The Brooks Brood

Our Lazy Susan

2015-03-06T01:41:00.000-07:00

Since becoming a mother I’ve read books and attended seminars on all the golden little nuggets of wisdom around how to grow a child through empowerment and self sufficiency. I’ve reorganized their rooms so that their little short torsos and nubby hands can grab items in their world with ease. I’ve tenaciously surfed the internet for that one special kitchen tool designed for children’s mobility. I’ve tried to make sure veggies and fruit were prepped and accessible as to leave no excuse for them not to make their lunches for school, relocated the laundry detergent so they can reach it themselves to do their laundry, written chore charts, faithfully re-stalked cleaning supplies in their bathroom to ensure the tools they needed are readily available to them. I’ve even watched videos filmed by my kids to get a glimpse of what it’s like to be of hobbit height. Such adjustments to the house have often meant sacrificing my preference of decoration and beautification. Such as the ugly plastic water pitchers that they can pour themselves or piles of shoes I leave alone because after all, they did do what they were asked so why undo and “fix" it? I want them to feel this is their home which means I’ll just wait a few years to replace the hallway book case full of random crap with flowers and candles.

However, I’ll admit these efforts to create a self-reliant-confidant-responsible-non entitled-poster child, often manifest into ridiculousness. What kind of ridiculousness you ask? Picture an adult adamantly lecturing on how "the actions or lack thereof, to participate in the household expectations of packing your own lunch the night before school result in you not eating a lunch at all the next day” I say this to the devastated, wide eyed child and then it dawns on me - she’s 5 yrs. old. She only just recently (a matter of a few years) arrived at the exciting new world of going to the bathroom by herself much less packing a well balanced meal 12 hours before she plans to eat it. But onward I press into the abyss of forward thinking parenting. Which leads me to my main topic - our lazy susan.

A little backstory here for all of you who enjoy long winded tales - I’ve always been frustrated at the helplessness of my kids at meal time. Our table is large, their arms are short. Are you seeing the dilemma? "Pass the green beans" turns into a grunting / stretching exercise session which slightly resembles momma/baby yoga except it’s actually just dinnertime. It’s mind boggling to me how my daughters can reach within themselves and deep down magically muster up the strength of Wonder Woman when I ask them to carry in the groceries because they’ll grab the 50 lib ice cream carton without hesitation. They’ll pick it up with ease and run it inside like it’s on fire, eagerly anticipating swooping their 'spoonfuls of delight' into their mouths the moment they reach the kitchen. How is it that they can lift a gallon of Blue Bell with their pinky but are immediately disabled when it comes to passing a pasta bowl? So I thought "I should get lighter serving ware that they can actually pick up and pass" but well, let’s just be honest - I don’t want to because it would end up being a sister to that ugly plastic water pitcher and my self denial only goes so far. My conclusion? A lazy susan! You know, those turntable things from the 70’s. Perfect! But not just any lazy susan, the ideal one. Large enough to turn for everyone to reach, lovely to look at and of course, durable. I had one in mind and after 2 years of eyeing it the hubby got it for our anniversary. It’s one of my most favorite things in this house next to the dog and pottery….oh yeah, and the kids. It’s made from birch and driftwood by an art company in Iowa. We came across it in an artisan’s co-op in Boulder which is a good thing too because once I knew we should get one, lucky I could just swing by on a 2 hour drive to the store and pick it up. Hand etched is a mountain scene, a little house and the four seasons (not the band) surrounding the perimeter entirely illustrated in watercolored earth tones. Words carved along the outer ring say things like “Go out for Adventure, Come home for love” and “See Beauty”. A true piece of art. While my beloved brother delights in referring to me as a trendy suburban hipster - I’d like to think of myself as an artistic and eclectic homemaker. . . he obviously doesn’t comprehend exquisite taste. Poor fella. Regardless now our dinner table is embellished with this earthy functional goodness and I think to myself - AH HA! Dinner time dilemma is solved! I cracked the case.

We sit down to eat and the mad chaos begins. Someone says “Amen” to our deeply heartfelt 2 second prayer and it’s as if Seabiscuit was just released from the gate. One hand turns it right, another swipes it left. Then someone else spots the bowl of cheese sitting on the lazy susan which will inevitably fix Mom’s boring chili that she's labored over, so that hand grabs on tight to try their odds and there you have it. It’s like a live auction and the person with the most force wins the final spin! Whiz! Swoosh! The platters are clinking and the ugly plastic water pitcher is teetering on the edge of this fine piece of craftsmanship. Once the realization covers their little faces that not everyone can actually turn the lazy susan at the same time, disappointment sets in. I thought this would solve our dilemma but really all it’s done is created a venue for children to gaze down in forlorn hope at the lazy susan as it rotates by on it’s way to deliver the cheesy bowl of redemption to the person sitting next to them. But it doesn’t end there. Because the lazy susan is so wonderfully made of sturdy reclaimed wood it sits on a large wonderfully made base of sturdy reclaimed wood. This base is about 3/4 inches thick which of course causes all of the food to sit on a platform off the dinner table by a little over an inch. Didn’t see that one coming. So when my 4 or 5 yr old. Hobbit grabs the ladle to the giant silver stock pot in order to serve themselves up a bowl of chili- (because remember we are the Montessori home of self-sufficiency), it unavoidably comes toppling down and those beautifully hand sketched words of “Cherish family” are soaked in black beans and spicy tomato sauce disguising the message to say something like “C SH MILY”. But there’s good news because while I’m running for the dish towel and the Seabiscuit race turns into soup kitchen cleanup, my sly youngest is getting her calcium intake as she’s now polished off the contents of the cheese bowl when no one was looking. Did I mention that the recycled parchment paper instructions which the hippie at the store enclosed with the lazy susan advised the avoidance of extreme heat directly on the wood? Call me crazy but isn’t a lazy susan meant for food and here in privileged countries such as ours we often eat HOT food for dinner?

It was about this time that I realized this lazy susan is just a thing. It’s not my child’s heart or pschye - it doesn’t feel, it is not impressionable so I had better react in a way that doesn’t make my kid feel bad that she’s completely and utterly destroyed my enjoyment of my brand new piece of art. After all, she’s got short stubby arms and they can’t quite navigate the toils of a chili bowl on a lazy susan. They can however be of sufficient length when she is reaching for the highest cupcake on the cupcake stand - oh yes. Then her arms are filled with grace and Bruce Lee like concentration but “pick and choose your battles” they say. So instead of looking at her with beety little eyes muttering the words “I’ll get you my pretty, and you’re little dog too” I softly ask her to get up and help clean up the mess. Which of course translates into emptying her lab of lentils and black beans while the dog rushes over for his fair share. Ironic - I was just thinking of him.

Finally I find myself in the morning hours sitting at the breakfast table with a soft candle lit on top our lovely lazy susan. A cup of coffee, morning devotions and a quick thumb through a book filled with all the golden little nuggets of wisdom for creating a space in my home in which kids will thrive. Because, after all. . . we are all about growing confidant little minds around here and surely there’s something I can do around this joint that introduces independence. Right?

Window Shopping Epiphany

2015-01-28T16:19:00.003-07:00

So there we were in beautiful Georgetown during their annual Christmas market. There were horse drawn sleighs jingling down the street, victorian carolers walking about (apparently not at all feeling a century displaced) and a massive bonfire with chestnuts roasting in the town square. The entire Clear Creek valley echoed holly-Jolly Christmasness every time you turned around. I loved it. My husband kindly offered to take two frantic children who had somehow managed to soak themselves with freezing water to another store so my eldest and I could leisurely browse a charming boutique. Little did I know I'd overhear a comment that would stick with me for weeks.

Our puffy winter coats accompanied us as we carefully navigated our way through the mercury glass ornaments into a small room with nativities, vintage lights and hand crafted decor. I felt a sense of euphoria. How lucky am I? There's no little kindergarten fingers that I have to grab at light speed before the display goes toppling over (yes, it's happened) just me and a fairly mature 9 yr. old who appreciates beautiful things. ahhh.

Then I heard it. Crystal clear. As if straight from my heart. I've said it in days of the past or years in the future or somewhere floating in between my thoughts. So familiar that as quickly as it rolled off of this stranger's tongue it landed on my ears, flew through my conscious and lay right upon my heart in agreement. A simple, innocent comment and while I don't know this woman's story I intimately understood her.

"Oh look at that nativity! That's just like the one my mother used to have! I wish I had gotten it but it went to my sister instead, I wonder what happened to it."

