MYLESTONES

The Internet and the Lost Art of Introspection

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 18:36:00 +0000

Long before the explosion of social media and its underlying technology, I wrote nearly every day. As in writing on paper, with a pen. I copied down quotes I loved, wrote (stupid) poems, and generally poured my heart out in the typical cringe-worthy way of a teenager or young adult. Even to this day, I've shared very little from these volumes with anyone. I wrote for catharsis alone, to find out what I was thinking, uncensored, unedited, fearlessly, knowing I had no audience.

Now I very rarely write without an audience in mind, whether it's for the blog, an article pitch, a book idea. And then I wonder why I feel stifled, fearful, cautious, why my writing feels stilted and contrived. It has become less about what's in my heart and more about what image I want to project. Less about personal catharsis and more about connecting with the reader. And there's nothing wrong with connecting with the reader, but I'm wondering whether in this culture of pervasive technology and chronic over-sharing, that this lived-out-loud life is robbing us of something precious. Have we lost the capacity to feel without texting or calling or telling someone how we're feeling? To form opinions without sharing (and defending) them online? This practice, this art of introspection, staying within ourselves long enough to process thoughts and emotions, have we written over it entirely in our clambering to be heard above the constant clatter of social media?

In her book Alone Together, Sherry Turkle shares anecdotes and quotes from interviews with teenagers growing up in the age of hyper-connectedness. She reflects on how two high school seniors, Claudia and Julia, rely on texting as a nearly exclusive way of experiencing and validating their emotions. She writes:

"What is not being cultivated here is the ability to be alone and reflect on one's emotions in private. On the contrary, teenagers report discomfort when they are without their cell phones. They need to be connected in order to feel like themselves. Put in a more positive way, both Claudia and Julia share feelings as part of discovering them. They cultivate a collaborative self."

I reluctantly admit that this resonates with me. When I read a beautiful passage in a book, my first reaction is often to wonder where I might share it, whether in a blog post, on Twitter or Facebook. When I have a breakthrough in perspective, I begin crafting a post in my head, plotting how I might explain it to whoever is listening. When I see a beautiful sunrise, rather than letting the moment envelop me and getting lost in my own thoughts as I once would, my first thought now is to take a picture with my phone.

This constant deciphering whether a thought or moment or a scene is worth sharing (online, with friends or readers) becomes a distraction from the moment itself. And if it seems worth sharing, then immediately, I am gone from that moment of introspection and beauty, and fidgeting with my phone to text or post or snap a picture. But if I stay in that moment, stay in my own head and never share it, I miss out on validation. It feels "less real" somehow.

Now I realize that I am more engaged with social media and more dependent on technology (and by technology, I mean my blasted iPhone) than the average 30-something. In contrast, my husband and many of my closest friends do not blog or read blogs, rarely look at Facebook let alone update their status, and only use their phones for good old fashioned calls. What concerns me isn't necessarily the way my generation has or has not adapted to the internet age and embraced a tethered-to-technology way of living. I've lived more than half of my formative and adult years without this hyper-connectedness, and I know how to contrast it to the way I live now. I can catch myself in the error. I can correct my thinking, set limits as necessary, eliminate distractions, go back to the purity of journal writing.

What worries me is the generation growing up now, coming of age in a world where they don't know what it means to be "out of touch" with family or friends, even for an hour. Where life is lived as a series of status updates and wall posts and texts, all providing endless ways to compare themselves and feel inferior, endless ways to project an image while ignoring who it is they really are.

If I, with the confidence and wisdom that accompanies middle age, having had a host of life experiences and meaningful relationships, if I still struggle with feelings of inferiority (in the online comparison game no one wins), with feeling as though experiences are only validated if they are shared and seen, then how much more must a teenager struggle? I fear we have heaped upon them an impossible task, to come of age with a constant and cruel audience, leaving no room at all to cultivate the lost art of introspection.

With this in mind, I'd like to explore how we might rise above, be it as 41 or 14 year olds, to move beyond the distractions of this clattering, clambering online culture and to cultivate a quieter sense of self. I welcome your ideas, advice and perspective.

::

Do you identify with feeling more distracted and less free to be truly introspective given the permeation of social media and technology? If so, what steps have you taken or considered taking to find a place of balance? As a parent, how have you approached the issues of phones, internet use, social media with your children and teens? Any words of wisdom or advice to share on how we address these challenges with those coming of age in this everything-online generation?

Sometimes neither of us get our way {Just Write}

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 23:08:00 +0000

I know it was because she was tired, worn out from the 1-2-3 punch of a packed 3-day weekend. And I know it was a power struggle I shouldn't have engaged in. She asked me to bring the baby dolls down for "the big show" and declared that she would get the chairs. I told her no, that whatever she wanted for the show she needed to bring down by herself, and to be prepared to put it all away by herself too.

"But you HAVE TO bring the baby dolls. I am ASKING YOU TO GET THEM RIGHT NOW! And now the show is going to have to be cancelled because YOU didn't bring the baby dolls!"

"I'm happy to watch the show when you have it set up how you'd like, but I'm not going to help you bring things downstairs."

"No, Mama. LOOK AT MY EYES. You are NOT followin' my in'tructions! And I'm waiting for you to make it right wid me!" She crossed her arms and popped one hip to the side.

I started to laugh. I knew laughing would make things worse, that her frustration would only grow. But I was tired too, tired of the whining and the demands and her insistence on having her way.

