Waking Up in Portland

Forgiveness

2010-03-20T13:10:00.000-07:00

My car is currently in sickbay, and I am driving my son’s car. It has a stereo system that is more complicated than this one button women can handle, so instead of listening to the radio or a favorite cd, I loose myself in the hum of the motor. The buzz starts in my feet and winds through my body, swallowing every nerve and filling my body with white noise.

Friday morning, that white noise gave birth to Forgiveness.

I have met Forgiveness before.
We argue frequently.
I often refuse to listen to Forgiveness.
It’s too hard.

Forgiveness asks me to pardon anyone who has wronged me.
Forgiveness asks me to do this even when the other person has neither asked for nor earned even an atom of absolution.
Forgiveness asks me to do this even when the other person is a burr in my craw.
Forgiveness asks me to do this especially when the other person is a burr in my craw.

Forgiveness is a tenacious debater.

On Friday, Forgiveness used Perry Mason logic and skill, to lay out an argument that was irrefutable.

“Your anger holds a person in the past and as long as you are holding a person in the past, you are stuck in the past with him. By refusing to let go, you are not allowing him to move forward, and that, of course means, that you cannot move forward either.”

Damn!

Time to shake off of the seductive embrace of anger and resentment that wraps me in the comforting arms of moral indignation and outrage.

It will take time.
I commit to doing the work.

I am ready to move forward.

Whose Truth?

2010-03-06T13:06:00.000-08:00

I have been exploring the idea of Truth and realizing that the more I insist upon my truth the harder it becomes for me to see the Truth.

Take, for example, my children’s father. While I am sure there is good in him, I keep being confronted by the worst in him. I know that, at his core he is filled with Light, and yet, his effect upon me is one of Darkness.

Just when I think that I am at a point where I can co-parent with him in a mutually respectful loving way, he will do something that makes me want to spit on him and scream that he is a fucking narcissistic bastard who is unworthy of breathing the same air as decent folk.

I grab my truth and wave it frantically in front of me, as though it will some how protect me, oblivious to the fact that, in reality, it is the red cloak of the matador, inciting the Darkness.

My truth wants to blame him for the difficulties in my life.
The Truth would praise him for those very same difficulties.

My truth tells me that I am love and forgiveness and he is fear and anger.
The Truth sees that, out of all the souls in the Universe, his was the one who willing to risk my hatred in order to allow me the opportunity to learn and to further my journey toward the Light. My soul weeps with gratitude at his kindness and generosity.

The world is a whole lot lovelier when I am able to step out of my truth and be in the Truth.

I know this with every ounce of my being.
Still, too often,
My truth beckons with beguiling beauty and I follow willingly into the sultry arms of Darkness.

Safe Harbor

2010-02-21T18:44:00.000-08:00

I was called to the hospital to respond to a report of a sexual assault.

A young woman had reported a rape. The police took the woman to the hospital for a rape kit and the suspect was detained for questioning. The police talked with each person and the two stories pretty much jibed.

Pretty much…
Except for the narrative about the actual sex act.
The man said it was consensual.
The woman said it was rape.

The man bragged to his friends about how he had just “got sex”.
The woman cried to me about how she had just been assaulted.

The rape kit will prove the sex act occurred.
The legal system must decide whose version of the truth they want to believe.

I am not hopeful that the law will side with the woman.
She was young.
She was homeless.
She was alone.

The police officer shook his head. “Looks like she just needed a way to get hooked up with [social] services,” he opined, effectively shutting the book on her case. “It’s too bad she couldn’t figure out how to do it without wasting all of our time.”

I understand that most police officers join up because they want to protect the public and catch the bad guys. I understand that this particular officer felt disappointed because his hot call was going to require a lot of paperwork and a lot of time and, in the eyes of the law, the suspect in this scenario would probably not be determined to be “bad”.
He felt his time had been “wasted” because police officers are trained to believe that protecting the public means stopping those who threaten our safety.

I am ashamed to say that, on that night, I was tired and I was so ready to leave the hospital and so I simply murmured something like, "Well, she's young." And I shook my head, just as the police officer had done, and I slid back into the room to be with the young woman.

Next time, I will challenge him to take another look.
Next time, I will offer the idea that protecting the public means helping to ensure that all citizens in our community are safe.

That night, this young woman was not safe. She was homeless and alone and scared.
That night, those of us who were there for her, made a difference.

For that moment, she was sheltered.
For that moment, she was not alone.
For that moment, she had people with whom to share her fears.
For that moment, she was safe.

It will be up to others to assist this young woman as she learns to string more moments together.
I have faith that, if the time is right, she will be able to do so.

And I know that it all started with a police officer that took a moment to answer a call to protect the public.
No one can call that wasted time.

Time to Change

2010-02-15T10:27:00.000-08:00

“Be the change you want to see in the world.” - Mahatma Gandhi

I love this!

Yet, when I think about living this, it seems too overwhelming.

Me?
Change the world?
Where do I start?
What cause do I pick?

And I freeze. Every time.

And then I see Gandhi’s words in a book, or on a poster, or on someone’s blog and I think, “Wow! Yes! Love that!”

And I chew on them for a while. The words roll around my tongue. Easily. They are bold, yet they have no sharp edges. They are like vanilla ice cream, only chewy. And not store brand vanilla ice cream. They are homemade vanilla ice cream, made with real cream and real vanilla and real sugar.
And I am amazed at the extravagant simplicity.

And then I think…
Me?
Change the world?
Where do I start?
What cause do I pick?

And I freeze.

But today, I felt the beginning of a thaw.

BE

The cold front passes and the rain warms.

BE

Crocuses push green tips toward the promise of Spring.

BE

The sun illuminates the edges of the grey sky and, for a moment, I understand.

It is not, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” Rather it is, “BE the change you want to see in the world.”

I have been so stuck on change that I have been frozen.
Change feels so big. And so scary. And so chaotic.

But I can Be.

I can breathe.

I can work on making each breath an opportunity to re-create myself in the grandest version of the greatest vision I ever had about myself.

I can look at the world around me and see Nature: the plants, the animals, the water and the sky. All BE-ing exactly what they are meant to BE.

I can remember that I am a human BE-ing.

That, I can do.

That, I can BE.

Finding Young

2010-02-13T09:03:00.000-08:00

My sister and I were in her kitchen fixing a salad for dinner. She had just finished tearing lettuce leaves into precise, bite sized pieces and I was cutting cucumbers into very imprecise, misshapen slices. Her husband walked through kitchen on his way to the patio to tend the chicken on the barbeque. When he passed her, he reached out and gently touched the small of her back. She smiled through downcast eyes and responded with an equally quiet caress on his arm that ended when their fingers parted in a soft kiss.

As he left the kitchen, a whisper of mesquite smoked through the door before it shut behind him with a muffled click.

My sister snapped the lid on the salad spinner and paused, shaking her head with a sigh. “I have friends who did not meet their partners until they were in their forties,” she confessed with a slight quiver in her voice, “and it seems sad to me that they never knew each other as young people. One of the things I love most about being married to AJ is that he knew me as a sweet young thing and as long as we are together, a part of me will always remain that sweet young thing to him. I like that. I like that connection to my youth. People who become couples later in life will never have that.”

I’m not sure why my sister chose that moment to share that thought with me, but I know she couldn’t have chosen a worse time to share it.

I had just ended my twenty-year marriage. I was now a single, partnerless parent in her forties. If I ever chose to become a part of a couple again, I would be part of one of those “sad” couples about whom my sister was speaking.

My sister’s words crept into my consciousness and oozed through my body, settling in suffocating silence around my heart. I ached as I mourned the loss of the sweet young thing in me. I felt doomed to a future that could never know the depth and breath of love that my sister enjoyed with her husband.

When I began dating again and found the man with whom I would fall in love, my sister’s words pulsed through my veins with each beat of my heart.

Never young.
Never young.
Never young.

Three years into this “new” relationship, I am realizing that my sister was wrong. While it is true that I was not introduced to my love until the second half of my forties, I have met the young man that he once was.

I have seen the ten year old running down a parched road, brown hair flying, blue eyes wild with excitement, eagerly waving at the passersby with the stray salmon he had just caught in the creek behind the park.

I have met the rebellious teenager, who dreamed of a different life, slept with too many girls and worked every day to help a neighbor, struggling to maintain his farm.

I have mourned with the young man who drove, untethered and alone, to Montana to pick up the body of his best friend and bring him home.

And he…he has watched me grow up.

He has watched as I have discovered a life free from those who would control me. He has witnessed my struggle with the idea of guiding my own destiny. He has been by my side as I have learned how to speak my truth and accept the consequences.

He has shown me the river in the morning and the quiet way the world wakes up when it is freed from the confines of pavement and motors, walls and alarms. He has given me a mountain playground that has allowed me to share my teenaged self with my teenaged children.

Yes, we have grey in our hair and the story of our lives is written plainly on our faces. To the outside world, we have always been old to each other. But we know better. The young in us is not gone, we have simply needed to look deeper to find it.

It is a journey has made all the difference.

IF

2010-02-10T07:57:00.000-08:00

If it is true that all I really have is
this
moment, then it is vital that
I live
this moment

If I live this moment
then it is important that
I use
this moment
to express my best and truest self
to the world

If I express my best and truest self to the world
then every decision
I make
is right
and my path
is clear

Good to Remember

2010-02-07T12:21:00.000-08:00

Help me to remember
I am only light
borrowing this flesh
for one brief moment,
one brief life

-Wendy Brown-Baez-

Good to remember when making decisions.

