Always Beauty Laughing Gentle Princess

Why do you do what you do?

Why are you here?

Why do you make the choices you make?

Last week, as I walked up to my kids’ school to pick them up from afternoon dismissal, my eight-year-old daughter pushed a crumpled coffee filter she was clutching in her hand at me. It looked as if she had been holding onto it for some time.
“Here,” she said with a smile. “I picked these for you.”
I took the filter and could feel something inside . . . little pieces, small and hard, like Chiclet gum. I couldn’t fathom what gems might lie within because, frankly, I’ve seen it all; I’ve received nuggets of rubber mulch as a gift, lots of rocks and pebbles (some of which I’ve kept!), feathers, used chewing gum, a dead dung beetle . . . you name it, I’ve been gifted it! And truly, I’ve cherished each and every humble little offering.
As I began to open the filter, she asked, “Doesn’t it look like a flower?” To be honest, I thought it looked like a tired, grungy, and perhaps used tissue, but I affirmed, as most moms would: “Yes, I can see how it does.” And I could. She smiled again.
As the filter fell open I saw these small, plastic rectangular beads with words on them. They might have been beads a kid would string on a necklace. I asked Sage where she got them and she said she picked them out, just for me, in art class.
Then, I started reading the words: Laugh. Gentle. Always. Beauty. Princess. Now. Time. Good.
“I love them!” I said to Sage as I gave her a quick hug. “How did you pick each word?” I asked.
She replied, “It was easy. Each one made me think of you.”

THAT is why I do what I do everyday. Well, a HUGE part. For my kids. For my family. For that sense of CONNECTION. So that we might act as mirrors for each other when we need reminding of our inherent goodness. And even when we don’t.
And of course, to be told, through eight small plastic beads: We have time. The time in now. It is all good. And, I am an always beauty laughing gentle PRINCESS. (No, my friends, it doesn’t get any better than that! Truly. Even if she and I know she’s being really, really generous . . . but I’ll trust her on this, my sweet, sweet sage.)
Knowing WHY I do what I do is critical to becoming more of the person I want to be. And for contemplating goals I want to accomplish to help me in the process. So, as I make my way through my “different kind of January”, I am making doubly sure that my “whats” (as in what I say I want in my life) are lined up with my “whys”. Because if they’re not, I won’t succeed. And probably shouldn’t. I’m not meant to. If my “whats” are out of alignment with my “whys”, then I don’t have any business using my finite time on those endeavors, however good they might sound.
So I ask you this, as we trudge, er slow dance, through January:

WHY do you want to lose weight?

WHY do you want to make $50,000 or $75,000 or $100,000?

WHY do you want to quit your job? Or, start a new business?

WHY do you want to find Mr. (or Mrs.) Right?

WHY do you want to run a marathon this year?