And the truth is, I didn't say no to carrying the baby dolls because of some grand wise master parenting plan. I simply didn't feel like going upstairs to bring those blasted baby dolls down to the family room. And I didn't want to help with the stupid show. I didn't even want to watch it. Is it too much to ask to get my own way? Isn't that one of perks of being the parent?

Even after I laughed, she didn't let it go. She asked me over and over to get the baby dolls so she could set up the show. I told her (calmly) over and over that I wouldn't. After what felt like a hundred rounds of this, she stomped her feet and started to cry. I sat down and pulled her onto my lap.

She buried her face in my neck and curled her body close. "Let's just cuddle for a minute," I said, brushing a tear from her cheek, kissing the top of her head.

"Alright," she said. "I think that's a good idea."

Sometimes neither of us get our way. And then sometimes, we both do.

Because Tuesday's one of my trigger words too

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 03:13:00 +0000

Today I'm feeling less torn and more here. In part thanks to Lindsey, who shared this song. I played it this morning while I made the sandwiches. And then I played it again while I sliced the apples.

Today is play practice, and tomorrow is the Valentine's party, and I'm trying to be grateful that this life makes me available to help with both. Trying not to caveat to myself and to anyone who cares (no one) that this isn't my thing, my "core competency" as we used to say in the consulting world. As supporting evidence that this isn't my thing, I spent no less than two hours last night trying to pull together and print out a Valentine's bingo game. In the age of Google and Pinterest, where it's literally spelled right out for crafty illiterates such as myself, this sort of thing should take about 10 minutes.

What's really maddening about it is that I was holed in the office printing pink swirly bingo cards when I could have been laughing at Portlandia with my husband or penning a moving literary essay or writing a song on my guitar (or learning how to actually play the guitar).

I've decided that there is a way I've always wanted to define myself, and there is a way that I actually am. And the actually am way is significantly less interesting. I am going to have to make peace with that fact, but not until after I learn the guitar.

::

In a very last minute, claustrophobia-induced move, Larry and I took the kids to dinner and to see The Muppets movie at the cheap seats this weekend. We wanted to go out by ourselves, but the kids are still in that clingy stage of needing supervision for trivial things such as dinner and getting themselves tucked into bed. So between going out with the kids or not at all, we chose out with the kids.

I laughed my way through the movie, because yes, I still love the muppets after all these years. Like, totally, a lot. My kids have already put in a request that I stop shouting "maniacal laugh, maniacal laugh, maaaniacal laaaaugh!" after I deny their requests for such things as leaving their fort up for one more night.

::

I just got back from my non-paying night job as play practice monitor. Three point five hours supervising up to 87 children, most of them second graders. The word "fried" comes to mind. It will quite possibly be the only word that comes to mind for the next 24 hours.

This post has been brought to you by the brilliant Just Write movement, brainchild of the lovely Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary. So if it seems rambling and pointless, you can blame Heather. Totally all her fault. (Maniacal laugh...maniacal laugh....MANIACAL LAUGH!!) Also? Tuesday seems to be my trigger word, at least when it comes to writing.

Remember When and Maybe Then

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 18:19:00 +0000

We walk in a loop, gravel beneath our shoes, trees looking over our shoulders. We huff up hills and smile our way down them. Our voices carry. You'd never guess we met only months ago, that this is but the second time we've talked for more than five minutes. We are mothers, lonely and tired of feeling like strangers in the place we live. She moved here last summer, and I, a year before that. We nod our heads at the mention of sidewalks, how we miss having them, how this small, sprawled out town makes it too easy for us to disappear. Will this ever feel like home?

::

I walk up the stairs from the dingy basement, past the silted bootprints on the blue tiled stairs, remnants of the recent flood. I hand them the toys I discovered in the mislabeled storage box, the one I only unpacked because water seeped through cardboard. They squeal, delighted. "Oh this one! I LOVE this one! Look, these are the puzzles we had in Maine! Do you remember, Dani?"

He walks to the kitchen, tugs on my sweater. "Mom, where did you even find these?! Playing with all these toys makes me feel like I'm back in Maine again, like we're playing in our old house." He turns to his sister. "Don't you feel so happy, Dani, when you remember Maine?"

::

My sister texts me that the orders are in. She's moving to Germany. My very first thought is to hope I can follow her there.

I thirst equally for adventure and community, knowing how slim the chances are of ever finding them in the same glass. I'm overcome with wanderlust one moment, aching for roots the next. Sometimes over pancakes on Saturday, we ask each other, "Where would you go, if you could live anywhere?" The kids always answer without hesitation: "Maine!" But my husband and I just stare into our coffee, thumbing through a mental rolodex of possibility. The answer is always, "I don't know..."

I'm realizing even as I type this out that when I feel most torn between the lure of possibility and the pull of the past, it is when I'm feeling most disconnected in the present. These notions that things will be better when..., that things were better back then..., they loop together as a noose around the neck of this moment, choking joy. How quickly I forget that life is right now, not last year in Maine, not next year in Germany, or DC or Dayton.

The contented, wiser version of myself shakes the shoulders of the restless, foolish me, holds this present life high in front of my face, points to it and says cherish this. Sometimes I listen and obey. But not today. Today I rebel like a melancholy teenager and stay lost in daydreams about Germany, adrift in memories of Maine. Today I sit idly as the remember whens and maybe thens take my present life captive. Today I don't even try to escape.

