Wild Specific Tangent

Ash Wednesday

2012-02-22T11:30:00.000-08:00

The first day of Lent and I am home with a sick child. Pondering how to re-work the schedule of the next two days as he recovers from the fever of early morning, and pondering the meaning of Ash Wednesday. As a child, the ashy cross on my forehead was both a distinction and a sign of bad things to come. Smears of grey and black on your forehead just don't foretell a fairy tale ending.

Lent also meant giving up meat on Fridays and giving up desserts (except for Sunday nights, which are not officially part of Lent, not being counted in the 40 days before Easter). Going dessert-free was no fun, and I never saw how the lack of ice cream and cookies helped me in my pursuit of spiritual growth. Then again, I did not really pursue spiritual growth as a child, so at least I got in the habit of going without sweets.

As an adult I have continued the practice of giving up things desired: chocolate, coffee, etc. When you fast, you're supposed to think of God or a spiritual focus whenever you crave the given-up item, but mostly when I wanted chocolate,I just thought of chocolate. In the last four or five years I have not given up anything for Lent; my diet is so restricted already it seemed beside the point. I added morning prayers and some meditation last year, but I am still doing those, so what now?

Fortunately, my spiritual director came to the rescue by challenging me to give up anxiety for Lent. He asked me to think about what it would mean to give up anxiety. On the surface, it sounds great! Sure, I'll give up sweaty palms and late night do-overs, no problem. But on further reflection, I realize that giving up anxiety means letting go of all illusions of control. Stuck in traffic? Can't control it. Sick child? Can't control it. Foot in mouth remark made on the playground? Done and over, can't get it back. So, definitely a greater challenge than it seems. I think the payoff might be worth it, so I'm giving it a go. Will keep you posted . . .

Drug-Induced Fog

2012-02-17T13:41:00.000-08:00

I had to go back on medication for celiac-related issues this week. As a result I have been tired and cranky, a bit sorry for myself and slightly resentful of demands made by children and others. Today I realized that I have only myself to blame; the children are all in school so if I really need the rest, I should take it! A novel concept. Anyway, I have been puzzling over the idea of our culturally-supported hypnotic trance and wrote a few thoughts about my personal fog . . .

Hypnosis

I am dedicated
to vodka - cranberry,
People Magazine
distraction.

Daydreams of vampire lovers
Spar with laundry basket,
grocery list
awareness.

Addiction to acquisition
of on-sale running gear,
latest bestseller,
barely checked.

And yet. . .

Rain-scent shudders through insensate haze.
Piano chords ripple into deafened daze.
Skin on skin embraces the moment now,
Kiss on warm globed cheek remembers how.

Be Awake

2012-02-10T05:09:00.000-08:00

"To become aware of God’s presence in our lives, we have to accept what is often difficult—that human culture is in a mass hypnotic trance. We’re sleep-walkers. All religious teachers have recognized that we human beings do not naturally see; we have to be taught how to see. That’s why the Buddha and Jesus say with one voice, “Be awake.” We have to learn to see what is already there."
- Father Richard Rohr, Adapted from Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer,pp. 29-31

I received this quote in my daily email from Father Rohr's Center for Action and Contemplation in the days after the Super Bowl. Watching that pageant on and off for several hours made me feel that we are truly a culture operating hypnotically. We move from morning news or ESPN sportstalk through our hectic days, shifting from computer to Blackberry to cellphone and ipod in our rush to check all the boxes off our list, check all the boxes off our children's list, and sit down at night (often) in front of video games or reality TV. We are asleep, blind to the miracles that exist in front of and all around us as we focus on the football teams, fashions and foibles of our day.

This troubles me a lot because the great spiritual masters also teach that we only have NOW - this moment - to fully live our lives. If we sleepwalk through each one of our NOWs then we will be left at the end of our lives with a stacked pile of completed to-do lists and no awareness of the deeper joys and tragedies, the miracles and the mysteries of our lives. One of my biggest challenges is to live in the now and to relinquish regret and longing for the past, relinquish plans, daydreams, concerns about the future. I know that I am called to do so and it is only lack of determination and discipline that keeps me from awareness.

"Discipline" comes from the same root as "disciple," and recalls Jesus' urging to his disciples in the Garden to stay awake. He tells them multiple times, but they fail him. He forgives, but sadly. Am I awake? Do I see the daily miracles of my children's growth, my husband's love and dedication to his family, nature's multiple gifts? Rohr helps me to set my alarm and realize it's time to wake up.

Dabar*

2012-02-01T10:42:00.001-08:00

A word, a deed
Born in the bones,
Borne by blood
Through narrow passages.
At times catching, slowing, to
Drip from the tongue,
Each a scythe or a suture.
Or, a torrent hemorrhages,
Spilled uncautiously from mouth portal,
Sourced in hidden conflict:
To dialogue or dominate.
What word began, word can end.

*Dabar is a Hebrew word meaning both "word" and "deed"

Squinky

2012-01-24T11:31:00.000-08:00

"Like other rodents, hamsters are highly motivated to run in wheels; it is not uncommon to record distances of 9 km (5.6 mi) being run in one night."
- Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamster_wheel

I really identify with my daughter's hamster. His name is Squinky, which I found odd until I happened to catch a re-run of Friends while folding clothes. In that episode, Lisa Kudrow tells a pouty Jennifer Aniston, "Don't get all squinky on me!" Aden must have picked up the name as a baby when I paced back and forth on endless evenings, watching Friends re-runs until the screaming (hers - not mine) stopped and sleep could begin. She must have absorbed the phrase and held it until the appropriate pet-naming day.

But back to my one-ness with the hamster. Squinky runs insanely fast on his little wheel, aiming his nose inward toward the axle so as not to fall off. He runs all out one direction, then stops and runs equally fast the other direction. Whether this is due to boredom or to inner wisdom (need to balance the muscles on both sides) I do not know. When he needs a temporary pause, he sits up in the wheel and looks outward, as if to say, "What is your deal? A guy's got to run!"

I am sympathetic to Squinky's insatiable desire to spin his wheel, since I suffer from the same compulsion. As soon as Squinky wakes up he throws his body into motion, and I often do the same. Starting with workouts at 5:30am and ending with class tonight at 9:30pm, it's a full day. But . . . he looks REALLY silly. As I laugh at this tiny animal and his need to run a 10k every evening, I have to question my own compulsions - the value of running around in my own wheel(s). Do we ever really get anywhere by running? Can we at least go outside to explore? And wouldn't a good nap and a snack be more fun?

Funnies

2012-01-22T11:31:00.000-08:00

Mysteries of pronunciation as overheard in an Elementary school library:

First -grader: "I need to find the mystery of the Yellow Yatchet."
Librarian: "The Yellow Yatchet?? I am not familiar with that book. Let's look it up."
After fifteen minutes of fruitless research librarian says, "Are you sure it is called the Yellow Yatchet? I can't find it anywhere. What does it look like?"
First - grader: "Oh, it's a big yellow boat."

*********

My sister's closing lines to me after an hour of conversation on our full lives:
"Well, keep on keepin' on. Doesn't sound like you have much of a chance..."
Me: "What?? Thanks for your support."
Sister: "Not what I meant to say . . .but just keeping it real."

**********

Good friend consoling me around my fears of not being a good-enough mom:
"I really don't think you're so bad."

**********

As heard in spa while receiving facial among friends:
"If I can wall-sit for three minutes I can sit with my face in a bowl of steaming water for five. No breaks, people! No breaks!"

Our Deepest Fears

2012-01-19T10:59:00.000-08:00

Ever tried
Ever failed
No matter
Try again
Fail again
Fail better
- Samuel Beckett

"The spelling bee is today," my daughter announced at the breakfast table, her tone off-handed and her eyes avoiding mine. "Great," I said, "have fun with that." "Ummmm, I don't really want to win because I REALLY don't want to go to district," she replied to her cereal bowl. I've heard this before about previous years' spelling bees, so I was ready. "How about you do your best, and if you qualify for district, you don't have to go? You could let someone else go in your place. Just make sure to try your best no matter what." She met my eyes then, and thought for a moment. "OK," she said, "that might work."

I know she feels pressure from school to succeed and I am not sure my bid to take the pressure off will be successful, but I don't want her to sabotage her effort and not commit with all her strength to the task before her. So then I had to ask: why do I let myself off the hook? I try my hardest at most things, just not the ones that matter the most. I'll commit to workouts, races, jobs, and volunteer posts, but withhold my heart and soul from writing, from relationships where I might be vulnerable, from my spiritual practices.

Yesterday I met with my small writing group. We have only been meeting for four months yet I really rely on, and look forward to, our gatherings. On this occasion the group read my blog posts from the past few weeks. When it came time to review my work one of my friends enthusiastically leaned across the table and urged me to consider writing more poetry. I cut her off before she finished her sentence with protestations of my amateur style, my inferiority to published poets, etc. I felt so vulnerable that I had to forestall any criticism (from the others) by criticizing myself. If they don't like my work, I think, I have failed.

One of my Spiritual Direction teachers noted last week that we don't have eyes to see ourselves; we rely on the eyes of others to see us while we look for the reflection. I think that is why I protect my writing: I don't always want my true self to be seen because I am afraid to see the reflection in my readers' eyes. Their opinion of my deepest self matters too much, and I feel too disarmed when I share my best efforts. I wonder if my daughter feels similarly exposed in a spelling bee, especially in front of a big crowd. We want to be seen but not seen too much, or too deeply.

I love this quote from Marianne Williamson and return to it time and again:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.' We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." (A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of "A Course in Miracles", Harper Collins, 1992. From Chapter 7, Section 3])

May we be liberated from our fears: from fear of spelling bees, fear of showing our heartfelt work, fear of failure, of showing our love, of shining our light. Maybe then we can come to believe that the ONLY failure is the absence of our best efforts, our truest selves.

Nested Selves

2012-01-10T11:41:00.001-08:00

At the same spiritual direction class I mentioned below, our female teacher brought out a beautiful carved Hawaiian nesting doll, with all the different nested sizes visible from the front. She talked about how the different dolls represented the generations. For me, the doll was a powerful image of all the different selves we carry within us.

I shared this thought with our teacher at the break and she grasped it eagerly. "Ooh yes," she said, "it's like finding a college textbook with your notes written in the margin. It's so fascinating to connect with your old thoughts and associations." She's right, yet some of my former selves are so vibrant I do not need books or old letters to find them. The 16-year-old self who fell in love for the first time, the 25-year-old self who celebrated the restaurants, bars, and parks of San Francisco, the 30-year-old self who was humbled, amazed, and shocked by the birth of our first child; these selves just require a photo or song lyric to appear above the surface of my consciousness. They are strong swimmers.

In every stage of our lives we learn truths and hide them, we experience beauty and are scarred by real or perceived trauma. When I was younger I may have recognized my "true self" much better than in mature versions, which assimilated cultural expectations and egoistic goals into the definition of personality and striving. I hope that my journals and this blog will keep me honest and capture some of the truths from this period of my life. At some point, too, this nested self will be just one in the chain.

Mother / Warrior

2012-01-09T12:04:00.000-08:00

"The Warrior. This is the archetype of discipline (and self-discipline), hierarchy and power. The warrior controls the self, controls others, and is controlled by others. " -http://warrior-queens.livejournal.com/

We had a great Spiritual Formation class last week. The subject was how femininity and masculinity affect our spirituality. As part of the discussion we learned archetypes of both females and males. For women: the virgin / maiden, mother/queen, and hag / crone. Both the mythological names and their descriptions disturbed many of the women in the class (for obvious reasons). The men had the Boy, the Magician / Wizard, the King, and the Warrior. Brows furrowed in consternation, many of us were about to protest the discrepancies in the types and descriptions when one of our co-teachers (the male) stepped in quickly to point out that in Celtic mythology, as in other mythologies, the female Warrior is a fourth archetype.

This resonated with me, as with many of my female classmates, especially when he went on to describe the Celtic vision of the warrior. The warrior is not a man (or woman) who fights external threats, s/he is an individual who goes within to confront the inner demons. To 'fly within' can mean a dark and dangerous journey, and those demons we harbor can be far more terrifying than an advancing army. Only when we stand our ground; both naming and facing the demons, can we become truly wise, truly strong, and peaceful - for the time being. For to be a Warrior means to repeat this cycle over and over again throughout our lives.

I latched on to this type because the Mother brings to mind endless generosity, selflessness, openness, even loss of self. Though I aspire to be generous and to lovingly meet the needs of my spouse and children, I am frankly terrified to be needed / wanted to the point of my own extinction. The glowing description of the mother who gives an "unreserved yes" to all those who call her does not match my struggle with motherhood. I feel much more at home with the warrior, recognizing the need to stand my ground against demons of anger, frustration, ego.

Our male teacher pointed out that the Balrog in JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings series epitomizes the inner demon (the monster from the abyss). When Gandalf holds the bridge against the Balrog, he turns to face the monster alone,slams his staff into the ground, and shouts "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" These days, when my temper starts roiling at the children's bickering or misbehaving, I imagine myself turning to face it and saying, "You shall not pass!"

Now the warrior does have *slight* control issues, which is where she might need to kibbutz with the mother in me to improve on things around here. To control and be controlling A. does not work in the parenting world and B. is completely exhausting. So perhaps these two selves can have coffee some day and work it out. I'll be re-reading Tolkien and carving a staff for future use.

Pier 39 Carousel

2012-01-02T07:52:00.000-08:00

Rainy Muir Woods Day

2012-01-02T07:49:00.000-08:00

City by the Bay

2012-01-01T09:53:00.001-08:00

We had a truly blessed vacation in San Francisco / Palo Alto last week. Everywhere Rob and I turned (or drove) we encountered our former haunts, apartments, rental homes, workplaces, party places . . . . Our children were underwhelmed by our tiny first apartments but thrilled by the Golden Gate Bridge views, Pier 39 Carousel and sea lions, Tcho Chocolate Factory Tour and following dinner and Pier 23 and cable cars. The city never disappoints (except when you are looking for cheap housing or a parking spot). Aden and I documented some of the trip in poetry, and here are a few of mine.

Happy New Year to all.

Christmas Haiku

Days of festive light
Dark and cold hold bitter sway,
Communal longing.

*****************

San Francisco

Sea lion barks hoar frost,
Shoulders onto tipping barge.
Clanking cars grab groaning cable,
Climb hills lined by pastel apartments.
Bridges' towers force through fog drift,
Gold and grey both guide travelers to and from
The simmering city.

Memories ooze from every neighborhood,
Shared meals, sipped drinks, friends attended.
Famous landmarks stand impressive and
Achingly familiar.
Old office windows solid and silent;
Memories of play reflect much better off smudgy panes.
Hazy fog of recollections, piercing sunray of present joy.

**************************

Muir Woods (haiku)

Filmy webs dripping
Decorate mossy giants,
The architects fled.

Skiing While Pregnant?

2011-12-19T05:23:00.000-08:00

We made it to the mountains yesterday, after hauling the kids out of bed at 6am to don snow pants and grab donuts for the 90-minute drive to Winter Park. Sun shone brilliantly, temps climbed into the 40s, and the kids went to all-day lessons; it was a slice of heaven on earth. Rob and I enjoyed long moments of silence on the uncrowded lifts and on our frequent coffee breaks. Lunch on the porch (sans jackets) was a restful period only broken by some Tebow-jersey-clad Denverites and their Southern friends, who dissected the Broncos' prospects against the Patriots.

I enjoyed seeing holiday wreaths in the lodge and Christmas tree decorations on all the big pines near the village. It was our first ski day before Christmas, and though the snow was poor, the atmosphere was festive. As we sat on the patio waiting for our kids to finish their lessons, I thought about some of my Benet Hill classes this Advent season. Our teacher, Sister Marilyn, emphasized the "pregnant" part of Advent - like Mary who was literally pregnant, we wait for the big event.

Sr. Marilyn said that though we are not actually pregnant (no one in our class, anyway), and though some of us may never be, we can all "give birth" this season. We can birth something creative and new, some offering that we have never before made. The idea evokes memories of being heavy, of moving slowly and often sitting to wait. This sense of waiting, of cherishing the unknown and mysterious, usually goes missing in our culture, and the attempt to cultivate a sense of 'ponderousness' has been helpful to me in the crazy whirlwind of a season. Though grateful I am not actually pregnant (it would be really hard to ski), I have been thinking about what creative and productive thing I can "give birth to" this year.

After a big pasta dinner at home last night, we lit four candles on our Advent wreath. The prayer was an Irish blessing that I would like to share:

The light of the Christmas star to you,
The warmth of home and hearth to you,
The cheer and good will of friends to you,
The hope of a childlike heart to you,
The joy of a thousand angels to you,
The love of the Son and God's peace to you.
Amen.

2011-12-10T13:06:00.000-08:00

2011-12-10T12:45:00.000-08:00

2011
Slips away
Leaving many happy
Memories of adventures with
Friends & family and of new beginnings
For each of us, including Kindergarten for Daniel,
Third grade, student council and newspaper for William,
Fifth grade, newspaper and last year of elementary school for Aden (!)
Rob began a rewarding new job with Dish Network and ended a memorable time with FDC.
Laura began a course in Spiritual Direction and took on work at the Museum of Nature and Science.
We are thankful for
New opportunities,
Good work, joyful play,
And for each of you.

Panic of the Season

2011-12-03T13:01:00.001-08:00

Last week the digital temperature gauge on our kitchen wall dropped so rapidly it would have kept pace with a Vegas roulette machine. An Arctic cold front moved in, along with 4 – 6 inches of snow and ice, and my good mood slid eastward along with the warm weather. Relieved when our morning workout was called off, I dived under the warm, fuzzy blanket on our coach and promised myself a few minutes of extra rest. An hour later, I staggered into the kitchen to make lunches and breakfast, wondering if I could find my way back to the coach at any point during the day. A prolonged period of collapse seemed promising.

The holidays often induce such mood – dives . From the high of opening our newly ordered Christmas photos to the lows of driving through snow and ice to get to numerous appointments, my energies and emotions rise and fall like the notes of “A Little Town of Bethlehem.” On Wednesday I prepared for the storm by organizing the yard and unscrewing the hoses. I restored the lawnchairs to order – one had been flung to the grass, apparently an incidental victim of squirrel-on-squirrel violence – and let the water drain out of the newly freed pipes and hoses. I was mesmerized by the water dripping away and felt my energy float along with it.

The kids feel similar rhythms of excitement and pressure. Between delight in finding our Elf’s new location each morning to the thrill of opening a new link on our Advent chain each night their mood rises and falls depending on their certainty of receiving special presents. I particularly love a story told by a good friend of mine about his grandson, which illustrates the pressures children feel at this time of year.

The child went with his family to an outlet mall for Christmas shopping, where they observed the miraculously short line for Santa’s lap. The parents hustled their son and daughter over to Santa, despite the kids’ protests that they had not prepared their lists yet. The daughter went first and came up with a few desired items, then the young boy took his turn. Santa asked, “What do you want for Christmas this year, sonny?” and the parents’ eyebrows raised when they heard the reply, “Uh . . . bamboo?” Upon walking away together, Mom could not resist asking, “What was that about?” The boy replied, “Don’t ask. I panicked.”

Don’t we all. When the stamps run out with 38 cards left to address, when the sugar cookies burn just as its time to leave for a party, when crazy kid behavior leads parents to threaten to “cancel Christmas,” we all get a bit crazy. It just takes a quick step back (or an extra nap) to see the humor and fun and delight of the season. Wishing you all a cozy blanket and some time to use it.

Family Reflections

2011-11-30T05:38:00.000-08:00

I had my class in Spiritual Direction last night after a two – week break. My fellow classmates and I delighted in greeting each other, many hugs were exchanged and holiday stories shared, though no one quite remembered what topic we were on or what books we should be reading. Holiday planning – both for Thanksgiving and for the nascent Christmas season – has started to mask other brain functions.

On the drive to and from class, my carpool buddy and I reflected on how important the class has been to us in just three short months. Even if we can’t get to all of the reading, the lectures and exercises have been heart-felt, often starting mini journeys of discovery. Our task for next week is to put together a small but emotionally detailed family tree, so over Thanksgiving I asked my parents about their life experiences, their families, my childhood, anything I could think of to help me assemble the mosaic of my personal and familial history.

I learned new things which shocked me. For example, my mother spent eighteen months living in a Japanese internment camp when she was a toddler in the late forties. I never knew! Apparently there was no housing in Cody, WY, where her father had been transferred, so she and her family were sent to live in one of the vacant units at Heart Mountain. The Japanese were no longer there (though there had been over 10,000 inhabitants at the height of the war), but Mom remembered the beautiful gardens they left.

I learned that my paternal grandmother had suffered a nervous breakdown when my father returned from Vietnam. Dad said grandmother was stoic when he enlisted but had convinced herself that he would die "over there". When he walked off the plane, she collapsed. There are other stories of nervous breakdowns on his side of the family and I wonder what they would be called today? Depression, anxiety, manic outbreaks? Occasionally I feel the inherited anxiety leaping forth; in fact, the holidays often act as a starting gun for nerves and tension.

The pieces lie at random on my mental puzzle table, but I’ve almost finished the frame of my personal history and partially filled certain relevant events. Asking and listening with a purpose have helped me to understand how I was created, and how my family and environment helped me to shape myself. As I start to put the pieces together I save one side of the puzzle for the future and feel a freedom to plan a new direction that builds on what I need of the past but leaves the rest behind.

My Humorist at Work

2011-11-18T13:28:00.000-08:00

The Sound of One (Small) Hand Clapping

2011-11-18T13:19:00.000-08:00

“How many pancakes can you fit in a dog house?”
“None, because snakes don't have armpits!”
- Wild laughter.

Kids are hilarious, mostly because they think they are. The wildly creative joke above was derived by my youngest brother when he was of tender age and desperately trying to keep our focus at the dinner table. With four older siblings and two parents at the table, it was a tough go of it, conversationally speaking, and James had to reach (wildly at times) to get everyone to tone down their rhetoric and talk to him.

My sister emailed this joke quite recently to remind us of its humor and longevity. The joke resonated with me because my youngest son performs similar antics to get all of his siblings’ and parents’ senses fixed on him. One of his recent habits (I say recent, though it seems an eternity since he started), is to clap loudly at the dinner table, or in the bathroom – really any small, confined space where the noise shocks me into wide-eyed, upset-stomach, trembling shock. The pint-sized kiddo has hands that fit inside a teacup, but he has perfected his clap until it deafens the unaware. In this respect he takes after my mild-mannered mother, whose loud clapping at basketball games actually provoked my brothers to ask her to “tone it down.” They might not have a genetic link, but she has taught Daniel a thing or two about bringing his palms together.

I should just ignore the noise, I know. But sudden loud noises are detrimental to my mental health and physical well-being, and so I ask him PLEASE to refrain from clapping at the table. He can clap anywhere else (“Except the bathroom, Mom, when you’re there,” he reminds me), and I encourage him to do so. Yet, he unfailing forgets to clap unless I am within a three-foot radius of him, usually carrying something breakable.

Last night he made us laugh so hard that I had to forgive the clapping. While I was reading the last Harry Potter book to Aden and William, Daniel decided enough was enough. Attention needed to turn his way. He rooted around in my swim bag and pulled out my swim caps and two pairs of goggles. He put the black Harvard cap on his head and put the orange triathlon cap on top of that so that he looked like a round-faced rooster. Then he added a pair of super-dark goggles over his eyes and danced a jig around the room. Aden warned me, “Don’t look at him, Mom,” but we all gave in and busted our guts laughing with him.

And lest I forget, my kids have finally solved the riddle: “If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there, does it make a sound?” Their answer, “Of course, because monkeys aren’t deaf.” Didn’t you know?

Breathing In

2011-11-12T05:20:00.001-08:00

A brilliant full moon tossed on the wave crest of pre-dawn cloud cover. The clouds dimmed the lunar glow and washed over stars just as incoming waves roll and obscure shiny shells, but we still had sufficient light to run on the greenbelt path instead of the street. The 35-degree air was just warm enough to spare us painful inhalations, and as we finished our 3.5 miles the sunrise spread out like a brilliant flag in the east. The morning was off to a glowing start.

