Donning the Sacred Faded Polo

Here is Grayson, my sixteen-year-old Autistic son, on his second day of work. No, he’s not the kid sitting on the stool with the blurred face. He’s the one hiding behind the white “Skip the Line” sign. A family friend has entered the movie theater, so Grayson has ducked out of sight until she has gone.

“It was natural,” he later explains, shrugging indifferently, and then I have to explain why it was not.

“How would you feel if you walked into a theater and the person who was supposed to be taking your ticket hid from you?” I ask.

“It would be weird,” he snickers with a raised eyebrow (as if speaking to a moron), and then sloowwly connects the dots. “Ohhhhhh, I see,” he replies, freshly enlightened, “It’s weird to hide from people when you’re working.”

After a long belly-laugh ending in tears, I take a serious moment to reflect on the significance of the day. My son – the one I never expected to live past his fifth birthday due to an apparent affinity for darting into traffic, the one I had to peel off my leg all the way through grade school, the one who still follows me and talks nonstop through locked bathroom doors – that kid applied for a job two weeks before his sixteenth birthday just because “it felt right.” That kid walked into the theater for his interview ALONE because “it would be weird” if I came with him. That kid – the one who hasn’t worn anything but sweat pants with elastic waistbands since, well, basically forever – donned a pair of slacks with a little silver clasp and a button (that he still struggles to fasten), and wore them without complaining, simply because “that’s what you do when you have a job.” And that kid, who has only recently been allowed to stay home alone, walked into his first day of work by himself, without even a backward glance, because, “well, not to be mean, but you might embarrass me.”

Never have I ever so welcomed that well-worn phrase from one of my teenagers.

Several weeks prior, I sat through his four-hour orientation (so I, too, am technically qualified to work at the Metrolux). Grayson had never done anything of the sorts without me, and I wasn’t sure whether he’d bolt through the front doors in a rage, the way he’s done so many schoolyears prior. I squirmed in my seat when the topic of sexual harassment was brought up in the cheesy 1980s training film. Even at sixteen, Grayson has no clue about the birds and bees, and as far as he knows, the word “sex” simply refers to gender. Onscreen, a perverted manager with a thick, caterpillar mustache scooted a young employee out of his way by grabbing hold of her waist and murmuring a sultry “excuse me” in her ear. The scene closed with a deep-voiced narration, “To be safe in the workplace, just keep your hands to yourself.”

Shortly after, we found ourselves in the projection room. Grayson, an avid movie buff, was geeking out over witnessing the inner workings of a theater, and I watched my son (who has ZERO spatial awareness) squeeze through the crowd for a better view. He sidestepped, hands held high above his head as if pressed up against a building on a narrow ledge, and his motions struck me as odd. I had never seen him work so hard to avoid knocking into people. Soon enough, he worked his way back to me in the same awkward manner and loudly whispered in my ear, “Mom, I tried real hard not to do sexual harassment. Did I do good?”

His innocence often overwhelms me, simultaneously revealing everything that is right in this world – and also missing. He possesses a purity long-lost and buried, and I deeply aspire to his level of simplicity.

I watch him get ready on his first day of work. He has planned his whole day around his three-hour shift. Taking no less than four showers, he eats promptly at 2:45 (to avoid getting hungry), then takes yet another shower at 3:15, and remains locked in his room until exactly 3:30. I call to him at 3:29, but he refuses to budge – I had said we would leave at 3:30, he informs me, and 3:30 means 3:30, not 3:29. He speaks in that same voice of disdain, implying my ignorance. Once in the car, he enters the address on his phone and proceeds to rush me the whole way, conceding that maybe I know what I’m doing when we arrive at 3:55 – precisely on time.

I sit in the car long after the double metal doors swallow him up. The lump in my throat makes me feel like I just dropped off my preschooler at work. What if he needs me? What if he gets scared? What if he has to use the restroom and can’t rebutton his pants? Will he remember to cover his mouth if he coughs? Wash his hands? I call my husband to confirm whether it’s safe to leave, then slowly roll out of the parking lot, looking back over my shoulder several times. I fully expect to see Grayson chasing after me, wildly waving his arms, flagging me down because he’s changed his mind as he’s so often prone to do. But those double doors remain shut until 7:01, exactly one minute after his shift ends.

