheering on his kid, and the one who freezes his butt off in the driveway, fixing that same kid’s truck. He’s the man who makes a mean chicken marsala and serves it up just because he knows it’s my favorite. He’s the man who does the laundry and patiently pairs all the socks because he knows it’s the job I hate the most. He’s the man who holds my hand in church as we pray for the healing of someone we love.

And all of this political angst in our world didn’t change who he is.

There’s all kinds of research about human behavior and communication that fascinates me. There are studies that prove we’re MORE likely to dig in our heels about our beliefs when we learn information that contradicts our original thoughts. We seek out information that confirms what we already believe, while we profess to be educated and open-minded. Overall, as a species, we’re terrible at listening because our brains are always planning what we’re going to say next. Our brains are also hardwired to make snap judgements about our environment, including the people in it. We quickly put people into categories, whether we know it or not. A few key words in a conversation or a post will automatically relegate someone into the category of ‘other’ without our conscious awareness.

Think about the impact of that. It’s insane.

If I only knew my husband peripherally; if I only saw his Facebook posts, for example, I would assume that this guy is an asshole. He’s going to read this… and I’m not writing something he doesn’t know. I worry about how he looks to my friends who don’t know him well. I don’t agree with a lot of what he shares or writes, and I probably have online ‘friends’ who wonder why we’re even together.

But the friends who know us in real life? They see it. They see how we make each other better. They see how we influence each other’s perspective. They see how we learn from each other and force each other to grow instead of shrinking into what we think we already know.

Guys, I’m going to start saying some uncomfortable things, but please stick with me here. My husband often starts his rants with a phrase like, “Freaking liberals…” and I lose my ever-loving mind. Every time I hear him say that, I know something awful is coming and that he has automatically lumped together a whole group of people as being idiots and that I IDENTIFY MYSELF as part of this group. And I get pissed.

It’s a terrible way to start a conversation. I’m already defensive, he’s already irritated, and there’s no way anybody is listening to anybody else because we’ve already moved to our corners and gotten ready to battle.

But you know what, guys? He’s pointed out the other side of this. He’s shown me a million examples of ‘us liberals’ making broad, sweeping generalizations about him, too.

I know I’m entering into difficult territory here, and I know we all need to check our privilege. I know we all have inherent biases and we all have something to learn. But if I really pay attention, I am able to see all of the ways that conversation in our liberal, left-leaning state makes assumptions about my working class, white, male, conservative husband and his beliefs. And none of those assumptions is favorable.

We could argue about the fact that people of color have dealt with this same sort of bias for centuries. We could point out the fact that he’s got a lot of advantages. We could argue that he’s only experiencing what women and minorities have experienced forever.

But isn’t the goal to move to a place where we are all able to listen and respect each others’ views? Aren’t we trying to make a move toward inclusivity? I know this particular white man, and in the same breath, I am learning more and more about the impact of white privilege and toxic masculinity and institutional racism and sexism. But the way to reach him and share what I know and what I’m learning is to start from a place of mutual respect.

Remember, our human tendency is to dig in our heels, especially when confronted with information that contradicts what we think we already know. So if you want to share your viewpoint with an (uneducated) working-class, (unfeeling) conservative, (toxically) masculine, (racist) white, (oppressive) man, you have to take away the words in parenthesis. You have to check your liberal bias, too.

One of the things I find myself saying most in the heat of an argument is, “You’re not LISTENING.” This is the thing that frustrates me the most. When I feel I’m not being heard, I feel that I’m not being respected. But in the heat of an argument, I’m not listening either. I’m too busy strategizing and trying to recall facts and trying to prove how right I am.

How do we move away from that? In our relationships, in our churches, in our communities, and in our country? I can’t profess to know the answer, but I do know what helps us.

First, be clear about what you support. Don’t hone in on what you’re against. When my husband and I find ourselves arguing about some policy or article or statement, it’s too easy to be anti-whatever the other person is saying. Find what you passionately believe we need, and fight for THAT.

Second, LISTEN. Don’t formulate your argument or tally up all the reasons why the other person is wrong. Actually try to understand their point of view. Assume that people have legitimate reasons for their beliefs, whether you agree with them or not.

Third, ASK QUESTIONS. Stop pretending you know things you don’t. You don’t know another person’s experience. You don’t know what they’ve lived or read or been taught. If you sincerely want to connect with people, you have to accept that they know things that you don’t. And everybody knows something you don’t.