Then & Now: A Dental Retrospective

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 04:05:00 +0000

There was a time, not so long ago, when all he had were two front teeth.

And now, that's all he's missing.

(If you'd asked me back then, I'd have said his smile couldn't possibly be cuter.

But if you asked me now, I'd say anything's possible.)

To my boy, on the eve of your Irish ancestry presentation (Just Write)

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 05:08:00 +0000

It's 11:11, and I just put the loaves in the oven. He went to bed begging to bring Irish soda bread to school tomorrow, to pass out to his class during his ancestry presentation. I told him no. Too crumbly. Too messy. Too delicate to transport in his backpack. And besides, I didn't have any buttermilk.

But then his teacher emailed back an hour ago, said he was welcome to bring even a crumbly messy treat. And I remembered how to make buttermilk with a bit of lemon juice. And then I thought of his face in the morning when he would discover the loaves, and well, I got straight to work.

Every day he grows further and further into unfamiliar territory, stretching beyond the ages I've imagined him to be, spelling words like "hygiene" and "posture" without help (though I still have to remind him to wash his hair when he showers). Sometimes I don't know what to make of it all, how this little man came to live here, and whatever happened to the baby boy who used to sleep in the crook of my arm.

I hope when he's a teenager, when perhaps he's feeling stifled or misunderstood or anxious or disconnected, I hope he remembers the morning when he was seven and in the second grade, the morning when he woke up to the sight and smell of soda bread, and to the feeling of being loved, always.

Brevity and levity

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 20:23:00 +0000

A couple of quick things:

1. I'm still writing regularly over at Run for their Lives, and there's a new post up today about a magical way to lose 25 pounds while consuming unlimited amounts of dark chocolate peanut M&Ms and Chick-Fila. Okay, not really. It's just a post about running gear and apps and stuff. But if you want to humor me and pretend that it's something magical and exciting and click on over, I'd be much obliged.

2. Also at Run for their Lives, we're hosting a give away of a super cool Run for their Lives long-sleeved tech tee. To enter to win, just support Love146 with a small donation. Every little bit helps as we partner with Love146 in their efforts to end child sex slavery and exploitation.

3. And because things have been a bit deep and heavy on the old blog lately, I thought I would mix it up a bit with these sage words from Jack Handey: "Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you're a mile away and you have their shoes.”

4. And since we're talking about shoes, you should know that I love this song.

(Hello new shoes, buh-bye bye blues.)

Five Minute Friday: Real

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 18:13:00 +0000

I'm a phony and a fake. It's the one line that stayed with me long after I finished Graham Greene's The End of the Affair. The line Sarah Miles writes in her diary, the words I wish didn't resonate, but do.

I want to tell this fictional Sarah that we all feel that way, maybe not always, but often. If I am honest at least with myself, I see how I walk around in an invisible bubble of pretense. I want to smile real at the PTO meeting, but I don't feel the slightest bit happy. So I force my lips to each corner and say hello. And if there's time only for a one word answer, then of course I'll say "fine" or "great" or "good." Fine is never enough to be the truth. More than half of the time, I'm not sure what the truth even is, what is buried beneath the fine, the artificial sweet, the have-it-all-togetherness.

My dearest, deepest friends tell me I'm authentic, that I don't hide the mess, that it's refreshing. And I tell them the same. This is probably why they are my dearest deepest friends. But even to them, have I ever told the whole truth? I'm afraid I haven't. I'm afraid I don't know the whole truth.

Like Sarah, the place where I feel most phony is when I talk or write of spiritual things. What business do I have acting as if I understand any of this? What business do I have to speak of grace, when I know full well how I've trampled it with covert rebellion and quiet conceit?

But I'll tell you, the only place I have ever felt like something other than a complete fraud--it is when my heart breaks in front of Him. He sees through me like the woman at the well. He tells me He is the Truth, and that this Truth is enough for the both of us. It only lasts for minutes at a time, this stillness where I feel completely seen and forgiven and loved and real. But I like to imagine it is a foretaste, that heaven is a thousand years and then more of this feeling. For real.

(Full disclosure--this started out as the write-your-heart-out-for-five-minutes drill. And then continued for about 25 minutes. So more like five times five minute Friday.) :-)

On why I choose(ded) to keep writing

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 19:56:00 +0000

She tries on my hairband, the one she sees me wear running. She tells me she isn't sure who she is going to marry yet. "You're five, silly." I tell her. "There's plenty of time."
She switches out my plain black band for her frilly pink crown and asks, "You choose-ded Daddy because he is your best, best friend, right Mama?" I tell her yes, that's exactly right.
::

We're sitting on the couch in the first quiet moments of evening. He opens the laptop and starts reading the blog. "Just skip over that first one," I tell him. "It's me droning on being all deep and contemplative. BOOOR-ing..."

"Yeah, I started reading it," he says, "but then I nodded off." He fake snores, and I laugh for real.

"This one's good," he says, "and look at all the comments."

"Yeah, I usually don't get very many comments anymore," I admit.

He grins. "Well, maybe if you would just write better--"

I laugh again, take a swipe at his head.

He ducks.

Yes, this is exactly why I choose-ded him.

::

Sometimes I question what it is I have to say, and why anyone would care to hear it. There's something so audacious about art of any kind, something so assumptive. I don't think I have the chops to write in that brave and daring way, the way that asserts I am worth your time. It probably says something about me that I'd rather write in oblivion than be labeled a narcissist.

