True North

Sage’s pictures this week tell the story – “Be Yourself”.  And I’m so glad at the tender age of seven, she gets this.  Life is hard but it can be so much harder when you are trying to fit into someone else’s version of who they think you should be (parents, spouse, partner, boyfriend, girlfriend) – or whose definition you’ve bought into at some level so that you might even believe it too.  Everyone has ideas about what is best for us, but truly, each of us has a deep inner-knowing, a compass for true North, that is the only guide we really need to find ourselves and be ourselves.  Granted, being true to ourselves isn’t always easy, but it’s infinitely easier than trying to fit into “too-small, can’t breath, can’t feel, tired of hiding” roles that are not truly us.

“Be yourself” was in full-force last week-end when mom and I took Sage shopping for a dress for the father-daughter dance coming up in early February.  From our shopping experience for last year’s dance, I was fairly certain my mom and I would be in for a highly entertaining afternoon. To begin with, Sage’s taste and my and my mom’s taste are very, very different.  The stuff Sage gets excited about is lacy, sheer, with cheap fabric and no evidence of being well made . . . “Wal-Mart Special” is what my mom and I whisper to each other.  Sage overhears us and says, “I don’t care. I’m trying it.”  I reply, “Sage, I’m not spending $50 on that awful dress – it’s wretched!”  She just shakes her head, throws me an “I’m tryin’ it . . . .” and heads toward the dressing room.  Suddenly she stops and turns, with a matter-of-fact look on her face, eyebrows raised. “You know, sometimes you just have to try something on.  It might not look good on the hanger. But once it’s on, well, you just never know.”  And with a quick spin back toward the dressing room, she’s off.

(Last year's winner)

My mom and I look at each other and try to keep our laughter in but we are bursting.  Oh my gosh, this girl is confident. And funny. And smart – too smart.  “Where’d she come from???” I ask my mom.  We follow her to the dressing room and she informs us that she’d like to try them all on, one at a time, by herself.  That she will come out in each one and show us.  A future teacher in the making (or a doctor or a veterinarian or all three when she’s feeling really ambitious), she clearly has the “Children – pay attention – this is what we are going to do” thing down.  My mom takes a seat and I wait outside the door to help her if, and when, she needs it.

She has about ten dresses to try on – only two of which I might actually consider buying.  She puts the ugliest one on first – a 100% polyester number with pink, peach, and orange stripes and a bright orange plastic belt that doesn’t hit in a flattering spot.  She comes out and mom and I wait . . . Sage says, “I don’t think this one is dressy enough for the dance.  Cute for everyday, but definitely not dressy enough.”  “Not dressy enough to take the garbage out in” is my thought but she came to a “no” all by herself, thank goodness.  I know there will be plenty of vetoes ahead so I just respond with a neutral “Yeah, I think you’re right” and we move on.

Well, like Goldilocks, one dress was too big, one was too small, another too itchy.  About half way through, she came out in a number that was very tight over her middle.  She looked down and commented, “My tummy looks big!”  Part of the deal with these damn dresses today is that many are cut for a woman’s body and the dresses are often much too “grown-up” for seven year olds.  Without breasts, a real waist, or any hips to speak of, this dress did make her tummy look big.  But only because she is still a little girl.  With a little girl’s body.  Who shouldn’t have to worry about her tummy even looking big.  I hug her and tell her, “You are just right.  It’s the cut of the dress – not very well made and not with your adorable figure in mind.”  Another easy no.  

In this first go-round, we ended up with only one potential purchase – black and white chevron stripes up top and a royal blue attached skirt that was knee-length in front and long in back.  She tells us, “This – this one . . . is totally my style!” She beams at us and swishes around a bit.  We try to match her enthusiasm because we are happy for her, but we’re not as sold - we make eye contact above her head and shrug our shoulders.  “O.K.,” I tell her.  “It’s a possibility.  But let’s look at a couple other stores before we decide.”

