Life has a way of soothing our weary souls, just when we need it, by giving us little things that force us not to take ourselves so seriously. Simple situations that encourage us not to be uptight, but to laugh instead, and remember that few things are worth losing our joy over. It’s those little snippets that change our perspective and add some much needed color.
I’ve been forgetting that lately. For every day I think I’ve got the upper hand on my dissertation revisions, I have another day when it seems like it will never be finished. For every day I’m confident I know what I’m doing, I face another one that leaves me feeling utterly inadequate. I lose sight that it will be finished soon. It won’t always be looming over my head. Some days it feels endless and insurmountable, when I find myself with piles of books and articles stacked around me, trying to discern what is important, what is tangential, what is vital, and what is just noise. Many days I forget that it’s just a dissertation. It isn’t life or death. And then I have a welcome reminder.
Yesterday hadn’t been the worst dissertation day. In fact, as dissertation writing days go, it had been pretty productive. But I was tired and feeling like all I ever do is sit in front of a computer and revise. I felt fat. And sluggish. And humorless. And boring. The house had been quiet all day with the boys at work, Steve out of town, Anna with laryngitis and the cats, well, … monosyllabic cats. In all, I was feeling rather dull. Thinking a nice relaxing cup of chamomile tea before bed would help, I put the tea kettle on to boil and began thinking about ways to make tomorrow feel less like a prison sentence and more like a party. How to start anew. Tomorrow I’d wear something nicer than a paint-spattered grey sweatshirt to write in. I’d put on a cute sweater. And do my hair. And apply lipstick. I probably write better in lipstick.
As I stood in the kitchen being all Annie about tomorrow and waiting for the water to boil, my cat, Princess, wandered in for a little snack. Princess lives up to her name. She’d wear a tiara if it wouldn't fall off and she prefers to take her meals on top of the refrigerator away from the rowdy, messy, distasteful boy cats. It is bad enough that we ask her to live with them but eat with them? No, thank you. I, the indulgent pet servant, oblige. Her food bowl sits atop the refrigerator and she jumps up there for a dainty little nibble every so often. It typically isn’t a big deal. It does involve her jumping up on a small section of counter en route to the refrigerator. And yes, that is gross if I think about it. So I don’t.
Anyway, the water began to boil and I took the kettle off the burner and poured some of the boiling liquid into my cup. I mindlessly dropped the tea bag into the steaming mug, dunking it rhythmically a few times. Things were feeling pretty Zen just before I turned around and saw that Princess had jumped up on her little section of counter but, for whatever reason, she hadn’t proceeded to the top of the refrigerator as normal. She was sitting primly on the counter as though it were her throne, staring trancelike at absolutely nothing. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, cats tend to zone out and stare blankly more often than not, except that her beautiful black tail was stretched out behind her like a wooly caterpillar lying prone after a long journey, right across the hot burner. Smoking.
Oblivious, Princess sat gazing while her furry appendage was engulfed in a plume of smoke. I shrieked and ran to the stove. Startled by my uncharacteristic aggression toward her, Princess flew off the counter and streaked up the stairs. Fortunately her fur was the only thing that got scorched. Her skin was fine but the damage had been done and the house started reeking of burning cat tail.
Somehow, as the air took a on a decidedly burning feline stench, the whole scene struck me as very funny. And I started to laugh. My family has grown accustomed to me burning things in the kitchen; although never before had it been one of the pets. Moments later Charles came upstairs from the basement to investigate and Anna came downstairs and croaked out, “What’s burning?” I had to respond with, “the cat,” which just made me laugh harder. As I explained what happened we all started laughing and at that moment life seemed very joyful. And certainly no longer dull.
A dissertation is just a dissertation. It isn’t my life. For the moment it is challenging and consumes a large portion of my life but my life is these people, laughing heartily with me amid the smell of burning fur, and all the meaningful little moments that make up our days. I needed that perspective last night. Funny how life knows just how to give us what we need.
So, today I’ll wear a little lipstick while I write. It will add a bit of color.
But then, so does cooking the cat.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Ice, Elevators, and Newt Gingrich
It is January and we’ve had a fair amount of snow and cold in Colorado this winter. I’m of the opinion that if it is going to be winter, it might as well be cold and snowy, but our house faces north and inevitably, every winter, a gigantic ice patch forms in front of it. Sometimes it melts off rather quickly. Sometimes it hangs around for the better part of winter. This seems to be a year when it plans to hang around. No amount of shoveling, chipping, pick-axing, or salt can prevent the glacial formation. While I don’t love the ridiculous, unending, painful work of trying to remove the ice, what I like even less is trying to walk across it. I resemble a zombie every time I lurch across the ice with little jerks and convulsions. I’m a klutz and have horrible balance.
So horrible that I couldn’t ride a bike until I was 12 or something. Balance beams terrified me as a child. Roller skates? Forget it. To this day, I still have trouble riding an escalator. Really. I can’t quite coordinate that whole moving stairs, one foot at a time thing. On the whole, I’ve learned to live with my lack of physical balance. But sometimes it feels as though my emotional balance matches my physical balance and I start lurching through life with little jerks and convulsions. I definitely haven’t learned to live with that.
I’ve been working on writing my doctoral dissertation for what feels like most of my adult life now. Obstacles keep getting thrown in my path. Sometimes they are unforeseeable and out of my control, like when my mom was ill last summer and I spent the better part of it in the hospital with her. Or even the months leading up to moving her to Colorado, when I was finding her a place to live and preparing myself emotionally for her arrival. Sometimes the obstacles are of my own making, like when I sit down and cry and tell myself, “I can’t do this!” During those episodes I end up wasting inordinate amounts of time in emotional angst. And then my inner judge walks in all hostile and haughty and starts chastising me (funny how that judge looks an awful lot like my mother). It can get ugly.