I understood her. And as she asked the lady behind the counter how much it was I suspected she would buy it. Why? Because if I were her, I would too. It invoked a memory for her, a feeling of nostalgia and despite not knowing it's existence in store before she walked in, she unquestionably had to purchase it before she walked out. It's not a bad thing, I was actually a little bit happy for her. Her mother was dead, her memories alive and she grabbed hold of a tangible item that represented both.

It stuck with me for weeks. I thought about that woman and her nativity as I boxed up my own cherished Christmas decorations. And it really got got me thinking of all the things we acquire and the reasons why. We can sometimes fill our lives with experiences that offer us satisfaction yet eventually their power dissipates so we fix our eyes on the next big thing. I think we should always be moving forward in attempts to improve our selves and situation but it's when those efforts are unknowingly used to chase a fleeting sense of fulfillment that is the trap. I used to think it's because we're privileged westerners to never be satisfied. But it's not. It's a human disposition. We constantly are filling a void even when we aren't completely aware there is one. We have an insatiable thirst for more, more, more. More meaning, more purpose, more experiences, more honesty or get this - less honesty and more strokes of our ego, more knowledge, more stuff.

Our efforts are camouflaged and drowned out by the lies we can easily feed ourselves. Lies that are like addicting pills we pop every morning as an unconscious routine because they help us operate comfortably in our perspective. "Once I get there it'll be better / No one knows what it's like for me / If I can only go there /do this / get that..... arrive". The list of void-fillers are endless. And despite the accomplishments we make - nothing satisfies for long. My have's and have-not's don't satisfy. They always fail me and when I focus on them, I get bitter. People always fail me and when I focus on them, I get bitter. But there is good news. Because Oh HOW HAPPY I am when I acknowledge the poverty of my human spirit's condition compared to the greatness of the Creator. That's why I'm out of sync! That's why I'm always thirsty for more! This earthly life was never meant to be my home and how easily I forget. But when I remember this truth, it's like rain on my thirsty soul. Today, right now I live in over abundance. If only for today. God help my prodigal heart for tomorrow. Today I am grateful.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArglU4E7Vhc

The Ending of an Era

2014-04-28T21:48:00.000-06:00

We are moving. A bigger house, more room, closer to the kids' school yadda yadda yadda. You know, all the perks that would draw a family of 5 to a new place. It's a town just down from here but feels a thousand miles south of here. The smallest change that pivots everything. I've never liked change. I think I've learned to deal with it positively throughout the years and with a peaceful assurance that nothing is worth getting too worked up over if it's bound to turn out alright. But this morning I stood in my kitchen frozen, staring at the packing tape and box. Unable to put the first box together because right then it symbolized the last box. I was (and still am) shocked at the sadness and humor of the moment as it hit me out of no where. I slowly put things away, tidied up around the living room and searched frantically for anything that might distract me for the next minute/ lifetime so I wouldn't have to face taping up the first box. We've packed up a lot already but this week is the "real-deal-we're-doing-this" packing. I was frozen. But forward I went. Tearful and all.

It's eerie how a home becomes an intimate family member and then all of a sudden it betrays you when you realize that in a few short days it will be an intimate family member for some stranger (who no doubt will ruin the walls with disapproving colors and neglect to tinsel the place up at Christmas). I felt guilty last week packing up the patio, taking down the twinkle lights that hovered over leisure evenings of red wine and good conversations on a love-built flagstone patio. Cleaning out the garden and shutting the fence that my dad and I built... taking off the curtains to a bedroom window I looked out while my babies entered the world. Moving up and down a set of stairs that housed seven other precious friends and family for a time... painting over little scribbles on the wall from hands that grow too fast.

There just isn't enough of a moment to hold all of my goodbyes.

But forward I must go. With all uneasiness and awkwardness of stepping ahead. Ironically it's the only natural thing we can do. Or at least..... should do. And sometimes the scariest.

I have so many questions, fears, hesitations, excitement and plans for these next unknown years but I'm grateful for the peace of not being alone even in the loneliest of moments. I will not worry. I shall not worry! What does worrying get me? Who adds to their life by worrying? Surely I am seen, and known and cared for by Him who I abide in. The troubles we have in a day are enough for one day! Matt 6:25-34. So I'll put my every hope and energy in today and not fear tomorrow.

Forward in all of my un-doneness and stress and love and tears and sentimental endings.

Forward.

Deliberating December

2012-12-01T22:43:00.001-07:00

The past two months have consumed me. I’ve walked in and out of my days with an absent-mindedness that has seemed to infiltrate numerous areas of my life. I haven’t been able to articulate my experience and no doubt this attempt will fall short of describing it’s depth but foolishly, I try.

I’ve recently made personal discoveries that have been monumental. While all this time I’ve attributed my pre-occupied brain to these discoveries, I still haven’t seemed to . . . settle. I’m forgetful. I’m slow. I'm not focused. I'm overwhelmed. I’m finding the simplest of tasks to be overwhelming and feel more like a spectator in my life whose floating above looking down when really I’m walking around in slow-motion.

I’ve shared before when I set goals it creates a rhythm I can operate in. A sort of metronome for life that seems to produce productivity. Well, that rhythm has lost it’s tick and now the holidays are upon me thus I cautiously approach them. I resent the situation I find myself in year after year. It’s the strategy game of Christmas with it’s commercialized, greed-inducing, and sometimes meaningless-gift-giving requirements. I love to give gifts and to receive them! But I cringe at the thought of lopping more things on top of our Mountain of things in a grandiose celebration of self. Especially when it comes to the impression I'm imparting onto my children and how it effects their evolving concept of holiday. Giving is a cherished encounter I've been fortunate to learn about from friends, where we express honor and appreciation of one another, a sort of acknowledgment of “I see you”. But instead of seeing a people, we see lists. Some may easily find themselves slaves to a chore without ever taking notice as to why they are giving gifts in the first place. Ridiculous! The reverence of Christmas isn’t readily available to us anywhere but instead, waits quietly for us in our reflections and convictions.

I read once that contemplation and revolution should never be separated (Henri Nouwen). Maybe that’s why my thoughts can gnaw at me until I act on them, I don’t know. I shamefully admit that my frequent criticism of the enormous wasted wealth in the Western world compared to rest of the globe has not prevented me from being swept away with consumerism. Socially irresponsible consumerism, that is. How it astonishes me that one night I read about neighbors in a Nairobi slum sharing coveted shoe polish as an act of kindness (for when shoe polish is sniffed it offsets hunger pains and is often used in bottles shared by children and adults) and the very next day go about my business without any sense of urgency regarding information I gained the evening prior! In the end of my days, how will I account for this? How do you and I manage to live in one world but have knowledge of another’s whose reality is too painful to comprehend?

There is a way.

There are many ways in fact. Small steps. Baby steps to change. Scholars have analyzed this issue- the predicament people encounter when faced with the enormity of world hunger and still conclude with the notion of - small steps. Everyone making – small steps.

It's Christmas - the season of gifts and if you engage in gift giving, below are some links you can glance at that can revolutionize your giving.

Meanwhile, here’s a passage that has recently spoken to me. Dark as it may be, it’s been a poignant charge that's created a liability I can’t seem to escape.

“The more we love earthly things, reputation, importance, ease, success and pleasures, for ourselves, the less we love God. Our identity gets dissipated among a lot of things that do not have the value we imagine we see in them, and we are lost in them: we know it obscurely by the way all these things disappoint us and sicken us once we get what we have desired. Yet we still bring ourselves to nothing, annihilate our lives by trying to fulfill them on things that are incapable of doing so. When we really come to die, at last, we suddenly know how much we have squandered and thrown away, and we see that we are truly annihilated by our own sick desires: we were nothing, but everything God gave us we have also reduced to nothing, and now we are pure death.

(September 3, 1941, Journal of Thomas Merton, 243-44)

The Importance of Time

2012-08-16T21:39:00.000-06:00

The summer is nearing an end around our home and I can’t help but feel speechless about it. Within the past six months it seems I’ve been witness to life changes of those around me. Family has moved in, moved out.....moved away. It's created a solemnness that still stings at times but for the most part has laid itself rest in my unspoken thoughts. While I usually attack my summer plans with an organized aggressiveness this time it was different. I moved in slow motion through the month of May and cautiously closed a chapter I'd invested in at our oldest daughter’s school. It didn’t sink in until it was over that I had come to know parents, kids and teachers in the course of 4 years. It would be back to the drawing board come August and I had a few months to realize it and so did my daughter. The topic fell silent between her and I. What else was there to say?