The next store has even fewer options but my mom finds one with a white, sleeveless top in rayon material and a black, flowy knee-length skirt with a skinny patent leather belt.  And we all say, “It’s a maybe. Try it.  You never know how something will look on . . ." echoing Sage's earlier wisdom.  Alas, when she puts this dress on, my mom and I rave, “That’s it!”  (Any woman can appreciate this aha moment when you just know something you’ve tried on is right – like the sky opens up and God smiles down . . . )  I exclaim, “Sage, you look like a teenager!”  She raises her eyebrows at me and says with a hand on her hip, “I think I look twenty.”  Seven going on twenty it is and my mom and I are rolling once again. 

Be yourself is the only way to be.  To live life most fully.  To live out loud in the way only each of us can.  Sage wrote a song not too long ago called “In My Style”.    She is already so much her own individual and I will nurture and foster that in her every day for the rest of my life – even if she thinks I think her style is “BAD” (which I never said!!!) . . . All I want for my kids is for them to be fully who they are, to share their gifts with the world, and to fully inhabit their worlds with conviction, intention, and authenticity.  Truly, I want this for everyone.  May we all find our true North and follow that star.  And in so doing, be led exactly where we need to go.  All the while, contributing to our own and each other’s highest good.

What is your true North?  What does being yourself look like for you?  
Feel like? What do you need to be doing more of to truly be yourself? 

How can you support those you love to be more of themselves (perhaps letting go of your expectations for them and seeing them for who they really are - and not who you want or need them to be)?

Sky Blue: Of Dust and Miracles

          This entire entry is based on a DREAM - if you read it

          and don't know it's a DREAM, you might think I've lost

          it.  Never fear - I am whole, healthy, and very, very 

         well!  But here is my disclaimer:  I woke in a foggy panic 

         this morning at 5:58 a.m.  I had a dream that left me 

         shaken and a bit undone.  I ended up writing it all down

         to process it.  It may just become part of my story . . .

It is mid-morning, 9:00 or 9:30, and Jeff and I are at a coffee shop having coffee and waiting for his parents to show up to have breakfast.  But all of a sudden, I realize I do not know for certain where Sage is. Now, 99.9% of the time, a mom knows exactly where her kids are. But on this crazy morning, it was as if I had relinquished all responsibility for Sage to someone else (one of her pre-school teachers comes to mind. In the dream though, the schools keep getting jumbled, bouncing at first between her sweet little pre-school and the equally lovely, parochial school she attends now . . . )

What I knew was that I had not been the one to drop her off at school and send her safely into her day with an “I love you” and “Have a great day!” and a final, “I’ll see you at 3:15!” like we usually do.  No, this morning, I didn’t even think about Sage until 9 or 9:30 and then, it hit me like a freight train.  I said to Jeff, “Where is Sage?”  And he didn’t seem too worried or concerned – his typical M.O.  Panic and anxiety in times of stress, unfortunately, is mine . . .

I decided to go call the school to make sure she was there.  And the office person/roll taker lady says after checking the homeroom roll sheets, “No, she was marked AB from homeroom today . . .”   “Whaaaaaat???” my mind screams.  “What the hell is going on?” I wonder. “And where is Sage???”  Sage. Sage. Sage.

Jeff’s parents show up for breakfast and I hide behind dark sunglasses so they don’t see my tear-stained face and near-hysteria.  For some reason, I don’t want them to know I’m crazy and perhaps unfit as the mother of their granddaughter.  Minimally, I know I can’t deal with Jeff’s judgment, or theirs, and I tell Jeff I need to go look for Sage.  Check at the school.  “She has to be there, right?” I plead to him . . . and God.

God. God. God. Help me God. I don’t know where exactly my daughter is, with whom, if she’s missing or with someone Bad/Awful/Can’t Let My Mind Go There . . . I’m wondering what Sage is thinking, wherever she is. That I’ve forgotten her . . . don’t care (never, never, never) . . . would leave her to the elements or whomever.  How did I slip? Forget? Settle into some complacent, fake certainty that all was O.K. this morning?  How could I just drink my coffee and not know???

I wonder, “Is it like the father that heads hurriedly off to work on an early summer morning and forgets his sleeping infant in the back seat?  The baby he was supposed to drop off at daycare for his tired wife, only to realize half-way through the day, he had forgotten???”  And then, to find out horribly – desperately – knife through the chest painfully – that he’s left his child in the car.  With the windows all rolled tightly up.  In the dead heat of a scorching summer.  Realizing his child has died at his hands. His carelessness.  Never to recover.  The disbelief and guilt, as crushingly oppressive as the heat, leave no room for escape. He will never drink his morning coffee easily again.