Yet when I read back over the blog--which I do when I'm feeling particularly uninspired--which is often--I slowly return to the belief that I'm writing primarily for my own good. To remember, to remind, to speak truth to myself.

It might be the sort of truth and memory that only applies to me, or it might stretch universal. It might be the sort of post that my husband mocks (reading it aloud in his high-pitched voice with his chin thrust forward and his head tilted to the right). Or it might be the sort of post that makes us both weep when we read it 15 years later. I'm realizing that whether it's worth the time of anyone else is irrelevant, as long as it's worth mine.

And I think it is.

slow thaw {just write}

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 04:57:00 +0000

There was a hardness, my heart caged heavy in ice. And I'd secretly wished for a shattering rescue, a cracking apart, an exaggerated transformation, something to startle me out of this numb, dreamless stare.

But what He's doing now, it's nothing spectacular, just a bit of warmth here and there, the breath of truth telling friends. And I feel the slow melt, the drip, drip, drip, until my heart lays bare and beating.

It took months, not minutes.

I know it's time to lay down arms, to call an end to this subtle rebellion of seeking Him second or third or not at all. So I do, knowing full well this truce might not last till Thursday.

And I begin again to believe, not just on paper but in life. To believe that even just for one minute out of one day out of one year, He could be enough to satisfy, to temper the ache, to feed the desperate hunger.

There are puddles now where the ice was once thick enough to walk across, and a faint smell of spring. Maybe what He's doing now, maybe it's spectacular, after all.

To love them toward the horizon

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 12:23:00 +0000

Every morning they measure taller, yet no amount of height minifies this urge to reach and clutch with both hands, to shout "careful" when they dart ahead even by an inch.

It is impulse, reflex, the tick of a lovesick mother.

But I have been careful my whole life, perhaps too careful, and do I want them to dwell in this chest-tight caution, or do I want them to move beyond me with open lungs and palms? Would I ask them to settle for a safe ceiling when infinite sky waits just outside these walls?

I don't yet know how to let go, how to stop my mouth from saying "slow down, you might fall", how to model something other than playing it safe. I don't yet know how to love them toward the horizon.

But I know I must learn.

Linking up with Emily today for Imperfect Prose.

I will keep building castles

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 14:52:00 +0000

My five year old sang the clean up song for the entirety of the drive to the gym. There are four lines in the clean up song and eight miles to the gym. If she sang the song on repeat, how many times did her mother have to listen to it? (Write a number model and show your work.)

If only there was a positive correlation between the number of times Dani sang the clean up song and the number of minutes in a month that my house could pass as "clean."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not glorifying the days of working full time," I told my friend today. "I haven't forgotten how the stress impacted me and how poorly I handled it. But I also haven't forgotten that someone else used to clean the entire house every two weeks."

We joked about the monotony, how our long gone days of donning suits and boarding the metro have been replaced by groundhog days of breakfast, carpool, laundry, lunch, groceries, dinner, dishes. (Notice how cleaning no longer makes the monotony list? Oh, it's still monotonous all right. I've just given up on doing it over and over. Cleaning has been bumped down to a special-occasion-only activity, like when company comes or when Dani spills what appears to be 78 ounces of hot cocoa onto every last crevice of the table, chairs and kitchen floor.)

I wouldn't trade these groundhog days for anything, not for weeks on end of a sparkling, spotless house, and I certainly won't wish them away. I love this small life, really I do. However. (There is always a however, isn't there?) I feel worn down and nearly washed away in the futility of my over-and-over-again life. Every morning at low tide I build castles on the shore, and every evening at high tide, I have nothing to show for my art.

And I know this isn't a feeling exclusive to a stay at home mom. Or a working mom. Or an any-kind-of-mom. This struggle against atrophy, the way the world eventually unravels everything we weave, this is an every person sort of struggle.

Yes, I am weary. Yes, I look around and see greener grass (and cleaner houses). And yes, I am irritated and ruffled and uninspired and desperate for praise and love and satisfaction.

But no, I won't stop building castles. I won't stop scrubbing dishes and folding laundry and supervising play practice and driving the pot-holed path to school. All evidence of progress, every trace of my art may be washed away by evening, but I won't be swept away along with it to be drowned in my own insignificance.

I will choose to believe that the most mundane of moments can add up to a beautiful lifetime, that the tedious can turn inspirational, that a trickle of grace in the everyday can pour out a powerful white-capped legacy.

I will keep building castles.

More Than You Might Think

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 14:10:00 +0000

I sat wedged between an oval window and a gray-haired, gray-suited man. No use opening our laptops during the hop from Frankfurt to Zurich. There was barely time for the beverage service.

He folded his newspaper twice over and back. I reached for my book.

Even three chapters deep into Gore Vidal's The Golden Age, I struggled to follow the myriad of characters parading across the pages of the 1940s. Jet-lagged and meeting-weary, I read words, sentences, paragraphs, and reaching the end of the page, I knew none of it. I started to drift.

His voice startled me back to the open page. He ordered a drink in German. I don't recall what.

I looked back at my book, pretending I'd been immersed in the story and not in sleep. And there it was. A scene with FDR, an imagined look at the hours before Pearl Harbor.