This morning was the first day of school. Dropping off my kids on the first day of school has always been an interesting experience for me. It’s flooded with my own memories of the awkward insecurities I had as a young girl, mixed with anticipation for my own children and then grandly topped off with my inevitable social analysis of other families and the general process. By the time the grueling 15-minute ritual had been accomplished this morning, I felt as if I had just finished writing a thesis. Drained and unsure, my husband and I got in the car and fell into the routine of weekday demands. I thought to myself as we drove by and glanced at the windowed doorway that there would never be enough time to slow it down and take it all in. That much I am sure of.

I suppose that’s why yesterday went just as it was meant to. The last day of summer has traditionally been relished in the mountain air with my kids. Snapping the last few pictures near the lake with their summer tans, singing the songs that were the soundtrack of our summer on the radio. But not yesterday. Something inside me was still. Quiet. Something caused me to pause and interrupt my instinct to head for the hills. Even now I don’t know what…but I’m grateful for it. I watched my kids grow older in the matter of 5 minutes. They wanted to go outside with their friends and then they gathered in the backyard splashing about the hose while I was in the garden. It was a simple day. A window into their safe childhood summer and I felt privileged to look through it. We were all at peace. Just being, talking about nothing in particular and laughing at each other's outrageous attempts at humor.

We’re inevitably being pushed forward. Every day. Flung into tomorrow’s expectations and required to show up on time. I thought a lot about the question – what will I do with my time? People ask me this as if I’ve just received 40 hours a week of free time. After the general bitterness subsided over the question - I thought about it more. What I will I do with the time I’ve been given? What should any of us do with the spare 15 minutes we might have in an afternoon or the weekend off that we have at our disposable? What will I do in a two-hour respite that can change the world I live in? Not just maintain it - but improve it? It’s irrelevant what age any of us are since this question applies to us all. And it applies at every hour of the day or night. How do you spend your time? It’s probably a good indicator of self-discipline, values, desire and ambition or lack thereof. The thought occurred to me that without goals or ambition – how can I continue to become? The fear of falling subject to a lazy complacency provoked me to action. Thus, I created a few goals for myself.

And I began to feel hopeful.

My lesson hour

2012-04-20T09:45:00.000-06:00

I had the privilege accompanying my daughter to her classroom last night. I along with a handful of somewhat willing parents were lead around by our child from one station to next. The teacher adamantly made it clear that the night was the students. There were no instructions except to the student and that was that they can show their parent anything they want to as long as they’ve had a lesson on it. What struck me the most wasn’t the neatly laid trays or the washed linens that the children had hung but rather the intense discipline it took for the adults in the room to constrain themselves. It was almost sadly entertaining.

In a 24 hour period, a child’s day is typically completely dictated by an adult whether a teacher, parents, daycare worker etc. They are told what to do and how and when. They’re told how to behave or what to say. They’re even told how to apologize when they’ve done something “wrong” that they can’t comprehend to begin with. Little toy soldiers marching about in accordance to adult world standards. It must be exhausting. Sadly, it seemed even more exhausting for the parents to not be in control.

I was silent while my daughter sheepishly looked about the room. Despite the on-going conversations about what she will do and how she will teach me days prior it appeared the adrenaline was quickly lost when adults were hovering over and I waited silently. Finally after much thought, she chose the bead wall to be the venue in which she’d reveal her vast amounts of skills and knowledge. I watched as she fetched a small rug and laid it down decisively. I started to scoot towards it when I was abruptly stopped by her hand straight out in the air as she shook her head saying “No, no no. You can’t sit on it” with an apologetic tone. “Oh” I said “Ok, thanks for letting me know.” She began laying down a strand of beads and placing small arrows with numbers at the bead it correlated with. “One, two, three, four, five” she’d whisper and then lay down the tiny gray “5” arrow. The other arrows were set in a neat row above her bead strand as she began to count again. “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten”. Then she paused and surveyed the other arrows that were labeled 10, 15 , 20 and 25. She grabbed the 20 arrow and placed it down and began to count again from the very first bead. “One, two, three” and so on. When she arrived at bead 15 she searched for the arrow. Realizing that the previous was incorrect, she fixed it and finished the bead chain.

I found it interesting how extremely difficult it was to constrain myself in pointing out her mistake. Furthermore, as she returned to the first bead every time she started to place the next arrow I wondered how long I was to endure her counting the beads from the beginning instead of simply starting at 5 or 10. I wanted so desperately to impart my witty and easy tip as it would make her little mind expand twice as quickly! If only she had my help! I’m so important you know. After all, isn’t her classroom my personal space of expertise as well? But despite my instinct to guide, train, correct, “teach” her. . . I sat. Waiting. Waiting is so difficult yet we ask it of our children everyday. As well as our friends and family for that matter. It’s simply who we are. We ask for patience and grace yet it all of a sudden becomes a complex dilemma when we are to grant it ourselves. She rolled up her mat and carefully picked up the beads correcting me on how to hold them as not to accidentally hit another student in the head while I was walking (a sure sign that this observation had taken place earlier in the year). I told her that she really seemed to know her numbers and the order that they go. Then I asked her how long it took her to learn all of this stuff. “Well, the blue chain is really, really, REALLY hard” she replied not answering my question. But it wasn’t about me. I couldv’e asked her again how long it took but I realized – she doesn’t care so why should I? BINGO! She had brought me to a lesson that has been the most difficult for her and she started with the hardest chain to show me as an example. That takes some serious guts. She couldv’e shown me anything but the bead wall let alone picked an easier chain to start with. But it was her night. She was the teacher and given enough silence and patience on my part, had taught me a difficult task with grace and precision.

Meanwhile I observed other parents talking to one another as their child tugged at their shirt. “Ok just wait a minute honey, I’m talking to Mrs. Harris” they told their kids. Unknowingly requesting them to wait in a situation that they shouldn’t ever have to. But of course, if a child tried to tell their parent “no, I want you to see this” then they risk the label of talking back and the punishment that follow. I had the luxury of not knowing many parents and my own husband was out of town so my focus was able to be on my kid. But what if that wasn’t the case? I wonder if I’d make the same observations. I asked the teacher as we were leaving if they ever instructed the kids to begin at bead 5 or bead 10 and then count up from there versus beginning with the first bead everytime. She said that they didn’t need to instruct them because after enough repetition, the children learn this naturally and it’s much more beneficial for them to come upon that discovery by themselves. If a child asks, then they would reply something like “that’s a good question, how about we find out?”.

It’s so difficult to wait. To think that maybe. Just maybe – I’m not the expert in my children’s lives. Or even WORSE! My family or friends. YIKES! I don’t know everything? I don’t have their solutions? That they might have something valuable in from their perspective to show me and if I talked or instructed, I completely destroy that beautiful encounter that could have taken place.

It’s difficult to be silent. It’s hard to wait. Maybe it’s because it requires a smidgen of humility. And humility is in low demand these days. . .

Gone

2012-04-18T22:08:00.001-06:00

I feel uneasy. It happens quite a lot. It’s difficult to talk about without sounding sad. I’m not sad. More anxious. Unsatisfied but not ungrateful. Like having a craving that you can’t satisfy or an itch that you can’t quite reach. Deep down inside I wonder if I’ve denied my gypsy tendencies. . . chosen a road that I enjoy but a selfless one that any parent might understand. Laid down roots that bind me. I don’t like to feel bound. It’s claustrophobic. It’s like choosing what routine you want to dance for years and years. Sounds morbid doesn’t it? I don’t mean it to (look, see – I’m apologizing). It’s just me. I feel like “just a wife and mom” and not so much like myself. Many times I enjoy the cadence of my family's life but one can still want more while enjoying something.

I’ve been distracted. Pre-occupied looking around my life instead of actually living it. As if I’ve been fixated on the view from my window instead of the one I’ve always hoped to see. Meanwhile feeling like an outsider. While standing around talking mommy talk or observing myself in a conversation with a neighbor. I’m a fraud. I think –Who the hell cares about what swimming lesson is better than the other or why you won’t go to a certain theater. Don’t they know there’s more to life? Is something wrong with me that I think the people next to me at Costco are superficial? After all, I’m in line with them! Am I judging them that their loading up on destructive paper towels and pre-packaged baby carrots that in all reality don’t even resemble a carrot? I couldn't keep track of how many, myself included, loaded up on things they didn't know they needed until they came upon the coveted shelves at Target. It's a sickness.