I Went Fishing with My Boy and My Love

2010-02-03T22:28:00.000-08:00

I went fishing on Sunday with my boy and my love.

I woke up before the sun and untangled myself from two strong arms and the warm tumble of a goose down comforter. I shivered myself into too many layers of clothes - long underwear, turtleneck, sweats, wool sweater, thick black Carhart coveralls, cotton socks, wool socks and fleece lined waterproof boots.

My irritation grew with each layer.
Long underwear and sweats bunched at my knees. Turtleneck and sweatshirt crept up my arms, leaving my wrists to face the wooly itch of my sweater alone and unprotected. My roomy Carharts decided to masquerade as skinny jeans and the straps hung down my back, tantalizingly out of reach.

“I hate layers!” I whined, stamping my feet in a stunningly good impression of a two year old throwing a tantrum.
“You get cold,” my love reminded me.
“But I’m un-com-for-table,” I argued.
My love sighed. He’s heard this tape before.
“My clothes don’t fit right!” I shouted at the shoulders that shrugged out the door. “FINE!” I grabbed my favorite olive green Pashmina out of my closet and wrapped it around my neck. I may be a stuffed, black denim sausage, but that didn’t mean I had to forego the soft elegance I was born to enjoy.

I clomped down the stairs and was greeted with a smile and a steaming travel mug of coconut chai tea.
My boy grinned from behind his mug of hot chocolate.
The toaster dinged.

Toast was hastily buttered and jammed.
My love grabbed fishing poles.
The dogs were shooed into the garage.
We piled into the car and zoomed into the sunrise.

Less than half an hour later we were navigating through the bramble to our favorite winter fishing spot on the Sandy. The water sparkled past the rocks, rushing around the bend into a diaphanous blanket of fog that had been trapped in the space between night and morning.

My boy baited my hook and we plunked our lines into the water. The current grabbed my line and swept my hook into a dance with the rolling pebbles at the bottom of the river. The dance ended when my hook settled into the quiet eddy just below the drop off.

“Winter steelhead find quiet spots for resting,” my love instructed. “They swim up river in schools and pull off to rest in the slow moving water. If they’re here, that’s where they’ll be.”

With my line set, I settled in for the wait and discovered a dip in the boulder that hugged my round and well-layered rear end perfectly.
My boy sat on the bank above me. Confident that his fingers knew enough to telegraph the unnatural bump that indicates a hungry fish is nosing the bait, he allowed his eyes to wander.
“Mummy, look at this rock,” he exclaimed with an excited grin that showed off his still gappy smile, “it’s orange.”
He pushed it toward me with the toe of his too big canvas fishing boot.
“Wow, it is orange! I wonder how that happened.”
My boy wasn’t listening; he was finding another river rock. This one was smooth and grey, and fairly common looking, but oh, the sound it made when he banged it against the boulder, like a muffled steeple bell glorifying all that is good in this world.

My love stood lure fishing on the bank, ten yards down the river.
Cast and reel, cast and reel.

Each time he threw out his line, he cast years of worry to the river. Within moments, I saw the young boy from Eastern Oregon come to life within the man that I love. When you meet someone in midlife, you miss the childhood moments, the life defining events. When I fish with my love, I am allowed a glimpse into those missed moments and I know him as a child and I understand him more as a man.

We left the river with no fish in our bags, but our hearts were full and our souls were fed.
Definitely a morning well spent.

Hands

2010-01-31T20:38:00.000-08:00

“You can tell a man by his hands.”
My mother’s words knock against the edges of my consciousness.
Tap.
Tap.
It is so subtle that I don’t even notice them. I don’t even know that this is what I think.

But I can tell you exactly what my father’s hands look like. Because my mother’s words tell me that it is important. That these are the kinds of hands that I should look for in a man. That these are the kinds of hands that will tell me if a man is a “good man”.

My father has ali’i hands, hands of royalty. His fingers are long. His nails are square and perfectly shaped, with lovely half moons at the bottoms and clean white crescents at the tops that stop just a whisper shy of his fingertips. His hands are smooth and the lifelines dance a pleasing pattern across his palms.

I commit his hands to memory, and I notice hands.
And I measure hands.
And I form opinions about a man’s character based upon his hands.

I married a man with my father’s hands.
I divorced that man.

The man I love today, does not have my father’s hands.

The man I love today has the hands of a worker. His fingers are short. His imperfect nails are thick shields, permanently discolored and misshapen. His hands are rough and the lifelines are buried under a crust of chapped, cracked skin.

And yet…

These are the hands that love me.
These are the hands that comfort me when words have no meaning.
These are the hands that melt into my skin and touch my soul.

My body commits these hands to memory.

Yes, mother, you are right.
You can tell a man by his hands.

.

Boundaries

2008-10-20T06:33:00.000-07:00

JustMehas been talking about boundaries lately.
What she talks about strikes so close to the bone. I want to stick my fingers in my ears and scrunch my eyes tightly shut and yell, “la-la-la-la – I can’t hear you!”

The problem is, I hear all too well.

I hear my personal boundaries crashing all around me.
And, I have to admit that often, I am the one who is leading the charge to dismantle them.

So I ask myself why and, as if by magic, my friend Wanda emails me, providing me with both the answer and the inspiration.

Bitchology

When I stand up for
myself and my beliefs,
they call me a
bitch.

When I stand up for
those I love,
they call me a
bitch.

When I speak my mind, think my own thoughts
or do things my own way, they call me a
bitch.

Being a bitch
means I won't
compromise what's
in my heart.
It means I live my life MY way.
It means I won't allow anyone to step on me.

When I refuse to
tolerate injustice and
speak against it, I am
defined as a
bitch.

The same thing happens when I take time for
myself instead of being everyone's maid, or when I
act a little selfish.

It means I have the courage and strength to allow
myself to be who I truly am and won't become
anyone else's idea of what they think I 'should'
be.
I am outspoken,
opinionated and determined. I want what I want and
there is nothing wrong with that!
So try to stomp on me,
try to douse my inner flame, try to squash every
ounce of beauty I hold within me.
You won't succeed.

And if that makes me a bitch,
so be it.
I embrace the title and
am proud to bear it.

B - Babe
I - In
T - Total
C - Control of
H - Herself

B = Beautiful
I = Intelligent
T = Talented
C = Charming
H = Hell of a Woman

B = Beautiful
I = Individual
T = That
C = Can
H = Handle anything

Woo hoo!
Just the kick in the rear I needed.

I'm reclaiming my boundaries and re-introducing them to the people in my life.
And if they want to tell me I’m being bitchy, they certainly have that right. And I have the right to be a Bitch In Training Clearly Hearing herself and striving to be a Beacon of intelligence Totally Centered and Honoring of herself.
What kind of bitch will you be?

Proper Medical Care

2008-10-19T13:59:00.000-07:00

OD called me. She's worried about a weird rash on her back and she wants me to make an appointment for her with her doctor. I gloss over the facts that she doesn't live with me, that I don't know her daily schedule and that she knows exactly how to make her own appointments.

I don't remind her of these things because I am over the top excited about the fact that, after years of no primary care physician and months of searching, I have found a doctor.
She is a naturopath and she is fabulous!
She listens to me.
She makes suggestions that are non-invasive and fairly easy to accomplish.
She works with accounting to make sure that I am billed in such a way so as to make the most of my medical insurance coverage.
I can’t say, “I love her!” loudly nor often enough.

I tell all this to OD and ask if she wouldn’t rather see my doctor.
I suggest it because OD’s doctor, is a pediatrician.
A wonderful woman who has held our hands through years of ear infections, bouts of the flu, chicken pox, strep throat, tonsillitis, warts, mono and any other of a number of childhood illnesses. We have relied on her through all of it, and she has never let us down, but, at nineteen, many of OD’s ailments are no longer really within the realm of a pediatrician’s expertise.
I point this all out to OD.

OD shakes her head into the phone, “No thanks,” she flips.

“Why?” I plead. “You’d really like her.”

“Because she’s a naturopath.” OD says this in a sing-song, Valley-girl lilt, as though no further explanation is needed.

“Uh-huh...?”

OD sighs. “A naturopath will want me to change my diet, which I already know is bad, or take herbs, which take too long to do anything, or give up tanning, which will never happen…I jut want some good ol’ western medicine that will give me a pill or a cream and push that rash right back down where it came from.”

LOVE that girl.
LOVE her self-awareness.
LOVE her honesty.

OD will be visiting her pediatrician next week…and she made her own appointment.

A Place for Everything and Everything in Its Place

2008-10-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

Mo, my dragon, is omnivorous. Her diet is mostly greens but she enjoys an occasional side order of bugs.
Sometimes, I harvest earthworms for her from the garden. This evening though, I head to the neighborhood pet store and buy a bag of crickets.
I shake them into her aquarium home and Mo becomes a wily hunter. The crickets scatter. Mo follows, on the tips of her toes, a dancer. She catches a cricket in mid leap and smacks her lips with satisfaction.

The Buddhist in me feels guilt over Mo’s delight.
The mother in me blesses the creatures that sustain my baby.

Usually, Mo is a dancing fool until she is once again the sole inhabitant of her aquarium. Tonight, though, Mo tires of chase and she leaves two crickets behind. They hide in the shadow of her log. Mo pulls her heavy body to the top of her basking rock, close to the heating lamp. She is asleep almost before she stops moving.
The crickets lie silent.