The week had brought in many blessings, as a fair tide will bring up shells and stones for collecting. Fall conferences at school brought us good news of the kids' progress and a chance to meet their talented and dedicated teachers. I love teachers; My mother, sister, mother-in-law and sister-in-law are all teachers, and I used to be in that position full-time. Teachers watch over and support our children seven hours, five days a week, and they spend countless hours of their personal time on lesson plans and grading and extra-curricular activities. Teachers are heroes.

The week brought challenges also; two friends who currently have too much to handle. We really do get more than we can take, despite the frequently offered platitude that "God does not give us more than we can handle." There are many problems with that statement: God does not "give" us anything, and yes, people in this world can have too much trouble to bear. It's hard to know a friend suffers, especially when you cannot solve their troubles. I can only offer this lovely quote that I found in my reading this week. It speaks to the one-ness of us all, to our bonds on this gorgeous planet:

“Each time we breathe, we take in a quadrillion atoms breathed by the rest of humanity within the last two weeks and more than a million atoms breathed personally by each person on earth.”

- David Toolan, S.J., “At Home in the Cosmos: The Poetics of Matter=Energy,” in America 174, 6 (Feb 23, 1996), 14.

So I offer my breath to those who suffer; let me breathe you in, and feel me when you breathe in. We are all here together, inextricably linked. You are not alone.

Wedding Gifts

2011-11-07T05:01:00.000-08:00

Weddings are not dark events by definition but even so, this was an evening of light. From rays of late afternoon sun which angled through three-story windows onto the stunned face of the groom as he first glimpsed his bride to the candlelight that filtered through the conversation and laughter at our “Steamboat Springs” dinner table, the wedding glowed. Sunlight tickled sparkles in the bride’s gown and hairpiece as her voice trembled on the vows and hot pink candles at the ends of our rows lit the welcoming faces of the guests as the newly married couple took their first walk together down the aisle.

The cocktail hour was full of light-hearted laughter and the clink of glasses. We had not met our drinking companions before but felt like old friends after a wide-ranging conversation about our families and experiences which ended up provoking both tears and laughter. This gift of connection was the first of many gifts the evening held for me and Rob. The house lights went down as we descended the steps to dinner and the tall windows reflected rows upon rows of suspended lanterns. Later, as the mountains faded to black and the dance lights blinked on, the wide panes mirrored a million pinpricks that made it seem as though the Milky Way had spilled onto us.

Dancing provided more luminous moments. The lovely mother of the groom managed to combine elegance with a youthful energy to rival her son’s. She was certainly one of the “dancing queens” of the evening, along with the bride, whose hot pink tennis shoes made a perfect accessory to her strapless dress. When the groom emerged after a lengthy period under that dress with the garter in his mouth, his face matched her shoes and the whites of his eyes glowed with a light I won’t even attempt to describe. I was simply thrilled to dance with my husband without children draped over my arms or legs, or cutting in incessantly. Dancing opportunities have been rare for us over the past ten years so our footloose hours were another great gift.

Other people’s children provided two of the sweetest memories on the dance floor, however; the tiny flower girl twirled, bopped and swayed in her hot pink lace dress and black Mary Jane’s, moving effortlessly about the floor from one group to another. Her tirelessness had me in awe; she didn’t collapse until I did, near the end of the evening. Meanwhile, the slightly more sedate ringbearer drifted off to sleep on the bride’s shoulder as she twirled him about the room, his eyelids falling shut as quickly as high heels came off the bridal party.

At one point I caught up with the groom. “We may not agree on much,’ he said (we have a history of healthy debate), “but we can agree that this is an awesome party.” It was. Guys, thank you for the gifts of joyful energy and connection. We pray they return to you again and again.

Two Days Ago it Was 70 Degrees!

2011-11-02T15:38:00.000-07:00

Snow Day

2011-11-02T15:29:00.000-07:00

Snow pours on puffy jacket shoulders,
Gives our trees a hang-dog look.
Flakes brush pumpkins with pearly whiskers,
Create a hodge-podge of seasons at our front door.

Friendly neighbors bank snow for slides and
Snowballs somersault through backyard air.
Wet socks squish in snowboots,
Steaming hot chocolate cools as it dribbles down our chins.

-By Aden, William, Daniel and Laura Dravenstott

Halloween

2011-10-31T11:08:00.001-07:00

Aden's fish, John, floats on life support in front of me. He endured an aquarium cleaning yesterday, with its accompanying cold water rinse and chlorine flux, and did not emerge the better for it. I have a feeling that the kids and I will drift in similar floppy unresponsiveness tomorrow. After going back to school today for Halloween parades and parties, and then tricking and treating tonight, the children will certainly have a sugar hangover. I enjoyed snapping photos of all three this morning at the parade, though; our school district usually has Fall Break during Halloween so this is only the second parade I have been to in six years at the elementary school. Kids of all ages dressed up, though the kindergartners won 'most enthusiastic' and one of the fifth grade classes chose not to even participate. Ah, the disenchantment of age.

The house lies ready for groups of children in disguise; our pumpkins leer on the front steps, candy waits on the refrigerator, periodically (and mysteriously) making an early exit out of the bag into someone's waiting mouth. Only last week our backyard snowman masqueraded as a summer baseball player, but today the weather recalls summer, and the kids can go trick or treating without the voluminous layers that always seemed to ruin our costumes as kids in Michigan. Laura from Little House was hard to pull off with winter coat and ski hat ballooning out from under my calico dress.

Halloween is really fun if you don't have to live with (or teach) the children after they consume large amounts of sugar. I ran into one of my favorite teachers at school this morning and she confessed that she had been up since 3:00am trying not to dread the day. She said that she and the kids were just going to "revel in it" because really, do we have any choice? I admit I plan to take large handfuls of the kids' candy to the dentist tomorrow - because I actually and crazily scheduled a cleaning for the day after Halloween - and will probably throw most of the rest away by Friday, but otherwise I plan to enjoy the festivities. Happy Halloween to all!

Fall Break

2011-10-26T12:16:00.000-07:00

Up late last night processing the most recent class in Spiritual Direction, up early this morning to run on the treadmill. The girlfriends and I were planning to run outside and take advantage of the later start offered by the children's being on Fall Break, but we were waylaid by an early snowstorm which has dropped four inches so far. The kids were rock stars this morning; they tackled homework, dioramas and crayon drawings as I struggled through the final pages of my latest project, translating the "Learning Physics with Toys" curriculum into Spanish for the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. Spiritual direction and physics in Spanish has left me fairly brain-dead, but the kids are watching Pink Panther now so thought I had better update the blog.

I really want to write something light and humorous but find that my brain sticks on the subject of last night's class: Sexuality and Spirituality. My friend and I pulled into the parking lot prepared to squirm in our seats, fight our giggles, and learn to go deeper on the subject (be more 'reverential', as Sister urged us). I've spent many years unwinding the psychological strait jacket prepared by the Catholic Church: don't talk about sex, don't have sex (until you are married, in which case have lots of it, but only for children), don't take pleasure in it, etc. In doing the readings to prepare for class I was pleased to see that the religious writers / leaders have changed their tune to some degree, insisting that all sexuality is a God-given gift and provided to us as a meaningful tool to develop relationships with other people and with God.

Using sexuality as a tool to get closer to God: what an interesting concept. We all had to prepare our sexual histories - to share or not as we desired - but I won't go into that here. Class loomed like a party which you half desired and half dreaded. Unfortunately for me, last night's instructor chose to focus the first two-thirds of the class on childhood heartbreak and trauma, I guess because those situations set the stage for adult intimacy. Her pretext was that we have to really go deep and explore these dark places before we can understand our attitudes about intimacy.

Well, I'm not a fan of the deep dark places, and certainly not in a room full of twenty-three lovely people who are more or less acquaintances. (Some are a lot closer after last night). My heart is a bit out of rhythm today, and I am sure I grew last night, judging by the heartache. The frustrating item for me is that I had a great childhood and great parents. I don't recall any reason for heartbreak, any reason for shame or longing or rejection, yet I felt those emotions when our instructor showed us a series of slides of stick figures getting their hearts broken, thrown down, rejected. The experts assure us that every child sustains trauma, regardless of their upbringing, but that does not really make me feel better. My mind just flashes on to my own children and wonders what childhood traumas affect them. As my dear friend says, "I'll be a successful mother when my kids grow up, get a job, and can pay for their own therapy." At least they're laughing out loud right now; the Pink Panther solves many problems. Think I'll go watch, too.

October Surprise

2011-10-20T15:48:00.000-07:00

Amidst the golden and orange of autumn, my transplanted Easter lily blooms pure white in the backyard. A sign of spring and rebirth amidst the dying leaves; a lovely, subtle surprise.

Chicago

2011-10-11T05:32:00.000-07:00

The crowds lined our curbs and medians, hung over balconies and bridges. In places the cheering, music, and drums were deafening. City sounds blocked the slap of our feet on the pavement and drowned the rhythm of our breathing. For five miles Carol and I were locked in step with the hundreds of runners alongside us, boxed in to an artificially slow rhythm but afraid to deviate from our straight path as we had already seen one man fall hard, stepping just the wrong way on a manhole cover or on someone else’s shoe.

Smells of Chicago’s innards wafted up through the vents, a hot musty smell that curled our stomachs, rapidly followed by the scents of bacon and eggs in a North Side restaurant that would have been enticing at any other time. Sunlight blazed off the tall buildings and caught the mustard yellow and red highlights of the fall foliage along tree-lined streets. As the heat started to mount the cheering became even more important. I had written LAURA in black sharpie marker along my white tank top and the crowd responded: “Go, Laura!” on repeated corners and at water stops. One man with a bullhorn yelled, “I SEE you Laura! Let’s GO!” I smiled, waved, and gave thumbs up.

We saw ourselves on big TV screens and waved, and laughed at some of the clever or inspirational signs. “GO total stranger!” “Do Epic Sh**” “It’s long and it’s hard, and that’s why I’m standing here.” As we passed through Carol and John’s old neighborhoods she pointed out the location of their first date, their first apartment and church. We dodged blue sponges and walkers and passed our first pace group, on track to recover from our slow start and finish near 4:30 . . .until my knees inexorably tightened and my stomach gave ominous warnings near mile 21. The toilet signs at that aid station were a small miracle, and I waved Carol on, sad to lose her but solid in the knowledge that I could not keep our pace.

The last five miles humbled me. I shuffled, walked, tried to run. The heat mounted and we lost the crowds for a few miles in the ‘less nice’ part of town. I tried to pray, visualize, rationalize, but for a while nothing worked. Then the crowds built back up, I drank a lot of water, and I heard the booming voice of a large man running with his struggling friend, shouting to motivate him and everyone else: “It’s a BEAUTIFUL DAY in Chicago! Just out for a LITTLE jog! You WILL NOT BE DENIED today!” So I followed him as best I could through the emotional last two miles, hanging on his exhortations and willing my burning feet and legs to move. When we hit the straightaway on Michigan Avenue and saw the gorgeous skyline again, I started to cry. I saw my Mom outside Old St. Mary’ school – more emotion – then struggled through the last 1.2 miles, barely dragging my feet over the slight uphill on the bridge to the finish line. The Finish line was red-white-blue: gorgeous, amazing, wonderful. Copying the runners around me, I raised my arms to cross. Humbled, slow, sore, but gloriously happy.

Thoughts on Pink Tape

2011-10-06T11:18:00.000-07:00

I have bright pink racing stripes on my ass.

When I dropped trou a cautious few inches to show the kids, their eyes widened impressively. “Wow, Mom, will that help you win?” asked my youngest.

When it comes to a marathon, I won’t be winning anything except a victory over my mental barriers and gut-level fears, but the racing stripes do look cool, I admit. I have to take them off today, as the KT tape unravels at the ends, leaving a sticky, unattractive residue which tends to pull on my jeans. When I told the physical therapist I might have a hard time reapplying the tape on Saturday she asked if I had a friend or relative who might help. The thought of Abby or Carol volunteering to “stripe” me made me choke on my Emergen C, but perhaps my mother might help out. She’s a veteran of taping tushies.

The pink racing stripes serve as a much more entertaining memento from Tuesday’s trip to the PT office than do the bruises and aches where the dry needles prodded and provoked my knotted muscles. The dry needles have helped me a great deal but they are not comfortable. In fact, they put the exclamation point on the masochistic element of my training, which has been a blend of self-indulgent hedonism and crazy self-punishment.

The discipline of the journey did provide rewards, though, far beyond my skinny jeans’ fitting so well. I’ve met talented, knowledgeable people, received wonderful support and this week the assurance of lots of prayers for Sunday’s race. I plan to spend a lot of time praying during the 4 + hours I am treading Chicago’s asphalt; offering prayers not only for finishing safe and whole but for friends, family members, world situations, and thanks for such cool opportunities.

I wish I had permanent pink racing stripes for my contemplative self; they could kick me in the metaphorical ass and bring the same discipline to my spiritual practices that I had in the marathon training. (So weird to have the words “ass” and “spiritual” in the same sentence). But for this weekend, the tape will provide some muscle stimulus for my body and the marathon itself – an emotional climax to this six-month journey – will provide a lengthy and welcome opportunity to ask for help and to give thanks. No matter how I finish, I have definitely won.

Steamboat Springs

2011-10-01T11:23:00.000-07:00

Sunrays swim down
Through layers of branches,
Ripple from leaf to leaf.
Woody scents rise
Like mist from the Yampa
In a dawntime chill.

Berries stare, ruddy-eyed,
At latest fall design of
Aspen’s lemony lace,
Invite blue birds who
Shy from our footsteps on
Loamy Fish Creek Trail.

Children’s chipmunk chatter
Drowns in water sound.
Falls hurry over rocky outcrops
To meet boys, half-naked,
Daring and splashing below.
Goosebumps rise in icy snowmelt.

Minerals evanesce in
Harnessed hot springs.
As bubbles sprout on skin,
Salmon-like swimmers
Climb walls, shoot slides.
Water exhales steam into autumn air.

Beloved

2011-09-29T08:11:00.000-07:00

"Who are you?" I froze in the process of completing my homework - what a deceptively simple question. It stared at me from the page and drove a little needle of irritation and angst right between my eyes. This was undoubtedly my punishment for skipping the chapter I was supposed to read for my spiritual formation class and moving directly to the questions at the back. "Who am I?" I briefly asked myself, before writing a standard version of my cocktail-party self-definition: 'I am a wife and mother, daughter and sister. I am a student and an athlete and a writer.' The second sentence has been standard for twenty or so years (though sometimes I have left off the 'writer' tag due to lack of confidence, and added teacher, consultant, PR exec, etc. as appropriate). The first sentence has obviously been expanded over the past twelve or so years, but feels routine now.

Done, I thought, and realized that I actually had time to go back and do the reading. The assignment for last week was Henri Nouwen's Spiritual Direction, and it contains a treasure trove of new thoughts and directions to pursue. As I read I was stopped short by Nouwen's suggested answer to "Who are you?" He writes, "You are the Beloved." If you are a Christian you could add "... of Christ" or anyone could add "of God," or "of the Universe," but the basic message is that you and I are . . .beloved. That is enough, simply and completely. Nouwen suggests taking that on as a new self -definition.

Sister Mary Colleen echoed that line at our retreat last weekend. She suggested that we all had trouble conceiving of ourselves as 'beloveds' of anything. With a twinkle in her eye, she helped us envision a cocktail party setting where - when inevitably asked, "What do you do? What profession are you in?" we answer "Oh, I am the beloved of God, forgiven and embraced." She wondered what would happen next.

I put this situation to two friends last weekend and we had a good laugh over it.We variously envisioned people backing away in terror, whispering to friends that we are narcissistic and in need of psychiatric help, or calling for our keys as they noted that we had had FAR too much wine. One friend said, "If I ever said that at a cocktail party I WOULD have had way too much wine!" I agree, in part, though I really want to own that statement, and I grin everytime I think of using that as a public response to the inevitable labeling questions.

One more sentence for thought: when I discussed the whole "beloved" idea with my spiritual director last week he noted that while the reading had made a large impact on him, too, the biggest zinger was this thought: "You are the beloved, but so too is everyone else."

Family Flu

2011-09-16T05:05:00.000-07:00

Bodies were strewn across the upper hallway, sails of sheets caught wind on the clothesline, and the one healthy member of our family cautiously picked her way around prone figures to find the stairway. A scene from "Contagion"? No, only one memory of the great Dravenstott Flu Pandemic of 2011. Four out of the five of us went down with high fever, chills, and stomach upset on Friday night, and all four were still home recovering on Monday.

I would never recommend being sick at the same time as your husband and children, though in some cases it cannot be controlled. I was still the main caregiver, though Rob did help with drug store runs and laundry, and the chip on my shoulder was so large I could hardly stand up. I had all three kids in my room on Friday night (even the healthy one!) and was up every hour on the hour to escort someone to the bathroom. Saturday was a repeat, as Rob slept in the office again, except that my fever was so bad I awoke to dripping clothes which made the bathroom trip a cold and hazy journey each time I was summoned there by my bad-tempered son.

Daniel hated being sick, and his disgust and anger and frustration equaled mine. Five am on Saturday: he was on the toilet, shouting with anger and pain while I sat on the tub facing him. I stage-whispered something extremely unsympathetic and angry in return. Not a Florence Nightengale moment. Sunday morning was an even lower point for me: I announced to my husband that I would never recover on such little sleep and that I would probably "just die." I kept threatening to go live in the basement or find a hotel, too, though I could not summon the energy to actually make my escape.

A few scenes, though, already make me laugh: the Saturday afternoon where Daniel and I fell asleep in the upper hallway, traumatizing my daughter as she attempted to move down the stairs. Sitting on the porch Saturday afternoon, all four of us staring at the birds in the yard and attempting to choke down more Gatorade or flat soda, when the mailman came to the door with an oversized delivery. Normally, one of the kids runs to get the package but as we all sat and stared dully I explained, "we are all really sick." The mailman's eyes widened, he placed the mail on the ground, and retreated as quickly as he could. "Thanks for letting me know!" he hollered on his way out.

On Sunday night we were partially recovered but still went to bed early. My daughter pleaded with my husband and I to stay up just a while so that she could read and not be the last person standing. "I am lonely!" she told us, tired of being the only functioning individual in the household. "I don't want to be the only one awake!" We couldn't help her much as our exhaustion rendered us useless . . .we left the light burning for five more minutes and then hollered down the hallway, "lights out!" It felt like lights out for the Dravenstotts for about forty-eight hours last weekend, but thanks to the miracle of time - and Ibuprofen - we're back among the living again.

Painful to Watch

2011-09-10T11:40:00.000-07:00

It’s painful beyond words to witness your child’s pain. My daughter had some playground trauma in the first few weeks of fifth grade, and her nighttime tears and angst were gut-wrenching to witness. I struggled to listen, not to talk over her with advice and my own experiences. I also wrestled with how to help her, whom to tell and where to get good advice. The situation seems resolved, at least temporarily, through the efforts of my child herself, but the pain of those two weeks wrote indelibly on my psyche as well as the psyche of my ten-year-old girl.

I would not rob my children of all difficulties and painful experiences, but I am sorely tempted to sandpaper the rough edges. Standing by and loving them while they suffer, while not leaping in to save the day, may be the hardest thing I have ever done. Give me a problem to solve, a mountain to climb, miles to run, and I will tackle it gladly, but ask me to stand witness to pain, offer mute comfort, live patiently with an unresolved situation, and you ask me to walk through one of Dante’s infamous infernos. As I prayed over my daughter’s issue last week I thought of all that is to come, all that my parents had to witness: broken hearts, unrequited love, cliques and exclusion, rejection, failure. I remember my Dad’s stark words when I agonized over my infant daughter’s four months of bad colic: “it only gets harder from here.”

Despite those harsh (and true) words, I am blessed by the example of love and support that my parents offered to me and my four siblings. They did not solve our problems for us (with five kids there was no time for that!) but they always asked, listened, and cared. They hurt over our troubles even now. Though they have seven grandkids, we are still their babies. Even though I have entered my fifth decade, I continue to feel this love and support. In fact, one of my most vivid memories of Dad’s pain at my pain happened in the last ten years, at the birth of my now fifth-grade daughter.

I was lying in a hospital bed, wrung out and exhausted by the labor of giving birth to my daughter. My parents hovered in the doorway of the hospital room, torn between respecting my privacy and wanting to witness the miracle of the birth of their first grandchild. After my daughter was born, my nurse/midwife had trouble getting my bleeding to stop. Nurse Jan saw the blood and yelled for medication; there was none in the room. My father turned pale as Nurse Jan’s voice rose in repeated demands, and he dashed down the hall looking for someone to help. He did not know what medication to request, or even how to describe the situation. Someone asked him, “Is the baby OK?” and he said “No.” When he told me the story later (I was oblivious to it all at the time) he admitted that when the nurses asked about the baby he thought only of me – his baby. My baby was fine, but his was not.

I heard that story and wept. I wept from the hormones, from exhaustion, from the blessing of his great love for me, and from the new fount of love that erupted in my heart when my daughter was born. I wept also for the new possibilities of pain, the incipient terror at any danger or loss affecting my child. My life became doubly precious because she needed me, and her life was already a treasure beyond measure. We are all tangled up in the glorious mess of loving each other, and learning to accept life’s painful lessons for ourselves and our kiddos seems like a small price to pay.

Marathon Angst

2011-08-29T05:10:00.001-07:00

"You will not want to watch that movie tomorrow night," said my husband with narrowed eyes. "I've been here for the past few months, remember?" It was Saturday night, our down night for the weekend, and Rob was trying to convince me to watch "Firewall" with him while I bargained for an early bedtime and the promise of a viewing on Sunday night. I had my weekend run Sunday morning and had to wake up at 5:15 to fit in 11 miles before church. Rob knew that my fatigue on run days would overcome my ability to watch a movie - suspect on the best of days.

We failed in the movie-watching department though I got my 11 miles done. The run seemed ridiculously short compared to the 18 miles of a week ago and to the 20 miles that await next Saturday. I have moved into a strange sort of marathon-training Twilight Zone where 10 miles is a short run, bright pink KT tape wraps permanently around my feet, and the study of electrolyte replacement occupies my free time. When Rob comes to bed (an hour or so after me) he finds me with my feet pre-taped for the next morning, covered in my running socks so the tape does not unravel, and ready to jump out of bed at first light to start gathering miles. Not attractive, but far more comfortable than sleeping in a jog bra and running clothes, as I did when we were camping. There is just no way to discretely get run-ready in a tent at 6:30am!

Fashion issues aside, I've been feeling selfish about the marathon. Training occupies a lot of energy, time and mental focus. Nightly I ice my feet and my knees and reflect that I've passed the point of balance. But we only have three and a half weeks of hard training left, and as a friend observed, "This is obviously important to you." It is. I have been blessed with health and good luck so far in the training process, and I want to prove to myself that I can do this. When I tell people about the marathon they often say, "Oh, I could never do that," and I recognize the words and the tone from the times I responded this way. I shut the door, not wanting to acknowledge the possibility....because then I might have to do it. So now that I have opened the door I deeply desire to walk through it. If I can finish this marathon, what else could I accomplish? And how many more folks might realize that they can do it, too?

My Kindergartner

2011-08-25T05:30:00.000-07:00

First Day of Kindergarten

2011-08-25T05:05:00.000-07:00

In the end, the day was exceptional by virtue of its normalcy. Daniel embraced kindergarten and his new school and proudly took his place alongside his classmates in line. As he trooped through the crowd of parents, peering through blazing sunlight and camera lenses to get a last look at mom and dad, friends of ours called out to him, "Have a good day, Daniel!" He grinned, waved, and disappeared into the school building.

I did not cry, though I came prepared to do so, with waterproof mascara and tissues close at hand. Daniel was happy about kindergarten and not overwrought, and I wanted to echo his emotions and not add my own mixture of joy and nerves. I pray that he is ready, and that he can absorb all the new knowledge and experiences. The teachers are fantastic, the classmates and parents kind, the school exceptional. That portion of the deck is stacked in his favor, but he does have unique challenges to meet and overcome.