And here I was. Only 57 years past Normandy. Flying over Strasbourg. Sitting next to a man who might have been a tall ten years old when the war was finally over, whose father might have "heil"ed Hitler, whose mother might have mourned, whose neighbors might have fled.

When our wheels touched down in Zurich, history didn't feel so far away.

::

"That was 1960?" I asked in disbelief.
"Texas," my husband replied. "The Cotton Bowl. And they've got the actual footage. It's awful. They aren't exaggerating this."

We'd heard the movie The Express (The Ernie Davis Story) was supposed to be good. And it was.

But it was hard to imagine that barely 50 years ago, when my father stood a tall ten years old, the Cotton Bowl's Most Valuable Payer wasn't welcome at his own awards ceremony. Because of his skin color.

When punches were thrown and slurs were shouted and signs were posted to keep people apart.

When equal opportunity was still just a dream.

A desperate, lay-your-life-down-for-it dream. So much more than a poster in the break room.

::

Martin Luther King Jr. wrote from a jail in Birmingham:

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.

It doesn't matter which continent or century you pick. Our human history is ugly. It started with the garden, and we haven't let up since. But it has taken me a while (too long, in fact) to realize that our history--no matter how ancient--is connected, decade to decade, century to century, generation to generation.

It isn't just words in a book and multiple choices in a high school history quiz.

It's real. It happened. Some of it not very long ago.

I confess I have cared very little about history. I have paid only scant attention to the true stories that don't directly contribute to the plot of my own. In my apathy, I've stayed the "so-what?" student who studies to pass and not to learn.

And in doing so, I have been utterly foolish.

Because in this ancient and ongoing battle against self-destruction, indeed "we are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny".
Just because my daughter hasn't been sold into slavery,
Just because my husband hasn't been tortured for his political views,Just because my son hasn't been forced to fight a grown man's war before he turns eight,
Just because my faith is not currently cause for persecution,
I still don't get to be immune.
I still don't have an excuse for crouching apathetically in a caved existence.
So let's say I stand up and take note. Let's say I study and say out loud that this is injustice. What difference would it make in the world at large?

I mean, really, what can one mother do to rid the world of injustice?

I'd like to know how Alberta Williams King would answer, if she were still alive.

Perhaps her reply, shaped by the brokenness of outliving her own son, would inspire us.

Perhaps she'd shut her eyes to lock in tears, shake her head and repeat the question, "What can one mother do to rid the world of injustice?"

Perhaps she'd open her eyes, tears slipping toward her smile and say,
"More than you might think, my dear. More than you might think."

::

I can't tell you how many times in the past year I've turned this question over. I'm just a mom. When people ask me what I do, I tell them "laundry". Who do I think I am, that I could actually make a difference, to pull even a pail's worth from this ocean of injustice?

Honestly, I don't know if the little I do will make any difference at all. But I want to be rid of this ugly habit of mine--this giving up before trying. I want to believe that even the smallest steps matter, that the miles will add up. Will you join me in the trying?

Originally published in January 2010. A repost from archives, remembering the life and work of Martin Luther King Jr.

On passports and progress

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 22:14:00 +0000

There's a Drug Mart in my sleepy small town, a town that sits just beyond the suburbs of what most might call a city. Since we moved here a year and a half ago, I've driven by the place a thousand times, run past it maybe fifty.

Today I went in for the very first time, strode right past the signs about liquor sold at state minimums, about the new movie releases for $1.99. The store was bigger than I imagined. Dirtier, too. Aisle after aisle of brand new products stacked on top of dingy old shelves. If the store had changed since the 80s, it was only because they'd swapped the cabbage patch kids out for the pillow pets.

When I was 10, maybe 11, I used to walk to a place just like this with my little brother. The Drug Mart was less than a mile from home, and I'd always buy him a candy bar or let him choose a toy from one of the machines. (I think a candy bar cost 33 cents, maybe 25 cents on special.) That same year, I used my paper route money to buy my little sister a knock-off cabbage kid for Christmas. I hid it from her as best I could, told her not to try to find it, but she was sneaky and smart and determined, and she found it. I was so mad I almost took it back. (But I've forgiven you now, Robin.)

Today I went to the Drug Mart, and a candy bar was 85 cents, but what did that matter because I didn't go there for candy. I only needed a passport picture so I could cross "renew passport" off my list. So I stepped back into the time capsule also known as the small town drug store, and I half smiled for the picture, just enough to hide my horse-ish gumline. And when I went to pay for the photo, they hand-wrote my name down in a spiral bound book on wide-ruled paper, and it took an eternity, like easily 45 seconds.

I used to think poorly of the places untouched by progress. I used to think the only thing that mattered was moving forward. I used to think anything outdated was ugly, anything unchanged was pathetic. But the more time I spend in this small and quiet rhythm of a sleepy town, the more I begin to wonder whether I've had it all wrong.

Progress has merit, certainly. But so does constancy, simplicity, contentment. And these qualities can't be collected like stamps in a passport. You don't capture them by sprinting round the world in hot pursuit. No, constancy, simplicity, contentment--they come and find you only after you've stopped chasing, when you sit down to rest. And isn't it progress, after all, when I stop planning life around the places I'll go, and start living completely in the places I am?

I think it is.

When She Was Twelve: on Human Trafficking

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 14:05:00 +0000

When I was twelve, I knew nothing of the world and its dark corners, nothing of tragedy. When I was twelve, tragedy meant Grandpa's cancer, Coach P.'s heart attack, and a vague notion of malnourished children continents away. When I was twelve, I cried because I bombed my balance beam routine, because I fought with my mother, because we were about to move five hours away from my best friend.