The fourth point is intimately connected to the third, and it’s become a bit of a mantra in my house. Just because you haven’t experienced something, doesn’t mean it’s not real. I’m going to write that twice. Just because you haven’t experienced something, doesn’t mean it’s not real.

My husband has never experienced crippling anxiety. He doesn’t understand why I can’t just let things go. He wants me to stop worrying. He wants me to feel better and he can’t wrap his mind around the fact that it’s not that easy for me. But he believes me. He has to accept that, while this feeling is something he’s never experienced, it exists in a very real way for me.

The same is true for me with his ADD. I don’t understand how he can get sucked into a word game for hours but can’t finish sorting the laundry without being distracted. I don’t understand why it’s hard to stay present in a conversation while the TV news plays in the background. I want him to just be able to focus and I don’t understand how it could possibly be that hard. But I believe him. I accept that his ADD is real for him, even though I don’t understand it.

We both had to come to terms with this when our son confided that he is a transgender boy. We didn’t understand it. We couldn’t imagine the feelings our child was experiencing, and it was hard for us to wrap our minds around his unique experience. But just because we hadn’t experienced it, didn’t mean it wasn’t real.

When the going gets tough, that’s what we fall back on. We’re a pretty strong crew. We’re going to fight for what we believe in. And sometimes we’re going to disagree. But I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever read a vitriolic Facebook comment that made them think, “Oh, my. It looks like I was wrong after all.” Ultimately, you’re only going to change hearts and minds by living a life that honors your own truth, and by trying to truly understand the people who touch your life.

So we keep listening and asking questions and making mistakes and disagreeing. And I pray that we never stop learning from each other.

 

 

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Home Again

Driving West on I-84 in New York state, somewhere near mile marker 52, I catch my first glimpse of the mountains, and my heart tells me that I’m home. When I pass the ‘text stop’ on this section of road, I mourn the old terminology. There’s something about a ‘scenic overlook’ that acknowledges that the view in front of you is, indeed, spectacular. Worth putting down your phone, at the very least.

If you’re a local, you know that Shawangunk is pronounced ‘Shon-gum,’ but the correct pronunciation is irrelevant when referring to the mountains, which are affectionately called ‘the Gunks.’ I grew up in a place where names overlap, and it behooves one to know the difference between a town, a village, and a hamlet. I once tried to explain to my husband that the Town of Wallkill and the Hamlet of Wallkill are not, in fact, the same thing. When I tried to point out that the Hamlet of Wallkill is actually in the Town of Shawangunk, I’m quite sure he stopped listening.

I moved away from my hometown in 1997, and I’ve reached a point where that was more than half a lifetime ago. I’ve become accustomed to the quirks and foibles of a new place. I can easily navigate a rotary or direct a student to the nearest bubbler. I know how to pronounce Worcester and bang a uey and, much to my dad’s chagrin, I am a passionate Patriots fan.

I don’t go home very often. The reasons are myriad and valid but still a bit lacking. Truth be told, going home is so, so very complicated. Every time I attempt it, I encounter a barrage of unexpected emotions. And every time I leave, I am exhausted from the effort it takes to feel so many feelings.

My anxiety has helped me to pay attention to the cues I get from my body. I know what anxiety feels like. Anxiety is in my gut and my shoulder blade and at the base of my skull. When I go home, the feeling is different. It’s in my chest. And it’s not a tightening; it’s an expansion. My breaths are deep and my lungs fill completely and it’s like my body is trying to make room for all of the emotions that come flooding into my heart. Time slows down. In the moment, I can’t separate the feelings. They tangle into a knot, expanding and contracting as the positive emotions tug against the negative ones and my slow, struggling brain tries to keep up with the barrage.

The physical environment itself evokes emotion. There is the unsettling knowledge that I’m driving down a road that I could navigate with my eyes closed, and yet, off to the left, there’s an entire neighborhood that sprouted in my absence. I imagine the irritation of the driver behind me as I speed up around the familiar curves, only to slow to quickly at an unfamiliar traffic light that’s likely been there for a decade or more. The homes and the stores and the views have changed, but the earth and the hills and the roads still feel like a part of me. Maybe it’s a primal sort of response, but those mountains make me feel protected.