“Why” questions, in general, are typically not questions people much like. In fact, they often prove very hard. And really big “why” questions – like life “whys” - can often seem too scary or difficult to even answer. Notorious for making people defensive, “why” questions push people’s buttons because they ask us to explain ourselves. Or imply that perhaps we should be doing something differently. And indeed, perhaps we should. Because where there’s defensiveness, there’s often some truth (or it wouldn’t make us defensive, right?). Hard lesson, that one.
Getting “why” clarity is simple, but not easy. Because it’s not just a glib, one-sentence answer to any of the above questions. It’s a deep, archeological dig below the surface where we ask ourselves a “why” question related to what we say we want (i.e., “Why do I want to write a book?”). And then, after we’ve honestly answered that first question (I want to write a book because I want to share the lessons I have learned with others), we follow up with another “why?”.  And we continue asking and answering until we can answer no more, until we’ve gotten to an answer that is coupled by an “A-ha!” that signals our TRUTH. A deep inner knowing that our “why” is true at a soul-deep level.
Yep. It would be so easy if our first “why” answer gave us our deepest truth, but I’m here to tell you that’s almost never the case. It takes some digging and some removing of armor and layers of the onion to get where we need to go. No, these “whys” aren’t easy. But if we want to become all that we are meant to be, knowing our deep “whys” is the one sure way to keep us on track, whole-heartedly pursuing a goal that echoes our most profound truths. 
As we put ourselves through the “why” paces, five rounds of questioning usually gets us to pay dirt. But it is imperative that we are soft and gentle (yet tenacious!) with ourselves as we go through these paces. Because as our “whys” take us deeper, sometimes we may be surprised/shocked/angered/embarrassed/ashamed by what lies underneath. But here’s a promise we all must make as we broach this endeavor: no judgments, no bullying, no filtering our answers. Just listening and listening well. And accepting what is. And by all means, being good to ourselves (patient, kind, affirming – like you’d be to your very best friend)!
Everyone’s “why” is different. And we must honor those deep “whys” as the very things that allow our souls to speak. Even, perhaps, to sing. But to get to our deepest “whys”, we must also be willing to courageously ask those hard questions and openly – nonjudgmentally - listen for our own deep answers.
So here’s the deal. Take your time. Give yourself space. And room. And no distractions. And start writing. Digging. Listening. Uncovering. Because if we can get below the surface and get clear on why we want certain changes in our lives, the process will be much easier to embrace and navigate. And when this resonates at a deep and abiding level, our commitment will be that much stronger. Indeed, maybe it will flow because we will be in the FLOW, with our life unfolding exactly as it was meant to. Each of us living our biggest and best lives.
Sure, we’ve all been at that place where we are sitting on the fence about some goal or decision (questioning if we have what it takes, the goal’s do-ability, whether or not it is convenient or will make us uncomfortable . . .). It’s as if we are waiting for anything outside of us that we can point to so that we do not have to take responsibility for our lives and choices. We are looking for anything we don’t have control over so we can use that to rationalize why we might fail . . . So we can say: “THAT is what caused me to NOT succeed. And now, I get to go back to being the same old, tired version of me. Nope, I don’t have to change. So there.”
But what I’m offering is this: Perhaps those goals weren’t meant to be because they didn’t align with your deep “whys”. And if your motivation isn’t true, how long would those changes last, anyway? (How long have those goals or changes lasted, anyway??)
Unquestionably, we are each personally responsible for our every choice, our every failure, our every happiness. This is not only hard for my 12-year-old son to accept, it’s hard for lots of grown-ups too! But it is true. And once we realize this and start living life from our deepest “whys”, our greatest good will unfold, exactly as it should.
The longer I live in this body and in my skin, having my life experiences and navigating the joys, losses, the mundane and sublime, my knowledge and understanding of my “whys” has become more honed. Hence, greater alignment. Sure, I sometimes get off track or lose myself in my own STUFF (because we are human and that’s what humans do!), but when I am willing to be honest, vulnerable and completely open with myself (and others), my “whys” are crystal clear.
My deep “whys” - why I am here, why I do what I do, why I make the choices I make – inevitably boil down to: connection, relationships, affirmation, inspiration, and acceptance (yeah, as the antithesis to control, that one still gives me fits!).
Clear on my deepest values, it allows me to move forward in all of my roles and experiences more intentionally . . . shaping my life, my family, and my future in ways that reflect both who I am and who I am becoming. And, it allows me to dream dreams that I can actually live into because they come from a deep, known place within.
Today, as a day that honors the life and work of Martin Luther King, Jr., I see the evidence of his deep “whys” everywhere – in the speeches and sermons he gave, letters he wrote, marches and protests he participated in, in the people he touched and the lives he still touches . . . Freedom. Justice. Equality. Peace. Deep, deep “whys” that he built both dreams and a new reality on. They were the deep values he walked, talked, and envisioned. It’s the very lesson inherent in the necessity of knowing our own deep “whys”. So that our walk, our actions, our resolutions, are evident as our talk, our deepest truths, our inner-knowing of what we need to do to live into our dreams.
In that very spirit, let’s commit, if we are able, to these high (and dare I say necessary) endeavors in the year ahead:

• To be our own cause.
• To take a stand for what we believe in.
• To let our deep WHYS be our guide.
• To be true to ourselves.
• And last, but not least . . . to find our inner-prince or –princess and let them sing!