My house is quiet too. My children are with their father. I am looking forward to an evening of tranquility, an oasis of calm amidst a week of turbulence.

I snuggle into my comforter and reach for The Antelope Wife, the novel that has been waiting too long for my attention.
The cover is stiff. I gently ease the book open and the round smell of freshly bound pages surrounds me.

Chirp.
Chirp.
Chirpity, chirp, chirp, chirp.

The crickets begin to sing.
I smile and imagine a wide-open meadow. A creek bubbles in the distance. The moon is full and her golden halo softens the world’s sharp edges.

A siren breaks my reverie, reminding me I live in the city. A police car rips through the night and red and blue lights spin across my wall.

Chirp.
Chirp.
Chirpity, chirp, chirp, chirp.

The crickets go on. They fill my room with their talking and my book rests open on my lap.

My neighbors come home. The car idles in their driveway and my mind wanders as I wonder why they don’t park. The engine is a gravely rumbling, a large cat stuck in a satisfied purr. It fills me with warmth. I pick up my book.

And the crickets go on.
Chirp.
Chirp.
Chirpity, chirp, chirp, chirp.

I can’t read. I can’t sleep.
The city and the country are waging an all out battle in my bedroom.

I root for the city.

It’s not that I don’t like crickets.
I love crickets…in the country.

I love their soft touch upon the earth as they join together and weave music through the stars.
I love they way they make the air feel crisper and softer at the same time.
I love the peaceful blanket of calm that envelops me when I breathe in their song.

In the city, though, the chirping is jarring and unsettling.
The noise fights against the city sounds, hammering with heat and pins.
It is a burr under my skin that itches and stings with its incongruity.

I blast out of bed and flick on Mo’s light, hoping she will wake up and eat. Her eyelids flutter as the light screams at her to open her eyes and, for a blessed moment, the crickets are silent.
Mo settles back into her dream.
The crickets overcome their silence.

Chirp.
Chirp.
Chirpity, chirp, chirp, chirp.

The noise bangs into my body and knocks against every nerve as it echoes endlessly down through my toes.

I slam my bedroom door and thump down the hall to my daughter’s empty room. I slam her door shut too and then open it once more so I can slam it again. I stomp my feet and clench my fists and shake my head.
It doesn’t help.
The muffled sound of the crickets slides under the door and explodes into the room.

Chirp.
Chirp.
Chirpity, chirp, chirp, chirp.

I collapse into a puddle of prickles.
Morning cannot come soon enough and Mo had better be hungry.

In the Moment

2008-09-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

The woman’s tired, watery eyes grabbed my eyes with a ferocity that contradicted my assumptions. “You are my miracle,” she whispered with a voice so powerful it shook my soul. Her grey head shook slightly as she nodded an exclamation point.
This woman had survived such horrific abuse that the very fact she was sitting in front of me was, itself, miraculous and she was calling me her miracle.

I have “officially” been working with survivors of domestic violence since February, but I have “worked” with survivors for two years. I know that advocates have an enormous responsibility, but yesterday, I literally came face to face with the reality of it.
And, I was humbled.
And frightened.

What if I fail?

The process of leaving an abuser can be the most dangerous point of a survivor’s journey.
It is also when she is most frightened and vulnerable, angry and frustrated, sad and lonely, confused and overwhelmed.
And sometimes, it is when she calls my organization.
And sometimes, we can help.

This woman made that call.
This woman, who had left everything, who had left behind her entire life…again.
She called.
And we met.

She was not asking me for resources or contacts or shelter. She was not asking me what she should do or where she should go or how she should get there. Nor did she tell me her story, though she circled slowly around it, each ripple getting a little closer to center.
She just talked.
And I just listened.

And that, to her, was a miracle.
And she felt humbled.

And I realized that I have it all wrong.
A miracle is not determined by the number of people who recognize it. A miracle does not need to be global to be valid.

Moments contain miracles.

Small, personal, individual moments.

Don't let them slip by without being noticed.

Up, Up and Away

2008-09-02T21:29:00.000-07:00

My children are dribbling back to school this week.

OS started today.

This morning, he drove off for his last, first day of high school.

Drove off!
Without me!

This summer he finally found the time to get his driver’s license. His original life plan had him getting his license on his 16th birthday, but real life consumed him and the driver’s license window did not open for him until late June, more than a month after his 17th birthday. The delay turned out to be a good thing for him and he passed the test with flying colors on the very first try!

I was delirious with excitement at the prospect of having another driver in the house and I quickly bought us a second taxi.
OS and I chose a 1987 Mitsubishi Montero with a manual transmission – a sturdy, reliable, macho machine that had lived life as a tow behind vehicle. The original faded brown interior produced frown lines in OS’ otherwise pristine forehead, but a gear head friend assured him that the engine was in exceptional condition, even for a car half its age and that the cosmetic part would be a piece of cake.
The two of them have been busily “fixing” the car which OS has affectionately named, “the Beast”.

It’s not quite done, but it’s drivable.
And this morning, he drove it!
To school!
Alone.

For his LAST, first day!

Freed at last from the shackles of chauffeuring, I felt curiously unhinged.
My boy is growing up and away.
Too fast.

OS rolled down the driveway and I heard him grind the gears into neutral as he tried to make a statement by peeling off down the street. The engine roared, but the Beast remained at a standstill. OS whined the car into first and bucked into the start of a new school year.
His last school year at home.

I turned with a smile to finish getting ready for work and silently thanked the Beast for slowing my boy down…just a bit…to give me a chance to catch up.

Physician, I Will Heal Myself

2008-09-01T22:01:00.000-07:00

I haven’t been to a doctor since before I got divorced almost two years ago. I’ve started having a few aches and pains and I thought to myself that it might be a good idea if I made an appointment and went in for a good old-fashioned once over. After putting it off for more months than I care to admit, I've decided to get it over with and call the doctor.

Except…
I don’t have a primary care physician.
I ask my friends for referrals.
All of them, every single one them, goes to a doctor whose office is in the back of beyond!

Not to worry, my good friend, Universe, steps up with a post card. It’s a notice from my ob-gyn reminding me that it is time for my annual check-up.
PERFECT! Said ob-gyn will be able to recommend someone good.
I call to make an appointment. I know that I will have to wait at least a month, but I’m okay with that…at least I’ll be moving forward instead of standing still.
But wait!
What’s this?!
She has a cancellation for the following Monday?! I am actually available on that exact same Monday at that exact same time?!
Yay!

I dance into the office on Monday. I arrive at 10:45 and my appointment isn’t even until 11!
Whoo hoo! Look at me!

I check in with the very straightly parted, thin, brown hair seated at the front counter.
“Oh, by the way,” I drop casually, proudly placing my new, never before used, insurance card on the desk in front of her, “I got a job, so I have new insurance.”
The receptionist peers at my card, lifting her eyes without moving her chins off her ample chest, “Of course, you do realize that we don’t take that insurance.”
“No,” I reply, the word knocked out of me as though forced by a blow to my gut.
“I mean, you could still see the doctor…” she says through her nose, “it’s just that you’d have to pay for it all...yourself.”
As she speaks, my precious, new insurance card hangs precariously between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, dangled like a distastefully dirty diaper.

I rescue it from her limp grasp. “Can you recommend anyone who does take this insurance?” I inquire hopefully.
“You can try upstairs, in 522,” she replies lifting her head and shaking it at me, “I’ve heard that they can take Providence.” I leave wondering if the sorrowful head shaking was meant for me or for the poor souls upstairs who accept my apparently inferior, insurance.

The elevator dings and I step off on the fifth floor into a confusing world of déjà vu which baffles me, until I am standing with my hand on the doorknob of 522 and the “aha” light bulb blinds me with its brilliance.
The name on the door belongs to the ob-gyn who deigned to allow me to burden him with my last pregnancy. The knob fairly burns my hand and I quickly snatch it back. Angry and unpleasant memories of months of cold and indifferent appointments rocket me back to the elevator. The doors close too slowly and I rest against the elevator wall, thankful to have dodged that bullet.

The next day, at the office, I ask my co-workers for referrals.
One is on her husband’s insurance.
Another chooses not to carry any insurance and, instead, patronizes the neighborhood health clinic.
A third recommends her doctor – who, coincidentally, practices in the back of beyond with all of the doctors of my friends.
Finally, I light upon someone who both carries the company insurance and sees a physician who works within twenty blocks of my house.
“Bingo!” I yell.

Her PCP belongs to a group of family practitioners. I am thrilled with the prospect of one-stop shopping that a family practitioner promises. I am sure that any one of these eight, fine physicians will be perfect for me and I leave it up to Fate to decide who will be honored with the moniker of “my” PCP.

My fingers fairly dance across the keypad as I dial the number.
“Hello,” I chirp brightly into the receiver, “I was given your number by a co-worker and I was wondering if any of your doctors is accepting new patients.”
“No,” the disembodied voice clips. “Not at this time.”
Click.

As my head bangs into yet another brick wall, I comfort myself with the notion that employees are the reflection of a business and, if this particular employee is providing an accurate reflection, then this is not the group of docs for me.

Perhaps the back of beyond is not as far away as it once was.

When I Dare To Be Powerful

2008-08-31T10:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve been floundering.
Desperately trying to figure out what it is that I am supposed to be doing.
Actually, to be precise, I’ve been desperately trying to figure out what it is I am supposed to be being.