For some weird reason, if I’m not careful, I can get caught up in the notion that I have to make it seem as though everything is breezy even if it isn’t. As though I can handle my mother and the dissertation and my family and my friendships and everything else that comes my way without being ruffled. I can’t. And really, aside from my own pride, there simply isn’t any reason I should feel I have to.
Being my mother’s nearest care-giving offspring adds a decidedly challenging spice to life. Her autumn rally appears to be wearing off and when that happens I know what is coming. I feel like I’m playing ‘Beat the Clock’ to finish the dissertation before she plunges. Some days I’m paralyzed by the fear I can’t do it all. When that happens I try to walk my emotional balance beam but start feeling like I did back in 5th grade PE when everyone else was prancing across the beam with dainty graceful steps and I would take one step, teeter, shriek, and fling off the side.
I am doing the best I know how. And for the rest of the world, that seems to be plenty. For whatever reason, my brain can get really crowded with the inept 5th grader, the judge, and that crazy bitch who thinks she has to make it all look so easy. Sometimes the clamor is so loud I can’t even make out who is saying what.
Recently I told my brother that I had been praying for more challenging people in my life to help me learn grace. While I lack physical grace I'm hoping to develop more emotional grace. He, rightfully, thought that was a little nutty and recited for me all the challenging people and situations I’m currently juggling. He lovingly offered advice regarding my prayer life by suggesting that if I needed to pray about something, I pray to win the lottery. Or, if I really needed to pray more altruistically…I could pray that Newt Gingrich is rendered mute.
He made me laugh. He calmed me down. And he reminded me that who I am and what I’m doing is plenty. He offered me what I most need to offer myself. What we all need to offer ourselves.
Grace.
So horrible that I couldn’t ride a bike until I was 12 or something. Balance beams terrified me as a child. Roller skates? Forget it. To this day, I still have trouble riding an escalator. Really. I can’t quite coordinate that whole moving stairs, one foot at a time thing. On the whole, I’ve learned to live with my lack of physical balance. But sometimes it feels as though my emotional balance matches my physical balance and I start lurching through life with little jerks and convulsions. I definitely haven’t learned to live with that.
I’ve been working on writing my doctoral dissertation for what feels like most of my adult life now. Obstacles keep getting thrown in my path. Sometimes they are unforeseeable and out of my control, like when my mom was ill last summer and I spent the better part of it in the hospital with her. Or even the months leading up to moving her to Colorado, when I was finding her a place to live and preparing myself emotionally for her arrival. Sometimes the obstacles are of my own making, like when I sit down and cry and tell myself, “I can’t do this!” During those episodes I end up wasting inordinate amounts of time in emotional angst. And then my inner judge walks in all hostile and haughty and starts chastising me (funny how that judge looks an awful lot like my mother). It can get ugly.
For some weird reason, if I’m not careful, I can get caught up in the notion that I have to make it seem as though everything is breezy even if it isn’t. As though I can handle my mother and the dissertation and my family and my friendships and everything else that comes my way without being ruffled. I can’t. And really, aside from my own pride, there simply isn’t any reason I should feel I have to.
Being my mother’s nearest care-giving offspring adds a decidedly challenging spice to life. Her autumn rally appears to be wearing off and when that happens I know what is coming. I feel like I’m playing ‘Beat the Clock’ to finish the dissertation before she plunges. Some days I’m paralyzed by the fear I can’t do it all. When that happens I try to walk my emotional balance beam but start feeling like I did back in 5th grade PE when everyone else was prancing across the beam with dainty graceful steps and I would take one step, teeter, shriek, and fling off the side.
I am doing the best I know how. And for the rest of the world, that seems to be plenty. For whatever reason, my brain can get really crowded with the inept 5th grader, the judge, and that crazy bitch who thinks she has to make it all look so easy. Sometimes the clamor is so loud I can’t even make out who is saying what.
Recently I told my brother that I had been praying for more challenging people in my life to help me learn grace. While I lack physical grace I'm hoping to develop more emotional grace. He, rightfully, thought that was a little nutty and recited for me all the challenging people and situations I’m currently juggling. He lovingly offered advice regarding my prayer life by suggesting that if I needed to pray about something, I pray to win the lottery. Or, if I really needed to pray more altruistically…I could pray that Newt Gingrich is rendered mute.
He made me laugh. He calmed me down. And he reminded me that who I am and what I’m doing is plenty. He offered me what I most need to offer myself. What we all need to offer ourselves.
Grace.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Blame it on the Enthusiasm....
I’m not sure how it happened, just that it happened. At some point I grew old enough to be qualified to give advice. I suppose it would be presumptuous to call myself a ‘sage.’ Perhaps a bit self-deprecating to say ‘crone.’ But somewhere on that definition spectrum, my age and life experience have qualified me for a position. For a long, long time I saw myself as too young and inexperienced to offer much in the way of advice. Advice givers were older. Advice givers had more life experience. Then one day it occurred to me that I am older. I do have life experience.
I officially deemed myself qualified to give advice.
For starters, I’ve been a parent for over 23 years. That alone qualifies me to give advice to my children. True, some of it is unheeded, but I give it regardless. For a while I had a job where I got paid to give advice. That was cool. Not so much because I could be Ms. Smartypants, but because I was helping students achieve their goals. I liked feeling that what I did mattered.