Remember: We have time. The time is now. And it is all good. (You always beauty laughing gentle PRINCE/SS).

The Softening: Butter Prayers and Battle Cries

Photo by Libby Mundy. All rights reserved.

“This darn butter!” I thought to myself while I was making toast for the kids this week. The butter was being totally uncooperative: hard, chunky, unspreadable. Making holes in the soft toast. Frustrating me because I like my butter soft and smooth, gliding over the toast with one even swipe of the knife (to be honest, I’ll take my butter any which way because, well, it’s BUTTER! And the icing on the cake (or butter on the bread!)? They now say organic, grass-fed butter might even be good for us – HALLELUJAH!!).
Lo and behold, my butter insights are shaping how I have decided to live out this January, as I welcome 2015 with a compassionate and simple (butter) prayer: soft is the way.  Yes. Soft is the way.  Not hard, like mean and unforgiving and resolute but soft like yielding, smooth, quiet, gentle, tender, easy, forgiving, and yes, perhaps even indulgent.
Soft like:

• Don’t measure or time my walk or run, just go do it for the sake of being outside and moving my body. And if Tractor wants to stop and smell the “roses”, don’t rush him for goodness sake!
• Don’t pull away from my husband when I’m angry or frustrated (or feel like punishing him) but be softer and kinder and lean into him instead (hard, I tell you, hard but infinitely more productive . . .).
• It is O.K., and even necessary, to peacefully let go of certain beliefs, past hurts, or people that no longer fill me up and to embrace new friends experiences, and ideas that do.

Yep, this year, I want a different kind of January.  And I’ve decided to take a new tack.  Typically, after all the holiday hoopla and the eating and drinking mayhem that occurs during the six or so weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years, I am ready to batten down the hatches.  To rein myself in.  To regain control of what has often felt like an out-of-control apple cart speeding precariously down a slippery slope to a point of no return.
But then, in the nick of time, before I strapped on my January backpack full of STUFF (shame, guilt, expectations, resolutions), with some hope and a prayer shoved into a fanny pack strapped around my middle, I came across a truffle of an idea that had this at its center:

Maybe you don’t set any resolutions for January 1. Maybe you use January to really dream, consider new possibilities, and then contemplate and thoughtfully plan what you want 2015 to look like. Write your dreams and goals down.  And then proceed - at a manageable pace - no  “ready,set, gunshot/go” required.

I know I was ready for this new idea because it felt as if the angels shone a light down, directly on me, as I sat on my couch on that cold, gray, late-December afternoon, and opened their voices so that they sang directly to the center of my heart. Yes.  This will be a different kind of January. I can make it so. There are no rules here. No unnecessary pressure. January 1 is truly just another day.  Does it have to be D-day, the day a “major operation or event is to begin”? Why no, I don’t think so.

HOW FREEING. HOW LIBERATING. HOW TOTALLY PERFECT.

Unfortunately, we do this all the time.  The routine.  The expected. The “boxing ourselves in”. And then we wonder why we feel stifled or small or bored or stuck. Consider this quote by Eustace Conway of Turtle Island Preserve (http://www.turtleislandpreserve.com/about/eustace):

“Do people live in circles today? No. They live in boxes. They wake up every morning in the box of their bedroom because a box next to them started making beeping noises to tell them it was time to get up. They eat their breakfast out of a box and then they throw that box away into another box. Then they leave the box where the live and get into a box with wheels and drive to work, which is just another big box broken up into lots of little cubicle boxes where a bunch of people spend their days sitting and staring at the computer boxes in front of them. When the day is over, everyone gets into the box with wheels again and goes home to their house boxes and spends the evening staring at the television boxes for entertainment. They get their music from a box, they get their food from a box, they keep their clothes in a box, they live their lives in a box! Does that sound like anyone you know?”                          - as written by Elizabeth Gilbert in The Last American Man

Some boxes are good. Necessary.  Others, not so much. Many of us need boxes. Some of us are just used to the boxes we’ve created.  Or have been given. Or accepted, as is, no questions asked. Perhaps we don’t know how to get out of our boxes, to be different or to try something new. Maybe we’re scared to leave our boxes. Or, we feel small or undeserving of a new box. Or, maybe, the box fits just right?
The good news? Each of us gets to decide how well our boxes fit.  And we also get to decide if we need more circles, more flow, more roundness or softness in our lives. Because we can only take so much sharpness and hard corners and bang-our-head-on-the-wall frustration before we dare to think, “Hmmmm, perhaps I’ve outgrown this box? Or need a new box? Or . . . maybe I should consider a tipi? Or a labyrinth . . . or an open field . . . or a new path . . .”