I thought, perhaps, prayer would help.
So I’ve been praying.

And the Universe has listened.

And answered.

This quote has been placed in front of me no less than three times in the past two weeks.

“When I dare to be powerful – to use my strength in the service of my vision – then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.”
Audre Lourde

Three times…in three completely unrelated places…in three totally different circumstances.

Damn!

Can anyone decipher Universe?

Kindness Chronicles IV

2008-08-24T11:38:00.000-07:00

There is a woman at work who is pregnant. Very pregnant. And very beautiful!

One day, she came to work in a soft, white eyelet dress. She floated in the door, a breath on a day that was heavy with heat. She was hope, and light and new beginnings personified.
She was a gift.

I’m glad I noticed.
I’m glad I told her.

Once again, I was reminded that it is the moments that matter.
And this moment made all the difference for this woman.

Apparently, she had been receiving all of the rude, insensitive, size related comments that a woman must endure during the course of a pregnancy – all of the inappropriate hands-on-the-belly touching of complete strangers and all of the I’m-so-done-with-this-pregnancy feelings of a woman in the last trimester of a second pregnancy.

It’s easy to be too busy.
It’s easy to think it doesn’t matter.

It’s easy to miss the moments.

But the moments matter.
The moments make all the difference.

Feeding My Baby

2008-08-23T17:43:00.000-07:00

I spent my morning digging for worms.
Me.
Digging for worms.

Pushing the tip of my shovel deep into the unforgiving soil of my unplanted beds.
Breaking up the packed clay.
Searching for the exposed tip of an earthworm squirming towards the darkness.
Deftly grabbing hold of the quickly disappearing speck and dragging the stretchy sliminess into the light.
Placing it gently into my cupped hand.
Ignoring the shiver that runs through my body as the worm writhes and twists on my palm.
Lifting the dirt-covered pinkness and holding it between my thumb and forefinger.

Dangling it in front of my baby.
Tempting her.
Coaxing her.
Waiting.

She cocks her heads and watches as the worm dances intricate figure eights and slow ripples.
And then…in less than an instant…the dance is over.
The worm is gone.
My baby smiles.

I pick up my shovel and push the tip deep into the unforgiving soil of my unplanted beds.
Feeding my baby.

This is my baby.

Her name is Mo’olelelani – Heavenly Dancing Dragon.
We call her Mo.

I am not a reptile person.
I like my animals cuddly and furry.
And yet…I love Mo. I cannot imagine life without her.

I met Mo in June, when her name was “Sparks”.
My children were with their father for the weekend and I was out garage sale-ing.
A group of three woman friends had banded together and they were peddling their treasures. They were laughing and bartering and having raucous good time. Their enthusiasm was infectious.
I stopped at their sale at 2pm.
I stayed.
I perused the piles.

I tried on a pair of brand new, closed toe, sandals with an $8 tag tied on to one of the straps.
“Those are cute!” exclaimed one of the women. “Seeing them on your feet makes me remember why I bought them. If you don’t get them, they’re going back in my closet.”
My feet stayed firmly inside the sandals.

A funky black goddess lamp captured my attention, but she didn’t speak to me. Besides, what would I do with a funky black goddess lamp?
“I can’t believe that lamp is still here!” marveled the woman who coveted my new sandals. “I think you need it,” she nodded to me.
“Welll,” I drawled, “I’m not sure where she would go.”
“Anywhere!” came the quick reply.
I passed.

An empty reptile aquarium, complete with florescent light, heat lamp and basking rock lay in a pile on the slope of the front lawn. A little white sticker affixed to the side of the tank read $99.
“Hmm. That’s a lot,” I thought to myself as I walked past it without stopping.

I opened a little red lacquered box with a small white owl painted on the top. Six coasters were nestled inside. “Mine,” I murmured, after flipping it over to reveal the $2 sticker stuck on the bottom. One of the women nodded her agreement.

Each time I stopped in front of an item, one of the women would make a comment.
They were fun.
They were fuh-nee.

When I had finished meandering through their wares, I plopped myself down on the lawn, in the midst of the women, and joined their happy banter.

At 3, a passerby inquired as to what sort of creature would live in the aquarium set-up.
“A bearded dragon,” replied the apparent hostess of the afore mentioned garage sale festival. “Would you like to see her? She’s for sale.”
The gentleman declined, but I was intrigued.
“What is a bearded dragon?” I asked.
“She’s up on the front porch,” she said nodding toward the house. “You can go see her if you want.”
“What the heck!” I thought, peeling myself off the grass.

As I neared the front porch, I saw a large black iron birdcage sitting in an oven of sunshine. The inside of the cage was decorated with a jungle gym of sticks. On top of the highest stick sat a lizard, mouth agape, panting heavily, sides heaving.
“Um…she’s in the direct sun,” I hollered, turning to look at the women on the lawn. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine…unless her mouth is open.”
“It’s open,” I confirmed.

The woman, whose name, I discovered, was Susan, clattered out of her lawn chair and dashed toward the porch.
She grabbed the lizard out of the cage and it clung to her shirt. Susan dipped her fingers in a bowl of water and rubbed them down the lizard’s back, gently soothing her.

I watched her fingers slide slowly over the lizard. My fingers ached to do the same.

“Do you want to hold Sparks?” Susan asked.
The “yes” leapt quickly from my soul before I had a chance to consider the reptilian furlessness of the creature she was holding.

Susan handed her to me and I knew exactly what to do.
I – who had never enjoyed the Reptile Show at the zoo, who avoided furless creatures with a vengeance – knew exactly what to do.
The dragon rested on my chest and she was home.

Susan came back to the porch an hour later and shook her head in wonder, “I’ve never seen Sparks do that,” she blurted.
The name jarred me and I could feel the soul of the dragon bristle at the sound of it. Both of us knew that that was not her name.
Susan didn’t. “Sparks does not sit still when she’s out of her cage,” she continued. “Ever! She always needs to move and chase bugs and find hiding places. You have to take her home with you!”

I knew she was right, and yet, logic took over and I heard myself saying, “A bearded dragon is not an impulse buy. You do not go to a garage sale looking for nothing in particular and come home with a bearded dragon.”

“Okay,” Susan conceded. “Go home and sleep on it. Come back to get her tomorrow, then it won’t be an impulse buy.”

The women began putting the sale away. I sat with the dragon until the shadows grew long -- until the women began making dinner rumblings and I knew I had to leave.

Alone.

I spent the evening on the computer, reading everything I could find about bearded dragons.
In the morning, I tired to forget her.
I distracted myself by picking raspberries in the backyard.

At noon, I was back at Susan’s, clutching a small bowl of raspberries.
Susan saw me and smiled “the question”.
“I don’t know,” I said, even as my soul knew that I did, “but I thought I would come by and visit…”
“I brought her some raspberries,” I added, waving the bowl and trying not to race to my dragon.

And when I got to her cage, she was waiting for me.

I opened the door and she stepped lightly onto my hand. I held out a raspberry. She licked it off my hand and swallowed with satisfaction.
I fed her the remainder of the raspberries, one by one. When the bowl was empty, she looked up at me with a raspberry juice, red lipstick smile and said, “Thank you.” And she sealed the deal.

I gave Susan $99 and I loaded the aquarium, the birdcage and all the paraphernalia into my car.
“Who knew?!” I smiled to myself as my dragon and I climbed into my car, heading for home.

He Listens

2008-08-21T21:14:00.000-07:00

I work with survivors of domestic violence. Studies show that our culture perpetuates the image of the macho man and that anger is often the only emotion that a man feels comfortable expressing.

I like to think that our generation is working to change that. That we are raising, and have raised, our sons to be more than angry men.

I do not kid myself that we will wipe out domestic violence, but this story gives me hope that we are making headway.

A young girl breaks up with her boyfriend. She goes home and screams her anguish to the walls. She is inconsolable.

She thinks that she is alone, but her teen-aged brother is there. He is fixing himself some lunch in the kitchen. When he hears her, he immediately stops what he is doing and he goes upstairs to check on his sister.

The door to her bedroom is open wide. He knocks tentatively on the doorframe.
The girl sees him and she begins to cry to him all of her sadness and frustration.
He listens, though he can barely understand her words through her tears.
He listens, though he cannot even imagine the kind of heartache his sister is experiencing.
He listens, though her hurt makes him uncomfortable and he feels awkward and inadequate.

He listens because he loves her.

He listens, and he tells her, “I don’t know what to say, but I am here and I can listen for as long as you need.”
And he leans his lanky body against the doorjamb and she sobs him her story.

And he offers no advice.
And he doesn't try to fix it.

He just listens.

And that is more than enough.
It is everything.

And she is consoled.

I could not be more proud of OS.

This Perfect Life

2008-08-17T15:59:00.000-07:00

I used to think everything in my life had to be perfect in order for me to have a perfect life.

Not so.

It’s the moments.

If this moment is perfect, then life is perfect.

I had a perfect moment last night.

“Mummy,” YS stood in the middle of the kitchen, his big hazel eyes wide with anticipation, his mouth struggling to subdue the smile of excitement burbling behind his question. “Mummy, can we sleep in the backyard tonight?”

“Sure,” I nodded, even as I turned toward the computer to finish typing my blog. It was 10:30 and I wanted to post before I went to bed.

“You’ll sleep out there with me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want to use my camping pad?”

“Love to.”