Grayson plods to the car, feet dragging and head hung low, while the apprehension rises in my chest. Has someone been cruel? Does he hate it? Is he going to get in the car and EXPLODE? I brace myself for the worst and he hoists himself into my 4Runner, buckling up without a word. I begin firing questions as fast as I dare, knowing full-well how overwhelmed he is feeling.

Me: So, how was it?

Him: Fine.

Me: Were you nervous?

Him: No. But my legs were shaking for some reason.

Me: Was the person who trained you nice?

Him: Yeah. His name was Joe. He gave me knuckles and told me to try to speak clearly.

Me: (breathing a silent prayer of gratitude for Joe)

Him: I did what you said, mom. I tried real hard to make eye contact with everyone. But I’m pretty tired now so I’m just going to not talk for a while.

Me: (with hot tears swelling in my eyes) Okay, buddy, that’s fine. You did great. I’m so proud.

We arrive home, and he walks straight to his room where he hangs up his uniform. I’ve never seen anyone take so much pride in a faded burgundy polo. He places it centrally in his closet, where it won’t touch another shirt – he doesn’t want it to get dirty. I observe, more fully understanding the meaning of “sacred.”

Several days later, I text his elementary, middle school, and high school teachers, “Grayson recently started his first job. I never thought we would see the day and never would have without your help. His victory is all of ours. Truly, it takes a village…”

There have been many days that I’ve felt like ducking behind a sign to avoid seeing someone I know, so I stand amused and amazed at the audaciously authentic life my son dares to live. There have been weeks I’ve struggled with motivation – lingering in my elastic-waisted sweat pants far too long – and feel inspired by the way Grayson innately knows when it’s time to put on a pair of button-up slacks and get to work. And there have been seasons when it’s been hard to look people in the eye because of the emptiness I feel inside. Yet I am in awe of the way my autistic son forces himself to meet a stranger’s gaze and feel even more humbled by his honestly – how he openly admits when he’s tired and needs a moment to sit in silence.

I can’t quite get past the shock of Grayson’s first job. It holds within it the shimmering promise of normalcy I’d surrendered so long ago. Hope floods in, replacing my fearful “what ifs” with possibilities, and I wonder, “What if he’s able to get married someday? What if he can learn to drive? What if he is capable of living independently?”

I marvel at the invisible timeline that resides within Grayson – the way he just knows when the timing seems right, the way he marches forward without looking back. Furthermore, I marvel at the One who has instilled such an unknowable way of knowing within my son. I feel inspired to trust beyond my small way of thinking, to see farther than my limited line of sight. For, how much more will He, who nurtures the sparrows and lilies of the field, care for my son with His tender-loving mercy?

I will cherish this photo of Grayson forever. Whereas I initially saw a boy humorously cowering behind a sign, I now see a man-in-the-making – one who is courageous enough to try, to step out, lift his gaze, speak clearly, fumble with buttons, and risk being laughed at. I see one far nobler than I: my sixteen-year-old man-child, just striving to be worthy of a faded burgundy polo.

.

Death at a Gas Station

Like scattered toys, the firetrucks and ambulances were parked willy-nilly as if dropped from the hand of a careless child. We maneuvered our car in and out between them. All I wanted was a candy bar.

As I paid the yawning attendant with glazed-over eyes, I politely tried to sneak a peek at the scene unfolding out in the parking lot. Only the white pickup truck towing a trailer of lawnmowers was appropriately parked. That was the only vehicle that actually looked like someone had intended to park it that way, long and parallel to the curb. Maybe the landscapers had stopped to load up on snacks after a long day’s work. Or was a crew member already feeling poorly, and the gas station their intended point to connect with an ambulance?

Candy bar in hand, we exited the lot. There, on the sidewalk, a mound of brown flesh rose sharply from the earth — glistening and practically steaming in the heat of the setting sun. The man’s skin was pulled taut over his round belly like a too-small canvas stretched across a too-large frame. The circle of paramedics, uniformly dressed in navy, was frozen, disproportionately still — the only movement originating from a petite woman with shoulder-length, chestnut hair. Up, down, up, down. She thrust emphatically, her actions mirroring those of the surrounding pump jacks bobbing for oil. Both dipped and rose to an unheard beat. Both plunged with fervor — hoping, needing to extract.

To the right, a skinny Mexican interlaced fingers behind his head. As his arms lifted, so did his shirt, revealing a stick-thin torso — a stark juxtaposition to his rotund, motionless friend. When he turned from the scene, his eyes scanned the sky. Was he seeking a higher help or simply a much-needed distraction? Perhaps he was fighting off hot, shameful tears. I imagined his slow exhale. It seemed a fitting reaction — a young man’s feeble attempt to send despair whirling.