Photo by Libby Mundy. All rights reserved.

The options are limitless.  But often, a perspective shift is in order.  And sometimes we need to get out of our boxes – and even our own ways - to see what we need. Unfortunately, along with our boxy thinking, we routinely use these little, outdated measuring sticks to assess our progress or our worth: scales, hours worked, money earned, bank balances, square footage, calories in/out, “likes” received . . .
But I’ve got a new measuring stick to try on. It’s called POSSIBILITY.
How big is your soul, your spirit, I ask you? Infinite, right?  Anything can happen if we are open to it. There are a million ways our days can go.  Ask the person who just found out they are expecting a baby. Or who found out a loved one is terminally ill. Or whose kid is the first in the family to go to college. Or who fell in love.  Or got divorced. Or got a puppy. Or bought their first home . . . all of these scenarios hold infinite possibilities within them. Possibilities to grow, love more, be bigger than we’ve ever been.  Go about your day or life differently than you used to.
And you can measure none of these adequately with your checking account, bathroom scale, or friend count on Facebook.
Our lives are full of possibilities.  Each day is a new day. Be it January 1st or January 9th or August 25th. And with each one we can be more of who we are meant to be.  It is this possibility I opening myself to this thoughtful month of January. This January where I am being soft and indulgent and letting go of what doesn’t really give me a true sense of my worth and honing in on more of what does.
In years past, I set my noble, worthwhile, and very measurable resolutions and goals. And if you are seeking to make some concrete changes in your life, measureable is both good and necessary. Nothing wrong with that!  It's our motivation that is key. Is it built on external comparisons or magazine standards or little measuring sticks that just don’t capture all of our inherent beauty and goodness and potential?  Or does it come from deep inside, from a pure, true place within us that reminds us of who we are meant to be and uses that to help us shape the very best version of ourselves?
Sure, I’d venture to say that many of my past goals and resolutions taught me something and for each lesson, I am grateful. Sometimes the lesson was in the process or the striving (or even in the letting go) and sometimes it was simply, thankfully, checking the box of completion. As in, “Hip, Hip, Hooray! Thank God for February 1st!!! Now I can have a glass of wine and a piece of cake and maybe a burger to boot – I might even skip my run!” because . . .  I’m crazy like that. My battle cry? INDULGE AND LET GO!
Yes. Indulge and let go.
Don’t you love it???  Isn’t it SO much better than clamping down, clenching our jaws, and white-knuckling it through January in an Eeyore state of mind? (I don’t know about you but I’m tired of that and besides, it’s really just no fun!!)
So I'm here to offer you this.  We don’t have to go there. We can be kind and gentle with ourselves. We can be soft and easy and forgiving.  And from this place, outside of our small new year’s boxes, we can choose to shape 2015 into something more meaningful and lasting and joyous. But we must step out of our old boxes. Stand up on that box if need be.  Look around. Climb a tree. Look out at our world. Look within. Ask what it is we truly want and need.  Then, pick a new theme song.  Plan a new life. Or just a new day or a new year. Be good to yourself. Dream the possibilities.
Yes, for me this January is full of POSSIBILITIES.  Endless. Big. Beautiful. Gentle, soft, and forgiving. And mine, all mine – for the choosing and for the creating.  And perhaps for the letting go.
What I can really lift a (magnifying) glass to this January is this: illuminating the possibilities in my life, and in others’, so that each of our many gifts, voices, and dreams can be taken out of their boxes, explored, celebrated, seen, heard, and put to good use. Not measured by any outdated rulers but simply shining in the bright light of day, our true worth determined by the JOY we radiate as we soften into becoming more of who we are meant to be.  And also, for the simple joy of being alive.
This January is different and I am glad.
Soft is the way, my friend.
Ready, set . . . indulge and let go!