Tangled up with noticing the space around me, I’m also flooded with memories that bring their own emotions along. There’s a pang of regret when I realize that I don’t know if my fourth grade best friend’s parents still live in that house. There’s palpable relief as I recall the time I wrapped my car around that telephone pole and lived to tell the tale. I recall childhood bike rides with fondness and grieve a bit that my kids probably won’t ever know what it feels like to pack a backpack and pedal for hours to meet up with a friend on the other side of ‘town.’ Every turn, every scent, every change in scenery prompts a long-forgotten recollection and I wonder if this happens to everyone.

I think about my friends who still live here. There’s no way they deal with this deluge of memory on a daily basis; they wouldn’t be able to function. Does constant exposure create a sort of numbness? Or perhaps the act itself, the leaving, has created a response in me that simply doesn’t exist for them. Regardless, I look at these strong, beautiful, resilient women. I see their families and their careers and their homes and I can’t reconcile their growth against this background that my brain has relegated to childhood in perpetuity.

As I drive through this place, I feel surprise, regret, peace, and guilt in rapid succession. I wonder, for a brief moment, if all of these feelings are rushing back with an adolescent intensity because I have never been an adult in this place.

My visit is all I hoped it would be. I reconnect with old friends and it is truly joyful. These women help me to remember who I once was and to find her deep within who I am.

If I peel back the layers, I find a shy first grader waiting for the bus. I find an awkward seventh grader with her nose in a book. I see a clueless teenager who thinks she knows it all. I uncover a tentative twenty something writing lesson plans for her first classroom. I see a beautiful bride, optimistic about the future. A new mother, overwhelmed and exhausted. A tearful woman, making hard choices for her family.

This visit to my hometown was good for my soul. But as I drive back East on that same stretch of I-84, it occurs to me that ‘home’ means something different now.

Home is a small white cape with a stream running by. Home is a bunch of kids and too many pets and the comfort of my husband’s arm around my shoulder. It’s a community of family and friends and neighbors. It’s backyard barbecues and baskets of laundry to fold and boating on the lake in the summertime. Home is bathroom renovations and sick tummies and cuddling in front of the fireplace on a snow day in January.

This new home is the culmination of the experience of all of my iterations. And it is beautiful and messy and complicated and perfectly, purely, joyfully mine.

 

 

 

 

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Organized

I have no fewer than seven ‘junk drawers’ in my house. That’s not counting the 4 cabinets and six baskets where I shove things when I’m frantically trying to make my house presentable. I can’t be the only one. I USED to be a neat freak; it was the defining characteristic of my childhood. I say this as if it might redeem me in some way. Maybe you’ll judge a little less harshly if you know that I was once an expert at organizing.  But things have changed.

I can never find a freaking pair of scissors. They belong in a cup of writing utensils in the game room of my house. But I’ll be damned if I can ever locate them when they’re needed. They’re in my kids’ room. They’re in the dining room. They’re with the wrapping paper. They’re in any one of my seven junk drawers. So, this Christmas, I bought three pairs of scissors at the dollar store. I was NOT going to be searching my house for scissors on top of everything else.

When you go out and buy something you KNOW you already have in your home, just so you don’t have to look for it, that’s a sign that there might be a problem. This chaos in my home is a source of embarrassment. I might even call it shame, which seems likely to be an overstatement, but it’s not.  The feeling is intense.

Rationally, I know that a drawer full of crap doesn’t make me any less valuable as a human, but people judge.  People judge appearances; the appearance of my home is (unfairly) a reflection upon me (not my husband- don’t get me started on that).

Then it makes sense that I want it to LOOK organized, even if ‘organized’ isn’t something I’m capable of at the moment. So I shove things in drawers.

I can’t even blame the kids for this. It’s their junk, yes. But I’m the one who shoves it into drawers and baskets and cabinets. I’m the one who takes all of these innocuous items and crams them into unseeable spaces to be forgotten.

The point of this story is that I finally went through all of these catch-all spaces in my house. Yesterday, I emptied the three baskets of random crap in my bedroom. I picked through all of the tchotchkes in the coffee table drawers. I cleaned out the junk drawer(s). I cleaned out the desk. I rearranged furniture and cleared out a bookshelf. The evidence of my hard work can mostly be found in three huge trash bags in the garage.