It had just been a typical day…until it wasn’t.

The circle of paramedics leaned farther back on their haunches, and even in our car, I sensed their deflated energy. An I.V. dangled limply from the fingertips of a lone extended arm. They had all been there a while. Long enough to insert an I.V., long enough to administer CPR. There had never even been a moment non-crucial enough to load the afflicted man on a gurney.

Still, the small woman dove with all the force she could muster — elbows locked, fingers entwined — again, and again, and again. Her efforts were admirable but futile, I suspected.

As our car pulled away, I broke off a piece of my KitKat bar and and chomped down through the flaky wafers. It was all I had really wanted.

Instantly, the sacredness of the moment collided with my profane. I closed my eyes and envisioned the man’s exposed belly. I felt in my body the resounding thud of palms pounding breaking ribs. I heard in my ears the crunch of a candy bar.

A soul had passed — departing our world like the waving heat of a mirage.

And all I could think to do was eat a candy bar.

On The Need to Feel Normal When Nothing is Normal

An excerpt from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou and an essay on special needs parenting:

“In our society, where two-legged, two-armed strong Black men were able at best to eke out only the necessities of life, Uncle Willie, with his starched shirts, shined shoes and shelves full of food, was the whipping boy and butt of jokes of the underemployed and underpaid. Fate not only disabled him but laid a double-tiered barrier in his path. He was also proud and sensitive. Therefore he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t crippled, nor could he deceive himself that people were not repelled by his defect. Only once in all the years of trying not to watch him, I saw him pretend to himself and others that he wasn’t lame.
Coming home from school one day, I saw a dark car in our front yard. I rushed in to find a strange man and woman (Uncle Willie said later they were schoolteachers from Little Rock) drinking Dr Pepper in the cool of the Store. I sensed a wrongness around me, like an alarm clock that had gone off without being set.
I knew it couldn’t be the strangers. Not frequently, but often enough, travelers pulled off the main road to buy tobacco or soft drinks in the only Negro store in Stamps. When I looked at Uncle Willie, I knew what was pulling my mind’s coattails. He was standing erect behind the counter, not leaning forward or resting on the small shelf that had been built for him. Erect. His eyes seemed to hold me with a mixture of threats and appeal.
I dutifully greeted the strangers and roamed my eyes around for his walking stick. It was nowhere to be seen. He said, “Uh…this this…this…uh, my niece. She’s…uh…just come from school.” The to the couple – “You know…how, uh, children are…th-th-these days…they play all d-d-day at school and c-c-can’t wait to get home and pl-play some more.”
The people smiled, very friendly.
He added, “Go on out and pl-play, Sister.”
The lady laughed in a soft Arkansas voice and said, “Well, you know, Mr. Johnson, they say, you’re only a child once. Have you any children of your own?”
Uncle Willie looked at me with an impatience I hadn’t seen in his face even when he took thirty minutes to loop the laces over his high-topped shoes. “I thought I told you to go…go outside and play.”
Before I left I saw him lean back on the shelves of Garret Snuff, Prince Albert and Spark Plug chewing tobacco.
“No, ma-am…no ch-children and no wife.” He tried a laugh. “I have an old m-m-mother and my brother’s t-two children to l-look after.”
I didn’t mind his using us to make himself look good. In fact, I would have pretended to be his daughter if he wanted me to. Not only did I not feel any loyalty to my own father, I figured that if I had been Uncle Willie’s child, I would have received much better treatment.
The couple left after a few minutes, and from the back of the house I watched the red car scare chickens, raise dust and disappear toward Magnolia.
Uncle Willie was making his way down the long shadowed aisle between the shelves and the counter – hand over hand, like a man climbing out of a dream. I stayed quiet and watched him lurch from one side, bumping to the other, until he headed the coal-oil tank. He put his hand behind that dark recess and took his cane in the strong fist and shifted his weight on the wooden support. He thought he had pulled it off.
I’ll never know why it was important to him that the couple (he said later that he’d never seen them before) would take a picture of a whole Mr. Johnson back to Little Rock.
     He must have tired of being crippled, as prisoners tire of penitentiary bars and the guilty tire of blame. The high-topped shoes and the cane, his uncontrollable muscles and thick tongue, and the looks he suffered of either contempt or pity had simply worn him out, and for one afternoon, one part of an afternoon, he wanted no part of them.
     I understood and felt closer to him at that moment than ever before or since.”