An Instrument of Peace

“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.” Mother Teresa

A few weeks ago, at a holiday mass at my kids’ sweet little school, I was overcome with the most affirming sense of rightness. Goodness. That all was right and good in the world, my world, as I sat in that full gym and took in all the loveable children, the warmth, the coziness, the goodness as I looked around me. Devoted teachers, caring parents, an authentic community centered on compassion, self-discipline, and social justice. There was an exquisite loveliness to that morning, that moment, as my mom sat next to me at her grandchildren’s school, as we listened to the mass and the children’s beautiful, imperfect voices raised in song.

And then, an alarm went off. A muffled alarm, but persistent and beckoning, near us and quiet enough that only those in the immediate vicinity could hear. But still. I turn and see two large bags – gear bags or like bags you might see unattended at the airport – about ten feet away.  It seems the sound is coming from one of them.

Typically not one to jump to conclusions, I am aware of the December 14th anniversary of Sandy Hook and those families and dear children weigh heavily on my mind. Because we never THINK anything bad will happen at safe places like our kids’ schools. The fact that this is no longer a certainty is troublesome, to say the least. And because of this awful fact, and my recent prayers for the Sandy Hook families, my mind goes THERE. Just briefly. But still. It goes there. What if that alarm is something bad? What if, while I’m sitting here absorbing all this loveliness, something BAD happens? Is this how it goes? Ends? Sitting, soaking up the good that is my kids’ world, and having it all blown to bits by some bag honking – AHNT – AHNT – AHNT – AHNT - 10 feet away from me?

A school administrator walks back, looking curiously and calmly for the sounding alarm’s source. She bends over the bag, as if to move it, and said bag’s owner – the school photographer – swoops in and rescues his bag, silences the troublesome alarm. Silences my runaway brain. At least momentarily. But my peace is rattled, my Zen cover blown.

I’m disheartened that this is what our world has come to. That we are inundated with news of bad things that happen to good people, in what we expect to be good, safe places, ALL THE TIME. That we can’t sit peacefully, prayerfully, in our sweet kids’ precious school during mass, where we send our beloved children to learn and to grow, and NOT be reminded that it could all turn on a dime . . . well, that’s no good. That an unfamiliar, untimely alarm can sound and cause us to jump (if only on the inside so as not to startle the children – many of whom I personally know already have more and deeper shudders at bumps in the night than we could have ever fathomed . . .).

It’s a hard world to live in, to make sense of, to not be overwhelmed by.

And we wonder why our kids are scared. Why we are scared. Anxious. High-strung. Always on the look out, watching for the next bad thing: war, Ebola, Ferguson, Sharia Law, sexual slavery, global warming . . . It’s too much. What our kids are learning in this brave, new world is that we always have to be a little distrustful, a little wary. And that SO goes against the grain of anything I believe in or am about that in my very, most centered space, I am UNWILLING TO ACCEPT IT.

You heard me. Call me stupid. Naïve. Blind. Tell me I’m putting my head in the sand. Whatever. Here is what I know. What I believe. Where I’m willing to put my time and energy. In good thoughts. In loving acts. In kindness and compassion toward others. In reaching out. In helping those that are scared or hurt or healing. What I know and believe is that energy in, equals energy out. What we give, we receive. What we put out, we get back. Where we focus our energy, is what we see in our lives.
Karma is real.

Like when I was writing this essay and out of one of my notebooks fell a poem by St. Francis of Assisi, in my dad’s distinct, handwriting, tucked in the front cover, a reminder to me about who I can always choose to be in this one big world and life of mine:

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood, as to understand; to be loved, as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Amen.

Any who knew my dad would know that he eschewed organized religion. Yet he was a deeply contemplative and spiritual man. Drawn to universal messages of love, connection, and illumination by many spiritual teachers (Rumi, Kabir, Buddha, and Chief Seattle to name a few), the apples have clearly not fallen far from the tree. My brother Chris wrote his own version of a peace prayer and though my dad never saw this, he would be proud to see how clearly he is represented in the many life lessons my brother and I embody.