I’m not sure what’s changed but I feel a shift in perspective. I’m almost indifferent about those things and irritated that they’ve been distracting me for so long. I enjoy my safe little life but I fear it’s become a drug. It’s not something that this mother of three brain of mine thought would ever be appropriate to say but I don’t want any roots. At least not deep ones. Is that strange? All I’ve known of home has now become a collection of dear people and irreplaceable memories.

I just want to GO! Go Somewhere. Go anywhere! Into the world that’s been waiting on me and I on it. To get lost. Eat "strange" food, be uncomfortable, make surprising connections, meet God on the altars of inconvenience. Outside of this blinding western perspective. Apart from the debt-driven machine of suburban life. To quit ringing that darn dinner bell in the kitchen but instead to tell my family “I don’t know what’s for dinner, let’s see where the train drops us at next.”

Am I selfish or just honest? I suppose most of all . . . I feel free. Free and now eager. One day I'll tell someone that I can't meet with them because I'll be gone. GONE. I'll be out of the country. They'll ask where I'll be going and I'll reply with some fuzzy idea but all I know is that I'll be gone. Long gone. One day. . .

The world is a book and for those who do not travel read only one page. ~St. Augustine

Two wheels and a bump.

2012-04-02T01:19:00.005-06:00

My family and I have engaged in the delicate dance of teaching a child to ride a bike without training wheels. She'll sway and bump her way down the street with the tips of her toes awkwardly jerking down towards the concrete. She hasn't figured it out yet and is still in the mode I refer to as: Completely Terrified. I was thinking. . . she hasn't fallen yet and it's the fear of the fall that's daunting. What if I fail? The questions can stop us in our tracks. Or worse: What if I actually gave it my all?

Luckily, I have it under my belt and behind me whereas she, a 6 yr. old is still learning. Right?

OK, so picture this: Once upon a time (this afternoon) I decided to ride my bike down to the park. I took in the warm sun on my shoulders and listened with a child-like wonder to the wind whistling fiercely through the wheels. I thought of my daughter and how one day she and I will take rides together much like the one I was enjoying. I'd be a savvy Urban ROCK STAR Mom who rides to the grocery store! YES! That's it. And with a bunch of little green-granola-tree-hugging kids following behind me like little ducklings. Happily and merrily we'll take on suburbia before we venture into real biking that's only done on trails. These memories will give them tales to tell their friends for years to come. I'll be awesome....coolest Mom on the block! Wouldn't you know it right in the middle of my mommy nostalgia moment I rode over some loose gravel, the back wheel spun, pebbles flew up and PLOP CRASH BOOM BAM! Into the center of the road I went! About as graceful as Bambi slipping on ice. I brushed myself off and swiftly drug my bike out of the way careful to not bend more pride than was needed. Hmm. Maybe I'm not as cool as I thought. It had never dawned on me until then - Oh yeah.....Maybe they won't want to ride with me?

I guess I better practice riding my bike with my 6 yr. old because I think she's the Rock Star and hopefully if I get the hang of it she might let me come along.

See-through walls

2012-03-31T02:05:00.002-06:00

I took on a project for a dear friend of mine. I offered to paint her kitchen while she was out of town. Although a bit reluctant at first, she eventually conceded thus I donned my faded painting attire and headed out to her place. At the time I didn’t put much thought into her reservations nor why she had them. I knew why and because we’re so close I ensured her they were silly because I was simply happy to offer something . . . invest a little of my time to make her life easier upon her return home. I was able to do it so I thought "why not". But once I entered the house, set the keys down and got the supplies in order I slowly realized that I was in a position that maybe made her a bit vulnerable. I set my iPod on a Mumford & Sons loop and began edging along the door frame.

Besides the obvious access to her home, she would be the recipient of hours of work on my part. We were essentially in unequal positions whereas I the giver, was “gifting” a small sacrifice from my perspective and she the recipient, was receiving something significant from hers. I felt honored and a bit humbled as I was brushing off base boards and filling in random nail holes. I got to see her kitchen in way that was more exposed than a typical guest would experience. There’d be the typical collection of dust in a corner behind the fridge or layers of chipped paint behind a faceplate switch. Small details that no one really cares about except maybe the owner of the walls and yet here I was in a position to see everything the way it is during transition. Raw. Vulnerable and the other end of of my charity.

A simple story about painting someone’s kitchen might seem insignificant. . . until I invested some thought to the numerous ways I unknowingly position myself in the lives of others. I was presented with this very opportunity later that week while I was looking into some activities for my church women’s group. I received a call back from a woman who coordinates a local volunteer group that “seeks to improve the quality of life for women and children living in poverty and despair”. She began to rattle of the list of volunteer activities we could assist in and I was particularly startled by one of them. Twice a month she and the other members of this group visit a local women’s shelter. They provide dinner for the residents and chat while eating with the women and their children. After dinner they conduct what she referred to as a “life skill” lesson coupled with some sort of Biblical devotion and prayer. Having a grasp on domestic violence intervention and empowerment I asked a series of questions and admittedly, didn’t like the answers returned to me.

“How do you feel the residents in the program receive your group when they come?” I asked.

“Oh they usually are glad to see us and they listen a lot. Their children are just some of the cutest little darlings you’ll ever meet. Sometimes they’re a little quiet but really just so sweet”. She replied.

“Yes” I paused. “I guess I’m kind of interested in knowing… well, do the residents have a choice to attend dinner in the common room or do some choose to eat someplace else in the facility?”

A little confused by the question she explained “Well, no. That’s all a part of the program – they have to attend dinner in the common area and be a part of the life skills hour. It happens every week but we get a turn to teach a life skill lesson twice a month”.

Then there I was. Faced with the decision to either take the agreeable, polite exit from this particular volunteering option (the exit which would be socially acceptable) or be somewhat of an advocate and risk looking like a cynical snob. So when in doubt…just keep asking questions.

“So then, if you don’t mind….I was just wondering what sort of training the members of your group might have in the area of domestic abuse or dealing with women who’ve maybe been exploited or in . . . you know . . . controlling relationships where they don’t have a lot of choices?”

Silence.

“Well we aren’t formally trained for any kind of you know, "psychological" stuff if that’s what you mean. But we believe that these ladies are precious children of God and we just want to go in there and love them and bring some hope and light to their world” she stated in her sweet but short elevator speech reply.

“Sure. Of course” I said with a smile while bobbing my head up and down in the most agreeable fashion I could conjure up. I eventually detoured my way off the phone and hung up disheartened knowing that this woman was an average kind, concerned citizen whose engaging in something she believes in. And while I know her intentions are good I immediately become flustered at how counter-productive these volunteer groups have the potential to be.

What I REALLY wanted to say was something along the lines of: It sounds like your group is really passionate about helping others and being used to give your time and abilities to people in need. That is really wonderful! However, I suppose I’m curious how effective it might be to allow folks who don’t have any formal training in the concept of power, privilege and control and the roles that these concepts have in the fragile cycle of healing from oppressive situations. Take a resident at this shelter whose been in a situation where she’s probably been powerless and “handled”. She’s taken an incomprehensible step towards breaking free from this cycle only to enter a shelter that requires her to subject her children to strangers – volunteers -that want to pat their heads and “teach” her how to live. She nods politely while they share their stories of when they had a rough year in college and how they saved themselves occasionally accepting cliché advice given by well-meaning do-gooders that in the long run won’t apply to their personal situations in the slightest. She eats the meal they provide because she has to or her and her children will be on the street. Then she waves goodbye to the volunteers as they get in their SUV’s and head to the local Starbucks to order a cup of warm fuzzies with a shot of ignorance. All the while no one stops to think that maybe re-inserting an individual into a situation of un-equal power and control with no choice to opt-out might not be the best idea in a program that promotes empowerment. You're observing them in this fish bowl living situation as if their walls should be see-through for our benefit. And so they continue into cyclical vulnerability.

But I didn't say that. Instead, I told her I probably won’t go with that option but I’ll let her know about the others and thanked her for taking the time to share with me.

Maybe it sounds like I’m a bit jaded but maybe it’s inappropriate if I weren’t. It’s interesting to me how our good intentions via donation of time or money to those in socially inferior positions aren’t critically thought about that often. It’s a no brainer to most folks that we should “help” others who need help. We swiftly assume that we have something to give that will improve the quality of life of someone else and neglect how it may be putting them in an increasingly vulnerable and powerless situation. Say for instance . . . “rescuing” victims of human trafficking. Uh oh, now I’ve done it.