When she was twelve, home was a dark concrete corner of the world, and horror was her status quo. Taken as a child, sold as a slave, she wore the number 146. When she was twelve, tragedy meant being torn from her family, raped repeatedly by strangers, beaten by her captors. She was twelve, and the tragedy was that she wasn't the only one, not the first, not the last. There were and would be millions more.

Love146 History from LOVE146 on Vimeo.

I can't fathom millions. Bombard me with startling and horrific statistics, and I shut down. My first reaction is to look away, to turn it off, to plug my ears and sing la-la-la.

But the story of the girl with the number 146 stays with me. Because I can picture her there, a child for sale. I imagine her staring back through the glass, the life not yet gone from her eyes. The millions are a faceless blur, but this girl, this girl I can see.

When I consider the grave and overwhelming issue of human trafficking, how modern day slavery stretches across nearly every corner of the world, including my own, it is tempting to throw up hands, to stockpile despair, to hide my eyes. But when I picture her face, I can't look away.

Today is national Human Trafficking Awareness Day. Will you join me in the refusal to look away?

From the towering mountains of tragic stories, we mine tiny stories of hope. Of lives restored, of captives freed, of returning home.

You can help to multiply these stories of hope by partnering with Love146 in their efforts to end child slavery and exploitation through prevention and aftercare. Whether you choose to give directly, to run for their lives and raise funds, or simply to spread the word and raise awareness, even the smallest of steps can be turned into high hopes in the battle against human trafficking.

(If you've written a post today about human trafficking, I invite you to share it with us by linking up at Run for their Lives. And thank you for helping to spread the word!)

From terribly daunting to totally doable

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 02:38:00 +0000

I was 33 and a mother of two, three and under, when I first started running. I was chronically exhausted, out-of-shape and frequently made a meal out of dark chocolate peanut M&Ms. My friend Kate asked me to join her in running a 5k as a way to motivate us both to get out and run. I said yes. Not because I wanted to actually run. But because you don't say no to Kate. And also? I was tired of being tired and out of shape. And I figured if I started exercising more regularly, I could continue eating dark chocolate peanut M&Ms with minimal consequences.

Everybody starts somewhere, and for me, somewhere was finishing a 5k without stopping to walk. I never dreamed (not in my worst nightmare) that I'd run anything further than 3.1 miles....

{Continue reading at Run for their Lives.}

Confessions of an ugly juggler

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 11:00:00 +0000

The truth is, December, I was glad to see you go. Every year I tell myself to go easy on you, knowing I expect too much of you, that you're just one month. And yet every year I still find myself lost among the many milestones you mark. It usually isn't until January that I find my way home. This year is no exception.

I watched as my children--though surrounded by fun and gifts and all good things--struggled with gratitude. More than normal. The air of entitlement grew thick enough to choke, and I felt it well up within me as well--this misery of too much. Too much to do, too much stimulation, too much build-up, too much let-down. My girl whined the whole way to the Christmas hike (and through what felt like most of the holiday season). And my boy grumped every time his daily DS allotment ran out, asking (it seemed like always) about the next thing, not really savoring the now thing.

I found the auto-pilot button early in December, pushed it. Flew through the to do list. And then I crashed, inflamed in a heap of angst and ill temper. I was a fire-breathing dragon, masterfully and magically juggling pails of water, spilling not a drop. And scorching anyone who dared come close. Sometimes it is better for a bucket to fall. Water can be cleaned up. Fire destroys.

Yesterday I had the January cry. The one where I realize what an ass I've been (am). So much of the ugliness I saw in the choices my children made this past month, it started with me. Sure, I hid it better, couched it in more socially acceptable, grown up ways. But it started with me.

I am tired of juggling water and breathing fire. And I'm done with auto-pilot, because where does it get me except lost? No sooner do I confess this than the air grows clear again, purified in rushing wind; and I can breathe it now, without flame.

Never, I think, have I been so thankful for the mercies of a new morning.

I interupt this blog to tell you about another blog

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 13:52:00 +0000

Psst. Hey you there. Yes you. The one skimming through your feed reader and debating when to just throw up your hands and mark everything as read. I get it. I know you probably need another blog to read like you need a another pile of laundry. But I'm wondering, if I make it super easy, and just put the link to subscribe right here, if you'll humor me and follow along at Run for their Lives? I'll put the link to the latest post here too, just in case.

For the next ten weeks, I'll probably be writing more over there than I do here, so I hope you'll bear with me if it seems a bit quiet on the old blog. Also, while I've been told the first law of social media growth is shameless self promotion in every available outlet, I'm so not a fan of bombarding you guys with links. And after five minutes on Twitter, my head starts to explode. So what I'm saying is, if this Run for their Lives thing is really going to take off running, then I'm going to need your help with the promotion. Will you help me get the word out? And also, can you forgive me in advance for annoying you with multiple electronic exhortations (that sounds much nicer and fancier than spam, doesn't it)?

Thanks, you guys. You're the best.

The Starting Line

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 03:14:00 +0000

Friends, thanks so much for your enthusiastic response to Run for their Lives. I realize that in my impulsive first post, I asked you to come with me without really even telling you where we were going. Details, details.