My morning coffee is about to come up.  This is how I feel in this dream (dream, dream, dream). I had forgotten my child – yes, forgotten – my sweet, sweet girl. And now, any horrible, terrible bad thing could be waiting for her or me to meet it.

I leave Jeff and his parents with a squeal of my tires to go to the school and see for myself that she is not there.  Not possible, I tell myself.  I can picture her there . . . Is she really not there? Where could she be? I picture her somewhere, standing, waiting for me, tears down her cheeks, eyes big and wondering. Full of sadness and feeling forgotten.

My stomach - a bottomless ache – is ready to turn inside itself and swallow me whole. The fear and panic race around in circles deep in my gut as a one-sided conversation ricochets through my brain. “Sage, where are you? I will find you. I’m coming right now.  Don’t give up on me.  Never give up on me. I am right around the corner.  There are no bad men.  Please God, let that be true.” 

 Another image comes to me and I see Sage safely tucked away.  She is sitting – happily creating – at her desk at school.  Right this minute she is drawing a picture of her family.  She puts smiles on each of the faces – Mom, Dad, Sage and Taggart.  We are happy. We are whole. Sage is nonplussed by the utter starkness of my fear, the empty black hole of my not knowing where she is doesn’t scratch her innocent surface.  She takes a purple crayon and writes on her picture “I am thankful for my family”.

I am thankful for the imagined faith I bestow her as I slam the car into park and run past another mother exiting the school.  I push through the open door, bypassing the check-in at the front office, and head straight through the double-doors that lead to Sage’s classroom. Sunlight is pouring into the hall from the courtyard windows.  This smells like a school – disinfected and dusty. This looks like a school – orderly lockers, empty hallway, kids hard at work behind closed doors. Business as usual, I think (hope) to myself.  And as I reach Sage’s classroom, fourth wooden door on the right-hand side between all the red lockers, I take the deepest breath I can and peek in through the long, rectangular window.

I find her immediately!  Yes!  There she sits!!! My blue-eyed girl! Head down, concentrating on her picture, ankles crossed, blonde hair tucked behind one ear; she never had a single worry.  Didn’t know one bit of my angst.  I could faint from the relief flooding through my veins.  The great gratitude I am overcome with for the still-life in front of me.  Norman Rockwell’s got nothing on this image in front of me.  My daughter is safe, she is happy, she is whole; a faint smiles crosses her face as she colors the sky blue.

I, on the other hand, am a fragmented mess of a mom. Undone first by my fear and panic, now I am lost in a tsunami of relief and the rightfulness of my daughter doing exactly what she is supposed to be doing, exactly where she is meant to be.  I begin to sob and quietly turn and walk down the hall from where I came only moments ago.  My whole world is different. I see the dust particles in the bright sunlight, floating, dancing, hanging in mid-air.

I’m not Catholic and I don’t typically say the “Lord's Prayer” unless I’m instructed to, but this morning it bubbles up, unbidden.

“Our Father, who art in heaven

Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done

On Earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day, our daily bread

And forgive us our trespasses,

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation

But deliver us from evil;

For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.

Amen.”

With that, I drop to my knees, no longer able to support the weight of my gratitude and relief.  A deep peace flows through me and I let go of all fear, doubt, anxiety, blame and judgment in that empty, warm, sunny hallway.  I breathe in the forgiveness, humility and stillness that are now mine. A clear thought – a complete sentence – settles over me. “I am thankful for my family”.  This has never been more true.

With my disheveled world now more righted, I pull myself up and walk back through the double-doors; past the chapel.  I head back out into my day, firm in my conviction that all is well.

Chop Wood, Carry Water . . . Find a Friend

[My mom took a number of pictures (hundreds!!!) of a baby elephant, his mother, and the cattle egrets that constantly flanked them in her most recent trip to Africa.  She came home and said, "We need to write a story about this baby elephant and the bird."  "Hhhhmmm, we???"  I thought.  So for months now, she has asked, "When can we write the elephant book?"  Well, now that I'm "retired" (or so I'm spinning it), I gave it a shot this week.  The following is either a children's story with a grown-up message . . . or a story for grown-ups in a child's voice . . . you help us decide - we'd love your feedback!]