“How ‘bout a sleeping bag? Do you want a sleeping bag or a blanket?”

“A blanket.”

YS began to gather the necessary backyard camping equipment. He dragged his sleeping bag and two pillows around the table, through the kitchen and out the back door. Next came the pad.

“Wanna sleep under the stars or should we use a tent?”

“Stars,” I replied, still distracted. I had not posted for months and it was somehow vitally important to me that I get that post done. There was no f’n way that the world could survive another moment without this post!

Nothing daunted, YS continued his preparations.
The pop up Play Hut cubes bumped down the stairs behind YS and slapped behind me on the kitchen floor. I heard him flip open the largest one, a 3’x3’ cube. It is made out of red parachute material. The top is solid, the sides each have one big circle cut into them, and the bottom is completely open.

YS squeezed it through the back door and the sides threatened to rip as he dragged it past the lip of the door latch.

Next, he scurried past me with the 13” TV/DVD combo. Even this was not enough to grab my attention away from my computer.

Got. To. Post.
NOW!

YS thumped down the basement stairs.
Silence.
Soon I heard him skip back up.

“OK. We’re ready, Mummy.” YS grinned and I could actually see the quiver of excitement flow through his body.

I hit post.
“OK. Let me go brush and floss,” I said. I disappeared up the stairs without even stopping to give him a hug or a smile.

Too long later, I headed out the back door.

YS had made the Play Hut cube into a little gazebo for the TV. The sleeping bag and camping pad were laid out in the middle of the yard and were as close together as they could be without being stacked on top of each other. A pillow rested on the pad and a blanket was laid across the top with the left hand corner gently turned down. All I could see of YS is his tousled brown hair sticking out of the top of his sleeping bag.

When he heard me, he turned and smiled his funny, crooked, gap-toothed grin.

“I was waiting for you for the movie,” he explained with pride.

"This is love," I thought as I slid under the blanket. For a moment, we were both lying on our backs looking up at the sky.

“Look at the moon,” I whispered. It was full and round and encircled by a golden halo.

“Uh-huh. Night light,” he said, flipping over onto his tummy and reaching for the “play” button.

He had chosen “Homeward Bound”. He knows that it is one of my favorite stories.

I turned over. YS reached for my hand.
I fall asleep to the sound of Chance attacking a porcupine.
When I woke up, the movie was over though the TV still glowed blue. YS snored gently beside me and his fingers tightened around my hand.

Perfection!

At the Port

2008-08-16T22:51:00.000-07:00

It’s 2:30 in the afternoon and my two youngest children and I have been enjoying the Port of Portland’s Seaport Celebration. It’s an annual event that we discovered last year – on a MUCH cooler day.

This is the one day each year that the Port opens its doors to the public for music, food and informational activities so that we can all learn the hows and whys, the whats and wheres of how the Port operates. They give out re-useable bags and water bottles and stickers and pens and have a drawing for special prizes.

It’s fun.
Really.

Which is why we decided to brave the weather and return this year.
This day.

This 102° day.

This102° day, in the middle of a black, asphalt, parking lot with no shade save for a few canopy tents sprinkled about to shade employees who are manning the information tables.

This102° day, in the middle of a black, asphalt, parking lot with no shade save for a few canopy tents sprinkled about to shade employees who are manning the information tables with barely a hint of a breeze blowing against the heat waves that rise off the scorched earth.

We’ve been here for over two hours and we’ve finished our fun. We’re waiting, along with a small crowd of other hot, sweaty, tired people, for the shuttle bus to pick us up and return us to our car.

The bus arrives and we all pile on.

We pile on to an old yellow school bus that looks as though it has recently been refurbished with seats that seem to have new-ish brown vinyl. The windows are all open, but the only air you can feel moving are the currents of heat that swarm past our bodies as we travel toward the back of the bus. We slide our sweaty selves across a seat, and the back of my right thigh grabs onto the vinyl and my skin screeches across the remainder of the bench. None of the other hot, sweaty, tired people notice because they are all doing their own versions of the sweaty squack. The hot, sweaty, children who bounced in in the morning have melted into puddles of petulance.

This is when my daughter decides to strike.

“Hey,” she smiles to her brother, “what happens when you take the “s” out of safe and the “f” out of way?"
“Huh?” he replies, face scrunched into an irritated grimace, a tiny drop of sweat forming in front of his left ear and hesitating before it starts to roll slowly toward his chin.
My daughter sighs and repeats herself. “Take the “s” out of safe and the “f” out of way."
My son looks annoyed and says, “A-way?”
“No”, YD breaths, “ take the “s” out of SAFE and the “f” out of WAY.”
“I DID!” my son snaps, irritation erupting and oozing down his sweaty face.
“No”, she says in the condescending way that a teenaged girl reserves for a younger sibling, “you took the “s” AND the “f” out of SAFE. Take the “S” out of safe and the “F” out of way!
By now, YS is totally exasperated. He glares at his sister and, at the TOP of his voice he yells, “THERE'S NO "F" IN WAY!!!!”

YD dissolves into tears of laughter.

“What?!” snaps YS, and, raising his voice a few decibels he repeats, “THERE'S NO F'N WAY!!!”
The dimmer switch over his head slowly illuminates the light bulb. He begins to chuckle and then starts laughing so hard he almost falls off the seat into the aisle.
I join my children and my stomach starts to hurt from laughing so much.
Barely able to speak through his laughter and still at the top of his lungs YS leans against me and yells, “Mummy, Mummy -- THERE'S NO F'N WAY!!!”

The rest of the people on the bus...
Blank stares -- totally clueless!

Half of them get off at the first stop, even though the bus driver announces that he will be making three stops so as to get people closer to their cars.

We wait until the second stop before we climb off. As we begin to back out of our space, hot, sweaty, grumpy fellow passengers trudge past us.
We watch them as the make a dusty path through the loose gravel parking lot toward their cars, which are parked just past the third stop.
Apparently they are of the opinion that it is better to brave the evils that you know than face the crazies that you don’t.

My children and I turn up the air conditioner to full blast, flip on the oldies and laugh all the way home.

The Art of No

2008-05-03T22:31:00.000-07:00

I have never been fond of the word “No”. In fact, I have spent a large part of my life diligently avoiding it.

Before I had all the stubborn beaten out of me, I wouldn’t hear the word “no”. If I wanted something, I cried and grizzled and ~~argued~~ reasoned my logic into manifestation.
Once my inner self learned how to submit to outer expectations, I found I couldn’t say the word “no”. My life was all about pleasing others, making life easier for others. I was taught that being happy and agreeable was the road to success – all I needed to do to be on that road was sacrifice my ability to say “no”. It sounded easy. I paid the toll and, at the fork in the road, I took the path of least resistance.

Loosing my ability to say “no” did not make hearing “no” any easier. Now, though, it wasn’t that I wouldn’t hear “no”, it was that I couldn’t hear “no”. Every “no” I received became a personal rejection; a reflection of the worthlessness of my thoughts, my feelings, my ideas, my hopes.

I banished “no” from my life.

When I became a mother, I began experimenting with “no”. My oldest daughter would say that I became quite adept at using the word.
I did try to set very clear boundaries, limits that felt like “no” to OD, but, in reality, “no” was still a word that caused me great discomfort.
In fact, I consciously avoided it.
Where most parents would yell “NO!” when their child was about to do something dangerous (run into the street, pull something off the counter, eat a marble), I would yell “STOP!” When faced with a direct question like “Can I eat my chocolate Easter bunny?”, I would respond with “You may eat part of your bunny. Would you like to eat the tail and the feet, or the ears and the head?”
While I set boundaries for my children, I rarely said “no” to them.
I would like to say that my parenting strategies were a result of an understanding of child psychology, but, I’m afraid that they were merely a byproduct of “no” avoidance.

It is ironic to me that both of the jobs I have chosen after my divorce have been all about the “no”.
My first job as an independent sales rep was all about hearing “no”. Nine out of ten calls I made resulted in “no”. “No, we purchase books through another publisher.” Or “No, there is no money in the budget for books.” Or “No, I don’t have the time to speak with you.”
I had to learn to let those “no’s” flutter past me rather than allowing them to stick to me like burrs, weighing me down and making me uncomfortable. It never got to a point where “no” felt good, but it finally got to where it didn’t feel personal.

My current job is all about saying “no”. Learning how to be comfortable with being unable to help everyone that calls in looking for assistance. Having to turn away people in need because they are not part of the population that our organization has been set up to serve.

I am so glad that the Universe provided me with this opportunity to re-member myself. I see, now that “no” is not a bad word. “No” is a gift – a gift that I accepted with reluctance and now understand as a blessing.

Jane Fonda once said that late in life she finally discovered that “No.” is a complete sentence. While I have never been a huge Jane Fonda fan, I have come to admire her greatly for sharing that one piece of wisdom.

No.
Not no but…Not no because….Just no.

Not a sentence fragment that Word tells me I should consider revising.

No.

No is complete, in and of itself.
No is succinct and to the point.
No doesn’t make excuses nor require explanations.

No.

“No” and I are still becoming reacquainted with one another, but I know that some day soon, we will be the best of friends.
I can’t wait!

Alien Cat

2008-04-25T21:53:00.000-07:00

This morning, there was a cat in my house.
Not Poki, the cat that is supposed to be in my house. Poki was on the roof, meowing at the window, as is her wont.
No, the cat that was in my house this morning was a different cat. A foreign cat. A cat masquerading as Poki.