So let's talk about where we're going and how to get started. Will you follow me over to the starting line at the Run for their Lives blog to read the rest? Thanks!

Run for their lives

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 14:33:00 +0000

When you run too hard and mess up your leg (that's the technical term, right?), the experts--whether they have medical degrees or marathon medals hanging on their walls--will all tell you to apply pressure to the point of pain. Wrap it. Tape it. Wear compression socks. (Have you seen those? They're ridiculously ugly and expensive. Kind of like Uggs, only not as warm.)

Apply pressure to the point of pain. That wouldn't be my first reaction, nor the second or third. It's easier to wince and look away. It's more intuitive to ignore the discomfort and to avoid the troublesome area than it is to face it.

But we won't heal by popping pills and pretending not to notice. We heal only when we lean into the swollen and tender spots eyes open, press deeper, pinpoint weakness in the chain, adjust our gait.

Apply pressure to the point of pain. So, um, this post isn't about running injuries anymore, is it?

Nope.

Friends, I've been feeling a ~~very strong and highly uncomfortable assault~~ tug on my heart for the last year or so. It's getting more exhausting to ignore it than it would be to take action. So this is me, taking action.

There's a fiery point of pain to which I need to apply some pressure. I need to look it in the face. It's not my personal pain. It's not my story. But it is the story of far too many, 27 million too many. I'm talking about human trafficking, about the estimated 1.2 million children who are trafficked annually. I'm talking about girls, many no older than my own daughter, taken, exploited, a child sold every 30 seconds.

It makes my stomach lurch and my eyes blur. But see, there's this ~~extremely annoying little detail~~ reminder God keeps bringing to mind. It's not about me. It's not about what I feel comfortable with. My life goal, apparently, isn't to surround myself with a nice bubbly cushion of happy-clappyness. Which is a bummer, really, because hiding underneath a rainbow-colored bolt of bubble wrap sounds pretty good right now.

So. Apply pressure to the point of pain.

In the next week, I'm launching a blogging-meets-running initiative called Run for their Lives, designed to help us all look this issue in the face and inspire us to action.

I'm going to invite you to join me in training for and running a race.
I'm going to invite you to learn more about the cause.
I'm going to invite you to donate if you feel led.
I'm going to share of series of posts with practical tips and running advice for the regular old Jo.
And best of all, I'm going to give away some cool custom running tees. So stay tuned.

To be perfectly honest, I haven't thought this through completely. I haven't planned a single post yet. I'm bumbling my way through the technical set up. I'm unprepared for whatever it is I've just signed myself up to do. But I'm going for it, comfort zone be damned.

Come with me?

Ornamental Outsourcing

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 14:22:00 +0000

"I think we should give Santa a present. And not just cookies. Liiiiike, saaaaay, an ornament. Can we buy him one? I mean, Christmas is s'posed to be about giving, right? So I'm just saying we should give Santa something."

I had just taken the last batch of snickerdoodles (Santa's favorite) out of the oven. We had to leave in five minutes for Christmas Eve dinner. Shopping for Santa wasn't on my list of must-dos for Christmas Eve.

"Bud, I think just giving him cookies will be fine. Besides, imagine how many ornaments Santa must already have. I mean, he lives in the North Pole, which must be the ornament-making capital of the world."

My seven year old shook his head, shot me one of those "you're ridiculous" looks, the kind I didn't expect to get from him for at least six more years.

"C'mon, Mom. They don't make ornaments in the North Pole. They're all made in China!"

So apparently you can believe both in the magic of Christmas and the economic inevitability of job exportation. I'm just glad I wasn't the HR rep who had to "down-size" the elves. Aaaaawkward.

This is the gift.

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 13:21:00 +0000

The stories I tell begin and end in the same place. Call me circular, but I can't help spinning, revolving every last particle around my nuclear family. Today I've been married for exactly 16 years, and on Sunday, she'll have lived exactly five. *

Next week we'll sit by the fire and the tree and around the table, and the boy who is seven will probably get icing on his Christmas sweater. And the girl who is five will probably throw a fit over whose turn it is to open the new door in the Advent book. And the mom and the dad who have long ago given up on perfection and settled for grace, we will probably struggle to keep eyes from rolling and voices from rising.

But we won't beat ourselves up for not appearing at all times like a perfectly quaffed family in a sample Christmas card. Life in all its mess and we in all our shortcomings, this is what's real.

And this is what's beautiful--to love each other anyway. Not to airbrush the ugliness, but to forgive it. Not to hide behind a mask of perfection, but to show messy selves to each other, to be known as we are and loved anyway.

This is when love is most like a miracle--when it's so clear how little I deserve it, and yet, there it is, relentless and unrationed. When I say I believe in the miracle of Christmas, this is what I mean. That Love came down. That He loved us first, always, and anyway. And that He showed us how, enabled us to do the same for those around us. This is the gift. This is the miracle.

::

*I began writing this last week, and in a shocking twist, was interrupted. I came back to it today to "Just Write" the rest. Thank you, Heather, for hosting today.

I'm also linking this up to Emily for her last installment of Tuesdays Unwrapped, which shall remain one of my all time favorites.