CHOP WOOD, CARRY WATER . . . 

FIND A FRIEND

Humpti loved his mama and

Mama loved Humpti.

He followed her wherever she’d go.

They'd walk and talk.

 

She’d feed him . . . and keep him safe.

But Humpti wanted a friend. 

And he told his mama so.

“Well, what kind of friend

do you want?” Mama asked.

“I want a friend I can walk with.

And talk with. . .

I want a friend to tell secrets to.

And to play with!

I want a friend who loves me -

even when I’m grumpy or sad or not

my nicest self . . . “ Humpti explained.

 

“O.K.,” said Humpti’s mama.

“How will you find this friend?”

 “I don’t know, Mama . . . how?”  he asked.

“I think you have to start where you are,” Mama advised.

“Start where you are, how???” Humpti implored.

His mama’s advice was this:  

    

Do your chores.

Take a bath.

Eat your breakfast.

Play follow the leader.

And all the while,

be on the lookout.

Notice the details. 

Before you know it,

you’ll find your friend!

Humpti wasn’t so sure

but he trusted his mama,

so off he went. 

(What do you notice? What do you see?)

Humpti could almost hear his mama’s voice, “Your friend,

little one, has been with you all along.” 

(“Mama’s right, she’s right! 

She’s always right . . .

How does she do that???”

Humpti wondered.)

“Thank you, Mama,

for helping me notice -

and find a friend!”

 

Mama smiled. “Life truly is in the details.

Your life - your good - is all around you.

you just have to notice it.”

“I did, Mama, I did! And I’ll never forget!” 

Humpti promised his mama.

(And Humpti never did!) 

Mean Hippie

“Meaghan, why did you put your hand up like this?’ Sam S. asks with his small hand upstretched, all five fingers open wide.  “Well,” I tell Sam, “that person in the black truck behind us wouldn’t let me get in.  He kept speeding up as I tried to merge.  It wasn’t very nice of me but what I was telling him with my hand was ‘thanks a lot and have a great day – hope you get to where you are going’.  But I was being sarcastic, which isn’t very nice.  Maybe I should take a deep breath and say a prayer.  What do you think?”

I also called the individual a “Jack Ass” under my breath, but fortunately, I don’t think the kids heard that.  They did hear me say, “Maybe he has diarrhea and needs to get somewhere fast.  I hope so.”  I looked in the rearview mirror and could see 7 year-old Sam’s potty-talk-lovin’ grin and sparkle in his eye.  He was glad I wished diarrhea on the man – me too.  Why else drive like such a Doberman Pinscher, mean and aggressive?

As we continue on our way, Sam asks, “Where is the truck now?”  Me: “Oh, behind us in the other lane but I’ll slow down so we can check the driver out.”  And the truck sped past us in the right-hand lane and we couldn’t wait to get a look at this person, to see if it indeed was a man, if he looked angry or sick or mean . . . maybe he was distracted or did truly have an emergency . . . “You never know what’s going on with someone else,” I tell the kids.

And as the truck buzzes by, we see an old man, heavy-set with white hair.  No phone in hand, no coffee, just driving along – he doesn’t give any telltale signs of his hurry which, to be honest, we are all a bit disappointed by – we were looking for some action this cold January morning.  But as he goes past, Lily shouts out, “It says ‘Hippie’ on the back of his car!”  Well, this gives us something to go on - to think about - but it seems a bit ironic. I reply, “Well he certainly isn’t acting very hippie-like!”  And Sam pipes up, “Meaghan, what do you mean?”

So I say, “My dad was a hippie.  And the hippies I know are typically calm and laid back, not fast and in a rush.  They’re for peace.” Spoken like the true daughter of a 70’s hippie, I’ll spread the word. “My dad,” I tell the kids, “he never drove like that.” Like I was making some important proclamation - really educating them on some key hippie qualities. Or at the very least, what my dad was like.