We walk right through people’s see-through walls and pay no mind to the invisible boundaries they’d like to make more visible. . . but they can't. I’m not sure we even stop to ask them because if we did the results could be devastating. Requiring us to overhaul our approach completely.

It’s complex and it’s uncomfortable. Talking about it invokes some defensive feelings in anyone who has volunteered or currently volunteers in similar situations (or donates monetarily). Just last weekend I was in another situation where I had this advantage and it’s tricky to maneuver. It's tricky because it's everywhere and it's our idea of normal.

It’s always easier to be the gift-giver. Especially if you feel your gift is right.

Meanwhile back at my friend’s house, I wrapped up the brushes for the night, closed up the windows and turned off the lights. I had a lot of time to think and maybe that’s why this phone call later that week was so unsettling.

Either way. . . my friend got some painted walls and I got a dose of humility. It was a good week.

L-O-V-E

2012-02-14T01:30:00.001-07:00

I've always loved this passage and thought it fitting to share on this day. We all have lovers in our lives whether we may think them as such. A friend that is at times, closer to yourself than you are. A family member or two whose bonds surpass death and memories are sprinkled throughout your days with a bitter sweet melody. Your faith and hopefully even a strong love for yourself.

Happy Valentine's Day. May you know the beauty of love, if even the memory of it.

Kahil Gibran on Love
From The Prophet

When love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams

as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

The Real Monster in October

2011-10-31T09:23:00.011-06:00

October is national breast cancer awareness month. All month long stores are flooded with shelves of pink. With the swipe of a credit card, consumers can feel a small sense of contribution. Purchase a pink DVD cover and join a movement. Marketing execs across the country have struck a cord in the hearts of the American people. We increase the billion dollar industry of breast cancer research and awareness in addition to the $872 million in federal funding every year. 1 in 8 women are personally affected by this cancer and thousands more know someone who is. (Fewer accurate statistics exist on men given the stigma of it).

But this story isn't about breast cancer. I'm here to speak of a different tragic killer that effects 1 in 3 women. Research isn't well funded so that number is conservative. It's a silent killer that slowly takes it's victim in a friendly, quiet and deceptive way. Sadly, we don't purchase water bottles for it's public awareness at the Kohl's store checkout counter.

She said it was the first time he hit her. She was in shock covered over with shame. Unknowingly she had gone into survivor mode, immediately canceling appointments and finding alternative ways to get things accomplished without leaving the house. Didn't want to expose her bruised face. There goes fresh groceries for the week. He'll probably get mad at her for that.

I asked if she felt he had abused her verbally or mentally before this and she laughed at the question. Of course... I knew it was a ridiculous question. He started to beat up her brain long before he beat up her face. "Yeah he always talks down to me...guess I never thought of it as abuse" she said. Then the tears came, and she had to go.

Five minutes of him and she's re-arranging the next three weeks of her life. Five minutes of his selfishness and she's lost her sense of self. "Swelling has to go down" she told me. But I knew that recovering from swelling was simple compared to what else she's left to repair. Now she questions where safety is and if love will be there too.

She's misunderstood. We politely go about our day with a smile, biting back the questions we want to ask her when we see her at the bank. We're busy people you know and have errands to run. Besides it's rude to intrude on someone. We don't want to assume...right? Don't want to say anything in front of her children (as if they're immune to the abuse). Or we talk about her over lunch where we're quick to bite the back of her neck with angry blame that's fueled by our ignorance. "What happened? How do you think she upset him?"

She thinks:
I can't tell anyone because they'll say they told me to leave him.

I can't tell anyone because my partner is a woman and they hate me already for being gay.

I can't tell anyone because he's a Pastor.

I can't tell anyone because I'm scared if police get involved my kids will stay with him. I'm undocumented.

I can't tell anyone because we're grandparents and no one thinks this happens.

I can't tell anyone because he said if I do he'll hurt my daughter. Then he'll kill me.

I can't tell anyone because she's respected in the military. She says it's hard enough being female and a colonel.

I can't tell anybody because they're all so happy that I'm a breast cancer survivor. That's what they want to celebrate and I've gotten too much attention already. Everyone thinks my life was saved but they don't know I'm already dead. So you'll pat his back for being brave and I'll embrace you as you hug me, flood my research, run for me and smile. Because no one wants to talk about domestic violence and abuse. It would ruin the atmosphere.

After all, pink is such a pretty color. Purple looks too much like my bruises. . .

October is National Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

To donate to national Domestic Violence awareness and services click here: http://www.thehotline.org/support-the-national-domestic-violence-hotline/make-a-donation/

To donate to Domestic Violence services in Colorado click here:
https://co.clickandpledge.com/sp/d1/default.aspx?wid=38533

To find out how to tell your congressperson or representative that you want to see change concerning Domestic Violence in your area, click here:
http://www.nnedv.org/docs/Policy/In-District_Lobbying_Guide_-_General_2011.pdf

Speaking of which. . .

2011-09-19T17:13:00.002-06:00

http://www.fallenprincesses.com/

"I not pretty" Well! What did you expect?

2011-09-19T14:36:00.008-06:00

I was reminded that when we pay someone a complement on appearance, we may often be directing it to a store or a designer who made the item. Instead of saying “That blouse really makes you’re eyes sparkle, it’s beautiful” we say: “I love that blouse”. Or “I just wanted to tell you that I love your style, you have great taste” instead we say : “I love that purse”. Which complement would you rather be paid?

Note: The following are my personal thoughts and convictions. I’ve encountered some-what hostility when sharing my perspective in this area. While it is inevitable to feel a sense of threat or disapproval, I hope that you may walk away from this blog with questions and reflection vs. judgement.

I have three girls. Since my eldest was born I’ve put a lot of energy into understanding what messages she’ll be receiving in the world around her. This is due in part because I first processed the same for myself. I wondered which ones might be positive and therefore aiding her in becoming the strong, confidant and kind individual that most parents hope for. And which ones may be interpreted negative and might damage her sense of self worth or personal growth. Sure, I thought about methods of discipline and trying to speak to her civilly. . . However often go unnoticed are the daily messages that we all reinforce of “you’re not enough” or “this is what beauty is”. From the Ikea stores to salaries, retail commercials to clothing sizes (which are bogus).

I’ve been accused of thinking too much about it. “Oh sweetie, you’re looking too far into things” or “I don’t think it really matters as much as you think it does.” Oh really? Read on.

I read an article by Lisa Bloom a few months back that I appreciated so much, I wrote and thanked her for it (which is something I never do). It’s posted below. She wrote of her encounter at a friend’s home where she met their five-year old daughter for the first time. She was immediately inclined to complement the child on her pink nightgown. It may sound familiar “Maya, you’re so cute! Look at you. Turn around so I can see your pretty dress – you’re gorgeous!”. She didn’t and in my opinion, she knows better.

You may be thinking “What’s so wrong with giving a little girl a complement? Doesn’t it make them feel good, boost their self esteem? God intended women to feel beautiful, it’s very important to reinforce this for little girls” Hmm.

She explains that our social ice breakers we resort to when meeting children are usually on appearance. Politely telling them "how darn cute/ pretty/ beautiful/ well-dressed/ well-manicured/ well-coiffed they are." While this may be with good intentions, it is counter-productive.

Children are like clay. They memorize the messages they receive and if they aren't conforming into them, they are STILL being affected by them. This is a wonderful opportunity but a very fragile one. I don't believe that they exist to be trained for our amusement or doting, but to become and well serving human to the world they entered. The same goes for boys. I default to "complementing" them on how strong they are or how fast because I don't have much interaction with them and let's be honest - I don't know what to say. Then I realized, there are boys who aren't strong or fast and will never be strong or fast. I wondered how I would feel if I had a boy who wouldn't fall into that category and if I'd appreciate him being told he has to merely by the way he's spoken to. Truth is, I have a little girl who is typically out-shined, out ran and rarely ever praised for her appearance. Her skills and creative mind go unnoticed outside of family. I suppose just to let you know how that makes me feel, I get teary thinking about it.

Lisa then goes on to explain her uneasiness in having small talk with this little girl and how difficult it was to avoid typical complements or topics. To read how this story ended, click the link below. In summary, it turns out the child had a lot of intelligent things to say. She's even read a story book or two in her short life that she could tell you about! Imagine that.

