Feeling the Joy

 

Goals for the Season:

* Keep it all in perspective
* Remember the why to the season
* Enjoy the details
* Be joyous
* Be grateful
* Be light

At this time of year, there’s all the talk of a picture-perfect, Christmas card holiday. Everyone smiling and happy. Feeling big and loving and kind. Getting along. A Norman Rockwell picture, some like to say.  And honestly, I have been so blessed in the past year, that I am claiming that kind of holiday. We have recreated some of the traditions we love and we’ve let go of some others that no longer serve us. We, all four of us, are healthy, happy, and so very well.  We need not a thing. Our cups runneth over. So, so very grateful.

We’ve slimmed down our giving to causes with real need. We volunteered together as a family for Room in the Inn (a highlight of the season for sure!). We even aspired, like so many other sweet families at this time of year, to the perfect holiday picture with our family photo shoot. This, by the way, was much to husband and son’s chagrin. “Why do we have to wear white shirts?? This is so stupid!!” said son  (not husband, who knows better than to tread on that thin ice . . .).

The photos – taken by my brilliant and talented mom – turned out great.  Even Tractor posed well, a central figure in our family unit, he could not be forgotten; needed to be represented and accounted for – front and center!

Yep. We survived the family photo shoot and it took all of fifteen minutes. I chose two photos from the afternoon and ordered a beautiful card that same night with a gold foiled “joyful” announcing our holiday spirits and good cheer, our thankfulness for our great good.

The cards arrived a week or so later. I’d already purchased my holiday postage. (And got a ticket on the way to the post office for that . . . rolled through a stop sign while I was lost in my holiday to-do thoughts. I could have been mad but since I am trying a new zen Christmas attitude this year, I made myself repeat in my head and heart: “Thank you Officer for keeping me safe. For reminding me to slow down and to STOP at this time of year. To not be distracted. To be fully present. If one small ticket is the price I pay for this reminder, so be it . . . Thank you.”).

As I prepared to address the cards, I lit a candle. I sat by the lovingly decorated Christmas tree aglow in its colorful lights. Assembled the list, stamps, return address stamper, and pens.  Sage sat across from me. I did all the postage and return address stamping first and then wrote a short note on the initial cards and signed our names. I did about 10 and realized I could barely see what I was writing so I moved a floor lamp closer. (I think I’m getting to that certain age where “readers” are becoming more necessary but I haven’t gone there yet. But may. VERY SOON . . . like I have a feeling they may show up in my stocking since Santa’s omniscient and my vision’s waning.  Just saying!).

So. With that good light now directly over my right shoulder, I picked up one of our happy little family – joy, joy – Christmas cards to admire . . . the smiles, the lighting, my precious kids, my handsome husband, the adorable dog . . . And OH!  I think I see something I shouldn’t. Wished I hadn't. Bringing the card closer (“readers” where are you??), I confirmed my suspicion.

SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.

TRACTOR'S LIPSTICK IS SHOWING.  O.K., you really have to look hard. But still. For it to be showing at all . . . NO GOOD. And if you are not with me yet, I’m talking about his PRIVATES.  Front and center on our CHRISTMAS CARD. I mentioned the “Joyful” written in gold foil across the front of the card?  Well, dear sweet Tractor was clearly feeling the JOY.

 I, on the other hand, was NOT.

“Sage!” I say. “You’re not going to believe this. We have a problem. A big problem. (She is studiously working on her card to great-Grandma Mundy when I interrupt her with my burning news flash.) “What Mom?” she says as she walks over. 

Me: Look at this picture, do you notice anything?

Her:  Nope, looks good.

Me:  Look closer.  Look at Trackie . . .

Her: Awwww, sweet Trackie.  He’s adorable . . .

Me: Why yes he is BUT LOOK AT HIS LIPSTICK . . .

(Eyes sideways to me, she looks down again.)

Her: Oh my Gosh! OH MY GOSH!

(Followed by hysterical laughing. Hysterical.  And three more OMGoshes and then . . . “DAD?? TAGGART?? COME HERE!!”) 

Me: No, no, no. Let’s not get them involved. We got this.  They don’t even need to know. You can hardly see it, right?

(She just looks at me and laughs. And in enters Jeff.) 

Jeff: What’s up?