Currently, no one is paying me to tell them what I think but I do, at times, have the opportunity to offer my expertise, wisdom, or general know-it-all-ness when I’m asked. I’m not very good at making stuff up to try and sound smart, so if someone asks me about something that I really know nothing about, I usually say so. It saves time. Plus people who act like they know what they’re talking about when they don’t just look ridiculous.
Over time, I’ve grown comfortable with the advice-giving me. Confident that I’ve earned some degree of credibility through my life experiences. Without a doubt, my best and most rewarding experiences have come through being a parent. As a result, my advice-giving frequently involves telling young parents to savor the moment. I have a compelling need to ensure that they understand how short the time is. How quickly the years blur and how, before they know it, they’ll be looking at photos and realizing they are the shortest person in the family. Until recently I had confined my advice-giving to those people with whom I have a relationship.
The other day, however, I became possessed by some sort of crazy advice giving spirit that overtook my body, determined to impart wisdom on unsuspecting strangers. It was around Anna’s birthday and Steve, Anna, Charles, and I had gone out for dinner. While we enjoyed our meal we talked and laughed and recalled stories of when the kids were born and things they did while growing up. As we talked it just didn’t seem possible so many years had passed. I noticed two couples and a newborn baby at a nearby table. Our family continued our lively conversation and a few minutes later the couples gathered their things to leave.
That’s when the crazy spirit took over.
Without thinking about what I was doing, I sprawled my upper body across the booth where we sitting and in an attempt to get their attention pointed and waved and even took to snapping my fingers while saying loudly, “Hey, who’s its mother?” Honestly. Several times I, loudly, referred to the baby as ‘it’ while attempting to get their attention. Finally ‘its’ mother responded and I motioned her over to our table. For some reason she actually walked over to our booth rather than ignoring me and making a hasty exit. And then I started gushing. To this slightly bewildered, overwhelmed young mother, I launched into mawkish adoration of my children and my utter joy at being a parent. My effusiveness was out of control. In the words of Robert Lowell, “I was overcome by an attack of pathological enthusiasm.”
I instructed the mother to look at her newborn. She obliged. I told her to look at Anna. She obliged. And then I solomly said, “Look carefully because they go from that (pointing to the baby) to that (pointing to Anna) like that (snapping my fingers for dramatic effect). The mother was gracious. I’m not sure if she was embarassed for me or not but she and the baby’s father smiled, thanked me, and then made their way toward the door.
As the couple walked away I saw the bemused looks on the faces of my family. It was then that I realized what I’d done. I asked, “I’ve become one of ‘those people’ haven’t I?” They smiled. Charles ducked his head and said quietly, “Yes. Yes you have.”
The thing is, even though I didn’t know them, I wanted that young couple to understand how quickly it will pass. I wanted them to savor and enjoy and love every moment…both good and bad…because before they know it that baby will be grown and living a life of her own. And it happens so fast. Maybe they took my message to heart. Maybe not. I’ll never know. But in that moment of pathological enthusiasm, I simply had to tell them.
Good thing I knew what I was talking about. I wouldn’t have wanted to look ridiculous.
I officially deemed myself qualified to give advice.
For starters, I’ve been a parent for over 23 years. That alone qualifies me to give advice to my children. True, some of it is unheeded, but I give it regardless. For a while I had a job where I got paid to give advice. That was cool. Not so much because I could be Ms. Smartypants, but because I was helping students achieve their goals. I liked feeling that what I did mattered.
Currently, no one is paying me to tell them what I think but I do, at times, have the opportunity to offer my expertise, wisdom, or general know-it-all-ness when I’m asked. I’m not very good at making stuff up to try and sound smart, so if someone asks me about something that I really know nothing about, I usually say so. It saves time. Plus people who act like they know what they’re talking about when they don’t just look ridiculous.
Over time, I’ve grown comfortable with the advice-giving me. Confident that I’ve earned some degree of credibility through my life experiences. Without a doubt, my best and most rewarding experiences have come through being a parent. As a result, my advice-giving frequently involves telling young parents to savor the moment. I have a compelling need to ensure that they understand how short the time is. How quickly the years blur and how, before they know it, they’ll be looking at photos and realizing they are the shortest person in the family. Until recently I had confined my advice-giving to those people with whom I have a relationship.
The other day, however, I became possessed by some sort of crazy advice giving spirit that overtook my body, determined to impart wisdom on unsuspecting strangers. It was around Anna’s birthday and Steve, Anna, Charles, and I had gone out for dinner. While we enjoyed our meal we talked and laughed and recalled stories of when the kids were born and things they did while growing up. As we talked it just didn’t seem possible so many years had passed. I noticed two couples and a newborn baby at a nearby table. Our family continued our lively conversation and a few minutes later the couples gathered their things to leave.
That’s when the crazy spirit took over.
Without thinking about what I was doing, I sprawled my upper body across the booth where we sitting and in an attempt to get their attention pointed and waved and even took to snapping my fingers while saying loudly, “Hey, who’s its mother?” Honestly. Several times I, loudly, referred to the baby as ‘it’ while attempting to get their attention. Finally ‘its’ mother responded and I motioned her over to our table. For some reason she actually walked over to our booth rather than ignoring me and making a hasty exit. And then I started gushing. To this slightly bewildered, overwhelmed young mother, I launched into mawkish adoration of my children and my utter joy at being a parent. My effusiveness was out of control. In the words of Robert Lowell, “I was overcome by an attack of pathological enthusiasm.”
I instructed the mother to look at her newborn. She obliged. I told her to look at Anna. She obliged. And then I solomly said, “Look carefully because they go from that (pointing to the baby) to that (pointing to Anna) like that (snapping my fingers for dramatic effect). The mother was gracious. I’m not sure if she was embarassed for me or not but she and the baby’s father smiled, thanked me, and then made their way toward the door.