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

     Tears, in glasslike sheets, now soak the lower half of my face, pouring down my neck, filling the concave spot at the base of my throat, running down my chest as if I were a human downspout directing a flood. This…now this I understand. Only one who has experienced judgment and rejection could write in such a way that captures this specific and underrated need…the intense need to feel normal, if only for a moment. Only one who has known the shameful embarrassment of standing out the wrong way in a crowd could appreciate the total joy of disappearing in blissful anonymity.

As the mother of an autistic child prone to violence, elopement, and very demonstrative public fits, I know all too well this craving to blend in, to feel normal – even if only briefly. During painfully public displays, I too have frequently caught the eyes of others, reflecting like mirrors, either contempt or pity. After years and years of such reflections, I can no longer remember what I actually look like. Somewhere along the line, these gazes have become my truth. I have, at times, come to believe that I am the despised beast or the pitied creature… this, and nothing more.

And so I’ve manufactured ways to convince others of my normalcy, that in turn, normalcy might be reflected back to me; and so that I might believe, albeit momentarily, that I lead a normal life. Like Uncle Willie, I stand erect, hide the cane, disguise my limp, shoot daggers at anyone who might threaten to give away my secret. Normalcy has become both my shield and my crutch. If I look put together, no one will know that I am a mess. If my house is well-decorated, no one will know that I am crumbling inside.

But somewhere along the line, “normal” began to lose its appeal. It became common and dull. I looked with fresh eyes upon my “high-topped shoes and cane, my uncontrollable muscles and thick tongue,” and I held them with the tender love and compassion of a new mother. I allowed myself the freedom to cry the tears long dammed, and in reverential silence, bore witness to the shame and embarrassment so deeply buried. I gave myself permission to grieve the looks of contempt and pity and the years of feeling anything but normal. I looked closely at the “me” who was hiding behind the protection and shelter of attempted normalcy and extended a soft hand to ease her transition into the light.

And as this timid part of “me” stepped forth in high-topped shoes, leaning heavily on a cane, thick-tongued and muscles yet uncontrolled, I grabbed her and pulled her close in an understanding embrace and softly whispered in her ear, “I love your cane. I love your high-topped shoes. I love your thick tongue. I love your uncontrollable muscles. Look no longer into the eyes of others for feedback; from now on, look only within. Enter the world, not as you wish to be, living the life you wish to be living, but enter as you are, living proudly the life you actually lead, back into the world as it actually is. Limp as you will, but limp with your head held high. For within that limp is contained all suffering, sorrow, madness, and despair. Within that limp is contained all things wild and uncontrollable, and within that limp is contained all love, joy, beauty, and depth of soul. Our humanity is held within each fragile and broken step we take, and so, do not hang your head in shame for that which is shared between all humans. Re-enter the world, still broken, still healing, and reclaim your rightful place within.”

Sail On

imagesIt is said around the time that Christopher Columbus set sail, that the English pirate Drake was raking Spanish holdings up the west side of the Americas.  As Columbus had sailed into the unknown, his fearful crew was allegedly on the brink of mutiny – mutiny, rather than come to the edge of…whatever.  Columbus, in this perilous atmosphere, made a stark entry each day in his logbook: “Sailed on.”

More often than not, were I to keep a logbook, I think that my entries might be quite the same, as are my days.  Wake up…work, kids, clean, errands, food…sleep.  Repeat. “Sailed on.”  When I am honest, there are often times that I find myself questioning, “Is this all there is to life?”  I’m convinced that monotony must be the cause of many mid-life crises.  We get stuck in the rhythm of our days, realize that life could realistically be half over, and feel a desperate need to break free from our own restraints, explore beyond the boundaries of our own boredom.

However, we all too often live our lives looking off into the horizon for the next great thing…marriage, a baby, a promotion, vacation, retirement…we are looking to “arrive” and missing the journey.  The thing is, we don’t know what lies on the horizon.  We don’t know if tomorrow will even arrive, and if it does, we don’t know if it will carry promise or catastrophe. We might quickly find ourselves longing for the boredom and monotony of yesterday.  Obviously, the key is to live with gratitude, finding value and joy in the day-to-day.  But I would also propose, as I struggle to live this reality myself, that we should not only strive to find joyful moments in the tedium, but also learn to lean in, settle in, relax and embrace the restlessness of simply sailing.