She might have pulled it off, too, if she had crept into the house of one not quite as discerning as I.

She was pure black, just like Poki.
And small, just like Poki.
And quick, just like Poki.
But even out of the corner of my eye, distracted by the mounds of laundry that I was sorting and folding, I could tell that she wasn’t Poki.

It was the tail that gave her away.

Poki’s tail is crooked. There is a 45° angle bend at the very tip. The tail I saw disappearing behind a post, was straight as an arrow.
And, it was fat. A straight, fat, tail. Definitely not Poki’s.

I abandoned the warmth of my freshly laundered clothes and gave chase.
Out of the laundry room, over the landing, into the family room. And that’s where I lost her.

The family room, in the middle of a major overhaul, is construction central. Furniture is stacked “out of the way”, in the corners, and there are tools and wire, sawdust and nails, everywhere.
The imposter disappears into the shadows of this chaos.

I go back into the laundry room and continue my sorting and folding.
Quietly.
Waiting for the fuzzy black face of the alien cat to reappear.

No luck.

I stack my laundry and carry it upstairs. I am sure that the fact that I am leaving will be exactly the magnet I need to draw the cat out of hiding.
But when I creep back downstairs, deftly avoiding the squeaky step, I discover I am wrong.

Still no cat.

And so I begin cooing “here kitty, kitty, kitty” in the most alluring, I-am-a-cat-lover tone of voice I can manage.

Alien cat is not impressed.

I change tactics and begin banging on tables, stomping my feet and yelling “scat, scat, go away you cat!” I go for one last moment defining stomp and my foot, shoeless as usual, comes down on the edge of a nail. I grab my foot and forcefully swallow the expletive that has traveled in less than a nanosecond, from the ball of my right foot to the back of my throat and threatens to explode from my lips with the fury of a shaken pop bottle. As I cradle my foot and hop in ever shrinking circles, I’m sure that I hear the cat snickering from the safety of friendly black shadow.

I glance at the clock and notice that, in five minutes, I will be late for work.

“Shit!!!” The “bottle cap” jettisons across the room.

I fly back upstairs, grab my shoes and scream off to work.
Nine hours later, I return home.

I open the basement door and am assaulted with the unmistakable smell of alien-cat-trapped-in-a-basement-all-day-with-no-way-out-and-no-litterbox.
Flipping on the light, I tiptoe gingerly down the stairs so as to avoid stepping in any surprises.
In the basement, I discover that sawdust that has been swept into a pile and forgotten goes a long way towards containing the river of cat pee that wanted to snake across the floor. I make a mental note not to complain about construction debris – at least not today.

I feel silent eyes watching me as I move quietly around the room. They pierce my skin and I start to itch. It is driving me CRAZY!!! I know alien cat is somewhere in my basement.

WHERE?!

I open the outside basement door and it cries out with the exquisite agony of Tinman moving for the first time after Dorothy oils him. The rusty creak is the signal for which alien cat was waiting, the call from the mother ship to come home.
Alien cat answers in a blur that streaks out the door and into the arms of a spring twilight pregnant with the anticipation of rain.

On Being Catholic

2008-04-22T17:44:00.000-07:00

I was raised Roman Catholic.
That means that, although I may recognize Bible stories when I hear them, I cannot quote from the Bible. Apparently, little has changed.

The following are actual answers from a test given at a Roman Catholic elementary school. Nothing has been retouched or corrected.

1. IN THE FIRST BOOK OF THE BIBLE, GUINESSIS. GOD GOT TIRED OF CREATING THE WORLD SO HE TOOK THE SABBATH OFF.

2. ADAM AND EVE WERE CREATED FROM AN APPLE TREE. NOAH'S WIFE WAS JOAN OF ARK. NOAH BUILT AND ARK AND THE ANIMALS CAME ON IN PEARS.

3. LOTS WIFE WAS A PILLAR OF SALT DURING THE DAY, BUT A BALL OF FIRE DURING THE NIGHT.

4. THE JEWS WERE A PROUD PEOPLE AND THROUGHOUT HISTORY THEY HAD TROUBLE WITH UNSYMPATHETIC GENITALS.

5. SAMPSON WAS A STRONGMAN WHO LET HIM SELF BE LED ASTRAY BY A JEZEBEL LIKE DELILAH.

6. SAMSON SLAYED THE PHILISTINES WITH THE AXE OF THE APOSTLES.

7. MOSES LED THE JEWS TO THE RED SEA WHERE THEY MADE UNLEAVENED BREAD WHICH IS BREAD WITHOUT ANY INGREDIENTS .

8. THE EGYPTIANS WERE ALL DROWNED IN THE DESSERT. AFTER WARDS, MOSES WENT UP TO MOUNT CYANIDE TO GET THE TEN COMMANDMENTS.

9. THE FIRST COMMANDMENTS WAS WHEN EVE TOLD ADAM TO EAT THE APPLE.

10. THE SEVENTH COMMANDMENT IS THOU SHALT NOT ADMIT ADULTERY.

11. MOSES DIED BEFORE HE EVER REACHED CANADA .. THEN JOSHUA LED THE HEBREWS IN THE BATTLE OF GERITOL.

12. THE GREATEST MIRICLE IN THE BIBLE IS WHEN JOSHUA TOLD HIS SON TO STAND STILL AND HE OBEYED HIM.

13. DAVID WAS A HEBREW KING WHO WAS SKILLED AT PLAYING THE LIAR. HE FOUGHT THE FINKELSTEINS, A RACE OF PEOPLE WHO LIVED IN BIBLICAL TIMES.

14. SOLOMON, ONE OF DAVIDS SONS, HAD 300 WIVES AND 700 PORCUPINES.

15. WHEN MARY HEARD SHE WAS THE MOTHER OF JESUS, SHE SANG THE MAGNA CARTA.

16. WHEN THE THREE WISE GUYS FROM THE EAST SIDE ARRIVED THEY FOUND JESUS IN THE MANAGER.

17. JESUS WAS BORN BECAUSE MARY HAD AN IMMACULATE CONTRAPTION.

18. ST. JOHN THE BLACKSMITH DUMPED WATER ON HIS HEAD.

19. JESUS ENUNCIATED THE GOLDEN RULE, WHICH SAYS TO DO UNTO OTHERS BEFORE THEY DO ONE TO YOU. HE ALSO EXPLAINED A MAN DOTH NOT LIVE BY SWEAT ALONE.

20. IT WAS A MIRICLE WHEN JESUS ROSE FROM THE DEAD AND MANAGED TO GET THE TOMBSTONE OFF THE ENTRANCE.

21. THE PEOPLE WHO FOLLOWED THE LORD WERE CALLED THE 12 DECIBELS.

22. THE EPISTELS WERE THE WIVES OF THE A POSTLES.

23. ONE OF THE OPPOSSUMS WAS ST. MATTHEW WHO WAS ALSO A TAXIMAN.

24. ST. PAUL CAVORTED TO CHRISTIANITY, HE PREACHED HOLY ACRIMONY WHICH IS ANOTHER NAME FOR MARRAIGE.

25. CHRISTIANS HAVE ONLY ONE SPOUSE . THIS IS CALLED MONOTONY.

Explains a lot...doesn't it?!

Standing Together

2008-04-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

DO NOT read this post if you are in a hurry or if you are looking for a "light" read.

My intellectual self has always been aware of the fact that women often do not get a fair shake.

Women work harder for less. The careers that have been historically female do not garner the same earning power as the careers that have been historically male. Men seem to get more recognition for being good fathers than women get for being good mothers – it is somehow expected that women will mother well given their “natural” proclivity toward nurturing, whereas a nurturing man is perceived as an anomaly. Hillary gets called Hillary while Barrack gets called Obama.

I could go on, but you get the point. I have not been oblivious to the “plight” of women. Intellectually.

Emotionally. That’s another story. I just wasn’t there.

And it’s not because I have never experienced the subtle (and not so subtle) discrimination against women. I’ve been talked down to in all matters involving cars and power tools. I bore the brunt of the blame for the failure of my marriage – a stay-at-home mother should be able to manage to keep her home intact, after all, what else does she have to do? I’ve been asked why I don’t wear more form fitting clothes so that I can “show off” my body or “put on my face” before I go out in public. I’ve heard teachers make excuses for the behavior of boys because “boys will be boys” while girls get reprimanded for the very same behaviors.

Yes, these things disturbed me. They bothered me enough that I have talked often with my children about equal rights, their right to be treated as a human being and not ranked according to gender. But I have never been red-in-the-face-shake-my-fist-curse-the-injustice-of-it-all angry.

Until I learned about the Second Congo War. It has been characterized as the deadliest conflict since the end of World War II. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
I hadn’t.
A friend opened my eyes by forwarding me this 60 Minutes video.

Then I read this.

And this.

Rape has always been a factor of war. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, rape has become the preferred weapon of war. Women and girls, some as young as 14 months, are being brutalized. Families and communities are held at gunpoint, forced to witness this horrific act of violence being perpetrated on the women they love. Physically, the women are left HIV infected or suffering from fistulae or pregnant or all three. Often they are ostracized – children cannot take food from their mothers who are now “unclean”. Husbands abandon their families either because their “woman” has been with another man or because they are so broken at their inability to protect their families that they simply cannot face them anymore.

This is the systematic annihilation of a society through the destruction of its women.

Why should we care?