Despite my efforts to be intentional in this area, I had a pivotal encounter with my 2 year old recently. She is obsessed with the ever-infiltrating Disney Princesses. I’ll be the first to admit that I dote on her as she sways across the room dancing and singing Aurora’s song. It’s entertaining and “cute” but the entire time I am thinking “uh oh”. She demands to be read princess stories, watch the movies and most recently much to my dismay, wear princess images and logos. I’ve shared with those in my life how this is a challenge for me and have risked being thought of as a joy-killer in order to speak out on what I felt was right. It’s always been with a purpose and never from a “I’m better than you” mentality. But we are human and when someone else raises concerns about what we easily accept, we feel threatened. Interestingly enough it’s not other people who are my most difficult opponent. It’s not even the 2 yr. old. It’s myself.

I had put Cinderalla back in her attic for awhile (get it? Hee hee) and have offered in her place a Seasame Street video or a few sing-along CD’s. Keep in mind - it’s far easier on my sanity to flip on Her Royal Highness and her little rodents vs. singing “I’ve been working on the railroad” and thousand and twelve times. . . (sometimes I think I’m losing my mind and might actually be on the railroad). Ultimately I chose to give in and play the darn thing after she had fiercely dug the DVD out of the bottom of the pile. While it played she talked and talked, happy as a clam. “I yike Cindaella” in her 2 yr. old jargon. “You yike Cindaella Momma?” I answer, “Cinderella is very kind. Yes, I like that too”. She confirms it and goes on. “She pretty” she says matter of factly. “Momma, you tink Cindaella pretty?” “Well,” I say. “Cinderella is very kind to her sisters and she’s so nice to animals. She loves people and yes, I like that”. “No!” she refutes. “Cindaella pretty.” I answer “I think you’re pretty Sam”. She then seemed focused on finding out if I think Cinderella is pretty so she asks again “Momma! You tink Cindaella pretty?” She raises her voice and waits in anticipation for my answer. She’s trying to find out what pretty is. And this is exactly where it takes place. I face my enemy: that constant voice telling me to “oh come on, lighten up, who cares. . . tell the little kid that her favorite princess is pretty. . . you're being extreme." I learned this voice as a small child and it is still everywhere. Finally I say “Oh I dunno. I guess. You know who’s pretty? I think YOU’RE pretty!”

She answers:

“I not pretty.” “I Sam.” “Cindaella pretty”.

Lisa Bloom’s How to Talk To Little Girls:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-bloom/how-to-talk-to-little-gir_b_882510.html

The Sweeper & other scary things.

2011-09-11T17:01:00.002-06:00

I watched my daughter play her first sports game this past Saturday. In doing this I realized that my children aren’t going to have a bigger fan than their Momma! If she had chosen ping pong, you can bet that I’d be suited up, extra paddle in tow and her name written on my cheek. . . thankfully, she chose soccer. It’s a much more traditional game for cheering.

I watched as she tried to get a bearing of the field. Between the rambunctious parents cheering on the side lines and the coach’s directions she struggled with what exactly it was she was supposed to be doing. As the hoard of girls came towards her, kicking and running, she hesitated. “Do I run in towards them? Do I risk getting trampled? Am I going to die?” I can imagine these were some of her thoughts. . . she wrote them all over her face.

It’s not natural for some people to see chaos in front of them and run head on into it. Particularly while the unknown is awaiting you on the other side. I’ve met people throughout my life who face adversity with a smirk. As if they’re delighted for the challenge.

I’m finding that it depends on the situation. This week I found myself shrinking down with each passing day. I’m tired. I’m drained. I’m unsure. I feel like my life is taking from me more than it's giving and while I’m usually up to the task. . . I’m running on empty. Consequently, as I was walking up the basement stairs, laundry in tow, my mind ran through the coming week and I was overcome with dread mixed with a little uncertainty, and maybe even a little defeat. It’s as if the appointments, the kids, the giving and simply the norm was all coming at me like a hoard of fierce little soccer players. I slumped down on the top stair and started to cry. Fearful. I’m not ready for tomorrow . . . I’m not even ready for my kid’s naptime to be over in 10 minutes. But this morning I was reminded of the most basic lesson that we teach children at church. We’re here in this life to do our best, to be kind and to do what is right. Problem: we can’t do this by ourselves. God offers to help us everyday. Good thing too because I asked God to help me right there between the neatly folded pants and missing pair of socks. I couldn't articulate what exactly I needed help in but He knew and I just breathed it up towards Him and sat there for a moment.

Some days you just hang on. Breathe. Get through the day and get it over with. Because looking ahead doesn't always give you the warm fuzzies. When I thought about the entire game . . or in my case the coming week, I shrank back and froze.

Instead I told myself to just think about what the next play was, not the whole game. . . so I got up off the stairs and started dinner. It’ll work out.

Work vs. Labor

2011-09-05T10:58:00.003-06:00

When I think of Labor Day, I can’t help but think of Mom and Dad. They come to the forefront of images. . before Barbecues and picnics, American pride or Labor Day sales. They embody the reason the day is set aside.

Of course there are many people who punch the clock everyday. Fewer that enjoy their jobs and fewer still who have integrity performing them. For a few decades my Dad rose before the sun with a thermos lunchbox and steel toed boots. He punched the clock and endeavored into a margin of the workforce where ethics and care to detail were still fundamental. There was no room for negotiation, no excuses of fatigue but instead he was the kind of man who took his faith with him and preformed for his family and I would venture to say, for God. His paychecks provided us a home, education, fun and full bellies. It was more than we needed and often deserved. Looking back at our few vacations, they lacked grandiose travel and shiny souvenirs. Instead they were trips to the lake where we’d camp and fish. Our family made memories that are my most precious treasures today and the best vacations a child could have! More importantly we were together. My Dad would tell you today “it was all we could afford then”. But even with the thickest of wallets, some fathers don’t compare to giving their children all that we were given. He loved me, believed in me, but more importantly – told me about it. And he did this often on days when he punched the clock. Some people work. But not him, he labored.

Same can be said for my Mom. You see, any one can be a “mother”. A woman can give a kid some breakfast and ship ‘em off to school. She can make sure the child has decent clothes and an activity or two, throw some toys or vacations at them, maybe a day out together. But there’s few who might really talk to their child and then take a turn and listen. Fewer still that will assume the position as more than a title. . . but as a job to be done with intention. With integrity. There isn’t a clock-in and out time, or uninterrupted lunch breaks or even a quiet drive to work. Well, maybe not a drive. . .

My Mom always got up at the crack of dawn. While thinking this rather foolish on her part, as a child it annoyed me. I’d think “it isn’t fair for someone who wasn’t a morning person, to have some happy, smiling face opening the blinds and coaxing you out of bed. All the while singing some stupid little tune she made up” which stuck in your head until recess that day! Sometimes I wondered if I was living inside Cinderella’s bedroom, just around the corner would be a pair of chirpy birds and merrily singing mice. Mothers. Misunderstood. Unappreciated. I understand now that she was the wheels that moved this machine….this family, this workplace called home. Combined with my Dad, they operated in sync. He provided the home and she worked hard to protect it. She made the breakfasts, packed the lunches, and prayed him off to work. She prepared the home for the morning that us kids would unknowingly partake in. Complete with daily notes of care and encouragement in our lunchboxes (yes, it’s true and they were embarrassing at the time). There’s a passage in Proverbs that describes a woman of noble character. As I’ve explored this over the years I admit I’ve struggled with bits and pieces but I’ve come a distance in my journey of understanding it. One scripture in particular: “She gets up before dawn and provides food for her family. . .” (Prvb 31:15) Believe it or not – there IS some wisdom in this! My Mom didn’t sleep until she was ready to get up or haphazardly drag herself out of bed because she “just isn’t a morning person”. If she had, she'd be giving us her left overs . . . not her best. Of course, I don’t recall every morning as a child but in all my memories, I can’t remember when she told me that she was tired, or to go away so she could wake up. She could have easily turned on the ever-ready-babysitting TV, or had my brother entertain me with Nintendo and army men. But instead, she approached her days in the home with intention. Like other women who got dressed and went off to work, so did she. With prayer and integrity. It’s not an easy task. In a job your ethics are proven when no one is looking, when no one is around to jot down a potential bonus or praise in a quarterly newsletter. She read and colored and sang and talked and dressed up and decorated, was silly and talked some more – when she didn’t have to. She still does. She did more than worked. She labored.

So here I am this Labor Day morning. I admit, I’m a bit hard on others at times thanks to my upbringing. I don’t have much pity for those who don’t work hard and I don’t respect those who complain about it when they do. I try not to take my role as a mother passively. Because in all reality what we create today either in the workplace or in people, is usually what we can expect to reap tomorrow.

