Prayer of the Empty Cup

 

God, on a day when we are typically focused on turkeys and stuffing and getting the meal timed just right . . . when we are focused on parades and football games and online sales aimed to get ahead of Black Friday . . . when we are busy thinking about the week-end and what is coming up next, the Christmas season beckoning . . .

Perhaps we can let go of all of that – if only for a minute, an hour, a moment – and slow down.  Step back. Look around. And truly take in every good little detail that surrounds us: our safety, our homes, our friends and family; our health, our faith, our freedom to believe whatever we choose; the Earth and trees and sky and sunlight’s warming rays; our children’s smiling faces.

Perhaps today, we can set aside any heaviness weighing us down and give this day a clean, unfettered heart.

In that spirit God, let us be empty today.  Empty of meanness and hate.  Regret and remorse. Empty of judgments and ideas of right and wrong, black and white. Empty of small ideas that no longer serve us.

Let us BE Lord, together, in that empty space free of clouds or darkness.  And let us fill our cups with only those things that truly matter and that contribute to our families and our world in a positive way.  Let us strive, each day, to fill our own and others’ wells with good: a smile, a compliment, a helping hand. A listening ear, a warm embrace, a hot meal. A letter, a phone call, a prayer.

God, let us be artful in our thanks today. For the emptiness that makes more room for the fullness.  For the fullness that comes from our blessings overflowing.

Let’s come to the table of life with an empty cup and fill it each day with GOOD.

Amen.

Parental Potholes

 

Before Jeff and I left for our trip to NYC last week, I peeked into Taggart’s room and felt compelled to check-in with him for a moment. Way past the point of needing us to “put him to bed”, he was quietly reading as I laid down next to him (not touching him, mind you, because he acts like I have cooties these days!). As a kid managing some major anxiety and sleep issues and lots of enthusiastic hormones raging through his growing body, I wanted to get a sense of whether or not our impending trip was messing with him.  Something was certainly messing with him as I watched him wiggle and squirm and inch as far away from me as he possibly could without hitting the floor with a thud. It was like he just couldn’t be comfortable with me right there next to him . . . and then, he pretty much said so. 

“Mom, I just don’t feel comfortable around you anymore. I don’t feel like I can tell you things like I used to. And I have something I need to tell you BUT it’s awkward.”
Me: “Well, I’m not sure what the awkwardness is about but if you don’t feel like you can talk to me, I just want you to make sure there is someone you can talk to about how you’re feeling. Dad. Your Uncle Chris.  Skyler (favorite babysitter turned favorite friend) . . .”

Him (after quite a bit of hemming and hawing): “Yeah, well, here’s the thing . . . I don’t want you kissing or hugging me anymore.  It just seems weird.  And awkward.”
Me: “Wow. You mean I can’t kiss or hug you at all? Ever? What about if I ask for permission first?  Would that help?”

Him: “The only time you can hug or kiss me is after you’ve been on a trip.  No other time.” (And I’m thinking, ‘Well, at least I can bank on some love next Monday night!!’)

Then he stops for a minute as if he’s contemplating whether or not to say more, and continues, perhaps deciding ‘what the hell, I’ve gone this far . . .’ and he says: “Here’s the thing that I’m really uncomfortable with.  I think about you and dad having sex and then I think about you hugging or kissing me after that and it’s not good mom.  It is NO good.  And it’s Just. Really. Awkward.”

Alrighty then. Here we are. Smack dab in the middle of AWKWARD.  All of it. Awkward that, in the forefront of my kid’s head, is my sex life (which – in the midst of middle-age, busy kids, and hectic days that make for fast-asleep nights - is probably not half as robust as my burgeoning 12 year old is making it out to be!).  Awkward that the notorious, easy rapport Taggart and I have always shared is suddenly MIA . . . that he is pushing it away like I guess most growing up boys do, and that he feels he can no longer “trust me” as someone safe to talk to. Awkward that I have to curb my maternal affections toward my son, the very same son who used to throw one little leg over me while I laid with him when he napped as a toddler, holding me hostage so that I could not leave, murmuring, “I just need to be sure of you . . .” as he drifted off to sleep.