When Daniel walked away from us, smiling,into the cool enclave of the school, it vividly recalled a day three and a half years ago when we took him away from another stone building. There were people calling his name them, too, but all were sad, and Daniel himself was full of grief. When Rob carried him out of the orphanage in Guatemala City, his little friends - more siblings than classmates - ran to the barred windows and called "Adios, Danielito!" He was exhausted by tears, his tiny body collapsed on Rob's chest. He knew only five words of Spanish, having been ill and hearing-impaired for most of his twenty-three months.

When I hold the that image in my mind's eye and contrast it with the photo of my tall, happy kindergartner I could bring myself to tears, but I find my emotions tilting to the side of gratitude and amazement. It's a miracle that Daniel has grown so much, learned so much, become so outgoing, and often I feel it is in spite of my fumbling efforts rather than because of them. As Daniel's caregiver wrote in a letter to us, "Daniel is a child of God." I pray that God continues to watch over him - and all the children - and helps them surmount all the challenges in their way.

Camping Gratitude

2011-08-18T05:04:00.000-07:00

Marry an outdoors woman. Then if you throw her out into the yard on a cold night, she can still survive.
-W. C. Fields

I paused in my run last weekend, exhaling steam in the cool, moonlit morning. Two deer stopped and stared, no doubt wondering at this ungainly, dirty, and ill-dressed creature who dared to run down their road. After short analysis, they turned and bounded in opposite directions into the woods. I just grinned like a fool, having run by two mountain lakes and greeted the morning at a heightened elevation of 8,300 feet. Though sleep had been elusive I felt invigorated and optimistic. I knew the campfire would be lit and the hot water ready for coffee when I returned, and no greater joys could exist that morning, except possibly to share the day with loved ones.

The full moon was just disappearing when I returned to camp. My husband brandished the last two bags of oatmeal like a man possessed. "You're lucky you got any," he claimed as he handed them over, "the kids were HUNGRY this morning." I examined our happy, grubby children as they sat, full-bellied, amidst their friends. The oatmeal was gone but remains of toasted marshmallow outlined their lips and coated the tips of their noses. My late-night wet wiping skills had obviously been inadequate. They bragged to me that they had slept in until 7:30 (!) and then raced off into the woods to defend their fort against the 'stray teenagers' that were imaginary foe and fort-destroyers for the weekend.

The greatest gift of camping, besides the close-up view of moon and stars, mountain sunrise and sunsets, campfire singing, and shared meals, remains the wild play of the children. Disappearing in one grand troop or in two or three smaller pods, they happily moved logs, brandished sticks, invented obstacles (and wild animals) and - most importantly - rarely returned to the adult hangout all day. Their freedom was broken only by meal times, a hike around the lake, and a few bouts of kayaking. These activities were hardly limiting, as the older children ran ahead exuberantly on the hike and could man or partner their own kayaks. The younger children were a different story (especially on the hike) but still amazingly functional and certainly happy to be in the mountains with their peeps.

I keep a gratitude journal beside my bed at home and really missed having it in the tent this weekend as I had so much to add each night. When I got home - tired, dirty, and bent on unpacking - some of the finer details escaped me but I did write down 'camping,' and 'friends.' I scanned the entries for the past few weeks and noted that "friends' enter into my gratitude practice quite frequently, supporting everything I have done this summer. For example, I have "health and good triathlon - support of friends," "great trip to Cape Cod, visit with friends," "Rob's safe trip to Ohio, help of friends with the kids." As summer winds down I will be sad to say good bye to camping, to swimming outdoors, to children's freedom, but I continue to be grateful for the presence of friends in our lives and for their participation in the fun fall adventures to come.

Campers at Monarch Lake

2011-08-16T11:40:00.000-07:00

Chaos or Complexity?

2011-08-11T05:32:00.000-07:00

“If you liked Chaos you’ll love Complexity.”
- Washington Post review on jacket cover of Complexity, by M. Mitchell Waldrop

I actually snorted when I read this line on Rob’s book. It sits on his nightstand, where I glanced at it on my way to bed, worn to a frazzle by the all-kids, all-day reality of summer. We are now in the chaotic stage of the summer holiday, when carefully constructed summer routines and patterns give way to a free-for-all of visits, last-minute outings, camping trips and desperate attempts to keep siblings from attacking each other (or at least from attacking with deadly weapons).

It has been almost three weeks since we returned from Cape Cod, and they have been full. Wonderful moments of mutual entertainment and mom-free-time at Museum camp, a delightful visit from Grandma Connie and Grandpa Bill, who not only brought two suitcases full of games and art and books, but spent days sitting down with the children to play, and now preparations for a weekend camping trip at Lake Granby. My five-year-old, who has an obsession with what happens next, has almost given up trying to figure out a schedule. I barely know what the next activity will be on any given day, let alone all of what might happen between breakfast and dinner.

For example, my daughter turned ten yesterday (a decade passed since we brought her home from the hospital? Impossible). We started the day with candles in a donut, went scootering at the park, had karate (all three kids), quick lunch, took the birthday girl and two friends to jump rope camp, prepped bbq chicken dinner, and celebrated end of Tball season for our five-year-old with a family T ball game and picnic. Oops, I left out the pogo stick that came via UPS and the helter-skelter pogo stick practice that followed. A full day, to be sure.

My mother-in-law assured me that I will miss the children desperately when they go to school in less than two weeks. She said I would find the house empty and long for their footsteps and young voices. I assured her that would not be the case, and she just smiled and said she would wait for my call. Yesterday I read the following quote (between getting hit by baseballs as the boys practiced catching):

“As soon as we are alone, without people to talk with, books to read, TV to watch, or phone calls to make, an inner chaos opens up in us. This chaos can be so disturbing and so confusing that we can hardly wait to get busy again.” - Making All Things New, Henri Nouwen

So we’ll see what happens. When chaos gives way to the complexity of school – year schedules, lunches, and homework will I love it? Will my external chaos be replaced by a quiet house and a crazily disorganized interior life? I’m not sure, but I am ready to find out!

Atlantic Reflections

2011-07-29T11:43:00.001-07:00

Taffy air carries scent of salt tinged with sulfur as
Running feet add footprint impressions to shell-laced shore.

Swooping gulls rend humid gusts into shards of wind
That tear at timid kites, whose string burns through little fingers.

Sandy cherries loll near towel-wrapped bodies
While stronger siblings dive into cool blue waves.

Hermit crabs scuttle for shelter as red buckets approach
In tidal waters that creep in and out over fecund reeds.

A baby sleeps on dad’s sunburned chest as women chatter,
Their hat brims communing as they bury their feet.

Surf relentlessly approaches moats and castles, forever
Teaching that the act of building precedes the art of letting go.

Kids and Friends on Martha's Vineyard

2011-07-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

Screen Selection

2011-07-27T12:25:00.000-07:00

On my shady walk down to the coffee shop this morning I passed a squirrel with a cookie. The cookie was too large for the beady-eyed fellow but he was undaunted and half-rolled, half-toothed his cookie across the yard and under a tree, where he wisely stood guard. (He must have heard about my sugar addiction.) I felt like a lucky little rodent myself, huddled away in the basement of a funky coffee shop – Hooked on Colfax if anyone local is reading – with free time and space to type out some thoughts on my computer. The kids are safe and busy in morning camp at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science where they are hopefully engaged in studies of weather, pirates and chemical reactions.

It’s a shock to return to daily life after a fun- and family-filled vacation, and I am overwhelmed by the task of keeping the kids occupied and away from the screens that fill our house. On vacation their TV time was severely limited, both by their preference (more fun to play with cousins) and by our busy schedule. I was so impressed when we met up with family friends on Martha’s Vineyard; they have had their beach house in the family since 1981 and it has never had a TV. My dream summer home! The Museum camp is helping our trio stay busy this week, but when we get home, though I limit their official ‘screen time’ (TV shows and video games), they find ways to amuse themselves with our funky streaming photo frame, their Flip videos, their kid camera, my phone, etc.

Rob ordered a new phone for me while we were on vacation, and it’s a funky, touchy thing. It’s pretty and cool-looking and I have no idea how to use it. My five-year-old son already has his eyes on it, though, especially one app. Last night when Rob was showing me the new functions and games he installed on the phone he mentioned “Angry Birds” and a little head suddenly popped up – two black eyes sparkling over the back of the couch. “Angry Birds?” yelled my son. “Who has Angry Birds? Can I see it? Can I play it?” Rob laughed and I shuddered – I’ve never played that game but my sons and their cousin played it on the car rides and during airport waits on our trip, emerging quite addicted. I put Daniel off by leaving (with my phone) and this morning by saying that mommy did not know how to use the game, but I can tell from his hourly requests that I am doomed.

The first game I plan on learning is ‘Words with Friends,’ that super-cool Scrabble-like game that has hooked Rob, my sister, and my Dad. I definitely need the practice against my husband as our current record at word games (primarily Scrabble) is approximately: Rob 58, Laura 1. I kid you not . . .my English degree falls to his Engineering degrees every time. My siblings and significant others became painfully aware of Rob’s Scrabble prowess on vacation, when he decimated the field by 100 points and made himself quite unpopular around the game table.

So through the course of this posting I have become aware that we are all under the sway of screens. I’m hooked on my writing and email and now “Words with Friends” no less than the kids are under the power of their cameras and ‘Angry Birds’ games. I’m not sure what this promises for our collective future, but I promise to give up my phone games – as soon as I’ve beaten Rob at Scrabble.

Father Son-bathing

2011-07-25T05:38:00.000-07:00

Music and Dance on Cape Cod

2011-07-25T05:03:00.001-07:00

"Oh no, she didn't!"
"And she's up, she's down, it's the robot, it's the twist . . . score is 28.9!"

My daughter danced off the 'stage' beaming from ear to ear as if the Olympic judges had just awarded her the gold medal. My younger brothers, James and Michael, sat on the couch in our rental house watching all of the cousins dance their way through our Ipod mix, awarding ever-increasing scores and commentating on the wild and crazy variety of dance moves. James was somewhat abashed at the end of the contest when I questioned his judging capabilities; he started judging on a scale of 1 to 10 and wound up at a 29.5. "I just couldn't bear to give anyone a lower score," he said.

That was the tone of our family reunion week on Cape Cod, uncritical music and dancing and childlike exuberance. By the numbers: eighteen of us shared two rental houses, which covered seven grandchildren from the ages of 15 months to almost 10, two grandparents, five siblings and four significant others (spouses and fiancee included). We ate over 100 hamburgers, drank several hundred cans and bottles of beer (but who's counting?), swam and built sandcastles at four cool beaches, flew six kites which promptly broke, celebrated one birthday and one engagement.

Of course, numbers utterly fail to tell the story. With all of the shared memories and highlights it's hard to focus one on thread of the week, though music does it best for me. Other than the dance contests, we all had the same CD playing at various times in our rental cars - a mix made by my parents and sister which was loaded with family favorites, many played at three previous family weddings and some undoubtedly on the playlist for the fourth wedding planned for next summer. The children now know classics like "On the Road Again" (Willie Nelson) and "Wild Montana Skies" (John Denver and Emmylou Harris) by heart. We sang a raucous grace each night before dinner, holding hands in an unwieldy looping circle and raising the rafters with "The Lord is Good to Me," or "Amen." One night, someone got caught in the circle of grace and decided to dance wildly inside as accompaniment. I'm sure God appreciated our thanksgiving.

On our final night we held a third dance party, but my most touching musical memory was of my fifteen-month-old nephew singing "Happy Birthday" to his uncle, my husband. Little Mac was great at the last line "to youuuuu" and with clapping vigorously at the end of the song. His smile of joy and lit-up blue eyes were a present unto themselves. (He also sings a mean version of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," cheering for the Red Sox, of course). I believe we confused Mac a bit when we switched up and sang "Happy Engagement" to the same tune, but he handled it well. If I had to judge, I would give it a 29.5.

Love to all, and God Bless. Thank you for so many amazing memories. I miss you already.

Competition

2011-07-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

"Competition is a contest between individuals, groups, animals, etc. for territory, a niche, or a location of resources. It arises whenever two or more parties strive for a goal which cannot be shared. Competition occurs naturally between living organisms which co-exist in the same environment." - From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Competition , July 12, 2011

I was sick to my stomach so frequently yesterday that I could barely eat breakfast or lunch. My heart rate hovered at 140 and peaked much higher, although all I did physically was stand on the shady grass and watch . . .watch as my eight-year-old competed in his big season-ending swim meet. I cheered heartily for William at the start of each race, but could only bite my lip and clench my fists as he swam, straining as he reached, kicked and breathed for the opposite end of the pool. Both of us looked to the timers with equal intensity as he asked "what was my time?" and celebrated with joy when he got a best time by two seconds, and commiserated briefly when he was off in one event.

It's a strange position to be in - a competitive parent watching her child race in a sport that she loves. My friend and I decided that it is much harder to watch your child compete in a sport that you know; it's a lot easier for me to watch as they pick up jump rope, karate, baseball virtually anything other than swimming, which has been a beloved outlet for 27 years. I try so hard to tamp down my intensity and my passion, because I recognize that my enthusiasm for the sport is personal and may not extend to my children. It may even turn them away. So I take on the position of volunteer coordinator instead of stroke judge, try to stay away from practice as much as possible, and confine my comments to "do your best" and "I love you."

Well, I don't really confine my comments to those two statements - let's get real. But I do try to limit my constructive criticism and emphasize best times and good sportsmanship above all else. The kids do a great job of socializing at meets, shaking hands with their competitors, and really trying to improve week after week. That's all I can ask. I've spent a lifetime battling my competitive nature (a circular battle, at best), and I don't want to impose my struggle on the kids, who seem either to have not inherited my competitive streak or to have a late-blooming strain.

The definition at the top of this entry reassures me in that competition occurs "naturally," though I cringe a bit at "the goal which cannot be shared." Life frequently requires that we work as a team and share our goals, and it's wonderful to be able to share in your friends' achievements. William's two good friends had wonderful days yesterday, swimming great best times and reaching the Finals with him. Cheering for them was the best part of our day, I think, inspiring as well as a restful break from our own self-imposed pressure. Relays are such fun, too, and the overall swim team experience has been great. Now I just have to remember these less competitive desires and goals as I head into his big sister's meet tomorrow . . . keep your fingers crossed for both of us!

In a Robin's Eye

2011-07-07T05:09:00.001-07:00

A fine mist filtered down through our shade awnings as I sat in my lawnchair reading my book. I could see the gray particles of rain falling on my arms and on the pages, a cooling haze whose gentleness was offset by the rumbles of thunder in the distance and the shouts and screams of the children as they protested and fought against an invisible enemy. United for once against a common (though imaginary) foe, their cries had a different timbre than the normal bickering whine or arguing crow. This made it easier for me to sit silently by, as I was completely unnecessary in their play.

My son yelled "8.3 earthquake . . .run!" and they thundered past on their scooters, rumbling across the deck and then across the newly mown yard to the sandbox. That move caught my attention, and the awareness of our robin family. The parents flew madly - one from the nest in our window down to the pine tree to observe our chaos - and one from the fencepost to the nest to feed the growing brood. I paused in my reading to watch the little birdie necks and beaks crane toward their mom or dad. Their chirping reached me even through the thunder and the roars of the children. I felt sympathy for the busy parents.

We've had a great deal of fun watching the robin family over the past few weeks. Now that the babies are hatched and eating well, the parents are forever flying into the nest with food. Every night as we go to read bedtime stories in our room, the kids and I stop by the window to see if the mom or dad is still there. The dad (we think) is the bigger bird, whose puffed-up feathers and aggressive stance warn us to stay away. The gleam in his eye gives definition to the word 'baleful.' We are often glad that the flimsy screen protects us from his wrath; I have seen him chase and attack a squirrel all the way around the yard when the squirrel came too close to the nest.

It was a perfect fifteen minutes in a summer's day. Soon after my blissful moments of peace followed a round of fighting and arguments over a bucket of spilled golf balls, which apparently impeded play beyond all remedy. Moments of perfection are few, but I hold them in my memory against all comers. I have high hopes that the robin parents will triumph along with Rob and myself as we celebrate the crazy - rarely lazy - days of summer.

Man on the Corner

2011-06-30T05:18:00.000-07:00

"See the lonely man there on the corner,
What he's waiting for, I don't know,
But he waits everyday now.
He's just waiting for something to show."
- Genesis, Man on the Corner, Phil Collins, songwriter

"The blind man sleeps in the doorway, his home
If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy I could have won."
- Mumford & Sons, I Gave You All, Marcus Mumford, songwriter

He held a sign that read "Vietnam Vet needs a miracle." My kids saw him as we approached the turn to I 25 and yelled excitedly, "Mom, there's a signwaver! Stop, Mom, stop!" I checked my rearview mirror as I slowed, then checked to make sure the turn signal stayed on red. Window rolled down, I beckoned to the man, and held out the paper bag with socks, tuna fish and crackers, as well as a bottle of water. He hustled over to the car and said, "Thank you, ma'am. God bless." Then he surveyed the colorful drawings on the paper bag and chuckled, "I like the artwork, too."

After returning his "God bless" we moved ahead with the rest of the traffic, flowing smoothly on to whatever comfortable destination awaited that day. I was amazed at the delight of my children in giving out our "Just Care" bag, and full of my own pleasure and relief at being able to do something to help the people who wait on the freeway ramps and offramps. Before our church started preparing these Just Care bags for congregants to keep in their cars I had nothing to offer the people on the corner, and would just roll by in my hermetically sealed vehicle fielding questions from the kids as to why anyone would stand there all day. My good friend came up with the idea to coordinate the assembly and donation of these bags at our church, and it has revolutionized our approach to I 25, the freeway which runs fairly close to our house.

There is a light rail station at our exit from I25, and I remember how people complained and worried about the light rail because they feared the visitation of homeless folk from "the city" (Denver, in our case) to our restful and removed suburb. I don't know how the men on the corners get down here, they could be from our suburb for all I know, but in this economy their incidence has certainly increased. Their presence did make me feel uncomfortable when I had nothing to offer, but I feel prepared now, and being able to offer something, no matter how small, and interact with the toothless, dirty, and charming man on the corner has made him feel more like a neighbor and less like an intruder.

Call me naive, call me simplistic. I know I am not solving any big problems by handing out the bags, but I am solving two problems: his and mine. And we are teaching the children something valuable: that if we have a purpose bigger than our apathy we can triumph over small evils and injustices. We can turn invaders into neighbors, we can nurture our own compassion and understanding, and we can make someone's life just a little bit easier. We can show up - and that is not a small thing.

Live Strong

2011-06-28T05:07:00.000-07:00

"Where did you get those?" piped my five-year-old to a Cub Scout mama waiting with us to pick up her boys. She looked down at the two Live Strong bracelets on her left wrist, where his little index finger was directed. "I got them at the Children's Hospital," she replied, "when my little boy had cancer. That was six years ago and I have never taken them off. I never will, until maybe he gets his cure card in two years."

I immediately caught my breath, though Daniel was unfazed. "Oh," he said. "I been to that hospital," and he turned away to dance back and forth between the hot sun and the shade under the registration awning. I turned to the woman and mentioned that we knew Children's Hospital a little bit from Daniel's surgeries, agreeing with her that it was a wonderful place. As the sun set behind the mountains, we continued to wait for a Scout leader to retrieve our boys from their stations, and she told me her story.

Six years ago her little boy was exactly two years old (his birthday was the day we met), and he had a brain tumor. He was very sick, and the small town where they lived at the time had no resources to deal with the cancer. On his birthday, doctors estimated he had eight hours to live, and they prepared a life flight to get him to The Children's Hospital in Denver. Unfortunately, she was nine months pregnant with their second child, and the pilot would not take off with someone in her advanced stages of pregnancy. The woman said to me, "She took one look at me and said no."

So they took an ambulance all the way to the Hospital, a five-hour drive when they thought he had only eight hours to live. She said, "we thought he was going to die." But they made it to their destination, where doctors recognized the situation and acted immediately to save the boy. On that warm Friday evening he and his little brother were playing at camp with my son; it was a miracle, she said. I was so grateful that my sunglasses hid my weepy eyes; I could only nod in agreement.

I can't imagine living through that ambulance ride, or the time immediately thereafter. Can't imagine waiting eight years for a cure card, with the slim possibility of recurrence in the back of my mind the entire time. I can imagine - and am so grateful for - miracles. I am so grateful for health, for the kids, and for people who share their stories of love and triumph.

Motivation

2011-06-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

A mentally challenged robin built its nest in the open window of my bedroom several weeks ago. Needless to say, we cannot bear to shut the window and consign the nest to bitter ruin, so the window has remained open - day and night - for the duration of the eggs' incubation and hatching. Last night the temperature dropped to 45 degrees and our room was a bit blustery, yet the nest stayed intact. My husband reassured me that the incubation-to-flight period would last only 14 or so days, and then we could have our window (and our room temperature) back. Amused that he had gone to the trouble to research the robin's nesting habits, I started to ponder the different emotions and reasons that motivate our behavior.

The robin, who may be a few eggs short of a carton (both figuratively and literally) was motivated by biology, as well as our window's height, apparent steadiness, and shelter under the roof. My husband and I are motivated by our concern for the baby robins and for the regard of our children, who would undoubtedly be shocked and dismayed if we let the nest come to any harm. The children themselves are motivated by a sense of caring for small, helpless animals like the birds and the tiny bunnies that overrun our lawn, cutely devouring every item in our garden. This sense of caring does not extend, of course, to a sibling who might happen to be smaller or helpless at any given moment.

Other motivations are harder to pin down. What motivates my daughter to sign up for Ninja Camp and to agree to carpool with kind people that she does not really know in order to get to the final Ninja session in the mountains? Her desire to go up one belt in karate is pulling her two brothers and several friends into Sensei's orbit this summer. I don't quite understand her motivation, but I do know that it is intrinsic, completely unrelated to anything that I would have picked for her. And that makes it good, because it is her choice and her passion. I don't need to understand it, only support it.

My boys' passions change and swirl like the Icee machine at Target, everchanging, uncertain, out of order from time to time. I hope that their passions begin to gel as they grow, as their sister's interests seem to be solidifying. Just as I (sometimes impatiently) stand guard over the nest in my window, so I feel protective and cautious of my kids' motivations and passions. Summer is a great time to branch out, try new things, and practice uncertain skills. Rob and I may have a lot longer than two weeks before our babies fly away, but someday, somehow they will.

Never Say Never

2011-06-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

"Never Say Never" by Justin Bieber plays on a never-ending loop at our house. Our five-year-old adores the song and the singer (whom he never fails to call Justin 'Biever') and knows that Jaden Smith sings with JB as well as the fact that Bieber's girlfriend is Selena Gomez. He asks for my finished copies of People Magazine so he can look for photos of the Bieb. (I have not given into this latest request yet, as it seems over the top even for our house). Daniel even taught our babysitter all of the words to the song, and watched scenes from the movie on his computer. So it comes as no surprise that the summer craze at my house is for karate - since a love for all things Bieber led us to view "The Karate Kid II" on netflix.

My daughter takes karate at her school, and this week she's attending a Ninja Camp run by the Sensei who teaches her class. She loves karate and Ninja camp and it's been great for her confidence. When I asked why she wanted to start taking karate she told me it was to "fight the ghosts in her closet." Now that the ghosts have been vanquished she seems to sleep better - and she has an undying drive to attain the next level and the next color belt. Currently she has an orange belt with one stripe, and she wants to move up to green before the end of summer.

Her enthusiasm, in combination with unending repetitions of Never Say Never, have inspired both my sons to want to try karate. It looks like all three of my kiddos will be in the gym this summer, learning some moves and hopefully some discipline. One of the things I (and the other karate moms) like best about the class is the respect Sensei demands from his students, the quiet and the focus that the children can demonstrate when necessary, and the attention that is required. Having been a mom for ten years, I don't automatically assume that these traits will translate to home behavior, but a girl can hope. After all, Jaden Smith certainly learned how to hang up his jacket in KK II! I need every edge I can get to carry us safely through the crazy long summer days. Never say never, people.