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.

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.

Rules Are Made To Be Broken

 

When Taggart was 8 and we were on our annual summer sojourn to Michigan, he piped up from the backseat: “Mom, I know one of the really bad swear words.” To which I’m thinking, “Oh great, here we go . . . and which really bad one is it???”

I calmly respond, “Oh really, sweetie? What’s it start with?” ever aware that we’ve got little, little four-year-old sister ears, listening with silent attentiveness.

Him: “Well, I don’t really wanna say . . . But it’s the swear word for fish poop.”

Me (totally lost and unsure of where this is going): “Huhhhh? Fish poop?  I don’t think I even know that one Taggart. Fish poop.  Nope. You got me. I have no idea.  You’re gonna have to give me a letter.  Or just spell it.  DON”T SAY IT (little ears). Just spell it.”

Him: “O.K. Mom . . .” And with a deep breath he spells “B-A-S-S . . . T-U-R-D”.

Bass Turd.

I don’t even get it at first. Have to say it slow to myself and then I’m like, Oh My Goodness!  And so quick am I to make sure his spelling is right, I chime in: “No, no, honey, don’t you mean B-A-S-T. . . “ And then I stop myself. Just in time. What am I thinking?? I’m not going there if he’s not there yet! Parenting 202. Duh!

BASS TURD = FISH POOP = VERY BAD SWEAR WORD

“Why yes, Taggart, you are right.  And I’m so sorry you learned that bad word.  It is one of the REALLY bad ones, that fish poop. Let’s just keep it on the down-low O.K.? No need to be talking fish poop to your friends or cousins.  We’ll just tell dad you know that one and for now, we’ll leave it at that.”

Ahhh, those were the days. When fish poop and bad words were the extent of pushing the envelope and testing the boundaries.  Now, at the ripe old age of twelve, Taggart is testing us in lots of other ways, with puberty relentlessly knocking and a flimsy little moustache to announce its inevitable onset (a moustache, mind you, that he is VERY proud of and flaunts with aplomb!), I’m a little intimidated by this new territory.  I KNOW it’s coming, it’s normal, and many other good people have survived it, that I should embrace his growth and development with enthusiasm and delight . . . but this Fifty Shades of Puberty we are in the midst of feels very precarious and unfamiliar; the jury’s still out on how it’s going to go (and whether or not I'll survive!) . . .

Part of me thinks, “Uhmmm, can we just go back to 'fish poop' please???”  And how lucky am I, with another soon-to-be-eight-year-old right at my very fingertips, to get to revisit bad words and black and white, right vs. wrong thinking?  As if on cue, when I went in to wake Sage up this morning, she reported, “Mom, Taggart came in earlier and said to me ‘Turn your DAMN alarm off!’ He shouldn’t say that, right??” And when I quickly agree but add “Neither should you”, she cheekily responds with another of her current favorite “Taggart” sayings:

“Yeah, well rules are made to be broken Mom!”

Thank you Taggart. And because she has heard him say this time and time again as his world view is changing and he is capable of seeing more grey and less black and white, she thinks it’s fair game for her too. Where he is embarking on the “self-aware” stage of development, having already marched through the “conformist” stage, Sage is still smack dab in the middle of  “conformity”, no matter what glib lines she hands me.

On the brink of 8, she should be an expert on black and white thinking and rule-following.  And mostly, she is. Her teachers say she always raises her hand in class, follows "The Golden Rule", and uses good manners; she (almost) always eats her vegetables before her dessert; and, she almost never says bad words.  And by bad in this family we mean: FART, CRAP, STUPID, IDIOT, I HATE YOU AND SHUT-UP. And of course, that BASS TURD and DAMN. All bad, very bad, and if uttered, trouble with a capital “T” (mostly just a verbal reprimand but once, and only once, Sage’s big brother Taggart had a wee taste of a bar of soap for the “F” word, and by that I DO NOT mean “F-A-R-T”. . . ).