Today, my son was able to locate an envelope, stamp, and scissors without blinking and said, “I like this new ‘organized’ thing you’re doing mom.” For now, it feels pretty good. But I’ve been at this long enough to know that it won’t last forever. So when the drawers get full and the scissors are missing AGAIN, I will remind myself that the cleanliness of my house is not a measure of my worth.

But for now, I’m going to enjoy the fact that all 13 pairs of scissors reside in one drawer.

 

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Writing

I can’t write. I’ve been trying for weeks. I’ve started approximately eleven different blog posts, and they all fizzle in the second paragraph and I can’t quite remember where they were supposed to go. My emotions ping-pong from my heart to my head and then ricochet to the base of my neck before they settle into my gut. And the feelings move so fast that I can’t identify them. What’s that twitch in my left eye? Fear? I can breathe in peace and beauty for a second before a pause converts it to worry. I laugh joyously for a moment. Then two. Then ten. I am on a roller coaster of my own making. I seek peace and then I am bored. I crave activity but battle exhaustion.

Some of this is the holiday season. Some of it is my natural state. Some of it is my body’s response to my missing routine. Summer vacation feels this way, too. The ying-yang balance between accomplishment and relaxation has eluded me for my whole life. I want to be able to relax and enjoy things and I crave a feeling of achievement and productivity.

I resentfully clean the house while my husband relaxes on the couch, chiding, “Will you just SIT DOWN for a minute?”   He’s right. I hate it when he’s right.

So what next? I don’t really know. I don’t have a happy ending or a neat little bow to wrap this one up. I have this niggling sense that I need to do something differently, but I’m not quite sure what that is.

So here’s what I’ve done. Tell me what you think.

#1. I’ve hired someone to clean my house twice a month. This is supremely uncomfortable for me, but I have many friends who claim this small action has saved their sanity.

#2. I’ve visited the library. I can’t always write, but I can ALWAYS read. I’ve checked out 8 books in the past two weeks, and I’ve only got 3 to go. Reading centers me in a way that nothing else really does.

#3. I accepted the invitations for Christmas brunch and dinner with friends. I hesitated at first, but 20/20 hindsight tells me it was an excellent decision.

#4. I went sledding with the kids, even though it was 8 degrees outside and I really didn’t want to. Turns out, we had a blast.

#5. I am currently binge-watching “Stranger Things” with my eleven year old. This is totally NOT my genre, but there’s some serious bonding happening over conversation about a fantasy realm that nobody else in the family understands.

And here’s what I think I still need to do:

#1. Buy a lottery ticket. Because, hey, you never know.

#2. Get a therapist. Seriously; I’d love your recommendations.

#3. Meditate more.

#4. Laugh. Play stupid games. Cuddle these kids.

#5. Give it to God.

You know what’s crazy? I ALREADY KNOW how this works. I know that stressing about money doesn’t fix money problems. And inexplicably, faith and a perception of abundance have always been more effective at helping to relieve that burden. The same goes for my relationships. When I try to impact how others perceive me, I become less appealing. Believing in my own worth fills me with a spark of joy and purpose that is so much more attractive. When I worry about being productive, I become frozen with anxiety, but when I have faith in my own purpose, I can accomplish so much!

The title of this blog came from the quote, “Inhale grace. Exhale your gift.” For me, this is always the solution, even when I lose sight of it. Sometimes it feels overly simplistic; maybe it even sounds trite. But when I breathe in purpose and strength and grace, I can use that to find and feel and focus on my gift. I can remember how to be exclusively and beautifully ME, and how to share that gift with the world.

I sat down to write today, not sure it would go anywhere. I stopped worrying about being funny or insightful or sharing a story. I sat down to write because I needed to express something. The proof is in the pudding, I guess. Inhale grace. Exhale your gift. Thanks for reading.

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A Writer’s Voice

The writer in me

She cajoles and she whines

Let me out. Set me free.

Right now! It’s my time.

 

And the mom (in me, too)

She soothes and she shushes.

Relax. Settle down.

What’s with all this fussing?

 

Small tasks occupy

Every moment of time.

And I cling to hold on

To the thoughts in my mind.

 

The teacher in me?

She says, “Wait your turn.”

Take a breath. We’ll get there.

There is much more to learn.

 

The wife in me whispers,

“Just wait ‘till he sleeps.”