Sage:  Dad! Look at this.  You won’t believe it!

Jeff (holding said card under the light): What?

Sage:  Look closer, at Tractor. Look down at Tractor Dad.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHA (That’s Jeff and Sage cracking up . . . and me looking at the two of them, maybe with only the slightest hint of a smile . . .)

Me (to husband):  If you tell anyone, I will be SO mad. Seriously. I won’t speak to you. This is not funny. Do you hear me?? Not funny. Tell anyone and you’re mud.

Clearly, my zen Christmas spirit left me momentarily. It happens to the best of us. But then, one of my favorite lines came to me and righted my holiday world once again:

Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly. 

Now, I’m pretty certain I’m not growing any angel wings anytime soon but in aspiring to be a better, fuller, lighter version of myself this holiday season, the reminder to laugh more and make light of situations that we can make light of was an important one.  And it aligns perfectly with my goals for the season. Imagine that.

May we all remember the details that matter this holiday season.

And laugh, or let go of, the details that don’t.

Merry Christmas from our family to yours – and a very joyous fa-la-la-la from our beloved Tractor!

p.s. That is our card up top - but I got very busy with the smudge tool so there is no lipstick to see.  I thought I'd spare you that minor detail!

The Presence of Christmas

MORE PRESENCE, LESS STUFF . . . are you with me on this?  My daughter Sage certainly isn’t.  At eight, she still believes.  Which I am thrilled about because BELIEVING is one of the very best things in life. Believing in Santa (or even that damn elf on the shelf!) . . . Believing in growth, that an itty-bitty acorn can grow into a magnificent, grand oak . . . Believing in love, that it can transcend all things . . . Believing in anything bigger than ourselves is one of the very best gifts in life. 

BELIEVING IS WONDROUS.

Don’t get me wrong. I am all for wonder and believing. But here’s the thing. Santa is tired. Very tired.  And though he’s still coming, Mrs. Claus had a talk with him this year.  And it went something like this: “Simplify. Simplify. Simplify.”  (Well, that might have been my dad’s two cents but now that he’s in heaven and I’m pretty sure that’s close to the North Pole, he might just have the Clauses’ ears this year!).

 So, as I told Sage, Santa got in touch with me.

“HOW?” she demanded.  “Well, he e-mailed me,” I shared. “Santa can talk to all the parents whenever he needs to.” “O.K . . .” she replied a bit warily. And this is how the conversation went.

Me: Honey, I’ve decided we are going to do Christmas a little differently this year.  Since we have so much stuff already and we really don’t need much, this is what we are going to do this Christmas. 

Each of us can ask for four things:

• Something we WANT
• Something we NEED
• Something to EXPERIENCE
• Something to READ

Her: Nope.  I’m not doing that.  No way. I’m asking for WAY MORE than four things. Just so you know.

Me: Well, you can ask.  But I’ve discussed this with your dad and with Santa. And Santa has a lot of kids to think about, kids who don’t have homes or even families.  If we do this, it helps Santa and he can also help those children that don’t have as much as we do.

Her: Whatever Mom. I’M NOT DOING THAT.

(And she marched, tall and straight, right on outta the room.)

Later that night, as we sat down to dinner, Sage says, “Taggart?  Did mom tell you what we are doing for Christmas this year?”  And Taggart responds, “No. What?”  Sage continues, “Mom says it’s going to be one thing we want, one thing we need, one thing to experience, and something to read.  Can you believe it? We ARE SO NOT doing that, right?”

Me, in my head, “Whatever Sage.”

I get it. It’s hard to be eight-years-old and used to Christmas being one way and then it getting switched up on you.  But kids are resilient.  AND SHE’LL BE FINE.  It’s not like I told her we’re cancelling Christmas.  Just toning it down.  Making it count. Matter. Making them think long and hard about their four main requests.  Quality over quantity.  Less is more (she hasn’t gotten this memo yet!).   

More presence, less stuff.

I KNOW Sage got it, that she’s with me on some level, because the next night when I got home after a meeting, Sage had written this on the notepad on the fridge:

 Maybe somewhere in wise Sage’s big heart, she IS with me. Perhaps she knows, on some deep level - like me - that we need to take back the presence of Christmas and illuminate the true spirit of the season in our homes, churches, and communities in ways that really matter. 