As the couple walked away I saw the bemused looks on the faces of my family. It was then that I realized what I’d done. I asked, “I’ve become one of ‘those people’ haven’t I?” They smiled. Charles ducked his head and said quietly, “Yes. Yes you have.”
The thing is, even though I didn’t know them, I wanted that young couple to understand how quickly it will pass. I wanted them to savor and enjoy and love every moment…both good and bad…because before they know it that baby will be grown and living a life of her own. And it happens so fast. Maybe they took my message to heart. Maybe not. I’ll never know. But in that moment of pathological enthusiasm, I simply had to tell them.
Good thing I knew what I was talking about. I wouldn’t have wanted to look ridiculous.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Keep Calm and Celebrate...
Although the traditional holiday season typically ends on New Year’s Day, in our family the party extends from Parker's birthday (a day or two east or west of Thanksgiving) all the way to Anna's birthday (five days into the new year). This provides us with extra time to consume massive calories with abandon and gives us one more thing to celebrate before settling into January’s doldrums.
We didn't plan for Anna's birthday to fall just as the new year was gearing up. In fact, we weren't planning for Anna at all. She just sort of happened. She has, on a few occasions, asked if she was an 'accident.' Steve responds in his typical caring, positive, and sensitive way by saying, "Oh no! No child is ever an accident." I, on the other hand, answer her question with something much more along the lines of, "Yep!"
It is true. But, Anna is the happiest accident of my life.
Before her noon-hour arrival 17 years ago, our little family eagerly anticipated Anna’s birth. At four-years old, Parker was very excited to have a younger sibling. Only, not really. He was excited to have a younger sister. In fact, he was adamant that he was having a younger sister long before we actually knew if she was a girl or a boy. If the baby were a boy he'd prefer to pass, thanks. He did, however, insist that we should name her Ed. No amount of explaining could convince him that Ed wasn't a conventional girl's name. Not that our family has ever been conventional. But still.
I had a favorite name picked out for a baby girl but in an overzealous moment a few years earlier, I gave it to the cat. This didn't seem so insurmountable. The cat never responded when called anyway, so why not just change the cat's name to something else and transfer the original name to the baby? When I suggested this, I got horrified looks. No. The cat had already been in possession of that name for 12 years. She was not giving it up for the baby. Apparently there was some concern for a feline identity crisis. Really? For a cat who largely ignored us except when she wanted food, I doubted she’d forget who she was. But, I had ankles the size of small watermelons, a perpetually full bladder, and a lack of oxygen was addling my brain. I just wasn’t up for the argument.
It was Charles who eventually created peace by suggesting Anna's name. Shortly before she was born, Charles calmly proposed the name Anna Katherine. It was as if angels quietly whispered in his ear. When he spoke it, we knew immediately the right name had found its way to our baby girl.
Once we established that she was a girl and had a name, the only thing left to do was welcome her. It was a cold, snowy, Colorado day when our little songbird was born and at that moment the world instantly became more beautiful.
Anna’s calm, easygoing manner was evident from the start. As was her natural musical ability. Quietly determined, so far Anna has accomplished pretty much everything she’s set out to do, although she rarely creates the accompanying hoopla. Fortunately, she is surrounded by people who love her and just happen to be superior hoopla creators, otherwise her accomplishments might be overlooked by her blithe acceptance.
Although Anna’s gene pool is crowded with every imaginable expression, including some who are hooting and hollering and doing cannonballs in the middle, somehow she manages to be confident, poised, and reserved, with just the tiniest hint of regality. Which might explain why she has always referred to Charles and Parker as, ‘her boys.’ I might start getting concerned if I hear her say, “We are not amused.” But, unless that happens, I’ll stand aside and watch as my unassuming superstar casually saunters in and, with aplomb, takes her place in the world.
Accidents happen. We are all better for this one.
Happy Birthday,Ed Anna!
We didn't plan for Anna's birthday to fall just as the new year was gearing up. In fact, we weren't planning for Anna at all. She just sort of happened. She has, on a few occasions, asked if she was an 'accident.' Steve responds in his typical caring, positive, and sensitive way by saying, "Oh no! No child is ever an accident." I, on the other hand, answer her question with something much more along the lines of, "Yep!"
It is true. But, Anna is the happiest accident of my life.
Before her noon-hour arrival 17 years ago, our little family eagerly anticipated Anna’s birth. At four-years old, Parker was very excited to have a younger sibling. Only, not really. He was excited to have a younger sister. In fact, he was adamant that he was having a younger sister long before we actually knew if she was a girl or a boy. If the baby were a boy he'd prefer to pass, thanks. He did, however, insist that we should name her Ed. No amount of explaining could convince him that Ed wasn't a conventional girl's name. Not that our family has ever been conventional. But still.
I had a favorite name picked out for a baby girl but in an overzealous moment a few years earlier, I gave it to the cat. This didn't seem so insurmountable. The cat never responded when called anyway, so why not just change the cat's name to something else and transfer the original name to the baby? When I suggested this, I got horrified looks. No. The cat had already been in possession of that name for 12 years. She was not giving it up for the baby. Apparently there was some concern for a feline identity crisis. Really? For a cat who largely ignored us except when she wanted food, I doubted she’d forget who she was. But, I had ankles the size of small watermelons, a perpetually full bladder, and a lack of oxygen was addling my brain. I just wasn’t up for the argument.
It was Charles who eventually created peace by suggesting Anna's name. Shortly before she was born, Charles calmly proposed the name Anna Katherine. It was as if angels quietly whispered in his ear. When he spoke it, we knew immediately the right name had found its way to our baby girl.