Inspiration and Mettle

2011-06-10T05:09:00.000-07:00

I opened the note, which had a picture of three kittens on the cover, and read the following, "My mother lost her fight with breast cancer on January 8, 2011 - these (medals) were hers." Instantly blinded and choked by tears I just handed the note to my son, who was helping me unwrap medals from countless boxes. We sat on the porch for an hour yesterday, awash in admiration and gratitude for the countless donors across western states - New Mexico, Portland, Washington, Idaho, Colorado - who donated their marathon, half-marathon, and triathlon medals to the organization Medals 4 Mettle (www.medals4mettle.org). I have the privilege of being a volunteer coordinator for M4M in Denver, and I am amazed at the opportunities I have to both receive and to give medals.

Motivated to fill the time now that we are on summer vacation, I tackled my bedroom corner where all the medals are stored. I needed to open and polish the medals, take off the old ribbons, put on the new M4M ribbon (which costs $4.00, and requires donations, see http://www.firstgiving.org/fundraiser/laura-dravenstott/lauradravenstott) and package the ribbon with a card in order to take it to The Children's Hospital next week. The medals are re-gifted to anyone who is struggling with illness, or who has recently completed a milestone like finishing chemotherapy.

The process usually inspires me, but yesterday was overwhelming. I received a note from a gentleman suffering from Addison's disease. He writes, "I have Addison's disease and was told not to expect to accomplish much and that my life would not get much better. I have proved the 'experts' wrong and accomplished so many things in my life. I am thankful for all that I have been able to do. I hope these medals will transfer hope, smiles and laughs to those that receive them!" With the note he enclosed multiple marathon and 50-mile race medals. I had to hand the note to my son and daughter to read because once again I was too choked up to read it out loud.

I have been struggling with knee pain recently in my own marathon training and wondering how on earth I am going to get past the 13-mile barrier which has always stopped me before. In one of the boxes yesterday I received a medal from the Chicago Marathon of 2007. I take it as a sign, as this is the marathon I intend to complete. I hope the owner does not mind if I borrow it just through October, before passing it on to a much more deserving candidate. Inspired by the efforts and generosity of countless runners I know I will find a way to win my own Chicago marathon medal - and then feel great pleasure in passing it along.

Last Day of School

2011-06-07T05:14:00.000-07:00

"I'm a little sad about school ending," said my daughter yesterday. "It's been such a good year, and I love my teachers. I am excited for summer, too, so I guess I am just a little mixed up. I realize that it's just going to happen, though, whether I like it or not. It's just going to happen." Wise words from a graduating fourth-grader who tends toward emotion and drama when facing life changes - not unlike her mama. I did not have much to add to her comments, other than to assure her that summer would be lots of fun and would undoubtedly go fast.

I am grateful that the children have mixed feelings about the end of school, because I know they have learned so much from their teachers and friends this year. They have felt safe and encouraged and had fun - even has they struggled with normal ups and downs of social intrigue, difficult tests, focus (that would be my son), and the constant pace of life.

I feel much the same; grateful that old tasks and lessons are over to make way for swim team and baseball / Tball, karate camp and playdates at the park. Also slightly panicked at the loss of my workout routines, free time, and tendency of the children to fight like javelinas over the breakfast table, which always gets the day off to a rousing start. But it's coming, regardless of my emotions. In fact, the last day is upon us.

I thank my children's teachers for a great year, and I thank all teachers everywhere for the hard work and emotional energy they put into their calling. I'll say a prayer of gratitude for the completion of this year and a prayer for help in the transitional weeks ahead. Welcome to summer!

Exercise - selfish obsession or healthy habit?

2011-06-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

“ I also don’t understand the attitude that who you are on the inside is all that matters. Obviously our interior landscape is profoundly important, but we are integrated beings; we don’t have to make a choice between interior and exterior. One has a lot to do with the other.” Patti Davis in More Magazine, http://www.more.com/patti-davis-naked-body?page=3. May 30, 2011.

Matthew 6:25 "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?"

My life has been always a bit defined by physical achievement but recently even more so as the pendulum swings from habit to obsession with training for our October marathon. My conscience was pricked when I randomly heard Matthew 6:25 twice in two days and the line 'do not worry about your body' leapt out at me. I had not heard the word 'body' emphasized that way before. I think the author means that we should not worry about our clothing, but the literal warning made me ponder a bit. Do I concern myself with conditioning and fitness beyond what is necessary for good health, thereby robbing my children or my other pursuits of attention and energy?

Oddly, also, there was an article in the Denver Post that same morning about an ultramarathoner who had been crazily pursuing goals and records across the country. He still trains and runs but says he has calmed down a bit, and that he would warn folks to watch their exercising if they feel that they HAVE TO work out, or are obsessing. Balance in everything, of couse. Which led me to think again about my pursuit of athletic fitness and achievement – is it too much?

Have I gone too far? With the running, swimming, triathlon (only one this summer, but still) and strength training? I actually think it is possible, yes. I think I need to relax about it – stay away from the gym this summer – and enjoy myself more while prioritizing the absence of injury. On the other hand, bringing some intensity and risk to my workouts reminds me how much I can achieve – should achieve – in other areas of my life. Prayer, meditation, Spanish, volunteering, WRITING. If I could pursue these things with the dedication with which I pursue running, stretching, swimming, then I could get much farther than I have done.

I was telling my friend during our long run on Saturday (lots of time to talk on a ten-mile run) that I finally feel it would be possible to keep the athletics AND bring intensity to other areas of my life . . .something I have not been able to do in ten years, since Aden was born. I have worked out (with or without intensity, depending on the stage, number of children, health, etc.) but I have never had enough energy to do childrearing / parenting, training, AND . . . I am REALLY looking forward to continuing this training, but to maintaining / bringing about greater balance in my life by focusing that same intensity in other areas. Athletics are now, as they have always been, more a metaphor for real life than actual real life . . . they have teaching power as metaphor and value for shaping our exterior landscape. As long as I maintain the interior with equal dedication, I can face my training routine without too much guilt.

How Much Do I Love U2 . . .

2011-05-23T12:20:00.000-07:00

. . .let me count the ways. I love the anthemic songs that rock floorboards in Invesco Field, the open spirituality, requests for prayers and volunteers sandwiched between songs, the flagrant showmanship and amazing voice of Bono, and the legendary, chiming guitar chords of the Edge. If you ascertained from these first gushing sentences that I recently attended a U2 concert you would be correct. My younger sister and husband and good friend had great seats on Saturday night and the night could have gone on forever as far as I was concerned.

Before running on with more loving anti-criticism about U2, let me say that the opening band, The Fray, was excellent. Their sound definitely held up in the stadium, and they looked good even playing in the sunlit late afternoon. We actually had a clear evening after four days or so of rain, and neither Karen nor I needed the warm coats we had brought with us - we were dancing too hard to feel cold, anyway.

The energy was terrific and most of the people around us stood for the whole two hour show. We didn't stand so much as jump, fist-pump, scream and hug . . .hopefully not obscuring the view of folks behind us. It was truly awesome to experience U2 with my sister for the first time. I have seen the band in the past with my brother John and SIL Carol at Soldier's Field and with my brother James here in Denver, but never before with Karen, who is also a die-hard fan. We're only four years apart so have memories tied to their songs going back to the 80's - a scarily long time ago now. Our favorite joint U2 memory is associated with the song, "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," as we sang it to ourselves one afternoon in Ireland as I got us lost on an extremely long hike. I had taken Karen to Ireland for her graduation from college at Villanova, and we hiked almost every day (which she still holds against me.) Anyway, we did struggle on in the mud for several hours that day, but the memory of singing U2 in Ireland was well worth the price of comfort and a few hours of free time.

We texted all three of our brothers during the show and got enthusiastic and jealous responses from all. (Two of them have already been to a show on this tour). John asked, "have you found what you're looking for?" to which my husband replied, "say, he's sitting right next to you." Upon which John wittily retorted (via text): "on the street with no name?" So it was a family affair with fun had by all. I referred to this in an earlier post - how music can truly bring people together. We all resonate to different chords, songs, or performances and all have unique memories attached to the music, but the shared emotion and energy raise everyone up to a new level. Thanks to the boys from Ireland for a fabulous time!

Rise Up

2011-05-17T04:59:00.000-07:00

I had the great good fortune to visit my brother and his family in Chicago this past weekend. Though the Windy City lived up to its name, and temperatures dropped forty degrees on my arrival, our extended family had a delightful time. We gathered to celebrate the First Communion of my niece and god-daughter, who handled the excitement and attention beautifully. It was a gift to deepen my relationships with my two nephews and two nieces, though I missed my own kiddos and knew that they would want to spend time with their cousins, as well. Something about family ties . . .they pull on even the youngest children. My brother and his wife, Carol, do a great job of showing pictures of relatives and of telling stories about us (for good or evil) so the kids feel they know us well.

My two favorite events from the weekend were running a 5k race with my niece and her mom, my lovely sister-in-law and partner in training for the Chicago marathon, and visiting the charter school where Carol works, Polaris. We ran the cold and blustery race early on Saturday morning, right on Lake Michigan, with a group of parents and students from Julia's elementary school, Old St. Mary's. The students had been training with two of their teachers, who organized the school's participation in the race. What a fabulous idea; to not only recruit kids and parents to run the race, but to actually train them at school so they feel united as a team as well as prepared physically. My niece did a fabulous job, running the whole thing and only stopping at water stations (she is 8 years old). Despite our frozen fingers and windblown hats we had a great time.

The Polaris event took place on Friday afternoon, when the whole school (K - 5) gathered for an assembly called Community Circle. They apparently meet each Monday to discuss goals for the week, and then reconvene Friday afternoon to discuss progress. The youthful and energetic cofounder who led the meeting talked to the kids about both their strengths and some need for improvement, and then he turned it over to the best part of the assembly - annointing new "Light Leaders." A Light Leader is a person who exemplifies the traits that Polaris founders want to see in their school; leadership, integrity, hard work, compassion, optimism. Apparently they had not had a new Light Leader in several weeks so the excitement in the gym was palpable. The first Light Leader to be called out was a teacher's assistant in the kindergarten, and when her name was announced the cheers were deafening. The students stood and she ran two laps around the gym giving high fives to all, while there was no let up in the noise. Carol, my parents and I immediately teared up as the victory laps continued, and I really almost lost it when the young woman mounted a victory podium on the stage and chanted, "Po - lar - is!" to which the kids responded at the top of their lungs, "RISE UP! RISE UP!"

I was so undone that I could hardly compose myself to watch my younger brother (6'3" and not a dancer) attempting to get down with the students as they celebrated the past week's birthdays. My struggle to regain composure was further sabotaged by the announcement of a second Light Leader, a young girl who looked to be in third grade. Her mother was in front of us, wiping her own eyes with pride. We were nearly the only white faces in the crowd, as Polaris draws from a neighborhood in transition, predominantly African-American, which shut down the underperforming public school formerly in the building in favor of this new charter. When the school started, very few of the children could do math or read at grade level, and now both assessments are well over 50%. It was inspiring and tear-jerking to watch the sea of brown faces radiating energy and taking full advantage of this opportunity to shine.

I'm even choked up writing about that assembly. It was an awesome thing to behold a gym full of students so excited and passionate about their school, their teachers, themselves. I wish every student in this country could have a chance to feel that passion for their education and their community. I'd like to send everyone at Polaris a thank you for letting us attend their assembly and best wishes for a great end to the school year. Thanks also to John and Carol and their family for a terrific weekend. Rise up, everyone!

Starting School

2011-05-05T11:55:00.000-07:00

"All one can really leave one's children is what's inside their heads." - Wernher von Braun

My fingers have almost recovered from the death grip put on them by my five-year-old at his kindergarten orientation last night. Alternately clinging to my hand and clamping down on my leg, he peered out at the multitude of children, parents, and teachers gathered to contemplate the requirements and upcoming rewards of kindergarten. I was so proud when he managed to say hello to his teachers with good eye contact and a firm handshake, but that was all the energy he could muster. His worries and excitement must have run him ragged because he slept 12 hours last night and I still had to drag him out of bed in the morning.

In the peaceful lull before the children woke up today, I read through letters from our two sponsored students in Guatemala. We sponsor a lovely young lady who is the same age as our oldest daughter, and a little boy the same age as our middle child. I paused at this sentence from Wendy, who was responding to a long-ago letter of ours explaining Daniel's surgery for tubes in his ears: "I'm sorry about Danny. I hope he can get well soon. With my family, my father had a toothache, and was also one of those trapped when a bus was held up. Thank God nothing really bad happened except for fearing for his life."

My coffee mug hit the table with a thud. I had just barely registered the pain of a toothache in a village without dentistry when I had to imagine being held up on a bus at gunpoint. No wonder Wendy has compassion and faith beyond her years. Her daily routine contains far more than school attendance and homework. Our other student, Henry, mentioned how he has to get up really early because his school is thirty minutes away. He also mentions his disbelief and gratitude for attending this school. The letter, however, was written by his aunt as Henry cannot yet write. I hope this is the year when he receives that gift.

Hard to contrast the full gymnasium and resource-filled classrooms that we visited last night with the realities for many young children around the globe, whose gifts and intelligence are not used or developed. Strange to think that my eight-year-old begged a ride home from school yesterday with a friend because the temperature had dropped a bit and he didn't feel like walking, while Henry walks 30 minutes each way while giving thanks. I am so grateful for the opportunity to send my children to a good school, so grateful for the gift of our resources and for the opportunity to send other children to school, as well. May God bless Henry and Wendy as they put their abilities to work, and may he keep their families safe.

**If you are interested in sponsoring children in Guatemala, please visit www.puravida.org.

Adibooyah

2011-04-29T05:09:00.000-07:00

As I peeled super glue off my fingertips yesterday, I reflected on the humor and irony of family life. I had been trying to mend a broken flower pot,using super glue and a small paint brush. The pot resisted my every attempt, and in my frustration I got a liberal amount of glue on my hands and fingers, across the countertop, even on the faucet handle. Everything I touched became sticky and begrimed. A metaphor for the day? I could only hope not.

After dousing my hands in nail polish remover and paint thinner - undoubtedly taking several years off my life - I at least coated the glue with a shiny shellac of chemicals, which reduced the stickiness. Though I could not feel much through the coating, I could at least write a check, go grocery shopping, and throw the pot away without getting stuck to anything. Despite my frustration, I had to laugh at my idiocy and this reminded me of another laugh-out-loud moment, from our Easter church service, of all places.

There were two such moments during the 10:30 service, one generated by our own 5-year-old comedian, and one by another child. The pastor was telling a story in which the lead character asked of his audience, "It's for you girl, can you hear me?" Not recognizing the rhetorical nature of the question, a young girl near the front answered our pastor, "I can hear you fine!" The 1200 people in the service all chuckled, either because they heard the joke or because everyone else was giggling.

My little guy fussed and squirmed and led his father a merry chase. He put on Rob's sunglasses, ate snacks, stabbed the paper with pencil (too overwrought to draw anything), and sang. His favorite tune was the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's "Messiah," which I had been playing in the car for a few days. The choir did a great job with the Chorus, and we were all listening and singing raptly . . .until the brief pause before the very last notes of the song, when Daniel shouted out his version of the word 'hallelujah' - "adibooyah!" He started softly and crescendoed, so that most people around us just caught the word "Booyah!" I turned to glare at him but just dissolved into laughter. He had on his dad's shades and had two thumbs up with a huge grin on his face.

Sometimes you just have to say, "booyah," especially when your hands are glued together in prayer.

Vulnerable

2011-04-26T05:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve felt physically vulnerable lately, as my stomach went on strike and decided it could not "stomach" corn, chocolate, coffee, nuts, and multiple other substances that I usually prefer. It’s not unusual for a person with celiac disease to have stomach problems, but I am careful about what I eat and so the freefall that I recently experienced is not a common event. It’s happened one or two times before, usually a stomach virus lingers for far longer than normal, then a stressful event or events compounds the problem, and physical activity can either make things worse or provide sanity – or both.

In this most recent episode of about six weeks, I had all of the above factors, and my weight and energy dropped crazily – eight pounds (in six weeks) that I did not intend to let go. Part of the problem this time was a series of intense workout sessions at the gym that I signed up for and enjoyed, but that seemed to take a huge toll. I vaguely remembered, about six weeks in, that one of my doctors had told me not to work out with any intensity for longer than forty or so minutes . . .which I was regularly exceeding. I blocked out a lot of memories from the time of my diagnosis; though it was a huge relief to know what I had (after three years of getting steadily sicker with no answers) I heard a lot of news that was unpleasant. No wheat, gluten, dairy, limited alcohol and sugar, reduce your exercise and oh, by the way, don’t have any more children.

I also recall visiting an internal medicine doctor for a regular physical – just before I got my diagnosis from another doctor’s office. The IM put me on the scale and whistled at the number. He said, “I have so many patients who would just love to have this weight.” I was aghast. I felt so sick and my clothes were falling off of me. For my height and activity level I was underweight – and he was complimenting me! That felt sick and distorted to me, and I never went back.

We all have vulnerabilities and weaknesses, though they may not show. I guess if I look strong and can perform certain acts of strength, I must be strong? To some at the gym perhaps this appears to be the case. But I feel fragile, and occasionally hurt that my expression of vulnerability (and fear and worry) are not taken seriously. It was a good reminder to me to really listen to people around me, to hear their fears and concerns. It is easy to look good on the surface – but we all have wounds underneath. It also needled me into remembering this quote by John Wooden: "Never make excuses. Your friends don't need them and your foes won't believe them."

Cranes Take Flight

2011-04-20T12:42:00.000-07:00

I offer a second update to our school's relief efforts on behalf of Japanese children as our fundraiser ended last week. Our elementary school raised $1884.50 and folded over 1700 cranes - a magnificent outpouring by the children and their families, as well as by the teachers and staff at the school. I was close to tears many times during the week as children brought ziploc bags full of pennies (oh, so hard to count, but certainly cherished!) and crumpled dollar bills from the inner recesses of their piggy banks. Parents wrote checks, generously passed on receiving change, and waited patiently while their offspring spent long minutes selecting the perfect crane. I hope the children - especially the fourth graders who helped to orchestrate the project - feel empowered to help people in distress, whether they are far away or close at hand. I know I feel much more energetic after participating.

To add to the good news, my sister writes that her school in southern California has also folded over 1,000 cranes - and her class alone has folded 500. Their elementary school has raised over $2,000 for Japanese children. I know that we feel united in our efforts and buoyed by the responses in both of our communities. I hope we can do many similar projects together in the future.

My daughter offered this concise opinion of the Crane Project: "It was good." When asked to elaborate she said that she liked selling the cranes the best, though I thought she showed more passion as a teacher of the smaller children (see picture at right). She was thrilled at the kind thank you note from her teacher, who was instrumental in getting this project accomplished, but I could tell that her joy came from winning the approval of the teacher, whom she loves, rather than from completing the act of service. That is fine, I think love is grand motivation, and still hope that the seeds of service are planted somewhere in her consciousness. I want my children to know that helping people is not only possible, but necessary, and gives great joy.

If you want to read about our project online, here is a link: http://denver.yourhub.com/Centennial/Stories/News/Nonprofit/Story~971669.aspx .

Tidings from Nogales

2011-04-06T12:03:00.000-07:00

Maria came up to my shoulder, her bright orange t-shirt leaping out at me despite her small stature. I interviewed her in a halting combination of Spanish and English (her English was better than my Spanish) and tried to jot down notes while balancing in the middle of the bus-depot waiting area. Deported men and women occupied striped bus seats on all sides of us while others milled around the folding card table staffed by young volunteers for No More Deaths(www.nomoredeaths.org) , who wielded cell phones and long lists of people waiting to call relatives in the United States or Mexico. Many had not yet had the chance to tell family members if they were alive or dead.

Maria's story is typical in many ways, but it did not feel typical or trite in any way as I wrote down the events that had befallen her. Her worry, frustration and fear made every stroke of my pen personal and gave her words longevity in my mind and heart. She is nearing 50 years old and has been married for five years to a US Citizen in Delaware, about 15 years older than she. They had tried to adjust her US status but that is difficult today, under our current laws even if one is married to a citizen. Then, disaster struck her family in Puebla, Mexico, and she had to go to them without proper documents.

After her family crisis was resolved, Maria and her brother returned to the border, about 30 hours from her home town. Maria was desperate to be with her husband, who has health issues and relies on her care. Without documents, the siblings joined a group crossing the border on foot. Shortly after they started their journey, they were robbed by cholos, armed bandits. Maria's eyes grew wide as she recalled: "they made us take off all our clothes except for our underwear - it was so embarrassing! Then they made us kneel and put our hands behind our heads. They put a gun behind us and took everything we had. It was terrible." She cried. I did, too.

The group was picked up by Border Patrol and separated. Maria lost track of her brother - she did not see him at the deportation center in Tucson where she was "voluntarily repatriated." That means she agreed to go back to Mexico willingly instead of going to jail in the US. She was taken to Nogales, Mexico, without possessions of any kind. When I met her she was waiting for her turn at the cell phone to call the Mexican Embassy in Tucson and find out information about her brother. She had been able to call her husband, and her family in Puebla, but no one had heard from her brother.

I asked what she was going to do next, and she said she had no idea. "I'm so worried for my husband," she said. My husband was with me at the bus station, and both of us were shaken by Maria's story, just one of hundreds that can be heard in Nogales every week. I felt both lucky and wrong to walk out of the bus station and across the border with him, my life tied up with a bow while hers lay in shambles.

Follow Up

2011-03-25T12:45:00.001-07:00

Some amazing efforts on behalf of Japan require me to follow-up on my post of March 18 (Madness of All Kinds). First, my remarkable sister, a fourth-grade teacher in California, saw my blog post and took the idea of paper-crane-making to her school. Her principal and fellow teachers immediately got behind the idea, and merged it with a fundraiser that they had already planned. When my sister emailed the news to me, I was excited and eager to follow in her footsteps, so I emailed one of my daughter's fourth grade teachers to discuss a similar fundraiser, based on the article that she had brought to school.

Lo and behold, the effort took off - as if on crane's wings. The PTO, principal, and teachers at our school immediately embraced the idea of the fundraiser using paper cranes, which will either be sold or donated back to be sent to the children of Japan. Several parents have come forward to volunteer their services and research possible outlets for our donations. After spring break, the art teacher plans to do a unit on origami for the fourth and fifth grades, allowing my daughter's class to participate in teaching the background information. Amazing. Our home has turned into origami - central as my daughter is so excited to teach us all the fine art of crane-making. We already have 13 birds ready to go. Needless to say, my heart is warmed to the point of boiling over.

On another follow-up note, my youngest son decided not to make a picture for Japan, but to color one for the greeter at CostCo instead. He knew we were headed for CostCo that morning (had to get individually wrapped treats for preschool) and anticipated seeing our favorite greeter, who always says hi and draws smiley faces on our receipts. So D colored in a fabulous picture and when we entered the store I flashed my AmEx photo card and he handed over his artwork. The gentleman was quite surprised. "For me?" he asked. Daniel nodded and explained the coloring scheme before we headed off to do our shopping. On our way out, we encountered the same man, who congratulated D again on being a fine artist and pulled me aside to say, "I've been here for ten years and nobody has ever done anything like that for me before. I am really touched." I nodded a general affirmative, too choked-up to make a reasonable response, and left the store with my artist. He may be a whirlwind but he has a heart of gold, and I am so grateful.

More News

2011-03-22T11:27:00.000-07:00

On Saturday my oldest had a Destination Imagination tournament. For those who don't know, DI is a cross between Jeopardy and Improv, with some planning and orchestration thrown in by long-suffering and enduring team managers (read: volunteer parents). I sat with her team and with the team parents as we killed time between the Instant Challenge and their main performance. We watched other teams go through their routines, chatted idly, and juggled costumes, water bottles, younger siblings. In the confusion I had two simultaneous conversations with fourth-graders: first, "Did you hear that the UN established a no-fly zone over Libya today?" and second, "I'm getting a new puppy this afternoon!" The disconnect still lingers, though I am used to a certain amount of crossed wiring and mixed messages.