::

**I believe it's against the law to get the entire family dressed to the nines and not take a family photo. So even though I've clearly admitted to being a mess of a family, here's our perfectly quaffed family photo. The people who did Dani's flower girl hair also did my make-up, so I'm wearing a year's supply of make-up in one evening. When my son first saw me, he asked "What happened to your face!?" And when my husband saw me, he just said "Oh. Wow." Not wow as in you look amazing, but wow as in yikes, and this was you telling them you wanted a natural look? Also? It's all fun and games until you try to get the eye make-up off. As in anyone have any paint thinner I can borrow? :-)

Hanukkah Envy

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 14:24:00 +0000

"I really, really just need a dreidel. I have everything else to play the game, and I already know how!" Caed followed his request with a long explanation of every rule--none of which I recall because as soon as I heard the word "spin" my eyes glazed over and I began deliberating over what frosting recipe to use for Dani's birthday cupcakes.

"Buddy, I don't even know where you get a dreidel." I replied, scooping scrambled eggs from pan to plate.

"Maah-uuum, that's so simple. Just go to Walmart. Or go online." He paused to chew a tremendously big bite of sausage. I paused to note a tremendously big serving of irony.

"And if you aren't going to do it, then I'll just have to ask Santa to bring me one." Well then. That's settled. I'm sure Santa has a huge store of the season's most popular stocking stuffer.

In other news, Caed requested potato latkes for Christmas breakfast and wished for a menorah to light during our Advent time. It appears my little Irish boy has a severe case of Hanukkah envy. There really is a first for everything.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to run out for some last minute dreidel shopping. To Target. Not Walmart. Because I'm all for buying a dreidel. But buying it at Walmart? Well, that's against my religion.

Blinking it all in

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 12:25:00 +0000

I took countless pictures with my eyes, willed myself to remember without the aid of a pen or camera. These days, these packed and precious days careen past in a blink.

::

She stepped so earnestly down the aisle, tossing bright red rose petals from her fingers to feet. And then upon arriving at the end with the basket still nearly full, she decided she ought to go over the aisle again, one more time for good measure. She was halfway back and ten more petals in before I could coax her back to her seat beside me.

::

He marched down with the ornamental pillow in hand, a sheepish smile on his face. I might have told him he looked like a prince, but unless it was Prince Caspian we were talking about, he would have just made a scrunchy face and asked how many pieces of cake he could have. Prince, schmince. All that matters is that he can eat like a king.

::

At the reception, my husband nearly upstaged Mickey and Minnie when he and his sisters led the crowd in dancing the YMCA. (A special request granted by the DJ. Because for some crazy reason, the bride--also his sister-- hadn't even put that one on the play list. Can you imagine?) But I say "nearly" because really, it's not a party until you've danced with Minnie to ABBA. My children will never be the same. All parties heretofore will surely be referred to as "lame" in comparison.

::

As we walked back to our hotel that evening, the children still dressed to the nines, tiara and ties in tact, Dani suddenly remembered she hadn't had the chance to finish her mid-morning snack of goldfish. "Mah mah my gooooldfish, I didn't get to eat dem! Oooaaaawwwaaaah...." Dramatic cry, tears streaming, melting down over a dozen goldfish. Overtired, much?

::

The next day the kids slept in a whopping 30 minutes longer than usual. Because who needs sleep when the long-lost North Carolina cousins are in such close proximity? Three pools plus one pirate ship water slide plus abundant warm sunshine, multiplied by cousins equals a long day of perfection.

They topped it off by sharing a "Sink" of ice cream. I'm going to need Uncle Jerry to share the picture he took just to impart to you the yummy hugeness that was served in a bowl twice as big as Caed's noggin.

When the clock struck 9:00, we made our way back to our hotel via boat. And wouldn't you know it, tears again. But not because of silly goldfish. Because a perfect day was over. Because we had to say goodbye.

Because we know whether we are 7 or 37 just how precious these times are, how quickly they pass, how it is all we can do just to blink it in.

The Dance

noreply@blogger.com (Jo@Mylestones) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 11:37:00 +0000

Her dusty brown ringlets had disappeared before the opening act, the outcome of our first experiment in gravity versus hair spray. She might as well learn early that gravity always wins.

She perched herself atop a red booster and craned her neck expectantly, eying the stage for the slightest sign of movement. She fingered the unfamiliar string of pearls around her neck, smoothed the green and gold plaid skirt over her knees, admired her black velvet "high shoes". No matter all of it had been handed down, she owned every bit of her outfit.

"That side is fancy, and that side is fancy. All the sides are fancy. Even the sky is fancy." She said, pointing to the balconies on either side, the ceiling above.

When the organ faded lower and lower into the orchestra until disappearing entirely, when a voice from overhead boomed welcome, she grabbed my arm and scrambled to sit on her knees. The curtain rose.

We traveled with Clara to another world, my girl and I. She leaned forward, riveted, entranced, mouth agape. Her eyes never the left the stage.

Torn between two beautiful scenes, I divided my gaze between the dancers and my daughter. I watched her watching, her lips never quite closed, her eyes never still, dancing along. I saw in her face the promise of a childhood memory that will never be forgotten. This was my Christmas gift to her, the "big gift", and we will wrap it under the tree in a picture frame to help her remember this special day.

But really, this was her gift to me, an archetypal yet altogether original scene of mother and daughter, of ballet and beautiful dresses, a gift of moments perfectly stranded together. And I'll wear them around my neck as long as I live.
::

It's been a long time since I've had the chance to join Emily in Tuesdays Unwrapped. Sure, it's a Monday post, but as I'm only writing once a week (if that!) these days, I can stretch Monday into Tuesday, right?