So awkward, for me, that he is not SURE of me anymore.  How did this happen?? Believe me, I’m trying to keep it real.  Stay centered. Not let it rankle me or take it personally. But this $h*t is hard, I tell you. I’m trying to be a good pacer. To demonstrate to him that I AM solid and dependable and not histrionic. That I can handle his pushing away and that I believe so strongly in our connection that I remember to not experience it as the seismic hole it feels like, but to see it as simply a natural change or subtle shift. One that is good and necessary for him in becoming the whole, independent, young man he needs to become.  And that I am, indeed, trustworthy.  That my belief and knowing will hold us ‘til we come around to another place on this journey where we’ll embrace each other whole-heartedly once again.

Let me say this. Getting this parenting thing right, or at least not terribly wrong, is tricky.  Because we’ve all got our STUFF we are dealing with. And then we’ve got our spouse’s or partner’s STUFF to consider.  And then we get these kids who’ve got STUFF all their own. Needless to say, we’re dealing with a lot of STUFF.  

And sometimes it’s like a teeter-totter gone awry, to say the least.

There we are, trying like hell to balance and bring order to the chaos that stems from our own childhoods and upbringing, our and our family members’ distinct emotional needs, the wistful sentimentality that has us trying to recreate those things our parents did well, and perhaps some well-meaning dreams of being the best parent EVER . . . well, one of these things (or maybe even all of them) is going to trip us up or ambush us.

Yep, even though we know all this, we’ll still do wrong somewhere, some way. We’ll mess up and often not know how or why. There may be some scars or even open wounds we never intended and couldn’t fathom having imposed. And, we may not know for years – if it all - what might have left our children so openly vulnerable or wounded.  As if things weren’t already looking ominous enough, they may be bitter or blame us to boot; we – the parental soldiers - of unconditional love.

And though I couldn’t have imagined Taggart would ever know that bitterness on my account, having it tarnish him or stick like thick tar to his heart, I see its potential beckoning. Not necessarily by anything I am doing or not doing, but by the sheer honor I have of being his mother and loving him so much that he knows my commitment will not falter. And he can get away with a lot. I’m not perfect; neither is he. I will make some mistakes. And it might break my heart. And it may break his.  But those broken hearts? They let more light in. They teach us – parents and kids alike - some of our very best lessons. Awkward or not, those lessons are worth having and worth fighting for.

No, I wouldn’t choose this awkward place. It’s hard. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. But my best tack, the only sure one I’ve got, is to simply be here for him. To watch and listen. To show up every day as the mom that knows and loves him.  That knows his heart and his truth. That says good morning with a smile and makes his breakfast (even when he’s not smiling or forgets to say thank-you). That tells him she loves him every morning as he hops out of the car and heads into school (even though he might act like he doesn’t hear me or not look back). That takes him a snack when she picks him up each afternoon and asks, “How was your day?” (and nods at his aloof one-word answers).

Yep. I’m that mom. I’m the mom that lets him know me and my love by my unwavering presence - if not by my hugs and kisses. 

When Taggart was little I would worry about him growing up and losing him to some cynical, sarcastic period where we find no connection. But the closer we get to full-blown puberty, the more I see that as a distinct, but hopefully temporary, possibility.  I used to think that would kill me. But twelve years in to this parenting gig, I know I’m stronger than that and that lessons have a way of coming full circle. I know that Taggart’s dad and I are doing our best to provide Taggart a foundation from which he can make wise and courageous choices and decisions.  We are giving Taggart what we hope are the tools that he’ll need and enough unconditional love so he’ll always be able to find his way home. And that any parental potholes we might have unsuspectingly created are never so big as to slow him down for any longer than it takes to find his way once again.