In the face of unspeakable horror, these women go on. They are strong. They will not allow their abusers to destroy them, their families nor their communities.

I am humbled by these women.
I admire these women.
I will help these women.

Women For Women International works to help these women rebuild their lives, to rise, like phoenix, from the ashes. Run For Congo Women events are staged in many communities in the US. This year’s Portland run is scheduled for September 14tn. If running is not your thing, sponsor a runner. If sponsoring a runner feels too removed, sponsor a Congolese woman. There are many ways that we can become involved.

Do not ignore these women. They deserve more. So do you.

Labels

2008-04-18T08:49:00.000-07:00

I am struggling with words.
Specifically, words to define the men in my life for people who don’t know them.

Patrick is “my children’s father”. I try not to use the term “ex-husband”.
“Ex” feels dismissive. Cut off. Separate.
While I realize that I divorced him exactly so I could feel that way, I also realize that my children did not divorce him and do not want to feel that way.
My children love their father and he loves them. Labeling him “my children’s father” takes my relationship with Patrick out of the picture and puts the spotlight where it should be, on my children’s relationship with their father. That is the relationship that matters now, the relationship that needs to be nurtured.
However, it feels awkward when I describe him that way to a new acquaintance precisely because of the fact that it doesn’t address my relationship with him. I find that I often want to tack on some kind of qualifier that explains that we used to be married but are married no longer. I know that urge says more about my discomfort at being “left out” of the picture than it does about anyone else’s need to know “the rest of the story”, and that pettiness bothers me.

Then there is “the man that I am dating”.
What do I call him?
“Boyfriend” is too high school. Besides, I like to think I am dating a “man” not a “boy”.
My mother asked if we were “going steady”. Going steady?! That sounds both high school and hopelessly out of touch with the 21st century.
“Well,” I replied, tersely addressing her underlying question, “neither of us is dating other people.”
People at work use the term “partner”. That strikes me as being at once too cold and too intimate.
I grew up in an era when “partner” was a reference used for a business relationship. My relationship with this man is definitely more personal than that.
On the flip side, “partner”, to me, implies a relationship akin to marriage and I am certainly not ready to take that step.
I could just go with “friend”, and sometimes, I do. But then I get the “Oh, is he your “special” friend?” remarks.
And so I’m stuck with calling him, “the man that I’m dating”, which seems like too many words and not enough feeling.

And I know that it’s all just semantics. That it really doesn’t matter. Except…words matter.

My Pond

2008-04-12T22:40:00.000-07:00

As a stay-at-home mother, my world revolved around my children and my home. The issues on which I focused were the issues that directly affected my small, little corner of the pond.
I worried about the schools my children attended and the neighborhood in which we lived.
I did my part for the environment – I recycled, paid extra for renewable energy and donated to the Sierra Club. I volunteered in classrooms, lobbied for school funding and was active in our church community.
I lived my life in a tight circle, the boundaries of which had been clearly defined for me.

As my children grew older, I realized that the limits that had been placed on me were beginning to limit my children as well.
And I realized that the dynamics of my marriage did not allow me to be both a good wife and a good mother.

Forced to make a choice, I chose my children.

It was not a popular choice.
Prevailing “wisdom” said that divorce was the worst possible thing I could do to my children.
Inner wisdom told me otherwise.
Still, leaving was not easy. I had to fight my way out, but my marriage had sucked me dry of the strength I needed to leave. And so, I relied on the strength of friends. Friends who loved me and supported me, who fought for me and held up the light so I could see in the darkness through which I needed to travel.

That experience led me to the work I do in support of women.
This has opened up a brand new world for me. It is a world that reaches far beyond the narrow confines in which I used to live.

It is a bigger world, with bigger realities.
It has more beauty, and it also has more ugliness, both of which have come crashing in to my life with the force of a tsunami.

And as my little pond fills with water, I am forced to swim to stay afloat in my ever expanding universe.

Some days, I feel as though I am drowning.
Some days, I am a water polo player, buoyed up, working with the water and possessing the strength to lift my body into the air so that I can slam the ball into the goal for a SCOOOORRE!

I am grateful for both kinds of days.

I grow stronger on the days that I keep from drowning.
And my water polo days…ah…those days are simply glorious!

Rio

2008-04-06T14:47:00.000-07:00

She is old. My dog.

Her hair is long and shaggy, white, with black spots. Her “papers” say she is a “Springer mix”.

She became a part of our family in the summer of ’95, when she was two-years old. We had been talking about getting a dog for about a year and looking for a dog for a few months.
A dog, not a puppy.
With three children, I already had enough potty training and obedience lessons in my life.
We visited pet stores and private residences and the Humane Society. We scoured the newspapers and we talked to friends. We visited countless dogs. They were too big or too small, too jumpy or too noisy, too young or too old.

Rio found us on our third visit to the Humane Society. She was looking for a family that was not too big or too small, too jumpy or too noisy, too young or too old.
She chose us for the exact reasons we chose her.

Walking through the kennels at the Humane Society was deafening. The sight of humans set the dogs to barking and jumping, clamoring for attention.
“Pick me! Buy me! Want me!” they all begged. Loudly.

All except Rio. She was a lady.
She sat patiently in her kennel. Waiting.
Waiting for her perfect family to come along and find her.

OS noticed her first. He pointed at her and looked up at me with question and excitement in his eyes.

The day before we had visited with a Gordon setter named Everett. He had decided that OS was the perfect chew toy and that OD was the perfect jumping post. His antics had confirmed for us what we didn’t want.

Rio was the perfect anti-Everett. The perfect dog for us.

Before we had even left the pound, she had burrowed her way into our hearts. That day we grew from a family of five to a family of six.

For the past 13 years, Rio has graced our family with love and patience and peace. In an effort to compensate for the almost daily vacuuming required for the copious amounts of fur she sheds, Rio generously pitched in to help with family chores by being the official plate pre-rinser. She has also shared her superlative foot warming skills with cold toes on wet winter nights.

But lately, things have changed.
She has lumps that squish and bumps that ooze.
Her body’s urge to eliminate has overcome her mind’s ability to control the process.
Her soft brown eyes are clouded over with a silver haze.
My voice is no longer a part of her world and when she strays too far, she cannot hear me calling for her to return.
She chooses to live in the garage. The house is no longer a place of comfort to her.

I want to put her out of her misery.

And yet, when I take her in for her check-up, the vet says, “She has old dog lungs, but her heart is nice and strong.”
When I ask about the lumps and bumps, she says, “Oh, that’s to be expected with this breed of dog. They don’t bother her and they’re not cancerous.”
The eyes, the ears, the incontinence…all to be expected in a dog “this age.”

Rio, apparently, is perfectly happy. She rules her world from the garage, where she has easy access to outside and a comfy cave under the stairs. When the backyard beckons, the cool grass aching to be rolled in, the plum tree eager to provide a shady respite, Rio has the power to answer the call, or ignore it.

After visiting the vet, I realize that I want to put Rio out of my misery.
I am the one who perceives Rio’s life as miserable. Not Rio.

I have always been told that dogs are social animals that relish the companionship of their people. My dogs, therefore, have always been an integral part of the family.
When Rio started having issues with incontinence, I started putting her in the garage when everyone was gone and bringing her back inside when we got home. One day, though, Rio didn’t want to come back inside. I left the garage door open for her, so she could come back in when she was ready. Many months later, she still is not ready.

At this point in her life, she does not appear to need the constant reassurance of our love for her. She has lived with us long enough to know that we love her.

Apparently, what Rio wants is the freedom to make her own choices and the quiet and solitude she has earned after a lifetime of often chaotic, togetherness.

I will love her enough to give her this.

Girl Talk

2008-04-01T19:09:00.000-07:00

I flee from my house, eager to get back to work and the predictability of emergency services. I realize that I will have to talk with OS when I get home. I know I should have done so before I left, but the shock of Elizabeth’s blinding smile wiped my mind clean of the ability to form words. When I finally regain the ability to speak, all I can do is apologize for the mess in the basement and mumble something about needing to get back to the office.

In the car, my mind is a jumble of questions.

Would OS have told me about his friend if I hadn’t come home? Why was she there? Why have I never met her before? Wow, she sure was cute, wasn’t she? What were they doing? Should I have made her leave when I left? There is no way any messing around could have been going on with eight fourth graders running around the house playing hide-and-seek, was there?

Mostly I wonder, how did my children get so old so fast?

It is difficult to concentrate at work. I fluctuate between wanting to laugh out loud and wanting to take OS and thump him on his incredibly dense little head.
Answering crisis calls and writing a letter for a participant serve as good distractions, forcing thoughts of home to the back of my mind. There, in the deep recesses, my agitated thoughts finally rest in the cobwebs that blanket important facts, stored long ago, for safekeeping.

Returning back home at 5:45, I find that work has provided just the respite I needed to put things in perspective. It has also given my children time to clear out all extraneous people.
This evening, in stark contrast to earlier in the day, the house is a virtual catacomb and I shake the walls awake as I slam the door behind me with a bang.
“Hello,” I yell, cocking my head to the side and waiting for three echoes to be returned to me. I am not disappointed. YD’s distracted “hello” floats down the stairs, YS’ “hello” bounces in front of him as he bounds into the living room and throws his arms around me in an exuberant hug, and OS’ “hello” crawls from the basement as though just waking from a hazy dream.
“Hey, sweetie,” I say to the top of YS’ head. I know that my days of seeing the top of this head, are numbered and that, too soon, our roles will be reversed and YS will be looking at the top of my head. I grab the opportunity to give him an extra little kiss and tousle his soft brown hair.
He smiles indulgently at me before he dashes off to resume his Lego creation.