As challenging as parenting can be and no matter what stage we find our kids in, witnessing, honoring, and helping them navigate their developmental stages is one of our hardest and best jobs as parents. As I watch my kids dance – clumsy and graceful - through their developmental stages, and as I dance/stumble/trip through my own, I have come to the conclusion that life and development – mine, yours, my kids – is a complicated balance of circles and boxes, rules and permission slips, mazes and labyrinths, sun and moon and neatly framed family photos over the mantle . . .

It seems we go from the circle of the womb to childhood's playpen and kindergarten rules; to our teenage and early adulthood years where we question most everything (often in a circular manner much to our own and our parents’ frustration!), until we settle on some semblance of order and create our own homemade boxes in which to begin our grown-up lives.

Then, we often outgrow those, wander through a few more mazes, perhaps find solace and answers in a labyrinth that takes us to the center and back out of ourselves, where we might settle squarely again in the middle of our lives – with house, spouse, kids, pets, schools.  Or not. Or perhaps, we feel we are spinning away on one of the gerbil wheels, circular running, running, running but getting nowhere. Or not.

These stages – and our movement or lack thereof – are completely and wholly our own. And challenging assumptions and asking questions  – about where we are in life, how we are doing, if we are happy - is key to understanding who we have been and who we are. Listening for and honoring the answers helps us become more of who we are meant to be. And breaking some of the rules – AND KNOWING WHICH ONES TO BREAK - is simply part of the process.

Pushing against some boundaries – our parents’, our teachers’, society’s, our own – helps us better define who we are and who we want to be.  If we don’t push a little, we don’t know what greater good we might be capable of.

Teaching my kids the art of questioning and the art of letting go (of archaic rules or ways of being that no longer serve them) is part of my job.  It’s risky business for sure but if we don’t teach our kids to take healthy risks, we are doing them a disservice. If we don’t teach them to question what doesn’t make sense to them, we are teaching them to not trust themselves. And teaching our kids to trust themselves is one of the most important gifts we can give them.

If there are any “rules” I want my kids to tattoo on their sweet hearts, it is the following “Rules For Being Human” written by Dr. Cherie Carter-Scott.

The Rules For being Human

1. You will receive a body. You may like it or hate it, but it's the only thing you are sure to keep for the rest of your life.
2. You will learn lessons. You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called "Life on Planet Earth". Every person or incident is the Universal Teacher.
3. There are no mistakes, only lessons. Growth is a process of experimentation. "Failures" are as much a part of the process as "success."
4. A lesson is repeated until learned. It is presented to you in various forms until you learn it -- then you can go on to the next lesson.
5. If you don't learn easy lessons, they get harder. External problems are a precise reflection of your internal state. When you clear inner obstructions, your outside world changes. Pain is how the universe gets your attention.
6. You will know you've learned a lesson when your actions change. Wisdom is practice. A little of something is better than a lot of nothing.
7. "There" is no better than "here". When your "there" becomes a "here" you will simply obtain another "there" that again looks better than "here."
8. Others are only mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something about another unless it reflects something you love or hate in yourself.
9. Your life is up to you. Life provides the canvas; you do the painting. Take charge of your life -- or someone else will.
10. You always get what you want. Your subconscious rightfully determines what energies, experiences, and people you attract -- therefore, the only foolproof way to know what you want is to see what you have. There are no victims, only students.
11. There is no right or wrong, but there are consequences. Moralizing doesn't help. Judgments only hold the patterns in place. Just do your best.
12. Your answers lie inside you. Children need guidance from others; as we mature, we trust our hearts, where the Laws of Spirit are written. You know more than you have heard or read or been told. All you need to do is to look, listen, and trust.
13. You will forget all this.
14. You can remember any time you wish.

We all have within us this potential, to remember who we are and that we have everything inside of us to become our best selves. To be fully human. For sure, we will stumble, we will fall. We will make mistakes. That's part of the process, part of the plan.

When we scrape our knees, we will say “Damn!” or “Bass Turd!”

And then we'll get up, dust ourselves off, and we’ll keep dancing.

Tap away my friend.