Once we established that she was a girl and had a name, the only thing left to do was welcome her. It was a cold, snowy, Colorado day when our little songbird was born and at that moment the world instantly became more beautiful.
Anna’s calm, easygoing manner was evident from the start. As was her natural musical ability. Quietly determined, so far Anna has accomplished pretty much everything she’s set out to do, although she rarely creates the accompanying hoopla. Fortunately, she is surrounded by people who love her and just happen to be superior hoopla creators, otherwise her accomplishments might be overlooked by her blithe acceptance.
Although Anna’s gene pool is crowded with every imaginable expression, including some who are hooting and hollering and doing cannonballs in the middle, somehow she manages to be confident, poised, and reserved, with just the tiniest hint of regality. Which might explain why she has always referred to Charles and Parker as, ‘her boys.’ I might start getting concerned if I hear her say, “We are not amused.” But, unless that happens, I’ll stand aside and watch as my unassuming superstar casually saunters in and, with aplomb, takes her place in the world.
Accidents happen. We are all better for this one.
Happy Birthday,
Saturday, December 24, 2011
God Bless Us, Every One...
I am a sucker for a good Christmas story. I admit it. I can watch, It’s a Wonderful Life, over and over and every time, see that my simple existence has meaning after watching George Bailey discover how Bedford Falls would be different without him. I’ve never been able to watch, A Christmas Carol, without crying at the possibility of Tiny Tim’s death; just knowing that the fictional world of 19th century London would be a more positive place if only he could live longer. And while I know George and Tim are just characters in imaginative stories, I always believe there is hope for a better real world if we all just try a bit harder.
I know my optimism can be a little annoying to my more cynical friends and family members. But, I can’t help it. It’s not that I’m unaware of the horrible economy, high unemployment, crime, political unrest, and other devastating events occurring around the world. I am aware. My soul is troubled when I read or hear about people being hurt by these social maladies. So, it isn’t that I bury my head in the sand and pretend that everything is great. I know things aren’t great. But I always, always believe things can be better.
The holiday season inevitably brings out songs and movies and stories about keeping the spirit of Christmas alive in our hearts. Although that can be viewed as a trite and sentimental notion, it is worthy of serious consideration. Of course it can be platitudinous to speak of peace on earth and goodwill toward others at Christmastime, but it also really can be a way of life. We really can choose the way of kindness. We really can choose to alter our thoughts, actions, and words toward others and take a gracious and loving path throughout the entire year.
Early in December I saw this photo of my great-niece, Adalynn, on Facebook. I have to be honest and admit that my first response was shock at the realization that I am a great-aunt. Not that I didn’t know I am. I just hadn’t thought a lot about it. In my mind ‘great-aunt’ conjures up images of a much older woman than I consider myself to be. But, once I was able to get out of my own way and stop obsessing about that, I looked at the photo and analyzed what I saw in it. Several people commented that my great-niece is adorable…which she is. And that was my response as well. The image captures, perfectly, the childhood innocence of believing in Santa Claus. As I looked more deeply at the photo, however, it spoke of things much larger than a beautiful, happy, little girl awaiting Santa’s visit.
It spoke of hope.
What I see written on Adalynn’s precious face is joy, and promise, and anticipation. A belief in good things to come. I am aware that at 2½ she hasn’t yet faced any of life’s disappointments and pain. She doesn’t have any reason to be jaded and discouraged. But my wish for her is that even after she has experienced those things she will still view life with a hopeful expectation of something better. And that she will choose to live accordingly.
It is so easy to be discouraged and negative and cynical. We don’t have to look very hard for reasons. And yet, if we allow ourselves the complacency of negativity, we simply can’t make the world a better place. We have to look harder to find reasons for joy and hope…but they are there. And it doesn’t just have to be during the holiday season that we do our part.
Recently I came across this quote by Gladys Taber. I’m pretty sure if she and I had met we’d have been friends. As it is, she died in 1980, but it still feels as though I've met a kindred spirit. Gladys wrote: “In this season it is well to reassert that the hope of mankind rests in faith. As a man thinketh, so he is. Nothing much happens unless you believe in it, and believing there is hope for the world is a way to move toward it.”
I believe.
I know my optimism can be a little annoying to my more cynical friends and family members. But, I can’t help it. It’s not that I’m unaware of the horrible economy, high unemployment, crime, political unrest, and other devastating events occurring around the world. I am aware. My soul is troubled when I read or hear about people being hurt by these social maladies. So, it isn’t that I bury my head in the sand and pretend that everything is great. I know things aren’t great. But I always, always believe things can be better.
The holiday season inevitably brings out songs and movies and stories about keeping the spirit of Christmas alive in our hearts. Although that can be viewed as a trite and sentimental notion, it is worthy of serious consideration. Of course it can be platitudinous to speak of peace on earth and goodwill toward others at Christmastime, but it also really can be a way of life. We really can choose the way of kindness. We really can choose to alter our thoughts, actions, and words toward others and take a gracious and loving path throughout the entire year.
Early in December I saw this photo of my great-niece, Adalynn, on Facebook. I have to be honest and admit that my first response was shock at the realization that I am a great-aunt. Not that I didn’t know I am. I just hadn’t thought a lot about it. In my mind ‘great-aunt’ conjures up images of a much older woman than I consider myself to be. But, once I was able to get out of my own way and stop obsessing about that, I looked at the photo and analyzed what I saw in it. Several people commented that my great-niece is adorable…which she is. And that was my response as well. The image captures, perfectly, the childhood innocence of believing in Santa Claus. As I looked more deeply at the photo, however, it spoke of things much larger than a beautiful, happy, little girl awaiting Santa’s visit.