The catch to Parenting 101 (or 202 or 303) is that none of us knows exactly what we are doing. Our kids didn’t come with instruction manuals and the learning curve is steep. But what seems key to at least doing this as authentically as we can is to TRUST. Ourselves, the process, each other.  It is scary. It is hard. It is AWKWARD at times.  But if we can trust and give our kids the space they need to become more of who they are meant to be, there is great hope that we will embrace whole-heartedly once again.

For me, it’s letting go of expectations of notions of parental perfection, of six-year-old little girl fears, and an eighty-year-old woman’s imagined regrets . . . but if trusting the process and letting go of my STUFF helps Taggart realize more of who he is meant to be, I’m willing to give it my best shot. (Didn’t I say ‘This $h*t ain’t easy!’?? – yeah, I know, but it bears repeating . . . The secret is that if I can let go and trust, I realize more of who I am meant to be too. Which illuminates just how smart God was when she designed this whole process . . . REALLY SMART. Just saying.)

There’s no doubt about it. Parenting is awkward. Having a normal ANYTHING (sex life, grown-up conversation, shower . . . you name it!) with your kids within earshot can be awkward. Indeed, until you live it, no one can prepare you for just how awkward it is. But in the midst of and on the other side of awkward? SO much good STUFF: growth and laughter and forgiveness and compassion and maybe even hugs and kisses too. Whatever the bounty, it is, indeed, ALL worth having and worth fighting for.

Yet, the only way there is THROUGH.  So we do have to navigate that AWKWARD first (God help us). And we will get through it – we always do. Just steer clear of those potholes the best you can, have your best set of tools at the ready, align your compass to whole heart, and trust the process.

Safe travels my friend!

XOXO 

NOTE: On the way to school this morning Taggart said, “I read your essay on 'Awkward'. And you say you are ‘trustworthy’?? I almost typed in there, ‘NO, she’s not!!’ I told you I couldn’t trust you! You are writing about me on your blog Mom . . .”

But he didn’t really seem that mad. In fact, he looked at me and he smiled when he said it.  And I responded, with a laugh, “I AM TOO trustworthy!! I didn't tell ALL your secrets.” He didn’t argue. We just left it at that. 

And that eye contact and smile?  Almost felt like a hug and kiss. It was definitely the good in my morning!

A Heart Full of Grateful

A letter of thanks for my many blessings - especially that girl who turned 8 last Friday . . . 

November 7, 2014

Dear God,

Just a quick note of thanks for the bang up job you did on that sweet, sweet human being you made eight years (and four days) ago – Catherine “Sage” Patterson.  Honestly, I think you outdid yourself with this one.  Not only is she beautiful, inside and out, but she is smart and kind and loving too.  And that compassion for animals you bestowed her?  Well, it has us on field trips to the Humane Association or Love at First Sight almost once a week just to visit those prospective best friends.  Those hopeful kittens and puppies she holds, plays with, and loves on - reminding them of their truth, how sweet and good they are. Furry friends are some of her best friends and her eloquence and grace with animals is both grounding and inspiring.  She’s a spirit lifter; I adore that quality in her.

And last week, when I met with her three 2^nd grade teachers, they shared how helpful Sage is to her friends when they need extra encouragement.  That makes my heart happy.  You probably already know this, but she wants to be a teacher when she grows up and she practices EVERY DAY in her room, by herself (well, and her imaginary students!), for like an hour.  And she’s been doing this since she was three-years-old. She is going to be the BEST teacher someday – what a good idea you had with that.  I know her Grandpa Mundy is smiling down and so proud too.  She’s carrying on his legacy.  What a good thing.

But the very best thing?  Me getting her as my daughter to raise and grow and learn from.  It is, unquestionably, one of the very best gratefuls in my life.  So much more than a spoonful of grateful, this is like 16 cups of overflowing grateful.  With her in my life, I laugh more, strive harder to be a better mom, try to model a healthier relationship with food and body image, love and accept myself more whole-heartedly, endeavor to be the best loving partner to her dad that I can be . . . Of course, these were all lessons you wanted me to learn in this lifetime anyway.  I get that.  But the way you go about getting these lessons to us . . . genius really.