The retailers and marketers have done a number on us and most of us have fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. (And I don’t know about you but I don’t want to hear Christmas music in stores before my Thanksgiving prayer’s even been said!)

But here’s the thing: They are not the boss of us. And we don’t have to play their game. As much as they want us to. Hurry, scurry, run, run, run. Don’t miss this sale. Limited time offer!  Use your credit card, pay later.  Distract yourself with more stuff.  Take two aspirin and call us in the morning (you’ll get an automated response) . . . Believe me, no one wants this holiday hangover.

Which is exactly why I’m taking back our Christmas this year. Calling it OURS. Making it OURS. And yes, where I can, it's simplify, simplify, simplify.  Just this week, I wrote to two of my favorite cousins and asked, “Can we NOT send presents to each other’s families this year, given that we all have more than we need? Perhaps we can find other ways throughout the year to celebrate each other?”  Their answers: “Yes! We agree. Let’s take that off our to-do lists and focus on each other on our birthdays.”  Hip-Hip-Hooray!

This now frees the kids and I up to do a little more for the two angels we selected off their school’s Angel Tree and allows our time and energy to be spent in ways that make a difference, for people in real NEED.   Or saying “no” to some gatherings so that our family can more fully experience the season of giving, the reason for the season. This week it was declining a party at the in-laws because I had already signed our family up to volunteer at our church for Room in the Inn.  We’ll make beds for the homeless men that will stay at our church for the night and serve them dinner.  We will talk and visit with them and perhaps hear some of their stories.

I am hoping we will be reminded of what real need looks like and that we will walk away fuller than when we arrived, with a welcome and much-needed reminder that we are all connected. Not by the material, but by the fact that we are all human. Each of us, spiritual beings having a human experience, learning to love and to truly see one another.

I hope – through this season and throughout our days in the coming year – we open ourselves to those presents, to those gifts.  May we all be so blessed.

The Longest Walk

Photo by Libby Mundy, c. 2015

 “The longest walk is door to door.”

That’s what my dad used to say when he was a canvasser for Greenpeace, going door-to-door in any kind of weather – rain, snow, sun, bitter cold - to talk to whoever would listen about the environment and what they could do to help save the planet. My dad would talk with those that were kind enough to open their doors, and perhaps even listen, and then he would eventually ask for a donation to Greenpeace to support its mission and work. More often than not, he’d head back down the steps and away from a door that never opened to walk to the next door - his conviction, environmental literature, a good pen, and a pack of unfiltered Camel cigarettes his constant travel companions.

I like to think about my (anti-technology) dad tweeting out: “The longest walk is door to door.” 

“What’s it mean?” people might ask. It means that you never know what you are going to get as you approach that next door and stand there and knock.  Waiting for someone to answer the door.  Waiting for someone to look out and open their door to you, their eyes to you – no matter what you look like or what assumptions they might be making. 

For both the outsider and the insider, huge risks are being taken.  Yet many of us don’t take them.  We don’t venture out. Go to the door and knock.  Ask for what we need.  We know NOT to open the door to a stranger. Sometimes we don’t even get off the couch to see who’s there . . .

It’s a choice all of us make. Every day. Do we want to sit on the couch and be onlookers in our lives or do we want to show up and be present for this grand adventure, THIS EPIC HIKE, that is our life? Do we get out there and walk our longest walks or do we sit on our rears and wait for our answers to find us?  (Let me give you a clue: Our answers are most likely NOT on our couches.)

A street-level educator my dad liked to call himself. He was ABD (All But Dissertation) in English Lit yet the politics involved in finishing his doctorate tripped him up and kept him from seeing it through (I like to think of my doctoral degree as making good on my father’s unpaid debt to the world of higher education; I fondly refer to the doctoral process as a trial - not for the brightest and best – merely, the most persistent).

Anyone that knew my dad knew how intelligent he was.  An intellectual snob some might have even said (probably because he told them their cocktail parties were like eternal funerals – somehow he didn’t get, or perhaps care, that that might be off-putting).  He was the most well read person I've ever known, always recommending a good book or leaving one behind, often tucked on a bookshelf to find later (the last one he left me was Garrison Keillor’s Happy To Be Here).