Just as it is often impossible for a ship to perceive forward movement on a vast sea without any landmarks, we too are often unable to sense any inner growth or progress in life.  But if we can accept and trust the process, the journey, the Captain, we will at some point be able to look back and see that it was all for our good…the sun, the storms, and the endless stream of days upon days.  So for now, I prepare myself for whatever the day will hold.  I’m sure the range will be vast.  And tonight, I’ll settle in and close out the day with another mental entry, “Sailed on.”

 

 

 

 

A Summer Tornado

downloadThe end of summer feels a bit like wandering through the aftermath of a natural disaster.  I mentally move from room to room, assessing all the damage that has been done after several months at home with five kids, mainly my autistic son.  A broken window in the basement…door jamb plates that have been sneakily unscrewed at some point to avoid “room time…” a broken lamp and glass candlestick in the storage that I’ve known about, but somehow, just can’t conjure up the energy to clean…broken glass tabletops from angry, slamming spoons as well as from the time he was “pretending” to throw a chair and slipped…broken doors and doorknobs (oh Lord, so many broken doors)…a garage door that won’t shut, a front door that won’t open…railings that have been ripped out of place…the list goes on and on…

And then there’s the internal inventory…everything I set out to do this summer, everything I hoped to be and do and just ran out of steam. Everywhere I look seems to be a reminder of my failures and shortcomings.  And it feels a bit overwhelming…a lot overwhelming, actually.  I basically want to pack it all up (or just leave it all behind) and move to Montana (or anywhere).

And tomorrow, he starts middle school.  My stomach hasn’t stopped churning since I realized how close the start of school was (a combination of sheer dread and simultaneous elation)!  I remember leaving him at preschool…I guess it was more like peeling him off of me and sprinting out the door…and this kind of feels like that.  I am always afraid of him feeling afraid, of him feeling lonely, of someone being unkind, of me not being there for him.

But in the daily midst of struggling to just breathe and not suffocate, a bright thought sneaks into my darkness.  My 16 year old son, who was standing on a teetering precipice, spent the summer fishing instead of partying, all day every day.  He came home happy at night and actually talked to us and laughed with us!  My daughter spent 5 weeks in Florida helping family take care of a household with 4 small children.  Last night, I sat up until midnight with my 13 year old son and 3 of his precious, giggling, hilarious friends as they tried to learn how to use chopsticks (and or course broke more glass in the process)!  My youngest daughter is still asleep with a friend in a fort they worked until midnight…and not a single electronic device was involved!!

I woke up this morning reminded (yet again) of the messiness and complexity of life.  I constantly feel like my life is either on the brink of a tragic catastrophe or sheer paradise.  They are both true, I think.  Every breath holds within it the potential for suffering and misfortune, as well as peace and prosperity.  But sometimes it is not so obvious which is which. Most days, I am incapable of discerning what events will lead to my downfall or my salvation. It all blends together in one chaotic, jumbled mess.  Perhaps it is all one in the same.  At times, I can’t see through my tears.  But on any given day, they might be tears of heartache or tears of laughter.  Life seems to be one huge contradiction.  It is concurrently chaotic and monotonous, sorrowful and joyful, dreadful and wonderful.

It’s pretty hard to hide and yet at the same time, hard to admit…I’m a mess, my kids are a mess, my home is a mess.  But I guess it’s the mess that makes us human, that makes us vulnerable and that humbles and refines us.  I can’t say that I always appreciate it, that I don’t at times try to close my eyes and make it all disappear.  But on better days, I can at least accept this beautiful mess called life…

 

 

 

 

Something Old, Something New…A Lesson in Redefining Beauty

simply-imperfect-flowers.jpgAs a designer, I tend to be very particular about the things that I see as beautiful.  In my own home, I confess I love things to look contemporary and fresh and just-so.  I love rotating new items into my existing decor.  I quickly get rid of things that look dated or worn.  However, I have recently had the pleasure of reading two wonderful, albeit very different books, that have greatly challenged and broadened my view of aesthetics. 