When it’s my turn to pack my child’s lunch (because after all, this is a new day and age when the hubby gets to do some work around the home too) I try to slip a note in. It’s not everyday, but it’s often. I'll admit, I’m unsure on how to send notes to a first grader who is still learning to read but I’ll draw pictures or jot down something simple and then I'll wonder. . . how did my Mom do it?

Happy Labor Day.

Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

2011-05-30T19:27:00.003-06:00

Every summer I have a garden. Now I have a dog....who eats gardens. Thus begins my project how-to's:

1) Have a dog.

2) Have a handy-man-rock-star-too-good-to-be-true-DAD. Ask lots of questions and listen to his advice.

3) Till out a portion of the yard to expand the garden.

4) Dig 14" deep post holes (or at least pretend that they are once you're exhausted)

5) Purchase 550lbs of concrete. Carry to backyard.

6) Pour concrete into post holes. Inscribe a sentimental message - "Me and Dad".

7) Purchase 4x4' posts. Cut themand place in the holes.

8) REMINDER: Wear a back brace because you have to haul left-over concrete back to the store since you didn't dig deep enough holes.

9) Prepare to put picket fence up. With help.

10) Cut 2x4's, assemble a gate, nail chicken wire to it and be sure to hammer your thumb in the process.

11) Go get about 400 lbs of cobblestone rock (the dog WILL dig under your new fence). Place at the foot of the fence.

12) Dig trenches. Also place landscaping edging throughout the garden hill to prevent water "wash-out" (that's my technical term I made up).

13) Recruit newly toothless laborers to write out garden labels. This is extremely important, since it's been known that a gardener can plant lettuce in her flower bed and Lupines next to her pumpkins. Lesson learned: use labels.

14) Pretend to plant seeds but really just collect worms.

15) Plant.

16) Wait. Meanwhile, plant a flower garden.

To be continued. . .

our song.

2011-05-19T00:05:00.000-06:00

There’s a routine…mastered over the years with the kids, with myself. We dance in the melody of our home. The sound of a cereal box in the morning, a slamming sliding glass door. . . pattering feet. It’s in the air. It’s in every moment. A cry over a scratched knee, the she-saids and the he-won’ts, the ping from a text message and the hum from the microwave.

It’s possible that someone else’s life is more exciting. Someone else’s kids eat all their veggies and someone else’s home doesn’t have piles of laundry or cluttered dresser drawers. I have my neatly maintained list of dreams but I'll have to pick them up at the grocery store while I'm there.

It’s easy to wonder what my life “should” be or “could” be….what melody might be next on the playlist….but those questions get drowned out. I hear the giggles while the dog’s barking and I see the books on the shelf I plan to read. . . the mountains I plan to climb. My walls are filled with snapshot memories and my days are full of song. I hear it and am glad to sing along.

Sensationally Six.

2011-04-27T14:32:00.000-06:00

She's silly and addicted to laughter. . .like when she steals my phone to take pictures of herself while I'm driving. She's smart and curious, watching my every move or gesture in a public setting. She can hold a conversation at the dinner table, she runs around in the backyard screaming. She loves sequins and pink and horses and family. She is the oldest sister, who holds her own and is a meticulous caretaker. She makes her bed, cleans her room and then comes to wake me telling me I should do the same. She's going to be a doctor, a nurse, a "horse rider", a famous dancer, a beautiful friend, a rock star, a rodeo princess. . . but today, she's going to be six.

Happy Birthday to my baby girl.

Forcasted Fog on Memory Lane

2011-03-27T23:37:00.004-06:00

I went on an unexpected walk this morning. Unexpected because thick grey fog covered the foothills and I was delighted for it. I don’t encounter much fog where I live now but growing up in a small harbor town in California, fog was like a family member. It was always a part of an event or it was a reliable partner in the mornings as you walked to school. I miss it and admittedly get rather excited when it comes around.

The previous night’s cold air turned from frost to snow and although I should have felt cold, I didn’t. I was happily enjoying my hours alone. I walked a pathway near a lake which I had seen before but never in the present glory of that moment. The lake was engulfed with morning mist and I was awed as I heard the geese, watching them take flight one after another. It was a scene straight out of an English novel. All it was missing was a hunting dog and someone wearing plaid. . . it was peacefully romantic and time stood still.

I was taken back to a point in time when I could smell the ocean air or hear the harbor seals barking at the morning. When you grow up near a waterfront, you never forget the cool mist on your face or the familiar taste of salt on your lips.

There are just those moments in time, a vista, a view that impacted your memory forever. When the entirety of the moment is perfect . . . the smells, the sounds and ultimately, the feel. I’ve had a few in my life. Mostly they are memories of home when I was a little girl, or vacations. . . hikes.
If you’re reading this and you can understand what I’m describing – please comment below and share a memorable view you’ve witnessed . . . perhaps from your childhood or today. This was mine.

A woman's work is . . .

2011-03-18T00:00:00.003-06:00

I recently attended a get together with some women. The room was filled with perfume, bling and fine clothing. Throughout the evening one person jokingly said that they had been wearing sweats all day with their kids and just showered and dressed prior to attending the meeting. Following her confession another spoke up and said the same thing and then two more women agreed. Laughter filled the air like some sort of de-pressurizer. That’s exactly what it was all about – PRESSURE! I had half-heartedly attended in jeans and a sweater because frankly, I could give a care less to put on those heels and make-up simply so I could gather a few smiles of approval from the guests. This conversation immediately made me sad. I felt like a sell-out and all the women there were sell-outs as well. “Why do we do this to ourselves?” I wondered. I quietly asked the neatly seated women around the room “Why in the world did I have to change out of my comfy clothes just to get all dolled up for you all?”. I thought that given the conversation, they would agree with my honest question but just as their confession hour was a de-pressurizer, my question filled the room with a thick uncomfortable cloud that even I couldn’t stand. I came home and later looked up a paper I wrote a few years ago concerning how I identify myself. In honor of Women’s History Month, here is an excerpt. Regardless of how you identify – societal pressure applies to us all.

I am a female and was raised to view females and males in the conservative fashion. I dress as a female and although I take on typical societal gender roles such as mother, wife and homemaker, I feel as if my personal goals conflict with the gender roles that society has assigned me. For example, I am a graduate student and consequently plan in gaining a professional career. Here there is a conflict with my roles as a mother and my roles as a woman. . . my responsibilities assigned me vs. the responsibilities I seek to assign myself. People would think they are one in the same but I argue that there is a great conflict that takes place when a woman is faced with multiple roles. I’m challenged within the group of fellow mothers who are stay-at-home moms. Such a woman is idolized and cherished in the realm of motherhood while a working mother is seen as sacrificing an element of intimacy with their children. The religious community I’m involved in endorses stay at home mothers by offering a great deal of resources for these women while there are very few resources for working mothers who need the same support. However, the conflict is ironic. Society defines individualistic success, therefore we can assume that stay-at-home mothers are not as highly as esteemed as their “career-women” counterparts. Take note that some or most of thee career women just happen to be mothers as well! Thus, I am either first a mother and second a professional or I am first a professional and second a mother. Women are blatantly forced to choose between family or career goals simply by answering the common question “What do you do?”. This question is asked with such ease and normalcy that it fails to acknowledge the potential struggle is presents for women who survive in the margins.
Another example of conflict within my gender identity is what’s called my gender expression. Gender expression often conflicts with society’s accepted expression of gender. Personal hobbies such as outdoor sports, hiking, climbing and camping are allowed however it’s insinuated that I am expected to maintain a certain amount of “ladiness” by avoiding becoming “butch” or rough. More so, when women are enduring the “fragile” season of pregnancy we are expected to forgo any engagement in personal interests that might potentially put the pregnancy at risk.
Location is a context to consider that influences my gender expression. While rather comical to reflect on, it’s truth is evident. Living in the suburbs, I maintain the typical expected appearance of a female by wearing make up, jewelry, dressing neatly and by so doing portraying that I’m taking pride in my appearance and myself (not to mention the representations of my social-economic bracket). However, when I
lived in a rural area on a Navajo reservation, I rarely wore make up, dressed for comfort versus fashion and pursued my outdoor hobbies with greater vigilance. Differing locations expect differing expressions of gender.
Cultural Identity, 2009

Just makes me wonder. . .

Orange Julius, etc.

2011-03-05T02:01:00.001-07:00

I took 3 little sticky fingered-question-asking-totting toddlers to the mall today. I thought I’d distract them from weaving their way through the crowds by buying them each an Orange Julius. Admittedly, I was completely bribing them to just sit down so I could hear myself think and maybe keep them in one geographic location for more than 60 seconds. It worked beautifully.