Next to the computer where I write we have an electronic picture frame that my husband ingeniously programmed to alternate between family photos, weather, and news. I often sit distracted as diverse images such as my daughter's baby face and family reunions from years ago flash by only to be replaced by headlines such as, "Arab Nations' Dislike for Qaddafi Gives Arabs a Point of Unity," and "Bickering Starts Among NATO Allies over Libya Intervention." Today it's hard to hold this juxtaposition. The news about Libya bruises my heart. I honestly don't know what to think: 'here we go again,' or 'thank goodness we saved those rebels from sure death' or 'how are we going to get out'?

I feel that our country, like many of its citizens, is torn by too many pulled threads of obligation and need. The need is infinite, but our resources are not. Like a mother juggling school routines, Spanish classes, sports practices, volunteer obligations, work, and relationship demands, our country juggles Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Japan, and North Korea - all in addition to the domestic agenda of health care, education, environmental protection, food production, etc. Sometimes the dramatic need outside of our normal lives pulls all attention and resources, and we react jerkily, responding to one crisis after another without constructing a long-term vision for our people at home.

My sister pointed this out as we walked on the beach last month - that every entity needs a vision for its efforts to cohere. She felt that our country might be lacking in a 21st century vision, particularly for its own people. We know we want democracy spread around the world, and that we want to prevent genocide, but what do we want for our people at home? I have no answers, only questions, and hope that if many people have similar questions, we might progress on this vision together. I worry about fourth graders who worry about no-fly zones, and about fourth graders living in no-fly zones. I could only wish that the greatest concern of any child was when to pick up, and what to name, her puppy.

Madness of All Kinds

2011-03-18T08:53:00.001-07:00

My seven-year-old was briefly leading all thirteen teams in our family basketball bracket challenge after the first round of NCAA games. He somehow picked the Louisville loss to Morehead St. - sheer luck, perhaps, but after seeing his wall-to-wall grin I had to offer my congratulations. He's fallen in the standings today, but we cheered him up by saying that at least he's ahead of a few teams. No one likes to be down and out.

The madness on the other side of the world - the horrendous earthquake, tsunami, and related nuclear meltdowns in Japan - remind us even more poignantly of this fact. The magnitude of the disaster is so great, the suffering and anxieties grow at such a rate every day, that I want to look away. Much easier to focus on basketball wins and losses than on radation exposure, tent cities, and food scarcity in Japan.

Jim Wallis wrote about this in an excellent blog post for Sojourners:

"There is no satisfying theological explanation of why such things happen; the earth shifts and the oceans rage. Why here? Why now? Nobody really knows. In a very sad way, these catastrophes bring people together. Around the globe, people have been moved to help. It’s often somebody else’s pain and loss that reminds us of what is important and what is not — and even what it means to be human.

Of course, there is a very human temptation to just turn off the TV, to shut off your heart and your mind, and say that it is all just too much to take in. Yet, the images that are hard to see and the stories that are hard to hear are often the ones that change us most, and indeed they should. As a Christian, I don’t have easy answers to this kind of human suffering, but I believe it breaks the heart of God — and that means it should break our hearts too. We should feel pain when we see others in pain." (http://blog.sojo.net/2011/03/17/we-must-pray-and-act-for-japan/)

So I'll keep watching, donating to the Red Cross, and discussing the news with my children. My daughter is doing a reading unit on Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes for school, and she cut out an article from our paper this morning which described the efforts of Denver school students to make origami paper cranes to send to students in Japan after the tsunami. Hopefully she can get a similar effort started at our local elementary school. My little guy walked the big kids to their school this morning, through a lovely inch of spring snow, and when I commented that it was also snowing in Japan, where many people were homeless, his brow furrowed. "That's not good," he said. "I am going to make a picture for Japan." I told him I thought it was an excellent idea.

Long after the NCAA tourney is over, the world will continue to offer random crazy and shocking events. It's hard to look at the madness, but I do agree that it's important. Hopefully we can strengthen each other as we look together, and act together in support of those who really need it.

Turning 40

2011-03-13T14:44:00.000-07:00

I rounded the corner of the sushi restaurant last Friday and ran into that mingled best-case / worst-case scenario; a table full of smiling faces, each one accompanied by a drink and balloon (a special "Forty! Forty!Forty!" balloon over one conspicuously empty chair) and a surprise rendition of Happy Birthday in front of the completely full restaurant. Actually, I can't remember if they sang or just said "surprise" because at that moment I was a little lost in the fog of anxiety that hits whenever I am the center of attention. Later someone asked if I had truly been surprised, because my reaction was a bit "demure." I assured her that I was completely shocked and the correct description of my response would probably be "deer in the headlights."

I had thought I was going to dinner with one amazing friend, a happy occasion in itself, but ended up dining with ten additional thoughtful, joyful and sneaky pals, all of whom were happy to usher me into a new and slightly scary decade. After a rousing dinner conversation, several shots, and a delicious gluten - free cupcake, a subset of our group headed out dancing. I was thankful for my short-sleeved shirt and for the long jeans which hid my cotton tie-dye socks. I admit to only a faint knowledge of 21st-century dance music, but we were the lucky beneficiaries of a DJ who played Bon Jovi, Journey and AC/DC along with Rihanna, Usher, and Gaga.

Grateful for the ankle strength to bend and twist (a little) on the dance floor, and for the amazing friends and family in my life, I think I have finally finished mourning my spent early decades. One high school friend called the big 4 - 0 "the end of the beginning," and in fact, it feels a bit like that. In reading Ron Rolheiser's book The Holy Longing ( http://www.amazon.com/Holy-Longing-Search-Christian-Spirituality/dp/0385494181)I came across a statement by Alice Miller from her essay "The Drama of the Gifted Child." She says that we are all gifted children, and that it's only at mid-life that we realize, "What we have dreamed for our lives can never be. Thus we have a choice: We can spend the rest of our lives angry, trying to protect ourselves against something that has already happened to us, death and unfairness, or we can grieve our losses, abuses and deaths and, through that, eventually attain the joy and delights that are in fact possible for us."

I don't have too many losses, abuses or deaths to grieve at this point in my life, more the knowledge that the second half of life is sure to include more of these. I do have some dreams to let go of and mourn. I'm not published, I didn't/don't have the patience and wherewithal to raise the fourth child that I always imagined for our family, and I'm a far-from-perfect mother to the three amazing kids that I have. But I did feel validated by Miller's statement, and I have taken some time to recognize these losses - real or perceived - and mourn them for a while. Then, when an amazing evening like Friday's surprise party came along, I had plenty of space to fill with love, gratitude, and recognition of my blessings. Many thanks to my friends, husband, children, parents, brothers and sisters for helping me achieve the dreams that I have achieved and for supporting me with joy and hope in the coming new decade. I'll be ready for that big FIFTY balloon in about ten years. . . .

Consecration

2011-03-08T13:14:00.000-08:00

"Baptism consecrates us and consecration is a conscriptive rope that takes us to where we would rather not go, namely, into that suffering that produces maturity." - Ronald Rolheiser, The Holy Longing: The Search for a Christian Spirituality

I read that passage during my lunch hour at the Museum of Nature and Science yesterday and went into an underlining frenzy, no doubt startling the guests dining nearby. Rolheiser (www.ronrolheiser.com) explains his concept in detail, noting that consecration "means to set aside, to displace from ordinary usage, to derail from normalcy" . He offers the example of a pedestrian witnessing a mugging right in front of him, or a family on the way to dinner slamming on the brakes as a catastrophic car accident occurs right in their path. These folks are now consecrated and conscripted to act by their awareness, their proximity, and their values; as Rolheiser puts it, "your perfectly legitimate agenda has to be suspended, not because it is wrong, but because something higher has literally usurped your freedom".

We all want to think we would act quickly and heroically in those instances, that we would instantly respond to the need of the victim, and yet history shows us that the majority of bystanders refrain from getting involved. Like the priest and the Levite in the story of the Good Samaritan, we have our own agendas, our own well-thought-out reasons for absenting ourselves from a crime scene, an accident, an argument. I realize that I have been consecrated a few times in the past, for smaller incidents, and I have evaded my conscription. I would like to try to build up my consecration muscles, so that I will not fail in the future.

I saw inspiring examples of women and mothers who were consecrated to action in the film "9500 Liberty", which I viewed this past Sunday. (Visit http://www.9500liberty.com/). After Prince William County,VA, passed a law that required police to check a person's documents if they showed "probable cause" of being undocumented, many persons of color left, others retreated from public life, and the local economy and housing market pitched into the doldrums. Stunned by the hatred on one person's blog, and by the terrible results for families who left and families who stayed, several brave mothers joined a coalition to fight back against the resolution, which was eventually defeated. They risked their reputation and personal safety to testify in board meetings, and to start their own blog countering the hateful messages already online, but they decided to do what was right.

I hope I would act like these mothers and others who stood up for love and acceptance in the face of hatred, fear, and anger. Fortunately I am in training for consecration; I am a mother. Rolheiser points out - and I agree with him - that the family home is a training ground for parents, who must learn how to give up their own agendas, goals, and comfort for the sake of their children. He notes that by the time the children have all grown up, the parents will hopefully - and finally - be mature. I believe that is true in general, and hope that it is true for me. I know it has been difficult for me to give up my personal 'legitimate' agendas for those of my children and family. I know that I am sometimes resentful and self-absorbed, but I believe I am making some progress. I would love to know if readers had any examples of being consecrated by certain events in their lives, either through religious ties or through proximity or family relationships. Blessings, Laura.

Visiting

2011-03-02T13:51:00.000-08:00

"Mom, I missed you. Nobody told the boys when to go to bed and I couldn't clear off the kitchen table." My daughter welcomed me home from a three-day trip to Los Angeles with these words, heartfelt and practical. I welcomed her sentiments but felt a bit reduced to my housekeeping and 'strict parent' functionality, especially after three days of eating out, sleeping in, adult-only conversation and movie-watching.

My sister lives only two blocks from the beach in Redondo Beach, about twenty minutes' drive from where we attended High School, in Palos Verdes. It is a gorgeous segment of Southern California, bordered by the Pacific Ocean on the west and the Pacific Coast Highway on the East (yes, that is quite a narrow strip!) When I ran on the Esplanade or walked on the beach the air was redolent with ghosts of old friends: playing volleyball, bodysurfing, suntanning, and jogging. My brother, who joined us from his home in Boston, recalled his first hand-in-hand walk on the beach, which happened just at our location.

The beach crowd was a bit sparse in the last weekend of February as low temps hit the 40's and rain poured two nights out of three. But this clearing out gave way to sparkling azure skies, views of snowcapped peaks and rippling ocean skin like millions of green migrating geckos, as viewed from the air. Even better than the scenery and the moisture in the air was the company. I had the chance to compare book notes with my sister and take in two Oscar-nominated films, just before the actual Oscars. The airport actually had miniature model Oscars on display in the giftshop.

My brother caught us up on the antics of his baby, who walked fluidly for the first time over the weekend. We relished gluten-free soup as only three genetically affected siblings can, caught up on family chatter and planned for our summer rendezvous on Cape Cod. Blessings abounded, and though I love life in perpetually snowcapped Colorado it was a bit hard to bring my mind back to childrearing and cleaning the kitchen table. As long as open arms await me on both legs of my journey, I'm a happy women.

Hope Where You Sit

2011-02-17T11:35:00.001-08:00

Outside the confines of my suburban home and tree-filled neighborhood there lies a crazy world. A world where governments fall with abandon and reporters risk their lives to cover the news. A world where two billion people live in deepest poverty, earning less than one dollar per day. A world in which the climate changes yearly, racking up ever-higher average temperatures and record rain or snow falls, while other areas suffer 100-year droughts. When we dare to peek our heads out of our suburban turtle-shells, where do we find hope?

A quote from Philip Berrigan pointed me in a new direction. I heard it yesterday in Engaging Spirituality: "For Christians, hope is where your ass is!" For Berrigan, hope could be found only in engaging the issues of our time and dealing with them fisthand; fighting poverty in the inner cities, fighting the build-up of weapons at a nuclear weapons facility, tending to the prisoners in prison. He made me think about where my derriere resides most of the time - on an office chair in my kitchen or in a Toyota minivan. Not sure which place is less likely to spring forth with a fount of hope.

Actually, my body usually resides in a location where it can function for my family, and they are a source of hope for me. I serve them (often grudgingly, it's true) and give up my desires and goals for their betterment. This kind of service is rewarding, but since I ultimately want them to love service and to be a better servant than I am, we should probably ALL be out where the need is greatest. Three cute little tushes and two bigger ones could all be in a soup kitchen, senior center or day laborer's site together.

It's a struggle to know where to place my ass for the sake of hope; it's hard enough to fit it into my favorite pair of jeans. But hope is a valuable commodity and if we want to face the realities of this world and live a relevant life we have to engage and we have to have hope. Right now my rear end is glued to the kitchen chair and there's not a whole lot of higher energy around here, so it might just be time to move.

Failing Better

2011-02-09T12:16:00.000-08:00

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” - Samuel Beckett

I am not an artist. Never had any pretensions of being able to draw or paint; putting science diagrams on the whiteboard was the limit of my artistic ability as a teacher. My children praise me every time I produce a piece of paper with colors on it, but that’s because they like the time we spend together – and, let’s face it – they still idolize me. I’m almost out of time there . . .but I’m always my own harshest critic so nothing they say could make me feel less adequate in the art department. Which sentiment made last Saturday’s escape to “Paint and Sip” quite an adventure.

The principle of this new type of outing is for a group of friends to come together and enjoy a glass of wine, some art instruction and all manner of art supplies in a painting frenzy. Most of our group tended to overlook the instruction and paint away furiously at colors and scenes of our own mad design. I fell into this mindset; after painting a lovely background I threw some dark brown spots in a corner that failed to come off with additional water or brushing. So I turned the canvas upside down and moved from a forest scene to a cliff / ocean design. I had the misfortune of sitting next to two good artists, and when people roamed around to look at other people’s paintings (shocking, I know, I was not prepared for that) they oohed and aahed over my neighbors’ and stopped speechless at mine. Some of the comments I got: “oh, that’s a boat!”, “is that actually land over there?”, “aren’t you having fun.”

I did enjoy the process and the companionship but was frustrated by my lack of results. How hard could it be to paint a cliff and an ocean? Pretty darn hard, as it turns out. Fortunately, my forgiving family greeted my painting at the door with appreciative whistles and outbursts like “How did you DO that?” which I chose to interpret as positive feedback. My boys even offered to have it hang in their room, which was sweet, though every time I go in there to vacuum I am tempted to throw it in the closet.

But no! My point in this rambling is that for the first time in my life I get Beckett’s quote. It’s not only OK to fail – it’s expected. And if I go painting and sipping again, I’ll most likely fail again, but that will be OK, as long as I ‘fail better.’ I may not be aging gracefully but I am at least learning that we should not do anything based on expected results. Cleaning house, writing, teaching, raising children - pretty much all of my activities fall in this category. I can’t worry about the results, but only rest in the knowledge that I will try, and I will fail. Maybe eventually I will fail better.

Unintended Consequences

2011-02-02T14:05:00.000-08:00

The outdoor temperature was – 17 degrees this morning. Even with all the windows shuttered, curtains drawn and doors locked tight, cool drafts feathered in from under the stove and slid cold fingers forth from sliding glass doors. I was so grateful to be in a warm house with functioning pipes that I did not even mind the drafts. In fact, the frigid air reminded me of a story I heard at lunch several weeks ago, and reminded me to welcome a bit of outside air.

Back in the 1960’s builders were working on building airtight homes for the first time. They planned to eliminate the leaks and reduce heating costs – admirable goals. But they were well into planning and even building the first few models before some reputable builders noticed a problem – if there was no air coming into the house, the furnace would have nothing to burn. Fires need to burn oxygen, and in older homes this oxygen came directly from leaky windows, doors and faulty joists. When homes were sealed, builders needed to devise a new method of bringing oxygen to the furnace – via air piped directly from the outside. They also needed to return the exhaust specifically to the outside. Without these precautions, people could actually die from inhalation of fumes or, actually, from suffocation. My lunch companion thought he could remember that several people actually did die from these circumstances, but I can’t find these stories to verify them. Anyway, I’m grateful for my modern furnace and for my leaks.

Another - more humorous - unintended consequence has brightened up the last two days of staying home with the children. (School was closed for “extreme cold” if you can believe it. I am sure that when we were in school it was only cancelled for flash floods, hurricanes or multiple feet of snow.) We’ve been home together, talking, yelling, crying and singing for the past two days. Turns out my four-year-old has quite a song repertoire. He learned to sing only in the past year, and due to the lateness of this development his collection is peppered with dance music from his siblings, old favorites of his parents, and the soundtracks to various cartoons. When he strings his favorite phrases together it goes something like this:

“Row, row, row your boat . . .and take me down to the Paradise City where the grass is green and the girls are pretty! Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way . . .and tonight’s gonna be a good night, tonight’s gonna be a good, good night . . . when you spin my head right round, right round and you go downtown.”
I’m so proud, and happy to be entertained by unintended consequences rather than snuffed out by them.

Unexplored Territory

2011-01-27T11:46:00.000-08:00

“Fear grows out of the things we think; it lives in our minds. Compassion grows out of the things we are, and lives in our hearts.” – Barbara Garrison

I’ve been thinking a lot about fears and happiness in the past few days. I read Mary Karr’s excellent memoir Lit, which discusses her journey through alcoholism and depression into happiness (http://www.amazon.com/Lit-Memoir-Mary-Karr/dp/0060596988). Then Dr. Richard Friedman’s article in the New York Times spoke to me with this title: “Looking Within for Happiness? It May Not Be There” (http://www.denverpost.com/search/ci_17170656#ixzz1Bz9s4VaA) The authors share a theme: get out of your own head and pay attention to how you feel. Easier said than done, of course, especially when your mental hideout is well-furnished and extremely comfortable.

My mental residence is cozy and well-worn. There are skid marks on the floor from frantic thought processing or rapid turnarounds, and two cushy armchairs labeled “what next?” and “what if?” sit right in front of the screen where I replay events of yesterday or screen possible tomorrows. The air is a bit stale as the windows have jammed and not a lot of fresh breezes get inside, but it is warm up there. Asking me to move out of my head is like asking me to go abroad for a year in a dangerous place. Taking up residence with my feelings and emotions is like trekking off to Siberia without an overcoat – or Death Valley without a shade umbrella.

I can’t get away from the signposts that keep littering up my literature, however. They all more or less point to the same three objectives:

1. Give up the illusion of control. Acknowledge a higher presence and spend time listening to it.
2. Practice gratitude often and at length.
3. When you hear direction from the higher presence or your own inner voice, act on it.

These practices look different for different people though most also add the element of community support to their list. As I re-read the list, I definitely agree with the practice of gratitude; as soon as I spend any time focusing on my blessings I really do feel much better and the emotion seems to spring from my insides – largely unexplored territory but fortunately still functioning. My children have broken me from my illusion of control, but I continue to plan, list, calendar and organize as if my powers are intact. Meditation and quiet remain lofty goals that I practice only once a week if I am lucky, but I am less likely to pooh-pooh them than I used to be, especially since a friend told me that napping during meditation was perfectly legitimate.

So I’ll sign off writing today, as it’s time to turn off my brain and sit with my emotions. I don’t know what I’ll find in this new territory but I’m feeling brave today. Wish me luck.

Weighing in on the Tiger Mother

2011-01-24T11:50:00.000-08:00

"I have the opposite problem with Chua. I believe she’s coddling her children. She’s protecting them from the most intellectually demanding activities because she doesn’t understand what’s cognitively difficult and what isn’t." - David Brooks, NY Times Opinion January 17, 2011 (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/18/opinion/18brooks.html)

David Brooks' editorial was a concerto to my ears after the din of discordant arguments surrounding Amy Chua's new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, and titillating excerpt of the same in the Wall Street Journal.. The topic is a lightning rod for parental controversy: are we too easy on our children or is she too tough? Should we demand excellence from our children, force them to practice and do homework, and prioritize achievements over social activities like sleepovers and playdates? The article, and Chua's stories about her demands on her children (and their resultant successes) have fanned the ever-hot flames of parenting guilt or superiority.

Mr. Brooks argues that if Chua wants her children to succeed at the most difficult and intricate challenges in life she would be emphasizing exactly those activities that she depreciates in her household. For example: "Practicing a piece of music for four hours requires focused attention, but it is nowhere near as cognitively demanding as a sleepover with 14-year-old girls. Managing status rivalries, negotiating group dynamics, understanding social norms, navigating the distinction between self and group — these and other social tests impose cognitive demands that blow away any intense tutoring session or a class at Yale." I have to agree. From my perspective it is much easier to plug away in solitude at a difficult assignment than it is to solve problems as a group, or negotiate difficult social status ladders. For children, especially, learning how to interact is critical for future success - and I would argue - happiness. The unstructured segments of the school day, otherwise known as lunch and recess, can be far more treacherous than the calm sanctums of math class or reading.

If human happiness is based on relationships with others and not one-off (or even repeated) achievements, then Chua is putting the em-phas-is on the wrong syl - lab -le. I am sure it is wonderful to play the piano at Carnegie Hall and that the achievement and the memories of that experience will create a warm glow in both child and parents for a long time to come. In my experience, though, one triumph usually leads to expectations, even the requirement, of others. How does one improve upon a musical solo at Carnegie Hall? If connections with other people, humility and gratitude are keys to happiness, it seems to me that achieving individual attention on such a prestigious stage might actually become an obstacle later in life. Not necessarily a problem I grant you, but neither is it a slam dunk for success.

I have never performed a musical solo on any big stage, but I have attended an Ivy League school, and attained a little athletic success at a young age. These achievements (performed for my internal tiger and not for my parents), did not provide me with the tools I needed to succeed in my relationships or to look for my vocation in life (although I learned a lot about what I did not want in my life after living through those experiences). While reading about Chua and her daughters I was most impressed with her youngest daughter, who pushes for what she wants to do (tennis) and emphasizes playdates and sleepovers as favored activities. She seems to have a good head on her shoulders and I eagerly await the release of her book.

Consistent Foolishness

2011-01-19T12:00:00.000-08:00

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Emerson left off “and mothers.” Throughout my kids’ infancies, toddlerhoods and middle childhood I have clung to routines and their promise of consistency. Largely these rigid structures have been my salvation and provided a hand- and toe-hold in times when I was clinging to my sanity. Yet I know my children need to learn to deal with a certain amount of flexibility, and when they have been presented with opportunities in the past they have generally risen to the occasion. Their mother is the one with the problem.

Who struggled most with the move from bottle to cup, from diaper to underwear, from napping to twelve-hour waketime? Yes, I admit, I could not make those changes until I was ready. The kids are lucky I made it past two naps per day and a 6:30 bedtime. They’re still probably in bed longer than any other children I know. (“Sleep is important”, my mother reassures me. “I always put you kids to bed very early.”) At least we know my tendencies are partly genetic.

The latest change in our household structure was made by me under extreme duress. Monday morning, after the latest in a never-ending series of fights over what TV show to watch, I finally lost my temper. My seven-year-old had reluctantly turned off his NOVA show on earthquakes and my four-year-old was griping about the time he lost to his "Pink Panther" show on Netflix when I laid down the new law, “No morning TV, EVER.“ This edict had been some time in the making, as my daughter stopped watching TV in the morning six months ago (too busy sleeping in and/or taking care of her guinea pig to watch) and my son long outgrew the morning grouchiness that used to require a TV transition period of about 20 minutes.

The boys screamed, I ranted, and a fear grew in my routine-oriented heart that our mornings would be messy and anxiety-filled from that day forward. Instead, I have been pleasantly surprised by the harmony and quiet that reigned over our breakfast table for the past two days. The boys seemed relieved that I took this contentious issue off their plates. I am thrilled at the change and want to bash myself in the head with the remote for not making it sooner. I’d like to keep going and take the TV out of the house entirely, but I’d have to make that change over the objections of my husband, so I’ll let him cling to his own foolish consistency a little longer.