The first book, called “The Wabi-Sabi House,” addresses what the author (Robyn Griggs Lawrence) refers to as “the Japanese art of imperfect beauty.”  She states, “The subtle messages that live within wabi-sabi are the things we all seem to long for today: Slow down.  Take the time to find beauty in what seems ordinary – and to turn the “ordinary” into something beautiful.  Make things yourself instead of buying those spit out by a machine, and smile when your work is flawed.  Wash your dishes by hand, and most important: learn to think of others before yourself.”  Wabi-sabi finds beauty in things that are old, natural, broken, simple and earthy.  I must say, it is a challenge for me to find beauty in old things.  I love new trends and styles and experimenting in my home. I am not sentimental or much of a collector.  I have five children and often value efficiency over, well…basically everything!  However, I am stretching myself by attempting to slow down and find beauty in unexpected places, while incorporating small touches of imperfect and meaningful beauty at the same time.

The second book by Nate Berkus, “The Things That Matter,” thoughtfully covers the idea of filling your home with items that carry personal history and significance.  He opens the first page by sharing, “I’ve always believed your home should tell your story…Those cuff links?  They belonged to somebody I loved: we picked them out on one of the most perfect days we ever spent together.  That tortoise shell on the wall?  There was one exactly like it in my mother’s house and I can’t see it without thinking about a thousand inedible family dinners.  Each object tells a story and each story connects us to one another and to the world.  The truth is, things matter.  They have to.  They’re what we live with and touch each and every day.  They represent what we’ve seen, who we’ve loved, and where we hope to go next.  They remind us of the good times and the rough patches, and everything in between that’s made us who we are.”  I love this!  And while this may come quite naturally to some people, this concept has given me quite a bit to think on.  My family has never valued THINGS very much, which is both positive and negative.  While we are not tied to our possessions, we also don’t have any family heirlooms that exchange hands or generations.  I have purchased every single thing in my home…no gramma’s rocking chair, mother’s cookbooks, dad’s tools, nothing!  This honestly makes me a bit sad, but also determined to do things differently for my children.  I have started purchasing (or keeping) something special for our home every time we travel: horse hair pottery from South Dakota, my husband’s first emptied out clam shell from Maine, a wooden manatee to remind us of the one that chose to swim with us in Florida.  When my gramma passed away, I carefully elected to save a jade letter opener that reminded me of her (I never knew anyone who actually used a letter opener to open letters)! 

While I still openly profess my love for all things new, I am also committed to expanding upon what I have traditionally viewed as beautiful, and to looking through an object into its past.  I am looking forward to owning THINGS that matter, things that will one day cause my children to re-tell my stories to their children. And I eagerly anticipate the lessons that I know will come…as I learn to find perfection in imperfections.

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Living Seasonally

live-in-each-season-1024x1024I’ve spent the last few months with blinders on…not the blindfold type of blinders that prevent you from seeing, but more like the type they put on horses to keep them focused on what is ahead of them.  Life all of a sudden got really hard, and really good, and really busy, all at the same time.  Kind of like a whirlwind introduction to teenagers, owning your own business, husband starting a business kind of boot camp.  I laugh/cringe because this is just the way I operate…when things get hard, I get small and go inward.  When I was delivering my first son, I basically kicked everyone out (and down the hall so I couldn’t even hear their voices), and my poor husband who took all those crazy classes with me didn’t even have a chance to put his newfound knowledge to work from his chair in the corner.  I had to be fully alone and present with myself to focus and complete the task at hand.  So I’ve spent the last few months in my “internal cocoon…” possibly socially isolated and emotionally withdrawn, although I don’t know how I appear to others.  I haven’t been upset, I’ve just had to focus on getting through a challenging time and I do my best work alone.

I planned and pushed with fervency to wrap up as many jobs as possible so that I could be home with my kids for the summer.  And then…it was summer.  But to my complete surprise (and delight), the summer that normally devours me like a consuming tornado, has meandered in peacefully and silently, observed by the wonderful cessation of marking time and checking off to-do lists.  I did reverse psychology on myself by getting so busy, that summer now seems slow in comparison (I must be smarter than I thought to be able to trick myself)!  My oldest boys literally fish from sun-up to sun-down and my daughter is in Florida helping family.  I have gone from having 5 seemingly co-dependent children to feeling like I only have 2!  My days have transitioned from non-stop movement, to coffee (with refills!) on the patio in the company of a good book.

Throughout the course of the last few months, I am reminded that the struggles and busy-ness of life can function as a splinter.  They can cause irritation and sometimes outright pain, but the second they are removed, the relief gives way to a newfound joy and appreciation.  Although I am a regrettably slow learner, I am beginning to posses with certainty the belief that every stage of life is good (even the hard ones) and can offer new opportunities for gratitude.  I have loved being busy and creative and working, but I also love letting my brain rest and “just” being a mom.  We can go through life, constantly looking anxiously ahead to the next phase, or we can learn to suck the marrow out of the here and now.  I have done plenty of looking ahead.  I long to improve upon cherishing the present.