It spoke of hope.
What I see written on Adalynn’s precious face is joy, and promise, and anticipation. A belief in good things to come. I am aware that at 2½ she hasn’t yet faced any of life’s disappointments and pain. She doesn’t have any reason to be jaded and discouraged. But my wish for her is that even after she has experienced those things she will still view life with a hopeful expectation of something better. And that she will choose to live accordingly.
It is so easy to be discouraged and negative and cynical. We don’t have to look very hard for reasons. And yet, if we allow ourselves the complacency of negativity, we simply can’t make the world a better place. We have to look harder to find reasons for joy and hope…but they are there. And it doesn’t just have to be during the holiday season that we do our part.
Recently I came across this quote by Gladys Taber. I’m pretty sure if she and I had met we’d have been friends. As it is, she died in 1980, but it still feels as though I've met a kindred spirit. Gladys wrote: “In this season it is well to reassert that the hope of mankind rests in faith. As a man thinketh, so he is. Nothing much happens unless you believe in it, and believing there is hope for the world is a way to move toward it.”
I believe.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Shower the People You Love With Love....
It was a lovely Sunday morning in December. It was early and the house was quiet. I was enjoying the solitude, coffee, and a book when I got a text message from my friend, Debbie. That was odd. Debbie doesn’t text unless there is a good reason. And there usually isn’t a good reason on a Sunday morning. I checked the message and read that Debbie’s friend, Dianne, had died unexpectedly. She gave a few details, asked for prayer for Dianne’s family, and ended the message by saying that the last thing Dianne had said to her on the previous Friday was, I love you.
The news of Dianne’s death was shocking. I didn’t know her well, I’d met her a couple of times but hadn’t had the opportunity to really become friends with her yet. She was ten days older than I and Debbie said when she saw her on Friday, Dianne was vibrant, healthy, and happy. What stayed with me most, though, wasn’t that she was my age. Or that she had been seemingly healthy only moments before her death. What stayed with me most was that the last words Debbie heard her say were, I love you.
Later, Debbie told me that she and Dianne had said goodbye, Dianne had turned around, walked a few steps, and then stopped, turned back around and told Debbie she loved her. Her intentionality was clear.
I learned the value of hearing the words, I love you, spoken intentionally, early in life. Not because I heard it a lot. I didn’t. But, in spite of the circumstances of my father’s death, the last words he said to me were, I love you. At the time I thought he was just being weird. Later, I understood that he knew those were the last words I would hear him say and while there were a lot of hurdles to making any sense of his suicide, at my core, I'd know he loved me. As an adult, I adopted the practice of saying, I love you, to my family whenever I was leaving them, in case those were the last words they would hear me say.
Debbie used to joke that if she were picking me up to go somewhere we’d have to plan an extra five-minutes for me to hug everyone and say, I love you. But later she told me she adopted the same practice for the same reason.
In spite of my commitment to using the words, I love you, with my family, I taught my kids to be sparing with their use when it came to romantic relationships. As sweet and special as it can be to hear, I love you, I was always concerned that 14-year olds who started ‘going out’ and broke up three days later really didn’t understand romantic love all that well. Throwing the words around seemed to cheapen them. I taught them to say it only when they knew they meant it.
And I’ve had trouble understanding the recent trend toward saying, “I love you more!” When I first heard it, I thought it had a certain sweetness to it but then it started to trouble me. As if love were now a competition to see who could love the most. I’ve opted to stay out of the love competition and simply love to the best of my ability. Maybe I love some people more than others. Maybe some people love me more than I love them back. Since I’m not sure you can quantify love, I’ve decided not to over think it.
Love just is.
It seems no matter how many times we hear the message to love others and to value our days because we don’t know how many we will have, we can never hear the message too many times. Life with all its consuming aspects has a way of pushing that message to the margins and then, just as I was on that quiet Sunday morning, we are reminded of how fragile life is. And how important the words, I love you, are.
While I tell my family I love them frequently, Dianne’s deliberate action on the Friday before her death has reminded me of how important it is to tell my friends I love them also. What would my life be without so many of my dear friends? Void of such richness and diversity. Void of so much laughter and joy. My friends challenge me to be better, stronger, and deeper. I’d be lost without them. My life would lack texture without the friends I love so dearly.
I'm reminded to ensure that they know how much I love them by simply saying those words.
I love you.
Thank you, Dianne.
The news of Dianne’s death was shocking. I didn’t know her well, I’d met her a couple of times but hadn’t had the opportunity to really become friends with her yet. She was ten days older than I and Debbie said when she saw her on Friday, Dianne was vibrant, healthy, and happy. What stayed with me most, though, wasn’t that she was my age. Or that she had been seemingly healthy only moments before her death. What stayed with me most was that the last words Debbie heard her say were, I love you.
Later, Debbie told me that she and Dianne had said goodbye, Dianne had turned around, walked a few steps, and then stopped, turned back around and told Debbie she loved her. Her intentionality was clear.
I learned the value of hearing the words, I love you, spoken intentionally, early in life. Not because I heard it a lot. I didn’t. But, in spite of the circumstances of my father’s death, the last words he said to me were, I love you. At the time I thought he was just being weird. Later, I understood that he knew those were the last words I would hear him say and while there were a lot of hurdles to making any sense of his suicide, at my core, I'd know he loved me. As an adult, I adopted the practice of saying, I love you, to my family whenever I was leaving them, in case those were the last words they would hear me say.