He wrote beautifully, lyrically. He could find a connection with anyone, be it through music, sports, geography, or literature. Yet, he was not able to combine all these amazing talents and strengths into a cohesive whole – to bring to and give to the world all of the beauty of his being so that his light could shine most brightly.  Indeed, I think my dad often dimmed his own light because its brilliance frightened him. His insecurities got in the way of his greatness.

It’s like that Marianne Williamson quote I so love:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

My dad was the street-level educator who drove a cab the last few years of his life.  My dad was the guy who might have sold you a Christmas tree at one of the seasonal lots where a little, dingy trailer is set up for the person selling the tree to stay warm from the bitter chill of a Michigan winter.  That was my dad.  Not just some random guy.  Not some creep or some low-life.   

THAT WAS MY DAD.

 And I’m sure he aspired to more.  But it was what he chose.  It was what he needed to do.
And you know what?  All he wanted was for people to listen to him.  To take him seriously.  To not care what he looked like or what it was that he did for a living because he had something to say, something to share, that mattered.   

EVERYONE DOES. 

Do you get it?  Every single person you see, bump into, cross paths with – each and every person has a story. And it matters. Each person is someone’s son or daughter. Or perhaps someone’s mother or father or brother or sister or friend or partner or spouse.  Each and every person belongs to someone.   
AND THEY MATTER.

Over the last seven weeks, I’ve had the privilege of sitting in on a dear friend’s Intellectual Growth and Inquiry class, which prepares adult learners (students going back to start or finish college later in life) for their return to the college classroom. With its focus on confidence building, self-awareness, and goal setting, the course is designed to support these students in completing their college degrees. And as these students are preparing to go back to the classroom, so am I!

Beginning in the spring, I will also have the honor of teaching this class and working with this unique student population. And so unlike my many years with traditional, college-age students, I am learning that adult learners have myriad reasons for returning to college later in life.  They also bring to the classroom experience and wisdom that traditional-age students lack.  And their sense of purpose and focus is more honed, given the many competing priorities their lives are filled with.  Often it is these competing priorities (family, job responsibilities, military participation, recovery and/or mental health issues) that have hindered their college completion in the past.

Needless to say, I am in awe of these brave, courageous, and dedicated students who are mid-stream in their lives and are choosing the road less taken, heading back to complete their degrees so that they can shape their lives in new and different ways. Who are making that long walk to a new door, ripe with opportunity, change, transformation.

One student, in particular, reminds me so much of my father.  Not by how he looks or what he says.  But by the invisible armor he wears and his evident, but perhaps oft misunderstood, need to be heard. You can tell by how he interacts in class that he has not been allowed to be vulnerable, that his unique strengths may not always have been affirmed.  Yet, he is trying, albeit a bit clumsily, to live his strengths and to find ways to use his strengths to be heard. 

Each week, my teacher friend and I make eye contact and we KNOW - this student is making that longest walk. It’s hard with the armor but it’s getting easier as he sheds that heavy weight, one self-disclosure at a time. Bravo to him!  I am so grateful for his example.  And his courage.  He, like my father, is nothing more than a diamond in the rough. Finding ways to let his light shine. His brilliance sparkle.

It is easy to assume someone else is bad/wrong/weird because they are so different than us. Because they have made different choices or live such different lives. But if we take that long walk or knock or open the door and truly listen to that “other”, get to know him or her and learn their story and perhaps share ours, well, what we learn is that we all are the very same inside:

We all belong to someone.  We all want to be seen. Acknowledged. Known. Accepted for who we are.

None of us knows how long the walk is. What door will be in front of us. Who will be behind that door. Whether or not it will open.  But the point is, we don’t have to KNOW. We just have to show up and put one foot in front of the other.  Sooner or later, a door will appear.  A door will open.

And if it happens to be a trailer door at the Christmas tree lot? By all means, talk to that person. Start a conversation. He might have something worth saying, something you need to hear. A light he might be able to shine on some part of you – or you, on him.

Remember, he belongs to somebody. Give that person the gift of being seen.

No, please don’t be fooled by anyone’s disguise. Look under their armor. Find a connection.  Ease someone’s long walk when you can.  Venture out on your own long walk.   

CLAIM YOUR EPIC HIKE.

Open the door and let your light shine.