Bring on the Rain

Is there anything as soothing as the sound of rain outside your open bedroom window as you fall asleep?

Call me crazy, but I love the rain. Today, a friend and co-worker was griping about the terrible weather. Typically, I agree wholeheartedly with this amazing woman’s perceptions and insights. But this ‘rotten weather’ comment had me sheepishly admitting, “I kinda like it.”

Hear me out.

Crappy weather is forgiving in a way that sunshiny days just aren’t. Sunshine screams, “Come out and play. Bring the kids to the park and the beach. Walk the dog. ENJOY EVERYTHING!” Rain gently whispers, “Sit down for a while. Relax. Don’t be in such a hurry.”

Rain makes it permissible to sit in your car, long after you’ve parked and turned off the engine. You’re just waiting for the rain to let up, after all.

Rain allows you to throw your hair in a ponytail. Because it’s just going to get ruined anyway.

Rainy days turn comfort foods from an indulgence to an expectation.

Rainy days are the perfect excuse for a good book or a cup of tea or a long nap. Throw in a good thunderstorm, and I’m in heaven. There’s nothing better.

Until our first snow day, of course.

 

 

 

Awkward conversations

I don’t have an excellent filter. It’s not unusual for me to find myself in a group of people, realizing that I just made everyone slightly uncomfortable by disclosing something inappropriate. It’s my blessing and my curse. Sometimes I wind up embarrassing myself. Sometimes I end up alienating people. But other times, I end up initiating awkward, powerful, difficult conversations.

Let me back up. I’m aware that it’s generally considered impolite or in poor taste to talk about money. So I usually only bring it up if:

  1. I desperately need a small loan and I finally muster up the courage to ask one of my parents.
  2. I’m making a self-deprecating joke about my inability to manage or hold on to money.
  3. I’m subconsciously panicking about some financial issue and I subsequently have too many glasses of wine.

And it’s that last circumstance that’s led me to an interesting revelation. Every time I’ve brought up money concerns that were probably too personal or too honest or too revealing, somebody in the room approached me afterward to commiserate or share or confess. Someone else was compelled to share something about their financial circumstances that they surely would not have admitted, had I not had that third glass of chardonnay and over-shared to begin with.   What I’ve learned through these interactions is that EVERYONE I KNOW is worried about money.

Some of us are worried about our retirement accounts. Some of us are worried about how to buy a new car when the engine finally goes. Some of us don’t know how we’re going to pay for our kids’ college. Some of us are scraping together quarters for a gallon of milk, or selling jewelery to buy diapers. There are certainly different circumstances… but we’re all worried.

And for some reason, we’re not allowed to talk about it. Why do we do this to ourselves? Ladies, we share recipes and birth stories and work stresses and arguments with our spouses. We talk about our medications and our babies’ bowel movements and that time we tucked our skirt into our nylons at the airport. But money? We can’t talk about this? WHY NOT?!?!?

Well, I have a theory about that. We don’t talk about money because we have so much of our identity wrapped up in it. Are you a “Money doesn’t grow on trees” kind of person? Or a “Save it for a rainy day” kind of person? Were you taught that success was based on finances? Did you grown up without a penny to spare? Are you determined to have more than your parents? Are you determined not to spoil your kids? Do you believe “You can’t take it with you” or do you want to “Leave something for the kids?”

You see… the thing is, it doesn’t even matter; because ALL of those people worry about money. I’ve talked with friends who I consider to be ‘well-off’ who were afraid of losing their homes. I’ve spoken to empty nesters who thought they were prepared for retirement, only to find out that it wasn’t enough. I’ve listened to women who counted on vouchers to feed their families and women who were trying to deliberately expose their children to hardships because they wanted them to understand that their wealth wasn’t something to take for granted. We all worry about this. So why are we so afraid to talk about it?

I guess I can only speak for myself. Personally, I’m afraid to express my financial worries for lots of reasons. Here are three of them:

  1. I’m afraid to be judged. I’m afraid if I admit that I have money concerns, I’m opening myself up to have my priorities questioned. Half the time, I’m questioning my own priorities. I don’t need anyone else to be doing it for me.
  2. I WANT to be grateful for all I have. I want to acknowledge my blessings and remember that I have so much to be thankful for… so it feels somehow ungrateful to worry about something as inconsequential as the car payment.
  3. I don’t want people to think I’m asking for money. What if I complain about the phone bill and my friend offers to pay it? I don’t want to be a charity case. I don’t want to ruin the friendship. I don’t want to owe anyone anything.

Okay, so maybe they’re valid concerns. But certainly, I can find two or three friends who I can trust …

  1. … to not question my judgement. These friends should believe I am a competent adult, capable of making my own decisions (and sometimes mistakes).
  2. … to listen to my concerns without questioning my faith or my gratitude or assuming that this worry is somehow a character flaw.
  3. … to ask thoughtful questions and be supportive in whatever way they can. These friends would never use money as a weapon or a tool for manipulation.

I don’t need to over-share at every dinner party. But I can lighten the load by finding a confidant and simply talking about it. After all, “A burden shared is a burden halved,” right? (Written by T. A. Webb, for those of you who are sticklers about citations).