I am also (finally) beginning the grasp the importance of living seasonally.  Earlier in life, I strived and worked incessantly.  I felt lazy if I stopped to rest.  Yet when we frantically press on and on (even in positive, fun times) without diversity or change in pace, we quickly run out of steam and live a dreary life of monotony.  There must be times of ebb and flow, work and rest, tears and laughter, suffering and joy.  I am learning to heed and embrace the literal seasons of nature for life cues…the long, slow spread of summer days, the solitude and silence of winter, the invigoration of spring and the calming crispness of fall.  I’m even attempting to eat seasonal foods to provide for varying physical needs throughout the year.  I’m trying to fight less against life, and instead receive with open hands of gratitude each twist of events that life presents.  In doing so, I am learning to trust more deeply and authentically.  Hindsight is always 20/20 and the longer I live, the more I can look back over the threads of time to see how my life is being expertly woven.  I am seeing with greater clarity that I can breathe and lean fully into a life of trusting God, nature, and myself.

Living seasonally is nothing new.  It is, in fact, ancient and old and wise.  I, however am not.  But perhaps through the symbiotic relationship of internal intuition and nature’s external prompting, I can settle in to a rhythmic sort of journey that will lead to a full, healthy and long existence.  Life is hard.  But it’s also really, really beautiful.  I want to make the CHOICE to savor the sweetness of life, instead of dwelling on it’s bitter moments.  Cheers to summer…My new art purchase...

 

 

Unless a Grain of Wheat…

“My dad told me this once.  For a wheat seed to come fully into its own, it must become wholly undone.  The shell must break open, its insides must come out, and everything must change.  If you didn’t understand what life looks like, you might mistake it for complete destruction.”

-The Broken Way by Ann Voskamp-

 

I haven’t written lately because I haven’t had much to say.  And because some thoughts take longer to gestate than others.  Sometimes life has a way of washing over you like the ocean wave you didn’t see coming and suddenly,  you’re not thinking in words, you’re just trying to figure out which way is up and how to find your breath again.  Maybe it’s just me, but I feel like the older I get, the more I have to fight to hang on to hope and not give in to cynicism.  I have to work harder to see the glass half full instead of half empty.  I worry more than I ever have.  With the way the world is and a house full of present and upcoming teenagers, I recognize how much I stand to lose and how little control I possess.  And I just don’t have enough…enough patience, enough energy, enough love.  Many days feel like a battle, a monotonous drudgery at best.  And I become frustrated with myself that I can’t be more upbeat, less of a Debbie Downer, more like someone else, anyone else…

However, what I am being reminded of, is that there is no one who escapes life without struggle.  It is a part of the cycle of life.  Even if we lived in a utopian world, we would war within ourselves. But like a forgotten memory I am starting to recall a time when I knew better…a time when I was able to hold suffering in greater esteem.  Like birth pain, the struggle is more intense when you fight it, when you try to eradicate it.  I have forgotten that the best way to deal with pain is to breathe and lean into it, remembering that pain can give birth to breathtaking beauty.

I guess the last few months have left me feeling a bit like a wheat seed…like my outer layer has been has been smashed open, my insides spewed carelessly about.  And it kind of feels like complete destruction.  But perhaps, if I can learn to accept all of life with grace, humility and gratitude, this “destruction” can be the springboard into new life.  The Orthodox church has a saying, “Out of death springs life.”  They serve boiled wheat at funerals and memorial services to physically remind people that death is not the end.  It is a good reminder that sometimes we need to be “undone” before we can become “done.”  And like the smallest sprout, I feel hope start to grow again.  Although pain is not something I feel the need to seek out, I also can feel the frantic need to escape it seeping away.  As wind and water can erode granite, so can pain shape and wear away my rough edges.  Sometimes it feels like life cracks us wide open to pain.  But perhaps, it is cracking us open to healing, breaking us so that we can live life fully.  I hope and pray that my soul will settle in, lean in, and learn to graciously accept all that comes to me with peace of soul and the firm conviction that all is sent to me for my benefit.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies…”

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Photo credit to my youngest daughter, Reagan