I crinkled the receipt into the bottom of my purse as we sought out a table in the intimidating food court and they plopped down on the wooden chairs.

We talked about why the cup is made out of paper, who colors it and how “the man” makes it to which I quickly interjected that I was certain both women and men make them at “the factory”. Then conversation turned towards an interrogation about where we’re going next and the endless stream of questions around how long it would take until we got there. This conversation was of course in itself pointless, because I was dealing with an abstract dimension of time. Specifically the time frame in which 24 seconds is 14 million times longer than an hour. . .Not to mention the massive confusion around the length of a days, weeks and forever’s.

Four year olds.

Finally the panel interview came to a pause and all that was heard was the shuffling of nearby shopping bags and the impolite slurp of the children’s straws as their bellies filled up with orange juice and ice cream at ten in the morning. I began to disclose my memories of going to an Orange Julius with my Dad as a little girl. I told them that he’d never ask me what I wanted because he always knew. Either that or we couldn’t afford the fancy strawberry-banana contraption that came in the large cup. Either way, I was indifferent to what drink we were having because all that mattered to me was sitting with my Dad and feeling special. I told them that when I was a little girl I lived in California and we’d go to a place called Del Amo Mall. I’d do exactly what us four were doing right then- sit at the food court and stop for a drink.

The nostalgic trip down memory lane soon came to a detour as the little boy looked at me with bewilderment and asked, “how come you didn’t come to this mall?” “Well,” I said “I guess we didn’t know about this mall back then”. He just looked at me as if he was trying to make sense of why in the world this lady was telling him this story. The other two little people sat there slurping away and I’m not entirely sure they were even in on the conversation. This came to my attention immediately after the youngest kept pointing to her head and reciting the word “nose” in her loudest vibrato. I went on to say that it was nice to have special memories with family and I thanked them for stopping for a special treat with me, the same way I did when I was their age.

The little boy, my nephew, said that I was welcome and after he finished wiping his frothy mouth with his red sweatshirt sleeve he asked “So then. . . after you had a drink with your Daddy, then you grew up?” Not quite knowing how to reply to that I just smiled and nodded. I took a big slurp from my own cup and then looked at him and enthusiastically answered “Well, I guess I pretty much did. BUT the nice thing is, I can sit here and drink this Orange Julius with you all and I’m right back where I used to be. . . all those years ago!”

He just looked at me, and then slowly said “I have to go to the bathroom now”.

So, that was what we did next. It took approximately 4 -6 minutes.

Candlelight, Pity & Perspective

2011-02-20T20:15:00.003-07:00

I sat by candlelight last night. Tired, empty and just thinking about breathing in and out. It was quiet and with three spunky kids and a puppy, that's a very rare event. I thought all afternoon about what I would do with my time that evening, I was so excited! No work, no walking the dog, no kids, nothing. I planned on finishing that book I've been reading since forever, strum a little guitar, fiddle around and simply delight in the thought that I can do anything I wanted. By the time I went up to my room to begin my beautifully planned evening, it was going on 10:30pm. I was disappointed and began hosting my very own pity party. "The days slip by the minute I open my eyes and I fill the hours working, planning.....serving" I thought to myself. While this is a good thing and a privilege, some days it's difficult. Do others feel this way? Maybe, but tonight was about ME.

So, there I sat. Quiet and tired. After a while I wondered who else was attending my party. Who else out there might be sitting by candlelight in that very moment? Somewhere out there in the dark night, a woman is enduring. Breathing in and out as she welcomes her child into the world, by candlelight. Someplace out there, a migrant worker warms his hands by a fire. He toiled in the day's sun and now he's praying for his family before the morning sun returns. Night shift workers take their break by lantern's light, and there's people around the world lighting prayer candles.....believing that tomorrow might hold the miracle they've been waiting for.

Suddenly I didn't feel so sorry for myself. My children sleep safely and when the morning comes, our breakfast awaits us just a few steps away. I usher in the day planning what needs to be done coupled with what I want to be done.

Sure, I was disappointed that I didn't indulge in some leisure time that I was planning on and it's ok to feel that way. Everyone needs to feel some space that they can call their own during a day. But thank God that He reminded me that the world is a whole lot bigger than my zip code. What I didnt get to do today, I have the privilege of feeling pretty confidant that I'll get around to it tomorrow.

Thus, I blew out my candle and whispered a prayer of thanks. I ended up canceling my pity party. It was a good thing too because I needed to go grocery shopping and was fresh out of hor'durves and Kleenex.

when evening falls so hard

2011-02-03T21:53:00.000-07:00

I started throwing pottery again about a month ago. (I’m absolutely no good at it, trust me.). But I enjoy it so. The clay glides between my fingers quickly and brilliantly. Similar to the way your hand feels when you sweep it into a river. . . peaceful. I like knowing that my clothes aren’t getting dirty with paint or markers but with earth. Red dirt, grey clay, white porcelain, it’s in it’s most basic understanding - playing in mud. And just when it starts to dry out, I can swoop my hand into my trusty bucket and slap on some water to transform it into a smooth, silky form that awaits the slightest movement of my hand. It’s forgiving. . . and I can’t make a mistake. I can begin throwing a mug whose fate just wasn’t meant to be so VIOLA! It magically can become a candle pillar instead. Who would ever know the difference (unless I blog about it)? Unlike most things, if my plan doesn’t go accordingly, I can re-create it and usually feel all the better for it. I suppose it’s a do-over and do-overs don’t come easy.

I could have used one today. There are days when no matter how hard I might try, things won’t turn out as I hoped. It wasn't the worst of days, but could have gone smoother in the areas that mattered to me. You know those days when all is well until three o’clock comes around and it all hits the fan? Then – there’s the clean up. The aftermath filled with the plan B’s, apologies or quick thinking coupled with improvising.

But clay? There’s no apologizing! I don’t have to hand hold it, get hurt by it or fret over what to do next. . . I just do it. What ever I want to. It’s the easiest do over I’ll have all day!

Then there’s the night. Bed time. Fluff your pillow, lay your head and emerge into the day’s ultimate do-over. Like the song says “all your dreams are on their way, see how they shine”. I may not see my dreams shining their sparkly little heads in the distance, I can’t even see the stars tonight, but I trust they are both there. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy the instant-gratification of the potter’s wheel.

New Year, New you?

2011-01-15T11:25:00.001-07:00

I've been doing a lot of thinking. Wondering what I am to accomplish these coming months. How will I improve who I am? What disciplines will I acquire?
The truth is, I know I have potential. YOU know you have potential... But do we have action? Read this excerpt from the great Nelson Mandela. May it inspire you as you approach putting feet to your goals, and ground to your words.

“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 is 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 are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
1998, excerpt from Innagural Address

Crossroads

2010-12-31T02:48:00.003-07:00

The new year induces change for the masses. Resolutions, promises… it’s as if we’re handed a giant eraser (which we assume we only get once a year.). It’s a crossroads. But not just any crossroads- it’s a turning point that we all take together.

Truth is, most of us know that we face crossroads every day. Difference is, it’s lonelier than New Years. Rather than stepping into an established holiday with TV talk show segments or party hats, we cross our roads with a quiet independence. It takes place everywhere. Perhaps at the foot of our bed in a conversation, or in the car driving past a would-be opportunity. . . the other end of the phone line. It’s interesting how the momentum and romance of taking big steps in our lives quickly fades when we feel like maybe we’re the only person at the time taking them. There’s a lot to be said for strength in numbers. Seems to me that the nerve we possess while standing with a friend is far more readily available than when we’re fighting to muster it up alone.

Friendships change. They morph into shapes that fit around our current circumstances. This year I have strengthened a few, learned from many and regrettably probably lost one. Despite the transformations they’ve each taken on, it’s these friendships that have helped me from season to season. No, not just helped…. given me strength. Truth is, there’s no better investment than a person. Sure, we all have different personalities but even the most timid amongst us (who we may think are indifferent), desires meaningful friendships.

I was thinking today about my year and all it’s held. So much has gone on and while I’m chasing this year’s coat tails I’m being flung into the next. But as I surveyed the previous months, it was my relationships that have impacted me the most.

Today we stand at this doorstep of inventory, taking time to look ahead and make our goals and plans.

My wish for those I love is not just for today but for the all the days you’ll come upon your crossroads. May you find friends close by that will hold your hand through your journey, remind you that you’re on one and maybe even one or two who’ll step for you while you rest.

Happy New Year.