There is SO much that I am thankful for – in this month, this season of thanks - but truly in my life.  I am thankful for my health, my freedom, my family and friends. My safety. My freedom to choose what I believe. My right and privilege to vote.  The crispness in the air this time of year.  The colors of the falling leaves.  The anticipation of the holiday season (sometimes better than the holidays themselves!!). Our dog Tractor’s burrowing head when he wants a pat-pat. The sound of Rooster or Stella purring at my feet atop a soft down comforter as I go to sleep.  A full cup of hot coffee to start my day in the quiet of the early morning before the house and the day run away like wild horses . . . (or the wild horses, er kids, come tumbling out of bed and down the hall in search of me – their one and only, luckiest, favorite mom!).

God, just know this.  Though I sometimes get caught up in the craziness and lose sight of the big picture as I’m slogging through the details and managing my imperfections, I NOTICE the love letters you send me and I really do try to stop and take them in.  The coral pink sky as the sun was rising this morning? I saw it and it centered me. Thank you.  Tractor coming over to say good morning and lie next to me as I type this – like he missed me last night . . . I noticed that too.

But God? Those love letters that are my people? The most magnificent correspondence to date! I want you to know, on Sage’s birthday, but also on every single day that she and I share, my grateful is so big my heart might just burst.  I look at her thick lashes or her perfect pink lips or her little body that she is SO comfortable in and I am FULL. Of every good thing.  All is right in my world.  That handiwork of yours?  Absolutely exquisite.

And those other people that make up my sweet little family? Sage’s dad and Sage’s brother? I feel the EXACT same way about them.  They’re keepers – the whole lot (dog, cats, and frog too!). But in honor of my lovely, growing-everyday-but-I-wish-she’d stop (!) Sagie Lou, it’s all eyes on this prize: my newly turned eight-year-old girl and how she makes my life so much brighter and clearer just by being in it.  She is, indeed, my sunshine.

So thank you God.  You did, indeed, outdo yourself. But I’m not at all surprised.  Just humbled and happy and SO, SO grateful.

With a heart full-to-overflowing,

Yours Truly (Sage's Smitten Mom)

Becoming Real

 

It happens in what feels like the blink, er twitch, of an eye.

• You look down at your hands and you see the raised veins and thickening knuckles and think, “WHOSE hands are these anyway?”
• You look in the mirror, not just at your hair and the threads (or more!) of gray, but at your whole face, for the first time in a VERY LONG TIME, and see the deep furrow lines between your brows or the fine lines around your eyes and you wonder, “When did THAT happen?”
• You are driving along, and you notice your son looking you over. You think he might be admiring your "youthful" profile . . . until he asks, “Mom, what are all those little lines above your top lip?” SH**! And I never even smoked!  Where, or where, did those lines come from?
• Or, how about this? Your mom says, “Honey, I bought you a present - I thought it might be something you could use,” and hands you a 10X magnifying mirror . . . for Valentine’s Day, no less!

Here it all is, people, unbidden and well earned. The telltale signs that we are getting older. That we are aging. That, perhaps, we are no longer the second-looker we might have once been. That we don’t look like we did twenty years ago. That we have to rely on MUCH, MUCH MORE than our looks these days to stand out or get by. And that there, in that unfamiliar and humbling spot, something like true self-acceptance is born. And wisdom. And humility. And strength. And confidence. And compassion.

Because, even though society might constantly reinforce our looks as our essence and try to convince us it is our worth, if we bought into that pack of lies, WE WOULD NEVER FEEL WORTHY.

Because definitions of beauty and external standards are constantly moving targets, made up by the beauty police and corporate marketing gurus who know playing on our fears and weaknesses is the best way to get our attention; at least when we are using their measuring stick . . .

But one of the very best lessons I’ve learned, as I galloped through my thirties (husband, kids, doctorate) and now find myself knee-deep in my forties, is this: The measuring stick I was using to measure my worth early on was absolutely, positively WORTHLESS. Those mean, unrelenting, unsustainable standards that negated my inherent goodness and tried to have me believe I wasn’t good enough or pretty enough or smart enough or thin enough??? Wrong. Wrong. All wrong. And I’m not buying it anymore.