Bad Austen

2011-01-16T15:38:00.001-08:00

Hi all -
Just wanted to let you know that I went into a Jane Austen dream phase after Christmas vacation and - after reading Pride and Prejudice, Emma, and viewing several movies inspired by those books, I entered a "Bad Austen" contest. If you are interested, please click on this link and vote if you feel so inclined: http://badausten.com/sarah-and-katherine.
Thanks!
Laura

Confronting Violence, part 2

2011-01-13T10:38:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I signed a petition from CredoAction and posted it to my Facebook page status. The posting read, in part:

"Tell Sarah Palin: Violent threats have consequences.
act.credoaction.com"

Four people "liked" my status and one individual met me at the school playground and thanked me for putting the message out there, as she was desperate to do something in the wake of the violence in Tucson. One of my good friends did not like the posting,and pointed out that Mrs. Palin's map with crosshairs was not a likely motivator for the shooter in Tucson. He noted, like many commentators, that the tragic event was used as a justification to attack Mrs. Palin by those who oppose her politically.

There is truth in what he said. I admit to being so sad and outraged by the shooting that when I read Credo's email at 6:00am the following morning I signed and posted it without stopping to think too clearly about the message. I dislike Palin's rhetoric, think her word choices are sloppy at best and dangerous at worst, but one person / party is not to blame for the violence in our country. There have been violent images and suggestive language on the part of the left and middle of the political divide, as well, and my lack of familiarity with those examples does not give me leave to blame one, obvious target. (Though an individual who runs for president, writes a book and has a television show puts themselves in the way of being obvious).

Referring back to my post of yesterday, I have recognized over the past ten years that I could be capable of violence. In the wrong situation, with triggers of hunger, fear, anger, exhaustion or illness, I could probably commit violent acts. Maybe not. I don't know, but I'm no longer protected by childlike naivete. Growing up sheltered by loving parents, given all the material things that I needed and untested by provocation, I did not believe I was capable of violence. I thought it would take incredible circumstances to provoke one individual to hurt another. Now, I really believe that we are all capable of violent acts. It would not take even a perfect storm of events to break through our moral and cultural resolve. We need to help each other to "breathe peace in and out."

I am helped by friends and family and by my own expectation and fierce desire to protect and be a good example to my children. I am also aided by the current parenting culture which frowns upon spanking or any physical punishment. We need this type of supportive framework for the country as a whole. We should resist the invitation to use violent words, images and metaphors, refusing to give our implicit blessing to real-life acts.

If Americans could all recognize how close each of us is to violence and how hard we must work to choose a different path I think we would respond differently to tragedies like the shooting in Arizona. We would not be surprised and shocked. We would recognize that this situation will always occur when guns are available, when mentally ill people aren't treated, when people are isolated, afraid, angry. We must create a culture where violence is not acceptable, where weapons are not easy to find, where citizens are taught how to feel anger without acting on it, and supported in their life circumstances. These steps are hard. They will take a long time. Now seems like a good time to start.

Confronting Violence

2011-01-12T12:11:00.000-08:00

“We can learn to feel the anger that belongs with the experience of injustice and evil and find other ways to express it.” - Jane Vennard, Embracing the World: Praying for Justice and Peace

I avoid looking at the DVD, “The Hurt Locker,” which came from Netflix a few days ago. I placed it first on the TV stand, then off to the side where I could not see it, then back on the other side of the stand, the side farthest away from where I usually sit. I agreed that we should place it in our queue because I heard great things about the film and admire the director, the first woman to win an Oscar for directing. It addresses a situation that I should understand, that I should be made to confront. After all, there are men and women fighting in Iraq just so I can have the privilege of deciding whether or not I want to watch. But I find it painful to watch violence on TV, or read about it in the paper, and I have to be in a strong, brave mood in order to put such a DVD in the player and press the “play” button.

This aversion I have to violence includes the Nerf guns that my children love. I don’t think that playing with Nerf guns makes a child “bad” or violent, but I just don’t like to hear one say “You’re dead” to the other. I can’t stomach that possibility. I let the guns out on special occasions, then carefully collect all the shiny orange Nerf bullets under the cover of bedtime darkness and hide the weapons and the ammo until the next occasion.

What troubles me the most is the violence inside me, the anger that bubbles up when I am exhausted and my child screams in my face or hurts a sibling and then laughs maniacally. These occasions aren’t frequent, but they're not an aberration. My true self has a violent side. Fortunately for me I’ve been raised with every material and emotional advantage. The absence of hunger, fear, and extreme stress gives me the resources to turn aside the violence or mutate it into screaming “Aghhh!” at the top of my lungs, or slamming my bedroom door shut as I give myself a timeout, or throwing something out of the open door. But I hate that it’s there. I feel a “heightened security alert” against myself whenever my temper flares up, and feel like a code orange has been leveled against me by the supreme authorities.

Recently I have been reading spiritual books, which used to turn me off but now appeal to me. In my current book, Embracing the World: Praying for Justice and Peace, Jane Vennard quotes a poem by one of her students, named Marie. It says:

“I know that when I deny and repress my shadow
I project onto others
And become violent against them.”

I feel this to be true. If I can own my violent side and forgive myself for its existence, then I will be far more merciful and understanding of others. I will also be more able to challenge my emotion into harmless, or potentially even useful reactions, instead of actions which cause anger, alarm or frustration. I don’t think I will ever like violence, nor should I. It will always be difficult for me to watch movies like “The Hurt Locker.” Yet acknowledging a problem and opening it to the light will always be better than hiding it, or hiding from it. If we could have such a conversation as a country, understanding how certain words and actions can lead to violence, perhaps we could better understand our collective goals for peace and how to make them a reality.

Resolutions

2011-01-04T12:06:00.000-08:00

A New Year's resolution is something that goes in one Year and out the other. ~ Anonymous

Did you make any New Year’s resolutions? I had largely given them up, but this year I broke down and made two. First, I need to clean the pantry. The boxes are covered with spilled oatmeal, my rice is four years old, and my cookbook pile collapsed long ago, but those problems are easily overlooked. My big issue is that I can no longer find my dark chocolate in its dark recesses. I hide my stash of 70% cacao away from the seeking eyes of children and husband, but to my dismay the clutter in my pantry has now hidden the after-dinner supply from me, as well. I actually have some confidence that I might carry out this resolution, given my nightly craving for sugar.

My second resolution is to say “yes” more to my husband. This includes all crazy schemes and irrational plans that he might concoct. My intention was inspired by a lovely relative who hosted our party of sixteen for dinner last week. Over turkey she told me and my cousin that one ingredient in her recipe for marital success (she’s been married for 42 years) is to say “yes” whenever possible, without eye-rolling, logical rebuttal, or outright laughter. For example, she had returned home late that afternoon from playing nine holes of golf with her spouse. One might understandably push back on the idea of playing golf in forty degree weather on an afternoon when you are hosting dinner for sixteen, but she gave it a whirl. They had a good time, dinner was excellent, and her example was timely and perfect.

So when my husband decided to bring the heavy wooden corn-hole games in the back of the minivan just so we could have a short tournament in the Dinosaur Museum parking lot, what did I say? Did I roll my eyes at the thought of carting them all over the foothills that afternoon for twenty minutes of diversion? Well . . . I thought about it. But then I took a big breath, swallowed my objections, and said “OK, as long as they don’t squash my cake.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement, I grant you, but somewhat of a “yes.” We did have fun with the cornhole game, though it was a bit brisk in the late afternoon and half the group watched from the warmer comfort of their cars.

This advice works the other way, as well, and our hostess gave an example of her husband’s support. Some years ago, when her children were still young, she decided to accompany her sister on a five week trek of the Himalayas. When they talked it over, her husband was supportive, and after making all of the necessary childcare arrangements she took off for Nepal with a group of women. What a cool gift, to be able to say “yes” to your partner. It makes me want to come up with crazy schemes just to test Rob’s acceptance. Of course, after reading this blog he will probably do the same . . .I’ll get back to you on the success of this resolution!

Holiday Reflections

2011-01-03T13:16:00.000-08:00

The man at the check in counter looked up from his register in surprise when I said, “seven adults and five children, please.” He surveyed our crowd of three cousins, two cousins’ wives, two aunts/great-aunts, and five children under the age of ten. “Are they all related to you?” he asked. I replied that they were. “Then you are really lucky,” he said as he bent his head to swipe my card. For a minute I thought he meant that our volume would get us a discount on admission to the rec center, but then I realized he meant just what he said – I was really lucky to have such a large family, and to have them all with me at the holidays.

We had eleven people from my husband’s side of the family with us last week; sixteen of us organized into our normal-sized suburban home. We used ten beds, good-naturedly shared germs, stories, and toothpaste, played countless games of cards (all of which I lost), and contributed many pounds of glass bottles to recycling (I hope the recycling pick-up does not judge us too harshly for this week’s contents!)

Best of all, everyone helped. Rob’s cousin made an entire dinner by himself, Rob picked up after countless meals, moms cared for their kids and husbands, aunts vacuumed, swept, and put away dishes, grandparents watched children as the adults skied, and everyone spent hours assembling Lego sets and playing board games with my delighted children and their cousins. Despite some normal relief after the last departures, we all felt a big let-down when folks left. We rattle around in the house, which seems too big and too clean now. (It is a relief to see the back of the refrigerator, again, however, and to be done with the ten loads of laundry that were waiting.)

I had a really wonderful week, despite running point on dinners, towels and scheduling. Highlights for me were the few runs of skiing we managed between traffic jams, playing Solitaire with four superior players, watching three generations of boys (and men) working on rockets and Pinewood Derby cars, and dancing the night away with my family on New Year’s Eve. The image of Rob and his cousin dancing the left-right-forward-back steps to Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” will stay with me much longer than my margarita and champagne hangover.

So we wish everyone a most happy beginning to this 2011. Though the start of a new calendar year may be meaningless to the universe at large, we hang our calendars to it, and measure the rhythm of our lives to the turning of its pages. I can think of no better way to start than with dancing, laughter, and clean laundry.

Twelve Days of Christmas - Rewrite

2010-12-17T11:28:00.000-08:00

It's been done before, I know, but I could not resist borrowing the framework of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" to express our crazy pre-holiday week. When I say my family "gave" me each item in the list below, I know you will understand that to mean, "demanded," "requested," or accidentally "inspired" a response from me. Holiday wishes to everyone; may you be frequently caffeinated, often caught by hilarity, and full of good spirits (and I do mean of the alcoholic kind.) One note: this really sounds much better when sung!

On the first day of Christmas my family gave to me, a football in the Christmas tree.

On the second day of Christmas my family gave to me, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the third day of Christmas my family gave to me, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas my family gave to me, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas my family gave to me five toilet bowl rings. Four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas my family gave to me, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas my family gave to me, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas my family gave to me, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas my family gave to me, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas my family gave to me, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my family gave to me, eleven screaming carols, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my family gave to me, twelve stacks of thank-yous, eleven screaming carols, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.

What's Your Story

2010-12-13T12:30:00.000-08:00

"We tell stories in order to live." - Joan Didion

"Tell me the story, mom, that says 'there was a little boy who lived in a city . . .'" That's the way our bedtime begins now, with my youngest son requesting the unique story of his adoption from Guatemala. We have told his story through various picture books and memorabilia since he came to us almost three years ago, but the newest version of his story is different. My latest effort was produced via simple word processing, without pictures or embellishment of any kind. What it does have, that the earlier versions did not, is emotion. Tough emotion, like his legitimate fears, worries and sorrow upon leaving a home and people that he loved for a brand new place where he did not know a soul, did not understand the language, and could not be understood. In the past I have glossed over those pieces in the interest of 'sparing' his current feelings. I was not being truthful in my storytelling, and the center of my story knew it. No wonder he recognizes and likes the current edition much better.

I've heard that we all need to figure out our individual narratives in order to make sense of our lives. I've been trying to do this with increasing difficulty as shifting jobs, motherhood, and the swift passage of time unravel my particular narrative thread and leaving me grasping for continuity and meaning. I realized as I wrote the emotions into my youngest son's story that I was leaving out the feelings (particularly the bad ones) when I told my own history. Events do not comprise the entirety of my life; just retelling the stages and steps of my history (high school, college, jobs, etc.) removes its uniqueness. I needed the emotion: did I hate college? Love the first job? Rebel against the possessive boyfriend? How did I react and how did my emotional response help to dictate the next move? What we learn, how we choose our path . . .the deeper, murkier stuff of our pasts makes them interesting.

Maya Angelou says, "there is no greater burden than carrying an untold story." Perhaps that is the reason why 175,000 blogs start every day. And we must not confine our stories to the proper, the glorious, the successful - even if we have all of these shiny elements in our narratives. The favorite stories are always of the hero who gets knocked down - perhaps repeatedly - only to get up again and again. We cannot empathize with a protagonist who does not feel fear, who is loved by everyone she meets, or who achieves success in every venture. Why would we tell our own stories this way? I have started re-telling my own story (in my head, only, fortunately for you) and emphasizing the emotions that I felt, what I responded to or rejected, and how that dictated my next steps. I find that tracing my history in this manner makes it far more meaningful and far more coherent - "ugly" stuff and all. Now I can teach all my kids how to tell their own stories, and make sure they include all the right elements.

The Wall

2010-12-06T07:25:00.000-08:00

Last week I had the privilege of watching a presentation by Dan Millis of the Sierra Club Borderlands campaign. Dan presented a film called "Wild vs. Wall" about the Border Wall and its cost to border ecology, as well as the monetary cost to taxpayers. You can find more information at www.sierraclub.org/borderlands.

One of the lines that Dan mentioned in his presentation was "there are nearly 2000 miles from Friendship to Hope." This refers to the fact that the wall is being built through Friendship Park near Tijuana and San Diego; the promise for better relations between two countries broken by its construction. Almost 2000 miles away, in Brownsville, Texas, the wall is being built in a park named Hope. Ironic, sad and expensive in terms of dollars, loss of life, and loss of faith that we can work together. I tried to write a poem that lived up to some of this thought, and here it is.

The Wall

Nearly two thousand miles from Friendship to Hope,
The Wall rises in cancer clusters of concrete and steel.
A dividing line between compassion and fear,
Constructed in borderlands from California to Texas
and in our dark interior spaces.

Where once porous membrane allowed ebb and flow
Rusty barriers bisect no man’s land that selectively holds
Back water, rattlers and big cats while
The siren call of dollars filters through, drawing people
Over or under, a delay of five minutes in their active transport.

Then five days’ dusty journey from Nogales to Tucson,
Broken feet stumble on rocks in the darkness as
Two thousand years ago refugees trudged
The same distance from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
There was no room for them, either.

What journey ends well that starts with a wall?
Can it close only in the cave of a detention cell or
A sweaty deportation bus?
White sanded bones in the desert or sterile hospital room;
There are no wise men here.

Wonder and Gratitude

2010-11-23T12:15:00.000-08:00

“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” G.K. Chesterton

Thanksgiving comes again this week, carrying its yearly reminder to be grateful for health, family, friends, and well-being. Each year I attempt to instill gratitude in my children, frantically wedging a doorstop of thankfulness in the revolving door of "but he got more!" and "when do I get one?" and "he looked at my cereal box!" The annual prayer of thanksgiving for a completed harvest resonates today even though many of us are far from crops or food animals. We have other bounties to count and cherish, and I have recently found that opening myself to a sense of awe, wonder and mystery helps me to see my blessings in a whole new light. I've accumulated a short list of people and events that generated a sense of wonder in the past weeks:

I am in awe at the patience of my husband with the children. On Saturday he played eight games of Candyland with the youngest in conjunction with a simultaneous game of Settlers with the oldest, followed by a series of football routes in the backyard with our older son. His focus on the kids and his ability to stay cool amidst temper tantrums, petty injuries and constant requests for his time just amaze me. Yesterday he kept me from missing my one day of work per week as a teacher at the Science Museum as he worked from home in the afternoon to watch our sick child. Wonder at his gifts multiplies my sense of thankfulness for his presence in our lives.

My jaw hung open in wonder as my oldest child performed her solo in the fourth grade musical last week. Alone on stage with the plain curtain for backdrop, she sang the first eight measures with the microphone off, her voice all but muted in the large gym. The music teacher gestured for the music to stop, the microphone experts to correct the problem, and for my daughter to pause - all in front of a silent audience of more than two hundred parents, friends and relatives. Problem fixed, music re-started, she began again, her lone voice a bit tremulous but on key and supported by perfectly rehearsed gestures and inflections. I can only wonder at her self-possession and inner steel.

I wonder at deep friendships and the commitment shown by those who constantly make me a priority in their lives despite pressures and problems of their own. I wonder at the perseverance of friends and loved ones who are ill, whose grace and humor and love for their own families keeps them going past the point of endurance. I wonder at the full moon, clean water,snow on the mountains and the sound of the choir in our new church building. Any of these can move me to tears with the sweet pleasure / pain of recognition that the moment is so fleeting. All the more to be grateful for sharing, touching, hearing and seeing those amazing parts of our lives that would be invisible except for wonder.

Wishing everyone a Happy and wonder-full Thanksgiving.

The Trouble with Candyland

2010-11-18T08:38:00.000-08:00

~ Life is not fair; get used to it. ~ Bill Gates
~ I know the world isn't fair, but why isn't it ever unfair in my favor? ~ Bill Watterson

“Can we play Candyland now?” Those words chase me through the kitchen as I prepare meals, out the door as I run pickup patrol, and up the stairs on our way to bed. If my son can’t find me, he begs his father to play or his siblings as a last resort. Quite often they don’t want to play with him, because up until this past week he cheated. My youngest liked to hoard the good cards: Queen Frostine, Princess Lolli, even Grandma Nutt. He would stash these ‘move ahead’ type cards in a pocket or a corner of the coffee table and hunt them down when it came time to play. Occasionally I let him get away with this tactic, but a week ago he had a Candyland marathon with his father, who turned the tables on him once and for all.

Dad got the Queen Frostine and the other ladies away from our little guy and introduced him to the term “shuffle.” When they began to play, Dad uncovered the Queen Frostine card while the four-year-old was dealt Plumpy, the green gumdrop-looking fellow who sends you back near Start. I could hear the resulting screams of rage and frustration from up in the bedroom where I was putting laundry away. Dad steadfastly refused to let him cop out of the game, refused to hand over Princess Lolli, and went on to win the game in a landslide. When the temper tantrum subsided Dad made the rules clear – either play by the rules or no more Candyland.

The tough love paid off. Yesterday I played and won two out of three games – with no board-tipping, screaming, or card-stealing on the part of my opponent. He did snicker with delight when I got “lost in the woods” and he was allowed two turns in a row, but he stuck to the rules and even accepted his Plumpy card with good grace. I was amazed and pleased that he had so quickly amended his definition of fairness. From “the game is only fair when I win” to a realization that “sometimes I get Queen Frostine and sometimes I get Plumpy” seems like a huge step to me, and one that I needed to reabsorb after the past five weeks of unfortunate events at our house.

We got dealt quite a few Plumpy cards this fall, in terms of household repairs, car breakdowns, and injuries. When I looked at it from another angle, however, I could see that these setbacks stood out not because they were unfair, but because we had such a good run in the few years prior. We’re lucky enough to have the house, the car, and basic good health, and to have not needed too many repairs in prior years. We didn’t “deserve” the bad luck,but we didn’t “deserve” the good stuff, either. If the world was totally fair and we only got what we deserved I doubt our life would be so full or so happy. If we occasionally get “lost in the woods” or “step on a gumdrop” and get stuck, that only means that our next card could be a double green, a Princess Lolli, or even – a Queen Frostine. The cards are shuffled for all of us, and it seems like our best hope of weathering defeats and setbacks is to realize our luck and good fortune when we have it, and know that it will come again even if we are set back to Start.

Seriously, siblings . . .

2010-11-11T10:09:00.001-08:00

The great advantage of living in a large family is that early lesson of life’s essential unfairness. - Nancy Mitford

Hurray for November! As the first snowflakes fell this week and the plastic curtain dropped on all of our home repairs, I could only breathe a sigh of relief for the passage of a challenging October. I can walk on flat ground without a limp, we’ve narrowed our “needs repair” list to two items, and the cool weather comes as a holiday-appropriate relief rather than a burden (as long as the roads remain clear!) Last month cracked me in a few places, long enough for many new ideas to get in past my usual certainty and full-speed-ahead attitude. So my head is full to bursting and I have been writing a lot, feeling a tiny bit witty and dare I say – a bit more wise? – than a month ago. Enter . . . my siblings.

I am deeply blessed to have three younger brothers and a younger sister, all of whom intelligent, well-learned, and much wittier than I. They frequently remind me of this regrettable fact, and the most recent balloon-pricking occurred two days ago, while I was catching up on my email at the local library. I had to flee my home as the two workmen at my house were painting the ceilings and hung the entire downstairs in plastic. All pertinent areas were inaccessible (read: refrigerator, phone, computer, to-do list). So I opened my inbox and read with delight an email chain which included all my siblings, ostensibly planning our Christmas gift to my parents. The true purpose of many of the emails was one-upmanship, teasing, and pleas to visit. These were most fun to read, of course.

I eagerly jumped in, wittily (or so I thought) explaining my refugee situation, and spattering my email with words of Spanish – not to impress but because I had been conversing with the repairmen in Spanish all morning and had both languages bouncing around in my head. I sent the email off, with a smile on my face, and barely had to wait five minutes before my sister responded. She said (direct quote here): “I hope the lapses into Spanish don't herald a complete mental breakdown. I felt a little like I was reading an episode of Dora the Explorer-Swiper no swipey!” Well, OK. My grin flattened and my conceit fell like the soufflé I once attempted. She went on to demonstrate her superior wit with this signature line, “Hugs, kisses and awkward back pats!” I had to chuckle at that one, which she later confessed she stole from our youngest brother.

So once again, my sister and (at least one) brother get the jump on me in the wit department. I hope to demonstrate to them that my cracks are actually helping me to achieve wisdom and don’t indicate the deterioration of my mental state. In the meantime, my family keeps it real, reminding me of my extensive faults and yet including me anyway. Hugs, kisses, and awkward back pats to all.

Post-Surgery Reflections

2010-11-06T08:13:00.000-07:00

I risk death by unforgivable curse as I write today, ducking imaginary flashes of Harry Potter magic from the children’s colored glow-stick wands, somehow left over from Halloween. My youngest bounds from the couch, lands with a practiced roll on the hardwood floor and runs screaming after his brother and sister, all memories of yesterday’s short surgery seemingly gone from his mind and body. I am not sure that I will recover so quickly, after watching him go under anesthesia for the second time and surviving his reawakening in the strange and unfamiliar surgery clinic.

Daniel’s surgeries (this was his second) have been a great blessing to him and to us. He had his tonsils and adenoids out two years ago, and that procedure allowed him to eat without risk of choking, sleep without terrible sleep apnea, and grow both physically and developmentally at unprecedented rates. His speech, however, remained hindered by months of ear infections and fluid-filled ear canals and so after a year of gathering data and searching for alternate solutions his amazing pediatrician and ENT doctor decided, with us, to place tubes in his ears. The decision was not made lightly, as surgery (no matter how short) is a big deal.

Watching his small body succumb to the anesthesia is like watching a small death, and I cried both times as his eyes circled wildly and closed, his arms and legs jerked and straightened, and his airway relaxed with odd gurgles and gasps that sounded terrible to me, despite the reassurances of the skilled anesthesiologist. My heart goes out to parents that have to witness serious surgeries on their children, lengthy procedures that put them under for long periods of time. It hurts to see your child stilled unnaturally, prone in hospital-issue pj’s, his little body barely raising the heated blankets.