I guarantee, if you try this, people will confide in you. You’ll find yourself in strange new relationships where it’s not taboo to talk about finances. You might find you have the chance to help someone out. You might find yourself wondering if you should accept help. But you will not be alone. I promise.

 

 

 

A Poem

My voice.

Where has she been?

Shy and subdued for oh, so long…

appearing in journals and paragraph posts

and snippets of conversations.

But she pesters and whispers and

Has finally

Become

Insistent.

 

The first poem I ever memorized was written by Shel Silverstein. It hangs in my classroom, still, for it has never lost its grip on me.

 

“There is a voice inside of you

That whispers all day long.

I feel that this is right for me

I know that this is wrong.

 

No teacher, preacher, parent, friend,

Or wise man can decide

What’s right for you

Just listen to

The voice that speaks inside.”

 

And even so, I sometimes find myself struggling to hear my own voice. I struggle to quiet the noise, both literally and figuratively. When I do; when I finally hear her, she sings. She laughs and she whispers and she moans and she speaks to me in a melody that reminds me of all that I am meant to be.

 

She calls me to write. Blessed be.

A Little Background

If you’re reading this blog, it’s likely you know me and you know my family (at least peripherally).  If you’ve come here by chance, I’d like to get you caught up.  I’m a mom and a wife and a middle school special education teacher.  I am married to a (mostly) wonderful man who thinks I am (mostly) wonderful.  I have two stepsons, a foster daughter, and two biological children.  They bring me joy and headaches.  On the best days, at least one of them brings me coffee.  In order to help you understand the family, I’d like to share something I recently posted on Facebook.

“This parenting thing swirls around in my head all the time… and I worry. God, do I worry. But often, I worry about this selfish thing. I worry about how my children reflect on ME. Which is nonsense. It’s not their job to make me look good. It’s their responsibility to learn and be a little bit better everyday. Better versions of THEMSELVES… not who others (myself included) wish they would be.

I worry that Cal is that kid who is so busy jumping out of his skin that he can’t follow the coach’s directions. I must’ve heard his name shouted 30 times during this morning’s game. But when he’s on the football field, he’s the kid who congratulates his teammates after every play. He’s the one to give a high five and say ‘good job’ and encourage everyone. This kid is kind, and friendly, and a good sport. He makes me so proud.

I worry that Lee is the opposite of studious. He rushes through everything and avoids work at all costs. I had to meet with his teachers last week to figure out how to get him to do homework. But this weekend, he’s spent two hours writing and editing a speech about being transgender… which he will deliver to 150 professionals later this week. This kid is brave and intuitive and spunky. I am so proud.

I worry that Bea is such an introvert. She resists joining things and is hesitant to take risks. She has been through so much. But this weekend, she got up in front of the entire church and sang with the band. Her voice was almost as beautiful as her smile. She is full of courage and strength, and she is incredibly talented. I am so proud.

When I try to make them into who the world thinks they should be; obedient, quiet, studious, sunny…. We all wind up feeling frustrated and disappointed. When I can manage to celebrate who they are and guide them to be a little better every day, that’s when I see the beauty of parenting.”

 

The First Post

 

I am sitting at my kitchen table, next to a large stack of bills and school notices, sipping on cheap chardonnay. As I stress over my first blog post, my kids argue in the living room, and my husband hums a Beatles tune and asks me about my day. I want to be gracious and be present with him, but this whole publishing thing is stressful, and I force a little smile while he tells me how he ate his pudding using the foil lid because I forgot to pack him a spoon in his lunch.

 

There is very little quiet in this life of mine. I’ve been holding out on this whole ‘writing thing’ until I could carve out a little solitude. I draft long Facebook posts and dream about my someday-book while I go about the business of parenting and teaching and loving and building a life.

 

But in a moment of clarity, I realize that the true beauty is being where you are. This is a lesson I’m slowly learning as a novice trying to meditate. If I had to wait for a moment of silence or total solitude, I would never be able to practice meditation. Instead, I’ve learned to take deep breaths amidst the chaos, to be mindful of the kisses and cuddles and homework help that connect me to this beautiful family of mine. I am learning to find the beauty in the mundane, and I wish I could cite the writer of my most recent mantra: “Inhale grace, Exhale your gift.”

 

So often, meditation practices encourage one to inhale beauty and peace, and exhale negativity and fear. This model doesn’t work for me. I need to sit with my fear and negativity. I need to get curious about it and study it and learn from it. I don’t want to send that out into the world. If I’m too quick to dismiss it, it can’t teach me what I need to learn.

 

When I breathe in grace, I accept the gifts that I have been given. I embrace that which makes me entirely unique. Grace is the blessing that allows me to be an advocate, a writer, a teacher, and a parent. Patience, kindness, and thoughtful reflection are all forms of grace that have been gifted to me. When I’m doing my best work, I can share those gifts with others.   And when I can’t? When all I have is frustration and dirty laundry? Well, I can share with you a little honesty and humor. And who says there isn’t a bit of grace in that, too?