Intentional Silence

undulations“Individuals, like nations, must have suitable broad and natural boundaries, even a considerable neutral ground, between them. I have found it a singular luxury to talk across the pond to a companion on the opposite side. In my house we were so near that we could not begin to hear, we could not speak low enough to be heard; as when you throw two stones into calm water so near that they break each other’s undulations. If we are merely loquacious and loud talkers, then we can afford to stand very near together, cheek by jowl, and feel each other’s breath; but if we speak reservedly and thoughtfully, we want to be farther apart, that all animal heat and moisture may have a chance to evaporate. If we would enjoy the most intimate society with that in each of us which is without, or above, being spoken to, we must not only be silent, but commonly so far apart bodily that we cannot possibly hear each other’s voice in any case.”

~An Excerpt from Walden by Henry David Thoreau~

 

It has been said that words are the most base form of communication.  In a time when everyone is concerned with finding their voice in the world, we forget the impact and importance of silence.  When we speak constantly, people stop listening.  Words that might be valuable, get lost in the sheer projectile volume.  Life gets big and chaotic and turbulent and if we rise to challenge it, we immediately begin to get lost in the noise.  This does not necessitate a passive, apathetic approach to life.  Practically, we must rise to meet to whatever stands before us.  But we cannot forget the value of first withdrawing into ourselves to subdue our inner turmoil.  When life gets big, we must get small.  If we mindlessly rush headfirst into pandemonium, we will only add to the cacophony and delirium.  We feel the need to say the right thing, do the right thing, and forget that silence is also a viable course of action.  How many problems in life could potentially be solved by just stopping, and waiting in silence?  The Tao Te Ching states that, “No one can make muddy water clear, but if one is patient, and it is allowed to remain still, it may gradually become clear of itself.”  If we are able to resist the urge to constantly fill time and space with empty and urgent words, silence becomes not only an ideal choice but also a familiar and comforting companion as well.

 

We can make our minds so like still water

That beings gather about us that they may see, 

It may be, their own images, 

And so live for a moment with a clearer,

Perhaps even with a fiercer life

Because of our quiet.

~The Celtic Twilight by William Butler Yeats~

                                                                                                               

 

 

 

 

 

Common But Not Normal

A study was conducted in 1967 by a man named Martin Seligman.  In Part 1 of this study, three groups of dogs were placed in harnesses.  Group 1 dogs were briefly put in a harnesses and then released.  Groups 2 and 3 consisted of “yoked pairs”.  Dogs in Group 2 were given electric shocks at random times, which the dog could end by pressing a lever. The dogs in Group 3 were connected to a Group 2 dog and received a shock whenever Dog 2 received its shock.  However, the lever did not stop the shock for Dog 3.  Thus, for Group 3 dogs, the shock was “inescapable”.

All dogs were later placed in a small box in which they would receive the same shock.  Dogs from both groups 1 and 2 quickly jumped over a low partition to escape the shock.  However, the group 3 dogs simply laid down because they had learned that they could neither control nor end the shocks.

Our culture has become like the dogs of Group 3.  We are being shocked over and over and we too, have learned that the shocks are inescapable.  School shootings, bombings, acts of terror and suicides no longer shock us.  They have become common.  Social media and the internet have taken over our children’s lives and “nudes,” and pornography have become not only common, but acceptable and even praised.  Nothing is sacred.  Sex has become more prevalent than a deep conversation and any sense of modesty has long been vanquished by oversexed bodies splashed across any possible avenue.

However, what we seem to have forgotten is that there is a difference between common and normal.  Just because something happens with frequency does not mean that it is normal.  Prostitution is common but it is certainly not normal behavior.  We have forgotten that humans are created good, in the image of a Creator, and that it is the good that should be considered normative.  We, like Group 3 dogs, have laid down in the midst of the pain.  We have accepted the shocks as routine and no longer even look for a way out.  I must admit that I do not see any readily apparent escape route from that which is “common” in our world.  But I certainly refuse to look at any of the aforementioned issues as normal.

8cc0f5ce9f52d4c095ff419c2d25f05fThis age of tolerance which is good in many ways, has also caused us to turn a blind eye and accept much of what is unacceptable.   I realize that there is no way to stop the “shocks,” but we can at least jump over the partition of resignation and try to live a life that seeks to regains true normalcy and right thinking.   Although painful, I truly believe that it is better and more fully human to grieve and suffer through the shocks that to become desensitized and lay down in defeat.