It’s also challenging to walk back to recovery afterward and see the tear-streaked face watching you with a look of desperation, betrayal, and deep need. The stubborn bedrail temporarily prevents you from drawing your child immediately to your heart and somehow stopping their pain and confusion. I wrote in my journal yesterday to remember the feeling of my heart reaching out to my child, wanting to envelope him in love and strength. As you may have read in my earlier blogs, I am often challenged by the temperament, volume, and actions of my youngest and yesterday provided me with an opportunity to feel (from my toes to fingertips) how much I love him and want the best for him. We will hopefully avoid future surgeries, but I want to remember what it felt like to be apart for those painful minutes and how amazing was our reunion.

To Which Own Self be True?

2010-11-03T11:36:00.000-07:00

“There are people,” he said, “who are past being hurt, beyond being hurt. You should know this is true. You should try to become one of those people, to make an understanding with yourself that you are not your body, that you are something bigger.” - From Breakfast with Buddha, by Roland Merullo

Occasionally I get the sense that the universe wants to tell me something. As I am a bit dense and more than a bit preoccupied, the universe often has to try really hard to get its point across. The most recent lesson came through as a variation on the same theme in four different books I read. Each book was recommended to me by a different person, in a different circle of my life, for a different reason. All centered around finding your true self, your best life (none were Oprah). The gist of all my readings is that I am not my ego, I am not my body, I am a nebulous, hard-to-define ‘true self’ – and that is the most powerful, joy-filled and wondrous part of me. The trouble is finding this true self; it’s difficult to locate under the layers of desires, demands and discontents of the ego and the hungers, fatigue, and pains of the body.

“It is important to remember, at all times, that the ego is not our true self. Our self-centered self is a false image of who we are. It is based upon the illusion that we are separate, independent, and autonomous.” – From Jesus Today: A Spirituality of Radical Freedom by Albert Nolan

Jesus Today was assigned as part of a class I am taking on spirituality. It is a challenging and rewarding book and one of its defining points is that our ego, while part of us and undoubtedly evolved for some good reason, has been overly encouraged by our culture and by Western thought for the past few centuries. Nolan defines the ego as our “selfish self” and I see this selfish ego in my actions every day (every hour). When impatience strikes (things are not going on MY time), when pride ejects words from my mouth before I have time to process how self-centered they are, when I resent the needs and demands of my children because I don’t have enough time for myself – my ego speaks loudly and carries a big stick.

I also identify strongly with myself as a body, one which loves to exercise, to drink, to eat and to fit into certain jeans. I follow the rhythm of its physical demands for meals or for sleep and succumb to frustration and short-temperedness every night as fatigue knocks on the door. I have identified myself as an athlete (competitive or not) for many decades now, and since I know what I look like, and have looked more or less the same for 25 years, it’s easy to see myself, to identify myself, in the physical sense. If you take away my ego, my body (including my face), the voices of my family, friends and culture that I have internalized over the years, who am I?

Nolan says that we can find our true self only in periods of silence and stillness. Periods of silence are used in many faith traditions as ways to get close to the guiding spirit of the universe, called God, or Buddha, or Mohammed, or Jesus, or another name. We have all heard of meditation, or centering prayer, and I have been resisting the call to practice this for three or more years now. But the confluence of readings, in conjunction with the class I am taking, inspire me to try to sit in stillness in order to get to know who I might really be. After reading Roland Merullo’s great book, and Nolan, and the first part of Ernest Becker’s Denial of Death, it appears that each of us has a true self that is our grateful self, the one which sees wonder and experiences moments of awe, the self that loves and the self that feels regret and sorrow for mistakes we have made or for the pain of others. It appears that this self also feels its connections to other people, and to the world, far more potently than any other part of us, leading us to a feeling of belonging and union that we all want.

Rumi’s poetry eloquently sums up what I have been attempting to say, so I’ll finish with the poem I just read – a little sledgehammer from the universe in case I had not picked up on the first five – or ten – messages:

Birds Nesting Near the Coast

Soul, if you want to learn secrets,
Your heart must forget about shame
And dignity.

You are God’s lover,
Yet you worry what people are saying.

The rope belt the early Christians wore
To show who they were, throw it away.

Inside you are sweet beyond telling,
And the cathedral there,
So deeply tall.

Evening now, more your desire
Than a woman’s hair.

And not knowledge.
Walk with those innocent of that,

Faces inside fire, birds nesting
Near the coast, earning their beauty,

Servants to the ocean. There is a sun
Within every person, the you
We call companion.
- Rumi

A Spooky Month

2010-10-21T05:11:00.000-07:00

"It Never Rains But it Pours"

To say that October has been challenging for our family would be an understatement. The breakages, outages and brokenness began with an episode during Rob's business trip to Ohio. Sitting alone (with three sleeping children) in the dark house at about 8:30pm, I watched a leak from the master bath pour through the entryway ceiling in three places. Panicked, I called Rob, and several plumbers on my mad dash through the house to turn off the house water and the hot water heater water. Fast forward to 11:15pm when the kind 24-hour-plumber fixed the leak, determined that our hot water heater was so far on its last legs it teetered on toenails, and recommended that I call a restoration company to dry out all of the damage to the ceiling, and you see just the beginning of our trials.

We got a new water heater, discovered that the master shut-off valve in the house was broken, which led to our discovery that our shut-off valve at the street was "missing." After a week which included several visits from plumbers, multiple estimates, and several other small breakages, we dug up the driveway to find that shut off valve, then replaced it and three others in the house. The same night the work was completed we broke the upstairs toilet. During this time period we broke and fixed the garage door and discovered that the gas fireplace was on the fritz. For me, the most serious insult was destroying my ankle while running in the dark, requiring an Urgent Care visit, an air cast and a referral for Physical Therapy. Apparently I will continue to have a front-row seat to all of our repairs while I sit on my derriere and refrain from serious exercise for another six weeks.

Why am I telling you all this? To vent, perhaps, but also to laugh at the craziness of it all. To own anything is to borrow trouble. Possessions (especially a house, apartment, or other kind of shelter) are necessary, I suppose, but the fancier or bigger they are the more trouble they are. I wonder if we could simplify our lives and de-emphasize our possessions, if the situation would be easier to tolerate. In addition, this month has made me very aware of our greatest blessing - our basic good health and the steady growth of the children. Granted, I am temporarily a bit of a physical mess, and it has depressed me and made me a bit self-absorbed, but hopefully this will pass and become a memory. Certainly I am more empathetic to those who are in pain, who suffer from injury, and who continually come to bat against misfortunes that are no fault of their own. And if anyone in the neighborhood needs a good plumber, excavation company, restoration specialist, or garage door repairman . . . I know who to call.

The Call of the Weak

2010-10-15T05:18:00.000-07:00

"Power and strength can separate people, whereas weakness, and the cry for help, brings people together. When the weak call forth the strong, they awaken what is most beautiful in a human person: compassion, goodness, openness to another." - Jean Vanier

As I type - my sprained right ankle in the air- I am relieved by Vanier's defense of weakness. I have been nothing but weak for the last five days, and I cling to this novel idea that weakness can deepen relationships and can call out the best qualities in another. Since I hit the pavement on a morning run (in an awesome feat of gracelessness) I have received loving support from my husband, friends, and family. Help with babysitting, bag-carrying, even walking, enabled me to attend a spiritual retreat which inspired me in many ways.

In the western world we celebrate the strength and independence of the individual and rarely acknowledge any debts, needs, or failings that we acquire along life’s journey. I am this way still, though I jumped off that train to some degree after I had my first child, and was smacked so hard by the awareness of my failings that I could never quite recover my strong, proud, go-it-alone mentality. The truth is, I cannot possibly raise my children without the help of my community, and I rely heavily on extended family and friends for fun, exercise, support, and listening ears. Still, “weakness” was not a word that I would have used to describe this interdependence. Certainly I noticed that I was drawn to mothers who could confess difficulties and admit failures. Sharing stories about losing our tempers, allowing too much TV or too many sweets, forgetting playdates or teacher conferences we forged our relationships. Such offerings of our own limitations were the currency that we exchanged in ever-tightening bonds of friendship.

But the Vanier’s words about the weak do not truly refer to me, or my friends. I have health, economic means and the pathway to participate in the economy of political system of the most powerful country in the world. I have a voice – and my family has a voice. Vanier speaks to us with means and power about those who have none: the physically or mentally ill, the poor and hungry, the lonely and alone. If we can reach out to those who are weak, the benefits will be mostly for us, for they will call out what is most generous and loving in our hearts. An infant is weak, and calls forth adoration from all who see him. The weak who live on the streets, who are ill, or who speak a different language are not so cute or immediately appealing, but they can be just as needy and just as deserving of our care. Vanier himself lives in community with intellectually disabled and non-disabled adults; he founded a movement based on this model called L'Arche (http://www.larcheusa.org/)that now has 137 communities in 40 different countries, including 16 in the United States.

Everyone wants to be heroic and strong, and they can be, some of the time. Strength certainly has a place in our culture, in families, and in our communities. Yet no one can be strong all the time, and perhaps our recognition of our own weaknesses can provide a path to help those who are truly weak, through no fault of their own. Perhaps we can find commonality in our weakness and work together to lift each other up, so that more can find strength, and no one will be alone.

The Universe and You

2010-10-12T08:10:00.000-07:00

"Human beings have a craving for the infinite.. . the finite will never satisfy us."

I've heard this sentence before, in reference both to human desire for spiritual understanding and with regard to our endless consumer desires. Yet this past weekend I encountered the statement in a new context that "rearranged my mental furniture" and created a path for new understanding. It was a rare light bulb moment for my sedentary brain, brought into focus by a better sense of what cosmologists call "the new science" and a study of the human need for belonging.

The "new science" refers (in this context, anyway) to quantum physics and to better understanding of the "big bang" which most likely started our universe on its path to greatness. New theories of small particle movement are revolutionizing science, moving us far beyond the understanding of motion that Newton provided us back in the 17th Century. My "a ha" moment, however, was brought on by a short video sequence about the big bang, showing all the matter contained by our universe compressed into a tiny dot, smaller than a tear, and then exploding into magnificent diversity of light and color. The rate of the universe's expansion is perfect for continuing its development; any slower and the universe would collapse, and any faster and gravity would not be able to hold galaxies together.

Glowing galaxies and stunning star - births were still before my mind's eye when we moved to the next subject and the next video, about the human need for belonging. The organizing principle of this video was the statement, "We need more to belong than to be loved." (Jean Vanier) After viewing a montage of statements by people in all walks of life regarding their sense of dislocation and their desire for unity, I turned to my workbook and encountered this question: "How does the story of our fragmentation and hunger for belonging connect with the universe story?"

What a new and striking metaphor! Every organism and object in the universe started out as an infinitesimal part of one small dot, and after it exploded into ever - separating glory we all became minute fragments of space and time. Our uniqueness and diversity are beautiful and stunning when viewed as a microcosm of our universe, but also isolating and marked by separation. No wonder we crave one-ness and belonging, with other humans, with Nature, and ultimately, with the far-flung wonders in space. With such a glorious conception in our subconscious, how can we be satisfied with our separate lives, our isolating homes, commutes and workplaces? We have a genetic blueprint for connection to all things.

Just as the universe continually expands, our spiritual journey hopefully takes us from closed, self-absorbed focus to openness and acceptance. Ideally, our movement takes us from selfish infant to mature adult whose embrace can include all types of peoples, cultures, languages and religious practices. This ideal seems hard to master, certainly, but the most certain way to happiness and peace. Our desire for belonging often traps us in small groups with limited understanding and acceptance of others, but ultimately this smaller sense of belonging robs us of our connection with the infite - the connection that we most want and need.

Venting, OR Adding Fuel to the Fire?

2010-10-05T12:54:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday found me and six close friends on the floor around a low table, drinking mint tea and toasting a recent birthday. The subject matter of our conversation drifted like hookah smoke from the Moroccan restaurant’s menu to husbands, silly celebrity gossip, and – inevitably – our children. I made the comment that I really enjoyed cleaning up pages and pages of my daughter’s short stories, pencil sketches, and cartoons this fall, and how I had waited fifteen months to see her with enough free time to author such works. My daughter is in fourth grade this year, which is a breath of fresh air given that third grade is THE homework grade for many at our elementary school. Raising the issue of homework in a circle of mothers seems risky, I know, but my sense of gratitude at the new free time outweighed my negative emotions about last year’s homework, so I felt OK about putting that sentiment in play.

Let’s just say I erred. The dual threads of homework (especially mountains thereof) and lack of free time acted as tinder to our conversational fire. We jumped a few fire breaks and kept on going until the rhetoric got hotter than my lamb kebab on saffron rice. After lunch, I staggered into the house with an emotional hangover, feeling lower when I returned than when I left. I told my husband that I had started a firestorm of conversation and felt terrible, to which he offered the conciliatory (but ultimately unhelpful), “But you didn’t mean to.” I called to apologize to a few friends and later finished the job on email, and everyone kindly let me off of the hook. One friend talked about the importance of letting emotions out, how it is important to vent in a safe places so that you can ultimately return to a state of equilibrium to deal with the problems.

That is a Freudian take on emotions, and certainly has great validity in that you cannot suppress negative emotions (or any emotion, really) or it will leak out in unintended ways. I do agree with that, but when the ‘leaking” is replaced by full-throttled venting, I don’t think it works well. I turned to Google to do some quick research and found an interesting article on venting by David McRaney on a website called “You are Not So Smart,” a perfectly titled source in my situation. McRaney says the following: “Common sense says venting is an important way to ease tension, but common sense is wrong. Venting – catharsis – is pouring fuel into a fire.” http://youarenotsosmart.com/2010/08/11/catharsis/. He cites research done by psychologist Brad Bushman at Iowa State in the 1990s where Bushman discovered that “belief in catharsis makes you more likely to seek it out” and that acting on feelings of rage by hitting a punching bag, for example, just added fuel to the emotional fire and prolonged the sense of anger and encouraged participants to act out angrily against their perceived aggressors.

I am not a psychologist, nor am I an expert in anything except my own behavior (and even that claim seems dubious). I do know that venting, at least prolonged and heightened venting, leaves me with a bitter aftertaste, a sense of exhaustion, and a somewhat darker outlook on life. Quick bursts of frustration made to an unbiased party (like my husband or sister) seems to work well – and I do that often enough. But starting a vent session with a group of people who agree violently will not be my MO in the future. As McRaney states, “The more effective approach is to just stop. Take your anger off of the stove. Let it go from a boil to a simmer to a lukewarm state where you no longer want to sink your teeth into the side of buffalo.” In my case it was lamb that received the brunt of my tooth marks, but I get his point. Next time I will move on to deep breaths and crossword puzzles rather than blister my friends with a sense of righteous indignation ( I promise to try, anyway!)

Autumn Retreat

2010-10-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you carry your friends in your heart, and that heart beats close to the surface. After sharing precious hours with girlfriends over the past two weekends, I felt their concerns and worries tugging at my gut in the days following, even while the shared laughter and memories illuminated moments of joy like autumn sunlight catches and holds the dust motes in my (admittedly unclean) kitchen. Away from spouses and children and distractions of the to-do list and the calendar, we could focus on one another.

Conversation ranged from the frivolous (college drinking experiences, anyone?) to the fears that snake through our stomachs in the wee hours of the morning. We talked over family members, hopes for our children and our own ambitions. We discussed priorities, bemused over the shift from titles and salaries per annum to the bottom line of health, happiness, time spent outdoors, and strong emotional bonds.

One group’s idea of heaven was hiking 8 miles at 9500 feet, trekking through the dusty trail in the hot fall sunshine, sidestepping rocks and intrepid mountain bikers. We caught the convective drafts of pine needle perfume, stopping to stare at mountains and to pray that no one lit a match anywhere in the near vicinity. The pace was rapid, driven on by political debate, training techniques, and – in the end – hunger pangs that signified an urgent need for lunch.

I hope everyone’s week went well, that illnesses spent their course, that home maintenance issues got resolved, that sore muscles and pinched toes returned to normal. As the leaves down at a pedestrian 5600 feet start to turn – weeks behind their alpine cousins – a sharp contrast of gold or red on blue sky can cast me back to those mountain retreats, valuing the bonds of friendship, the rare gift of honesty, and the priceless intoxicant of laughter.

New Directions

2010-09-23T05:09:00.000-07:00

Today my mood needs lifting and my patience needs lengthening. Outside looks gray and cool, a bit rainy, but the weather actually calms me. No, my problem lies in a frenzied mental state and clenched innards, which register in short, meaningless breaths and quick verbal cuts to the children. Is it hormonal? Vitamin D shortage? Thyroid issues? Or just plain cussedness? The situation seems to warrant a call home to ask mom what age she embarked on perimenopause and then to blame dad for giving me his temperament.

The root of my problem, I know, grows in my head and not in my parents or their genes. Several factors work together these days to depress my mood and ripen my self-doubt. First: I turn forty in March. Intellectually I know this is not a big deal – I have friends five to ten years older than I who can run or walk circles around me, accomplish five times more in a day and remain absolutely beautiful inside and out. But somehow, the echoes of Vogue or Mademoiselle articles (last read in college) whisper in my ear, and I feel old. What should I do now? If the first half of my life is done, what will I do with the second half? I don’t feel like buying a sportscar or getting a facelift, but I wouldn’t mind a sense of my new direction.

Compounding my anxiety is the fact that my youngest child will go to all-day kindergarten in the fall. I will have TIME for the first time in ten years. I often catch myself thinking in terms of Meg Wolitzer’s book about motherhood, The Ten Year Nap. If I’ve been napping for ten years (with a few nightmares thrown in) what do I do when I wake up? My resume is out of date, my transcripts are so old that they probably need to be mounted to photocopy (do schools even accept photocopies anymore?) and I still cling to the hope of being home in the mornings and in the afternoons when my children get out of school. Add to that a less-than-robust economic outlook and you can see how the options shrink before my eyes.

I used to be a businesswoman, then a teacher, then a coach, then a mom. I wonder which title could be complementary to that last one, which is a permanent fixture on both paper and psyche. I’ve enjoyed writing a great deal this past year, but could I do it well and consistently? Could I call it a job? Could I make any money at it? You can see how the questions multiply. If I were patient, I would put the questions aside and keep my eyes open for opportunity over the next year or so. I would work to improve my writing skills, listening to my own voice while simultaneously researching graduate schools and weighing the pros and cons. (The problem with listening to my own voice: which voice will I hear? Will it be a productive voice or will it be a DJ from the radio station in my head that Anne Lamott calls KF****D?) I may yet end up waiting – and faking patience - but in the meantime I want to know NOW, and can anyone clue me in as to how this story ends? If only I could cheat and skip to the last page . . .

Just Words

2010-09-16T10:52:00.000-07:00

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me."

That is a lie. I never realized how hurtful a lie it was until this week, when I saw a girl on TV react to being called "queer." Words hurt; they can twist your insides, hammer through your mind, change your perception of yourself. Words can be hard to forget, hard to shake loose, like a burr stuck to your wool hiking sock. Two nights ago I found my junior high year book while cleaning an old bookshelf. Some of the faded, loopy, handwritten entries contained my least favorite label, which was "smack." It was applied to kids in advanced classes, and was sometimes offered in the form of an offhanded compliment, but the underlying implication was "weird, uncool, not fun to hang out with." I worry now for my kids and the labels that will be thrown at them. I hear through the grapevine that some of the kids on the elementary school playground may have tossed out "you are too smart to play with." I don't know what was said or who the target was, but I think, 'and so it begins.'

Of course we can overcome our labels, work through heated discussions and redefine ourselves. But this takes work, and the process can hurt. One of the best pieces of advice I ever read on marriage was to think very carefully before you spoke to your spouse. Don't let anything out of your mouth that you will want to take back. I'm a bit scattered these days, and forget anything that's not written on a sticky note and pasted in front of me at the table, but I have never forgotten that piece of advice, and my husband and I really try to live by it. It takes a long time to forget hurtful words, as we all know by this point in our lives.

Words can also lift us up, define our sense of self through cultural reflections or reactions, restatements of universal truths, and works of spiritual guidance. The tremendous uproar over the pastor in Florida who wanted to burn the Koran caught my attention. Words printed on a page; it seems so simple. Yet the symbolism is powerful enough to change - even end - lives. I just read a quote that cogently addresses the topic of book-burning: "There, where one burns books, one in the end burns men."
(Heinrich Heine). Words should be respected for both the good and the harm they can accomplish, and for how dear they are to the hearts of men, and women, and children.

I know one thing, I'll never recite 'sticks and stones' to a child ever again. I'd almost rather someone threw a punch; it's cleaner, less personal, and often easier to rebut. (Not that I'll tell the children that.) I hope everyone encounters good, strong and uplifting words in their day, today and all days.

Replacing Marmee

2010-09-13T12:13:00.000-07:00

Marmee: “You think your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like it.”
“Yours, Mother, why you are never angry!” And for the moment Jo forgot remorse in surprise.
“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so.” (Little Women, Louisa May Alcott. Nelson Doubleday: New York, pp 65-66).
*******

“When asked for an example of a Good Mother, the women I polled came up with June Cleaver and Marmee, from Little Women. Both of whom are by necessity, not coincidence, fictional characters.” (Bad Mother, Ayelet Waldman. Anchor Books, 2010: p 11)

I first read Little Women at the tender age of nine or ten, an age at which analytical thought is not yet developed. From the time I read the book, I loved it. I – like many girls – identified strongly with Jo, and also loved the figure of Marmee, whose image I carefully extracted from the book to place on my mental trophy shelf as the prototype mother figure. As my own mother joyfully sacrificed for the five of us and rarely lost her temper (at least in the years after I developed my long-term memory), the actions of my real mother supported my election of Marmee as model. Though the book is so moral that even Louisa May Alcott failed to love it upon first reading, and all of the characters are idealized to some extent, it did not dawn on me to ever critique Marmee. I never saw a word against this beloved figure until reading one of Ayelet Waldman’s books. I cannot recall which book it was, but the heroine’s mother said something to the effect of, “Oh that Marmee, I just couldn’t stand her!” After nearly falling out of my chair in shock, I had to admit that it was a relief to read that someone did not like Margaret March.

Strangely, the things we read, hear, or see in childhood help to shape our world despite the obvious flaws which could be discerned from even a haphazard critical analysis. We are just not suited to perform such analysis in childhood, and by the time we reach our teen years and develop a healthy skepticism and/or cynicism, it is usually directed at events, persons and authority figures of that time, not our earlier years. At least that is how it went with me . . . whose believe in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus outlasted that of all my peers. Perhaps we just don’t want to be critical of our beloved constructs.

In case you have not made Marmee’s acquaintance through Alcott’s books, here is a quick summary of her character from the (not-so-analytical) experts at Shmoop.com:

““"Marmee" is the affectionate name that the March girls use for their mother, Mrs. March, whose real first name, like her eldest daughter, is Margaret. Mrs. March is essentially the perfect mother: she works hard but is never too busy to console and counsel her daughters; she cheerfully does charitable work and helps out with the war effort; she's an ideal housekeeper, a loving mother, and a highly principled woman. She never loses her temper, she never misses anything, and she protects her children while still allowing them to make mistakes and learn their own lessons. “
(http://www.shmoop.com/little-women/marmee-mrs-march.html)

You can see how a mother operating under that blueprint might occasionally get a bit down on herself. In a recent fit of Google-mania I searched high and low for criticism of Marmee. I got many positive and simplistic character analyses like the one above, feminist criticism warmly noting Marmee’s strength as a woman in a virtually single-parent home who had a strong educational influence over her girls, and a note about the “realism” of Alcott’s books, which were ostensibly ahead of their time by twenty or so years. When I searched specifically under the key words ”criticism of Marmee” I had only typed the capital M before I saw “criticism of Mother Teresa” but when I finished my original thought I had exactly zero hits. So either I am alone in my past reverence of Marmee or there truly has been very little written about the negative influence she has had on modern-day motherhood.

To wit: I can recite nearly word for word the dialogue between Jo and her mother about losing their temper. I have even borrowed the phrasing, telling folks that I try to hide my temper and “hope not to feel it” in another forty years. Now that I have nearly reached forty, and fail remarkably at hiding my temper every day, it seems that I finally have to admit that I am not as perfect as Marmee. This is a bitter pill to swallow. Instead of trying to attain her level, I will have to try to replace Marmee as my image of perfection. Roseanne Barr, anyone?