Jot down a note and…. the thought?

It will keep.

 

But ideas float away

Like smoke on the wind.

Swallowed by moonlight;

Will I find them again?

 

 

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Admiration

My father never passes a stranded motorist on the road. He stops to help. EVERY. TIME. The man has a heart of gold, and automotive skills to match.

I have a friend who consistently mails out her Christmas cards on the day after Thanksgiving. They contain beautiful, professional photos of her kids, and are mailed using festive holiday stamps. I am baffled and inspired by this.

One close friend is a single mom to two kids, one with Autism. She is gentle, full of love, and also a fierce advocate. She is one of the strongest people I know.

I have a sibling who manages to coordinate a ‘family gift’ from eight siblings to our parents every year. Her organization is admirable and her patience is endless.

A friend from church consistently makes meals with ingredients I can’t name. She tries not to use the same recipe twice, and her entire approach to food leaves me awestruck. She is equally savvy about wine, and I am so grateful to be able to learn from her. And drink with her.

Several close family members live life with depression and anxiety. I’ve watched them develop strength and grace and self-awareness that astounds me.

My mother in-law has an incomparable sense of style. With random yard sale knick knacks and a little spray paint, she can turn any room into a showpiece. Her home is magazine worthy and once all of these small-ish people move out of my home, I hope she’ll teach me all she knows.

My husband has a voice that literally brings people to tears. Last week, he sang the communion hymn at church, and even our pastor got weepy.

I had an aunt who never forgot a birthday. Like, ever. And she sent a card, snail mail, every single year. I still have them in a box, and I can hear her voice from heaven when I re-read them.

I have several sisters who don’t take any crap from anybody. They learned this from my mom. They are all strong, independent women, and they stand their ground even when it gets uncomfortable. I call them when I need a pep talk. Or someone to call the cable company for me.

Other friends make beautiful handmade gifts. Some consistently and gently have difficult conversations with their kids.   Some home-school. Some run marathons. Some play instruments. Some volunteer with the homeless.

This list could go on for days. I look at the people I love and I see so many gifts. I could tell you something admirable about everyone I know.

But admiration has its down side. Noticing what’s amazing about others sometimes compels me to judge myself. I take the gifts and achievements of my loved ones and hold them up as a standard to be met. I look at what I lack and I analyze myself in comparison to all of these incredible, talented, gifted people. And I forget that each of them, too, is innately flawed and fallible. The thing is… every single one of these people doubts themselves. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

As we move into this holiday season, as we each attempt to do our best to move through Advent with an open heart and a joyful waiting and a sense of perspective, let’s be gentle with ourselves and celebrate the gifts of those around us.

When you get that beautiful card from your friend, just enjoy it. Let her know how much you admire her. And mail your card cobbled together with individual shots because the kids won’t all look at the camera at the same time. Or send New Year’s cards. Or skip it all together. The world won’t end.

When Facebook shows you another creative “Elf on the Shelf” shenanigan (and your elf hasn’t moved in three days), congratulate your friend. Laugh at the silliness.  And keep the ‘elf crutches’ on hand for the next time you forget about the little guy.

When you forget to send the holiday napkins to school or wind up stopping for another last-minute gift card at a gas station, take a moment to remember what YOU do well. Somebody out there admires YOU. Pause for a moment to remember why.

And if you’re searching for a special holiday gift this year, find a way to let YOUR people know what you admire about them. It’s perhaps the most meaningful gift of all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hostess

I’m totally in my element when I’m hosting a party. Whether it’s cocktails and crudité, football and chili, or pizza and piñatas, I get geared up to be the hostess.

When I was in college, my friends would come to visit me in my little rented cottage on the lake. I’d host dinner parties with lasagna and chicken parmesan and red wine, which was a huge step up from the ramen and cheap vodka we were so used to, and my friends exclaimed, “Girl, you’re so… domestic!” I still get together with those girls and our gaggle of kids and I’m reminded of how far we’ve come.

After college, I rented an apartment on my own, just outside of Boston. It was a beautiful apartment, but I was living on my own in a new city and I didn’t know a soul. I was five weeks into my first year of teaching (and my first year of adulting), and I didn’t really have any friends yet. It was time for parent-teacher conferences, and my new apartment was less than a mile from the school where I worked. So I decided to host a dinner party for my colleagues, between 3:00 when school got out, and 5:00 when conferences started. I set up a buffet table, complete with foil pans and sterno burners. Over ziti and meatballs, I made lifelong friends.