Funny, how our stereotypes – positive or negative – shape our beliefs. How a word can evoke an entire experience or memory.  Even how we share them with our kids is so telling (or other people’s kids too as the case may be – our friends have no idea what we get into on those morning commutes to St. Bernard Academy!).

“Sage, do you remember when I was telling Skyler my dad was a hippie?” I ask as we make our way toward school.  “No,” she replies.  “Well, while I was telling Skyler about my dad, you said - with your hands on your hips - ‘Mom, I know what you are trying to say’, like I was speaking in code or telling Skyler some big secret I was trying to hide from you.  So I asked ‘what do you mean, honey?’ And you said ‘You are telling Skyler your dad’s a hypocrite’ “. 

At the time Sage was maybe four and I’m blown away by how these little minds work, what they soak up, what they remember, the connections they make.  Now, hippie isn’t short for “hypocrite” and “hippie” on a bumper sticker doesn’t define this man either – as much as we wanted it to. No one in the car this morning asks more about hypocrite and I’m glad to not have to expound. I think we’ll just leave it at “Mean Hippie” for today. We won’t ever really know this man’s story but Sam and I can smile as we think about that fast-driving, white-haired old hippie, perhaps racing to a McDonald’s bathroom as fast as his little black truck could carry him.  We wish him well.  Namaste.

New Life

I have a friend who is bravely going where I would never tread. She is due with her fourth child on Valentine’s Day at the age of 42 and I am in awe of her courage. She’s growing a new life and living a new life with her new husband, who has embraced her three kids from her first marriage.  They are a new family of five, soon to be six, and my friend, well, she’s tired, sure. But she’s also glowing and vibrant and happy about her new life – all of it.  She joked when she first met her now-husband who had never had kids - but who wanted children - and she told him way back then, “If I had to, I’d take one for the team!” And she is.  All I can say is, “You go girl, you go!”

I have another friend who is bravely defining her identity in relationships.  Deciding who she’ll love, how she’ll love, who she feels comfortable with . . . “Love who you love” is a motto we coined late one night but saying it is often easier than doing it.  On the other hand, not “loving who you love” can be that much harder when you are not being true to yourself and your needs . . . My friend is deciding how to live out her “Love who you love” motto and I applaud her seeking spirit, her willingness to be vulnerable, to unearth who she really is and live into that reality.  Her story is still unfolding as she defines a new way of loving and being in relationship to others.  She’s forging ahead with an open heart; I’m in awe of her too.

My daughter Sage asked if we could watch my and Jeff’s wedding video this morning.  I found it in the cabinet of the TV console and popped it in.  I called out to Jeff that we were watching it and he came and sat down too.  A hundred feelings rushed back as I heard the music, saw my people, watched Jeff wipe tears from his eyes as I walked down the aisle.  We looked so young and happy – excited!  My brother walked me down the aisle and presented me to Jeff.  We stood there and held each other’s hands, smiling into one another’s eyes.  The anticipation, pride, and wonder were palpable. The new life we were about to embark on was beckoning and we were ready.

The unknown – the future – is often so scary because we just don’t know exactly what it will look like.  But in each of these cases, the future is a bright beacon because even when we don’t know every detail, when we do what we do from a place of love and trust, we are affirming an acceptance of good unfolding in our lives.  Even as I looked back and listened anew with my twelve-years-into-marriage ears, I was able to still see the “new” to be had.

A new life in the form of a sweet, innocent newborn child; a new life opening up as boundaries and armor fall away and limitations recede; a new life hidden in the old – beckoning amidst wedding vows that call us to be even better versions of ourselves, more authentic and real. Each of these is a choice we have very day.  Do things the same old way, don’t question who you are or the path you are traveling (even if you are sad and unhappy), fulfill a role out of habit or routine or because you can’t imagine life any differently . . . Or, decide to live out loud . . . Live bigger, think grander, be more of who you are meant to be every day. 

The choice is yours – every day. Mine too. To all the choices – big and small – and to making them from a place of wholehearted courage and fearless faith. Let your heart be your true North. Let your inner-wisdom be your compass. Write your own story. Dream your new life – whatever your “new” might be.  Live that life today.