(And neither should you.)

What has become clearer with my middle-aged "perspectacles" (ala Glennon Doyle Melton @ www.momastery.com) is that our “X marks the spot” treasure will NEVER be found outside ourselves in our looks or our physicality. It is only by going within and learning to like and accept what we find there – by affirming our own uniqueness and gifts – that we are able to fully BE ourselves in this crazy, beautiful adventure we call life.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am all for self-care and pampering, on our terms and that meets our wants and needs. I’m all about a good mani-pedi. I am a big believer in the healing powers of massage and will take one anywhere I can get it, even in the middle of the mall at the chair massage area. I’m not picky. And honestly, I’d be lost without eyeliner and good mascara. My motto these days: Bring attention to the eyes and walk fast. (I’m hoping they’ll only remember the baby blues and the youthful gait and leave those other southwardly migrating parts alone!)

And as much as my kids beg me to stop coloring my hair and let it go “natural” (read: middle-of-the-road brown and half gray), I’m honest enough to say that, for now, I still really like having my hair and eyebrows MATCH. If my dark brown eyebrows go gray (and I’ll admit I did find one errant ALBINO hair in my right brow that almost set me back a whole morning!), I’ll consider the transition. But there are vestiges of me still clinging to an image of a head full of mahogany colored hair . . . call me vain if you will. I know I’m not alone. (I also know and love women with the most beautiful heads of gray hair – silver, white, lovely. And with wit and wisdom that matches their beauty - inside and out. I plan to happily join their ranks someday. But, I’m not there yet. So be it.)

 

This evolution from young to older (to someday old, and perhaps, wise) is natural and strange and scary and humbling. Even exhilarating at times. To have made it this far - better – deeper – truer – more ALIVE . . . excavating our authentic selves so that we can find and share our treasure on our terms, with our own homemade maps, on our own timeframes. With our people, our beloved others. Many of whom are the very mentors, role models, and pacers that show us what aging gracefully looks like, how to remember to laugh at ourselves and life, and cry some too. How to hold each other, love right through it, no matter what life brings. Because, after all, the show must go on.

Life, to me, seems to be an excavation dig where we discover with each passing year more of who we are and who we are meant to be. The right tools are essential (prayer, affirmation, books, role models, and yes, even eye liner in times of need!!). And if we tune in to our own internal compass - that deep knowing of our own true north - our aging can be a grace-filled and grand unfolding.

Sure, we could listen to all those external voices and ads that tell us: “You must appear youthful at all costs (it’s not possible but hey! If you haven’t figured that out, that’s your loss and our gain)!” or “You will never be _________ enough . . . “ But if we did give those voices any credence, we might not get out of bed most days! Thank goodness, we are much smarter than that. SO MUCH SMARTER.  We know the TRUTH: that the grace in this transition is ours to be had for the taking. And when done from a centered, at-home-in-our-own-skin place, we can fully accept and unconditionally love the whole-hearted, imperfect people we are constantly becoming.

It’s like the passage from the Velveteen Rabbit that I’ve always loved:

. . . When someone loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real . . . It doesn’t happen all at once . . . You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.

Isn’t “Real” what we are all shooting for? Being loved and accepted – and being able to love and accept - no matter what? It truly seems the secret to this thing called aging – this ultimate humbling experience, this natural unfolding that is our LIFE – is to love and accept ourselves and our people – right through it, without condition. ‘Til our hair’s gone awry (or just gone!), our eyes are drooping (or the eyeliner's run dry!), our joints are floppy (or we've had a knee replacement or two!) and we’re threadbare (or our skin's a'saggin'!).

Regardless . . . that THERE, in that whole-hearted space, we’ll finally embrace our true selves - and each other.

Real. Beautiful. Whole. And worthy of every good thing.

I’ll meet you there.