Debbie used to joke that if she were picking me up to go somewhere we’d have to plan an extra five-minutes for me to hug everyone and say, I love you. But later she told me she adopted the same practice for the same reason.
In spite of my commitment to using the words, I love you, with my family, I taught my kids to be sparing with their use when it came to romantic relationships. As sweet and special as it can be to hear, I love you, I was always concerned that 14-year olds who started ‘going out’ and broke up three days later really didn’t understand romantic love all that well. Throwing the words around seemed to cheapen them. I taught them to say it only when they knew they meant it.
And I’ve had trouble understanding the recent trend toward saying, “I love you more!” When I first heard it, I thought it had a certain sweetness to it but then it started to trouble me. As if love were now a competition to see who could love the most. I’ve opted to stay out of the love competition and simply love to the best of my ability. Maybe I love some people more than others. Maybe some people love me more than I love them back. Since I’m not sure you can quantify love, I’ve decided not to over think it.
Love just is.
It seems no matter how many times we hear the message to love others and to value our days because we don’t know how many we will have, we can never hear the message too many times. Life with all its consuming aspects has a way of pushing that message to the margins and then, just as I was on that quiet Sunday morning, we are reminded of how fragile life is. And how important the words, I love you, are.
While I tell my family I love them frequently, Dianne’s deliberate action on the Friday before her death has reminded me of how important it is to tell my friends I love them also. What would my life be without so many of my dear friends? Void of such richness and diversity. Void of so much laughter and joy. My friends challenge me to be better, stronger, and deeper. I’d be lost without them. My life would lack texture without the friends I love so dearly.
I'm reminded to ensure that they know how much I love them by simply saying those words.
I love you.
Thank you, Dianne.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Merry and Really, Really Bright....
Indeed, the holiday season is upon us. For reasons I’m not completely sure of, this autumn did not fly by at a frantic pace as it seems to have in recent years. Although I try to live intentionally every year, taking in the days and weeks and seasons with gratitude, autumn seemed especially lovely and peaceful this year. It didn’t hurt that it was a spectacular season with warm weather and glorious colors. Whatever the reason, the months passed at a reasonable pace and I found myself savoring all of their homey wonderfulness. And then, December arrived and, as if on cue, with it came snow. The holiday season is upon us.
I know the holidays aren’t cheery for everyone, which makes me a little sad, but for many people the Christmas season truly is the best time of the year. I’m married to one of those people. Steve loves the holiday season. Every year. He loves the lights and the music and the shopping and while he doesn’t bake…he gleefully enjoys what I bake. If you ask which season is my favorite I am much more inclined to say whichever one we are currently immersed in. But I’m a little fickle. Steve on the other hand, is very clear. He loves the Christmas season.
In particular, Steve enjoys tradition and our family is very tradition driven. Some of that may have to do with being holiday homebodies. We’ve always spent the holidays away from extended family and developed our own family traditions when it was just the five of us. Maintaining those traditions carries a certain amount of nostalgia. Sometimes family members can get a little militant about remembering traditions and have to be reminded that things change. Sometimes old traditions need to be replaced with new ones. It is a growing process.
Nevertheless, Steve is quite the keeper of tradition and enjoys being Santa’s little helper throughout the season. Putting up the Christmas tree is the seminal event each year and Steve does it with great celebration. I personally find the process somewhat tedious but Steve always turns it into an extravaganza involving cookies and eggnog and cheesy Christmas music and fond remembrances from each ornament. It can take days.
This year, after discovering that the twinkle lights, packed away last January, no longer twinkle, Steve decided to put LED lights on the tree. As he was carefully placing them, I mentioned that they were rather…bright. And I was being gentle. They were blinding. I’ve never seen such dazzling little lights.
Ignoring my comments, he continued to add string after string. Anna grimaced and Charles came into the room and exclaimed, “Wow…those are BRIGHT!” Steve insisted they were pretty. So, okay…it is his thing…we just decided to go with it.
Alright. Not entirely. I did wear sunglasses to place ornaments on the tree. I might have been trying in my not-so-subtle way to communicate that I didn’t exactly love the LED glare of light. Regardless, the ornaments went on the tree and the project was finished and the lights illuminated the living room. No other lighting was really necessary when the tree lights were lit. Steve commented that the tree looked beautiful. Outside. From the street. Which is fine, I guess, if we were all planning to camp out in the front yard to look at our resplendent Christmas tree. But inside the house the tree was anything but relaxing. It felt a little frenetic.
One evening a day or two after the tree went up, a young woman stopped by on a fundraising drive for RAPP, a rape education and prevention program. The temperature had dropped well below zero that evening and in spite of the fact that she was heavily bundled, I invited her in, gave her a donation, chatted with her about the program, and insisted that she sit in the living room while I made her some hot chocolate in a ‘to-go’ cup. She seemed appreciative but did say, somewhat casually, “My, your tree lights sure are….bright.” She then quickly added, “They look so pretty from the street.” Yes. We know. From the street. Inside the house however, we were fearful of corneal flash burns.
I had resigned myself to having a particularly merry and BRIGHT holiday season. Well sort of. I might have mentioned my aversion to the lights once or twice more. Okay, fine. I admit that one morning as Steve sat in the living room with his effulgent tree, I couldn’t resist coming downstairs into the living room singing Manfred Mann’s, Blinded by the Light. But no matter what anyone said (or sang) Steve held steadfastly to his admiration for the LED light bonanza.
Or so I thought.