Born to Run???

2010-09-08T11:34:00.000-07:00

"The Tarahumara have a saying: “Children run before they can walk.” Watch any four-year-old — they do everything at full speed, and it’s all about fun."
- from an interview with Christopher McDougall, author of Born to Run (courtesy of Amazon.com)

I attended Back to School night last night, and came away with a brain chock-full of knowledge. If my children learn even one half of what was explained, outlined, and scheduled last night I will be duly impressed and possibly overwhelmed. The comment that won my highest praise and lasting gratitude, however, related to recess. As background information you should know that my children only get two recess breaks per day and both are quite short. They even lost five minutes of recess from last year; to what purpose those minutes were snatched away I do not know. To add insult to injury, a school policy regarding late or missing homework places the offender at their desk or "on the wall" during recess, resulting in the loss of precious time when they could be burning off energy and frustration.

My son's second grade teacher explained that she had a new policy regarding late work; if a first-time offender, the individual retains their recess and has to take a warning note home to the parents. The note and the missing homework need to be returned promptly, or recess may yet be lost on a succeeding day. However, she understands that more time spent burning excess energy equates to more time sitting still and focusing in the classroom. Such good sense and excellent judgment can be difficult to find in any institution, and I am thrilled to hear that recess is a priority for someone (besides my son) at the elementary school.

My internal review of recess time sparked a connection to Christopher McDougall's excellent book, Born to Run. In the book, McDougall presents research and argues for the hypothesis that humans evolved to run. Our weird two-legged gait, forward-leaning spine, and odd hip joints all serve a purpose: to hunt in packs and to escape predators. As he says in the Amazon interview, "According to a new body of research, it’s because humans are the greatest distance runners on earth. We may not be fast, but we’re born with such remarkable natural endurance that humans are fully capable of outrunning horses, cheetahs and antelopes. That’s because we once hunted in packs and on foot; all of us, men and women alike, young and old together."

Last autumn I read his book and got so fired up to run that I upped my mileage and started trying to run barefoot, an option which McDougall and Harvard University espouse (http://www.barefootrunning.fas.harvard.edu). Unfortunately, I got ahead of myself and hurt my foot trying to do too much too soon. (The foot problem was followed by a serious IT Band issue, and resulting physical therapy.) I am still not positive that I, personally, was born to run, but I know that my sons and daughter and their friends can hunt and chase with the best. It seems cruel to move from hours of exercise each summer day to a scant forty minutes of daily recreation during the school year; one of my biggest hats as a mom is the "coach" hat where I make sure to get them all outside and running around. After all, if I can't hunt or run from predators, I had better make sure that someone in my family can!

Prepare ye the way, or prepare ye the child?

2010-09-02T11:45:00.001-07:00

“Do not prepare the path for your child, prepare your child for the path.”

My sister read me this quote from her co-worker’s bulletin board. They are fourth-grade teachers, and it is not surprising that I found the advice relevant since I am newly the parent of a proud fourth-grader. It dawned on me recently that my daughter has only two years left before she has to take the bus over to middle school, and her father and I decided that a little responsibility and independence would come in handy. The prime example of this would be asking the two older children to walk home from school, as their final bell rings very shortly after their little brother’s preschool gets out, and it makes life much easier if we can all meet at home instead of at the elementary school playground, as we did last year.

The children love to walk. The weather thus far has been beautiful; many friends, parents of friends, and neighbors line their path, and they only have to cross two streets on the way home – neither major. I started walking to and from school when I was in kindergarten, and my route was about twice as long as my children’s. Many of my friends had the same experience growing up, and many of these same individuals have to pick their jaws up off the floor when I tell them my second and fourth graders are now ambulatory and solo after the final bell.

As one perceptive individual stated, “My first reaction is to say that the world is different now . . . but really it isn’t. It may even be safer.” It’s common knowledge to any parent that the media preys on our fears with countless stories of abducted or terrorized children, but if we can step back out of the frenzy we realize that the children do have to grow up and they have to learn the skills that will make them strong and independent. I have taught the children about cars, crazy drivers, driveways, not to talk to strangers, what type of person to go to if they need help, etc. I keep my cell phone on me during their walk home in case a friend needs to get in touch with me (the children do not have a cell phone yet). I am definitely a product of the age, but I tell you what scares me more than hypothetical bogeyman on a sunny walk home is the specter of pre-teen and teenage boys sexually harassing my daughter on the bus on the way to school. I have multiple firsthand accounts of this type of danger, and the only way for me to combat that is to create a strong, independent, and confident child (who will report such behavior to any responsible adult in power and be able to keep her father from beating up the offending children.)

As I scribbled the notes for this blog entry in Starbucks yesterday, I stared across the aisle at two young moms who supposedly met to chat, but whose true focus stayed on the two car-seated babies next to them. The babies were young, round, darling, with lopsided figure-eight yawns and dimpled toes. They drew their mom’s gaze like a magnet, and every movement precipitated a helpful response. I remember those days so vividly; the children’s dependence was overwhelming and total. It was hard to envision a night when they would be able to go eight hours without eating, or a day without diapers, let alone an entire seven hour period when they could navigate academics, social pitfalls and travel without your influence. The baby / mom quartet across from me brought home the difficulty of letting go. . . .we bond so tightly in the beginning by having to anticipate and fulfill their every need, and already (not a decade later!) they want us to step away.

But step away we must, for the path takes them in new directions, and we cannot make the way smooth, at least not forever. Better to give them some navigational tools and provisions, and get ready to welcome them home.

Quantifying Love

2010-08-28T09:40:00.000-07:00

“In a provocative New York Times article, Ayelet recently made a controversial confession. She boldly proclaimed, "I love my husband more than I love my children." Ayelet's article struck a nerve with moms around the country, and some of them are here to talk to her about it. “

Oprah: I think a lot of people interpreted it, or misinterpreted, that article that you wrote…when you say I love my husband more, I think a lot of women heard you don't love your children.

Mothers in the discussion: Why can't you say to them I love your daddy different? Why is there such an obsession of putting somebody before the other?

Ayelet: [In the article] I was responding to what I have seen as a replacement. And what I say is I'm in love with my husband but I love my children. I mean the truth is, yes, of course you love people differently. But what I'm saying is I don't think what we're seeing nowadays is people loving differently. I think we're seeing people loving more.
(from http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/A-Mothers-Love_1/, captured 8/28/2010)

I love Ayelet Waldman. What’s not to love about a woman who gets booed on Oprah for declaring her love for her husband? Or for writing a series of excellent novels based on her “maternal ambivalence”? (That has to be my new favorite phrase). Yet, reluctant as I am to turn from Waldman and her stance on all things maternal, the focus of this blog entry centers on the quantification of love. As the “mothers in discussion” at the Oprah show asked, “Why is there such an obsession of putting somebody before the other?” Waldman noted “I was responding to what I have seen as a replacement.” My interpretation of this statement is that our culture has replaced the ability to love differently with a scale on which the balance of love could be measured, some receiving a fair quantity, and some found lacking.

Love eludes easy measurements such as height, weight or length. It cannot be regarded as a particle or a wave, either of which can be pinned into numbers by enterprising physicists. Perhaps it can be defined more closely as a piece of music, as variable as a symphony in which hundreds of instruments are employed. Between two different people whose own harmonies are unique the interplay of sound must have an infinite number of possible dynamics, and the relationships between a wife and her friends, parents, siblings, spouse, children must have exponentially more probable manifestations. There is no possibility of comparison, no right, wrong, or equal.

When people say to their children, “I love you all the same,” I hope they are not lying or being purposefully dense, but just simplifying the truth for their offspring. The truth – for me – being that it is impossible to love three different people the same way. I love each of my children passionately and with my whole heart, but I do not love them the same. They are different individuals at different stages of growth, and it would be impossible to say that each tugs on my heart in exactly the same way.

It also troubles me when people say “I love my child through adoption exactly the same as I love my biological children.” How is that remotely possible? My relationship with my biological children began in my body, where they grew attuned to my rhythms and preferences and I began to understand theirs. My relationship with my youngest child began through dreams and photos, progress reports and prayers, only beginning in person when he had reached the age of 23 months. For my two older children I am, for better or worse, the only mother figure they have ever had and they have no doubt or mixed feelings about my permanence. I am the third mother-figure in my youngest child’s life, and I doubt that I represent the same type of permanence and constancy to him, though I hope that I will over the long haul.

I have no favorites among my children; though my journey with my biological children has been easier in some ways, it has not been “better”. On any particular day, in any particular month, one child has more needs than another, one skips through her days while another trudges. The situation can always be reversed; in the blink of an eye their fortunes, and their outlook, can change. Our love does not waver with these changing conditions, but it can be stretched and challenged by the needs of the children, the needs of husbands or wives. Love relationships that are tested by circumstance can emerge stronger, like arm muscles flexed in carrying a baby or a toddler.

I suppose what people really mean when they say “I love my children the same” is that they have no favorites. Good enough, I suppose, but in the interest of truth and honesty let us say that love relationships between different people are of necessity different. Each relationship has its own issues, pressure points, hot spots and soft spots. Let’s forgive ourselves for loving each person differently, our spouses and our children, our siblings and our parents. Life should not be characterized by amount and sameness, but by quality and by uniqueness.

School's In: Time to Focus

2010-08-24T12:16:00.000-07:00

Focus (v): 1. To concentrate effort or attention on a particular thing or aspect of a thing 2. To adjust your vision so that you see clearly and sharply, or become adjusted for clear vision

Yesterday I had two and a half hours of completely uninterrupted quiet time. Emails disappeared, to-do lists shrunk, meals virtually planned themselves and the junk draw got cleaned (OK – not that last one). I can safely say that I have not been so productive in over two months, and was relieved that such a level of productivity was still within my grasp. Our summer was wonderful and full of adventure, but so replete with exhausting activity and distracting demands that my head whirled like a kaleidoscope – eyes full of swinging, scrapping sun-screened kids and ears full of their cacophony – bickering challenges, shouts of joys, cries of frustration. I profoundly missed the time to concentrate on one task and the energy to see clearly what needed to be done and how to accomplish it.

Now that school has started I have approximately ten hours per week to myself, and another fifteen hours with just one child. I have plans to write, read difficult books, teach a few classes, and train for Spring Swimming Nationals (at the Masters level – a 40th birthday present to myself). As I planned and plotted for this time, anticipating its arrival as our fish quivers for its three daily morsels of food, I tended to place school-day stillness on a pedestal and ignore the benefits of summer’s “kaleidoscope mind.” A line from John Elder Robison’s (http://www.johnrobison.com/) book, 'Look Me in the Eye: My Life with Asperger's' poked me to the benefits of unfocused time:

“As I recall my own development, I can see how I went through periods where my ability to focus inward and do complex calculations in my mind developed rapidly. When that happened, my ability to solve complex technical or mathematical problems increased, but I withdrew from other people. Later, there were periods where my ability to turn toward other people and the world increased by leaps and bounds. At those times, my intense powers of focused reasoning seemed to diminish.” (208)

Robison writes about his particular journey with Asperger’s and the fine line between his amazing gifts with circuitry and sound, and his ability to socialize. Yet I found his words applicable to my situation, as well. When I give myself over to my children, their friends, our extended family and our family friends, as I do in the summer, I lose the ability (and time) to focus on a specific task. Yet I gain flexibility, better relationships, shared memories, and new experiences. In the past I have had a tendency toward tunnel vision: over-focusing, if you will, on the task at hand. I have prioritized goals and accomplishments over relationships and pursued depth rather than breadth in my life. I take a rebuke in this statement Robison also wrote, “Creative genius never helped me make friends, and it certainly didn’t make me happy. My life today is immeasurably happier, richer, and fuller as a result of my brain’s continuing development (toward relationships)” (210).

So here’s to well-roundedness, and in particular the quiet time of school days. Let’s hope the muscle memory of slower-paced summer days stays with us as we launch into a new season of focus.

Camping Report

2010-08-20T05:31:00.000-07:00

In the few moments available before children wake up to demand milk, TV, cereal, etc., I wanted to record our successful camping trip. Camping with good friends and their age-compatible children certainly assisted in making our adventure fun, filling (way too much food!) and enjoyable for all. Despite the altitude issues of camping at nearly 11,0000 feet (none of the adults slept the first night), we adjusted fairly rapidly and were blessed with clear skies and beautiful starshine at night.

Our intrepid band of hikers embarked early Saturday morning - to the distress of fellow campers still holding on to sleep - and tackled Mt. Sherman, which is the 'easiest' 14,000 foot peak to climb, according to Rob's guide book. We drove to 12,000 feet and tackled the trail, which rapidly ascended and turned from dirt to rock. We had five children with us; a 9-year-old, an 8-year-old,and three 7 - year - olds, as well as five adults (for whom age is irrelevant). Everyone in our party climbed as high as the ridge and benefited from amazing views over the surrounding mountain ranges. When the cold wind hit and threatened to blow off the lightest member of our party, half the group called an honorable retreat.

I was surprised and pleased, though a bit worried, when our 7-year-old son took off up the mountain without hesitation, outstripping his father and even leaving us entirely to hike with a good friend when we waited for his sister. She was tormented with anxiety about the steepness and the windiness of the climb, and though I assured her we could call it a day with all virtue intact, she saw her brother and father ahead and decided to persevere. I held her hand, and abandoned all my own anxiety for her sake (this works for me in flying, too; amazing what kids can get you to do). She pushed on up the mountain with tears in her eyes and a quiver in her lip . . .I don't think she enjoyed it much but she accomplished the peak and prevented her brother from holding this achievement over her head.

I am amazed by the children and so pleased that they can accompany us now on almost any adventure. We do have a few more years to get our four-year-old up to speed, but now that I know it can be done, I am confident that he'll be climbing and hiking with us soon. Blessings to all and thanks for a wonderful summer. Now off to school for the kids and back to some focused intellectual activity for mom!

Wild Montana Skies

2010-08-13T05:16:00.001-07:00

Each morning at our rental house in West Yellowstone we were awakened by a pair of trumpeter swans which flew directly overhead, emitting their odd call as they passed. The kids, waking up to the whoosh of wings and the trumpets, named the birds "Alarm" and "Cluck." On a morning in a middle of the week I also heard the unearthly bellows of an elk bugling in the woods not far away; the odd brass section of elk and swan echoed along the ridge and mesmerized me. Ten days in Montana also brought multiple bald eagle and bison sightings, encounters with plenty of geothermal marvels, and an unforgettable canoe trip down the Missouri River.

On our last day of vacation we took our two oldest children down the river in canoes; I piloted with our daughter aboard and Rob captained the vessel with our older son. Both paddled well, though still struggling a bit to get the oar in the water at the proper depth and over the edge of the boat without clunking their arms or torquing their small bodies. As they weigh substantially less than we do, the front of the boat could act like a sail, catching the wind and blowing ceaselessly to the shallows. Needless to say, it was a good workout for the adults in the family, and that was before the wind picked up and the lightning flashed in the distance.

As the storm rapidly bent down on us, my husband called for our trio of boats (his brother and girlfriend were also with us) to get off the water. With some difficulty I made to join them; it is hard to steer and paddle with storm blow against you! My daughter and I left paddles, socks and water bottles aboard the canoe, dragged it out of the water and went to join the rest of our team in a make-shift tent. We had a tarp which we anchored in between the other two canoes and underneath the rippling, crackling tarp we stayed mainly dry. The kids' eyes went wide as saucers and they teetered between glee and fright. The needle tipped to fright when my husband and his brother peeked out of the tarp to see our third canoe blow right out into the river - and flip over. "We've lost it!" yelled my brother-in-law, and my daughter burst into tears. "My socks!" she said.

I assured her that we could buy more socks, and we played "I made a cake but I made a mistake . . ." while their dad went abroad in the storm to find the canoe and bring it back, if he could. As the wind died down we felt better, though I battled with my worry about Rob outside in the rain and lightning. (This happened ten years before at the same family reunion, though upriver, and he had stood beneath the river cottonwood trees during the storm. We all thought he would be crushed by falling branches, but he didn't move. Stubborn, for sure).

In the end, the canoe was recovered with the help of a kayak in our larger party, and Rob half paddled, half dragged it more than half-mile upriver back to our hiding spot, where the storm was finally ending. With glee we resumed our journey, even spotting a final bald eagle in the last hour. The canoe trip put an underline to my thought for the week; being out in the park and the big sky areas of Montana makes me feel small, and that feeling is not unwelcome. It's a relief to recognize how little control we actually have in this world; the best we can do is prepare like crazy and then go with the flow. I need to carry this thought, and this feeling into other areas of my life. At home, in my house, where a storm might bring a power failure but little else, we rule as demigods and then are surprised when things don't go our way. Outside in more untamed parts we are reminded that Nature has the upper hand.

Something to keep in mind as we head up to camp at 10,000 feet this weekend and hike a 14,000 foot mountain - I'll let you know how that goes.

Addendum

2010-07-23T05:30:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you a story. Many years ago, when my daughter was two and my son was less than one year old, I needed to go the ob/gyn for my first annual checkup in a while (I had been pregnant, recovering or nursing for the past several years). We lived in Northern California without family close by and our community was not nurturing or supportive. I needed to find a babysitter for the hour appointment as I could not conceive of getting the exam with two little ones in the room. So I looked on internet sites for babysitter referrals, found a promising candidate and printed her resume and references. Both references confirmed that she was reliable and trustworthy, so I called her and asked her to come on the day of the appointment, a half hour early just so I could check her out.

When she arrived, we spoke for a few minutes and then I went to the bedroom to make a call while she played with my daughter. I talked with a friend, and I confided that my antennae were up and quivering with this woman; I was not thrilled about leaving the kids with her. My friend said, “Oh, it will be fine, just go.” So, reluctantly, I did. When I returned, the kids were fine, though in the same positions in which I left them. I left my purse on the counter to check on the kids and came back out to pay with a pre-written check. After the hasty departure of our sitter I held my daughter close and asked how things had gone.

“Wee-hem cried,” she said. “Why was he crying?” I asked, concerned. “He was in de crib a yong time,” she said. “Where was the lady?” I asked. “She on computah” said my daughter. So I went to the office and found the computer off – the keyboard and monitor wet from something spilled on them. With growing alarm I checked my purse and found all my cash gone. Fortunately no credit cards were stolen. After my husband recovered our computer and we talked with the police we found that this woman had attempted to use our computer to create false resumes for more babysitting sites. We felt she spilled on it purposely to hide her movements, but my husband could find every site she went to and every document she created (he’s in technology). This woman was wanted by the POLICE for stealing people’s resumes and references, and she had scammed several families in San Francisco out of thousands of dollars by taking deposits for nannying their infants – and then fleeing.

Words can’t describe the sick feeling I had, the horror and the shock. I left my babies with a criminal. For ninety minutes their safety had been doubtful. I had tried to do my best to vet a good person, but the references I called knew only about the real individual on the resume, not the person who had stolen her name. Several weeks later, this woman was arrested and put in jail. The arrest was big enough that it made the newspapers. We never heard of her again, and I did not leave my children with anyone other than a family member for a whole year. No doctor’s appointments, haircuts or nights out without the children, or unless my husband was home.

I tell this story as a follow-up to my entry on finding oneself. I have told perhaps three people about that incident as my embarrassment, shame and lingering horror drive me to hide the experience. I tell it now to emphasize that we can love our children so passionately and completely, but because our society does not help us, parenting can become soul-draining. Many people lose jobs when their children get sick because they have to stay home with the child and have no childcare safety net. I have the luxury of staying home to “protect” and raise my children myself while my husband earns enough to feed them daily and keep a roof over the heads, but many don’t have that luxury.

Despite the fact that our basic needs are met and we live in a safe neighborhood, there is a feeling that the children are really not “safe” and that it is up to us to guard them from every type of harm. Our home can be viewed as a haven but also as a fortress that isolates. Once we raise the children to adulthood, it becomes our responsibility to get them to a good college (pay for it), help them graduate and find a job, and live happily ever after. This is too much pressure. As a friend recently said to me,” I would jump in front of a bus for my child, but I don’t want him to BE the bus.”

I realize that I have to let go – of fear, of control, of perfection - so that my children and I can be happy. I have to trust in their basic safety, and let them gain independence at a normal rate, and they need to develop life skills and trust in themselves. Their growth will enable all of us to have adventures, either individually or with each other. Staying safe and stuck in a comfortable routine will stifle everyone’s growth, and won’t make anyone’s life better or more fulfilling. But . . . I am still very careful about babysitters.

Finding your Self Again (and again)

2010-07-20T07:48:00.000-07:00

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

Howard Thurman

Several nights ago we dined with a group of friends on an outdoor patio overlooking the mountains. The view was beautiful and the temperature warm; it was the kind of night where you risk sliding off your chair if you stand up suddenly, and have to glance behind at your pants/skirt/shorts to ensure that the sweat stains don’t reveal too much. During dinner two friends regaled us with stories of their week-long cruise to Bermuda without husbands or children. I laughed at their funny quotes and people-watching experiences but their account was moving on a much deeper level. Both of these women, who are passionate, beautiful, artistic and funny, felt that they were seen and appreciated as individuals for the first time in years. As a result, they could see and appreciate their own selves for the first time in a long time. We discussed how we all lose ourselves in the roles of ‘mom’, ‘dad’, ‘wife’, ‘husband’, ‘professional’ and forget to listen to the rhythms of our own desires. The main question being: how do we find our “selves” again, and keep them?

The topic has been on a lot of minds lately; I opened the Raising Happiness July newsletter by Christine Carter (http://greatergood.berkeley.edu/raising_happiness/) and saw “Are You a Miserable Parent? I love my kid. I hate my life.” In her email Carter refers to the article “All Joy and No Fun: Why Parents Hate Parenting” (New York Magazine, http://nymag.com/news/features/67024/). The article is fascinating, though a bit depressing. In brief, children take more than they give, and when you have children later in life you know what you are missing. Every parent has to give up most of their external sources of joy when they have kids, particularly between the kids’ ages of 0 and 6 (I hear adolescence is no picnic, either). I’ve read a lot of advice on how to capture your Self again, and not just for one week every five years. Anne Lamott recently wrote:

“I’ve heard it said that every day you need half an hour of quiet time for yourself, or your Self, unless you’re incredibly busy and stressed, in which case you need an hour. I promise you, it is there. Fight tooth and nail to find time, to make it. It is our true wealth, this moment, this hour, this day.” (Sunset Magazine, http://www.sunset.com/travel/anne-lamott-how-to-find-time-00418000067331/).

I agree with Lamott that quiet time for reflection reinforces our self-awareness, but if you are stuck in the hamster wheel of your habitual worries, grocery lists, and calendar planning, quiet time does not help. (I understand – from a number of sources – that I am laughably bad at being quiet, so perhaps this issue lies mainly with me.) For me, satisfaction and renewal most often come from new challenges, new people, and adventure. I reflected on this for the past two days and realized that in the last five years I felt most alive when I volunteered in the Arizona desert with unique individuals (who did not know me as a mom or a wife); when I rafted the Royal Gorge with my husband and a few close friends; when I went downtown to take Spanish classes from amazing immigrant women at El Centro Humanitario; and when I aspired to athletic competition normally beyond my grasp.

I think that to recapture ourselves (or our Selves) we have to break out of our routines and get outside our comfort zones. Regularly we need to meet new people who challenge us and who look at us in new ways. We need to leave our children behind occasionally (though a welcome reprieve this is always so difficult to do) and complete a physically, or emotionally, or mentally challenging task. Daniel H. Pink write in Drive that people most often found satisfaction when challenged, not in mere relaxation. Don’t get me wrong, parenting and maintaining relationships remain two of my biggest challenges, but they are habitual challenges and as such they lose their power to jolt my awareness.

I welcome any thoughts or input on how to keep growing, keep redefining oneself. It takes time and energy to put ourselves in those situations, but the energy and passion that we receive make the investment more than worthwhile.