At that same apartment, I began the short-lived tradition of the “End of the Year Luau.” The luau was definitely NOT a dinner party. It was a full-on boozy bash replete with cheap inflatable decorations and plastic ‘coconut’ bras from the Oriental Trading Company. There were cheesy party games that nobody wanted to do but everybody enjoyed; in the morning there were people passed out on every soft surface and my potato chip bowl was halfway down the block in the middle of the street. The second year I hosted this, my landlord stopped by. I was terrified. He laughed at the look of panic on my face and asked for a margarita. The third year, I was pregnant, and my friends repurposed all of my cheap decorations. The Luau took the form of a baby shower. Times they were a-changin’.

There have been so many parties since; first birthdays, housewarming parties, New Year’s bashes, Superbowl parties. Some guests appear in each and every memory; old friends who have moved with me from tequila shots to chicken nuggets. Some of the faces were cherished for a season; friends who were close for a time and then lost touch. Some have been tragically lost, through accidents or illness. Some of the faces have evolved from children to adults; the time passes so quickly.

But these memories help me to hold each of these people in my heart. I can hear their laughter and remember their stories and revel in the fact that we experienced joy together.

That’s what hosting a party is for me. Sure, there’s the frantic cleaning and cooking. There might be some shouting at the kids to clean up the dog doo in the yard and get their laundry out of the bathroom. I’m lucky to be married to a rockstar host who busts his butt to make sure that the house looks great and there’s plenty of food and our guests feel at home.

But there comes a point when people arrive and there’s no time left to clean or cook. Friends offer a hand and the drinks get poured and the food gets served and the party begins. The laughter reverberates. The kids begin to run and shout and spill and crash and the adults dish up pasta and referee arguments and sip on wine and tell stories. And those moments are reserved for enjoyment. There are no bills to be paid or calls to be made or papers to be graded. There will be no vacuuming or folding or dusting. There is a simple objective in that moment- to enjoy each other. We appreciate the talents and quirks and passing stages of our friends and family. We remember that we are loved and we have people to love.

In my mind, that’s the purpose of a party. It reminds us to stop taking ourselves so seriously and to be grateful for our abundant gifts. It reminds us to pause and be joyful.

 

 

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Grateful

My heart is bursting today. It’s full of gratitude and love but also an achiness. As always, there’s a niggling feeling. It rests in the base of my right shoulder blade and emanates from my gut. I know this feeling all too well. It’s fear. Anxiety. Worry. It’s my lizard brain, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even as I try to relax into the contentment of this day, it doesn’t go away.

I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday, by far. There’s the obvious; the family, the food, the pie…  But I also love this day for its focus; a whole day centered around gratitude. And gratitude is the only thing that ever makes the worry go away. A warm shower, a long walk, a good book, a cup of tea, a glass of wine, even the Ativan; those things help me to soothe myself, but they don’t get at the source of the fear.

The most repeated phrase in the bible is, “Be not afraid.” The good book addresses our human tendency toward fear and worry over and over and over again. I know that I’m not alone in my anxiety… all of humankind knows the feeling. Love and fear wage battle in our hearts and minds, in our relationships, in our politics. No one is immune.

But maybe not all of us know the same degree of worry and fear. I can only assume some of us are naturally more anxious than others, in the same way that some of us are naturally taller or more eloquent or artistic or handy. And as I’ve gotten older, something amazing has happened. I’ve actually become grateful for the anxiety. It is one of my many God-given gifts. The anxiety is part of my core, and when it’s not consuming me, it fuels me. This fear has taught me gratitude. It has taught me patience and compassion. It has taught me the skill of self-care and frequently reminds me of its importance. It has opened my eyes to the vast range of human experience and has helped me to adjust my perception of others’ pain.

So this year, instead of fighting the anxiety, I’m embracing it. I’m surrounding it with gratitude and love. I’m bringing it to our celebration, along with my husband’s amazing voice, my son’s sense of humor, my other son’s gentle heart… I’m offering it to be shared with those who love me. On this Thanksgiving day, I am grateful to have loved ones with whom to share my blessings and my burdens. I am thankful to be able to bring my whole self to the table, and I wish the same for all of you.