One subzero morning earlier this week, I drove Anna to school. When I returned home Steve was sitting in the living room next to his beloved blazing tree. His face, along with the rest of the house, was aglow. But, he looked grumpy. Really grumpy. Downright Grinchy. I asked what was wrong and in a monotone he said, “I hate these lights. I hate this tree. In fact, I’m starting to hate Christmas.” I could almost see his heart shrinking two sizes too small. I started laughing and asked if he had just noticed how bright they were. He said, no, he had thought they’d grow on him. Clearly, they hadn’t.
I assumed that since the lights were already strung and the ornaments had been hung we’d just learn to be content with shielding our eyes whenever we wanted to gaze lovingly upon the beautiful, radiant tree. But no. Not Steve. He wasn’t going to be content until every last LED light was removed and new strings of softer, gentler, twinkle lights were gracing our Christmas tree. He insisted that Christmas trees are supposed to be warm and inviting not stark and glaring. That night, after attending Anna’s choir concert, he disappeared. He didn’t say where he was going, but I knew. He was out buying twinkle lights.
So now calm and joy have returned to our abode. We are no longer blasted by the sight of our Christmas tree. We no longer have to avert our eyes when we enter the living room. And Mr. Griggs's heart has once again grown three sizes.
Peace on earth.
And in our living room.
I know the holidays aren’t cheery for everyone, which makes me a little sad, but for many people the Christmas season truly is the best time of the year. I’m married to one of those people. Steve loves the holiday season. Every year. He loves the lights and the music and the shopping and while he doesn’t bake…he gleefully enjoys what I bake. If you ask which season is my favorite I am much more inclined to say whichever one we are currently immersed in. But I’m a little fickle. Steve on the other hand, is very clear. He loves the Christmas season.
In particular, Steve enjoys tradition and our family is very tradition driven. Some of that may have to do with being holiday homebodies. We’ve always spent the holidays away from extended family and developed our own family traditions when it was just the five of us. Maintaining those traditions carries a certain amount of nostalgia. Sometimes family members can get a little militant about remembering traditions and have to be reminded that things change. Sometimes old traditions need to be replaced with new ones. It is a growing process.
Nevertheless, Steve is quite the keeper of tradition and enjoys being Santa’s little helper throughout the season. Putting up the Christmas tree is the seminal event each year and Steve does it with great celebration. I personally find the process somewhat tedious but Steve always turns it into an extravaganza involving cookies and eggnog and cheesy Christmas music and fond remembrances from each ornament. It can take days.
This year, after discovering that the twinkle lights, packed away last January, no longer twinkle, Steve decided to put LED lights on the tree. As he was carefully placing them, I mentioned that they were rather…bright. And I was being gentle. They were blinding. I’ve never seen such dazzling little lights.
Ignoring my comments, he continued to add string after string. Anna grimaced and Charles came into the room and exclaimed, “Wow…those are BRIGHT!” Steve insisted they were pretty. So, okay…it is his thing…we just decided to go with it.
Alright. Not entirely. I did wear sunglasses to place ornaments on the tree. I might have been trying in my not-so-subtle way to communicate that I didn’t exactly love the LED glare of light. Regardless, the ornaments went on the tree and the project was finished and the lights illuminated the living room. No other lighting was really necessary when the tree lights were lit. Steve commented that the tree looked beautiful. Outside. From the street. Which is fine, I guess, if we were all planning to camp out in the front yard to look at our resplendent Christmas tree. But inside the house the tree was anything but relaxing. It felt a little frenetic.
One evening a day or two after the tree went up, a young woman stopped by on a fundraising drive for RAPP, a rape education and prevention program. The temperature had dropped well below zero that evening and in spite of the fact that she was heavily bundled, I invited her in, gave her a donation, chatted with her about the program, and insisted that she sit in the living room while I made her some hot chocolate in a ‘to-go’ cup. She seemed appreciative but did say, somewhat casually, “My, your tree lights sure are….bright.” She then quickly added, “They look so pretty from the street.” Yes. We know. From the street. Inside the house however, we were fearful of corneal flash burns.
I had resigned myself to having a particularly merry and BRIGHT holiday season. Well sort of. I might have mentioned my aversion to the lights once or twice more. Okay, fine. I admit that one morning as Steve sat in the living room with his effulgent tree, I couldn’t resist coming downstairs into the living room singing Manfred Mann’s, Blinded by the Light. But no matter what anyone said (or sang) Steve held steadfastly to his admiration for the LED light bonanza.
Or so I thought.
One subzero morning earlier this week, I drove Anna to school. When I returned home Steve was sitting in the living room next to his beloved blazing tree. His face, along with the rest of the house, was aglow. But, he looked grumpy. Really grumpy. Downright Grinchy. I asked what was wrong and in a monotone he said, “I hate these lights. I hate this tree. In fact, I’m starting to hate Christmas.” I could almost see his heart shrinking two sizes too small. I started laughing and asked if he had just noticed how bright they were. He said, no, he had thought they’d grow on him. Clearly, they hadn’t.
I assumed that since the lights were already strung and the ornaments had been hung we’d just learn to be content with shielding our eyes whenever we wanted to gaze lovingly upon the beautiful, radiant tree. But no. Not Steve. He wasn’t going to be content until every last LED light was removed and new strings of softer, gentler, twinkle lights were gracing our Christmas tree. He insisted that Christmas trees are supposed to be warm and inviting not stark and glaring. That night, after attending Anna’s choir concert, he disappeared. He didn’t say where he was going, but I knew. He was out buying twinkle lights.
So now calm and joy have returned to our abode. We are no longer blasted by the sight of our Christmas tree. We no longer have to avert our eyes when we enter the living room. And Mr. Griggs's heart has once again grown three sizes.
Peace on earth.
And in our living room.
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