I head downstairs.
Time for “The Talk”.

I find OS sitting on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, effectively restricting access to the other side of the room. His thumbs dance nimbly over the video game controls as his player executes the perfect slam-dunk, complete with a 360 spin move.
He makes no indication that he has noticed me.

I wait.
He pauses the game and looks at me with eyes filled with equal parts interest and annoyance.

“When you have a minute, I’d like to talk with you,” I say to him, trying for a tone that casual yet serious, hoping that his available minute will be sometime in the future so that I can postpone the inevitable.

He calls my bluff.
“I have a minute.” As he speaks, he checks the TV screen to make sure that the game is, indeed, on pause.
“I wanted to talk with you about this afternoon,” I begin.
OS shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of where I am going to go with this conversation. He says nothing.
“Thanks for introducing me to Elizabeth.”

He nods.

“I kind of got the impression that I only found out she was here was because I stopped by.”

He nods again.

“I am responsible for the people in this house,” I remind him, “so I really need to know who is here.”
“I know. Sorry.” OS looks appropriately contrite.

“Of course, it goes without saying that I expect you to keep your clothes on when you’re with a girl.”

OS is shocked into silence.

“You did keep your clothes on!”

“Muh-mee!”

I’ve done this teenaged thing before. I know better than to let that question go unanswered. I also know that I need to keep it light, so I smile and chuckle, “Well?”

He nods.
I confirm, “You both kept your clothes on?”

He nods.

Question number one asked and answered.
I move on.

“And…having a girl come to visit, by herself, when there is no adult around, is really not a good idea.”

Nothing.
I keep going.

“I didn’t let OD have a boy over when I was out, I won’t let YD have a boy over when I am out, so it doesn’t seem fair for me to let you have a girl over when I am out.”
OS nods and shrugs his shoulders, which I take as a sign that he agrees.
“It’s just not a good idea to be alone with a girl. You don’t want to get yourself in a situation where it is difficult for you to say “no”.”

So far, I’m feeling pretty good about our “talk”. I rehearsed this part several times with my oldest daughter when she and I discussed boys. This is the standard, unisex, opposite sex talk.
But now. I must move into unfamiliar territory, the talking-to-a-son-about-girls territory. I hesitate as I try to form my thoughts into coherent sentences.

OS waits.

“Also, you don’t want to be in a position you have to defend yourself against false accusations, where a girl can say something happened, even if it didn’t.”

There is a vivid picture in my mind of exactly what I am trying to say – a shameless hussy, “in trouble”, falsely accusing my “nice guy” son in order to protect a boy who has been less than honorable.
My words get in the way.
I wish I could hook my brain up to a video camera. I want to project the movie I am seeing in my mind onto the TV screen so OS can see what I see.
I can’t, so I stumble on.

“You need to make sure that you always have someone who can back you up – who can verify your story.”

OS maintains eye contact, but says nothing.

I realize that I am making women sound manipulative and patently untrustworthy. This is not the message I am trying to give to my son, but I do need to make sure that he is aware of the entire spectrum of possibilities.

I add a clumsy disclaimer.
“Which is not to say that any of the girls you know would ever do anything like that…you just need to be careful. You have things you want to do and places you want to go and you don’t want to mess that up.”

My conversation with OS is turning into a monologue.

“And, of course, you know that “no” means “no”, right?!”

OS nods and rolls his eyes.

“No. I mean, “no” means “NO”. If a girl says “no” at the beginning of the evening, it means “no” for the rest of the time you are with her.”
I pause, waiting for a response.
I get none.
I plow forward.

“Even if she starts kissing on you later in the evening, her “no” from earlier is still in effect.”

I look at OS.
He looks away.
I press on.

“Even if she said “yes”. If she changes her mind and says “no”, it means “no”.

OS looks as if he wants for put his fingers in his ears and hum “lalalala” at the top of his lungs in order to drown out the sound of my voice.

I speak up a little.

“Even if you have already started something, “no” means “no”, no matter what point you are at.”

OS’ face tells me that I have gone beyond the bounds of decency, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do to make me stop.

I show mercy.
He’s had enough.

“Anyway,” I say, switching abruptly to a light, casual tone, “just wanted to put that out there…just so you know, and so I know that you know.”

OS nods.

“For now,” I finish, “I think it is just best if you hang out with girls in a group.”

OS unclenches his jaws.
I kiss the top of his head.

“I love you, honey.”
OS sighs.
“I love you too, Mummy.”

Surprise

2008-03-30T15:30:00.000-07:00

My children were all home for Spring Break.
I wasn’t.
I had to work.

Thursday, I had a meeting. It was near the house, so I stopped by on my way back to the office.
I parked my car out in front and walked up the driveway toward the house. I was smiling to myself, anticipating the big hug I would get from YS and the slouching “Waddup, Mummy?” I would get from YD, my wannabe homey. OS, recovering from oral surgery, would be holed up in the basement, a bit fogged in from the pain medications.
I climbed the front steps and marveled again at the fabulous job YS had done cleaning the porch for the Easter Bunny.

I reached for the knob and found the door locked. I made a mental note to give my children a pat on the back for remembering to lock the front door and I gave myself a gentle reprimand for leaving my house keys in the car.

As I reached up to knock, I peered through the front door glass. Peering back at me were four eyes belonging to two children that did not belong to me. The girl, with straight blond hair and blue eyes, became frantic, first reaching to unlock the door, then backing away, back and forth, back and forth. The boy, with short brown hair and root beer brown eyes stood stock still, frozen in the middle of the living room, staring at me.
I tried to direct the girl, “Turn the lock that way,” I yelled through the door, pointing toward the right.
The girl was a fistful of thumbs, unable to master the deadbolt.

I started knocking on the window again.
Finally, I saw the familiar face of YS round the corner into the living room. He was trailed by two of our neighbor boys, one of whom is his best friend. He face lit up when he saw me and he raced to the door to let me in.
“Mummy!” he smiled as he threw his arms around my hips in a big hug and lifted me off the floor.

This is one of his favorite “tricks”. He is proud of the fact that he has been strong enough to lift me off the ground since he was in the second grade. This year, he has learned to stagger walk with me in his arms, my toes dangling just inches off the ground and my head towering two feet over him.

YS put me down and, just as the chaos in the living room was subsiding, a new commotion was erupting in the kitchen. We moved as a unit toward the kitchen where we discovered someone trapped in the bathroom. The pocket door was rattling and a small voice was yelling, “HELP!”

“Just a minute, sweetie,” I yelled back, racing madly for the tool drawer to grab a screwdriver. I discovered a flashlight, matches, curtain rings and miscellaneous screws, hair bobs, a hammer, a pencil and three pens, clothespins, string and a broken candy cane, a box of keys that unlock nothing, a padlock, with no key and a whistle. What I could not find, is a screwdriver.

In my mind, I was flailing and cursing the person who “borrowed” my screwdriver, but my unflappable mama exterior held the frantic in check and I calmly yelled to the bathroom door, “Hold on, honey, I’m still looking!”

I went clattering down to the basement, thinking perhaps one of the people we have working on the “remodel” might have left behind a screwdriver. The room was dark and there was a movie playing on the TV screen. I could see OS’ head peeking up over the top of the couch on the other side of the room. He twisted his head slowly up and around so he could see me out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, hey Mummy,” he mumbled lazily. “I…”

“I’ll come talk to you in a minute,” I snapped, cutting him off. “I need to find screwdriver. Somebody is locked in the bathroom.”
“Isn’t there supposed to be one in the drawer in the kitchen?” he asked in the superior tone of a teenager who knows everything.
“Yes!” My exasperation threw the word at him with the force of a missile.

Shaking my head, I went back to my search. I found sawdust, nails, a compressor, lumber and electric wiring hanging from the ceiling, but no screwdriver.

Back upstairs.

YS was crouching by the bathroom door, the neighbors and two strangers huddled behind him, watching. With the skill of a surgeon, YS was wiggling a screwdriver the size of a matchstick between the door and the jamb.
“Got it!” he yelled with pride.

The door slid open.

Instead of the one child I expected, three children tumbled out into the kitchen. Freed from their bathroom prison and their panic at being trapped, the children began talking all at once, eager to be the first child who got to tell the story.
The largest girl, one whom I recognized at a classmate of YS’, won. The other children gathered around her as she recounted the tale of her imprisonment; the two who had been with her nodded vigorously, adding details as necessary.

YS detached himself from the crowd. “Mummy, did you see how I did that?” he asked, eyes round and glowing. “I jiggled it up, like this,” he explained, grasping the tiny screwdriver tightly between his thumb and fore finger, “and it pushed the latch up, like this.”
“I missed it, honey,” I said as I shook my head with honest regret. “It was clever of you to think of that. I was looking for the big screwdriver so I could turn the lock screw from the outside.”
“Yeah, well, I just thought I’d try this while you were looking…and it worked!” YS explained. YS has always been mindful of the feelings of others, and I could tell that he was trying to protect my feelings by downplaying his ingenuity. He turned to rejoin the crowd, and I looked for his sister.

YD was sitting calmly at the kitchen table, working on the Sudoku. I beckoned for her,

Rising, she slouched toward me.
“I thought you were only babysitting two people,” I began, in a tone that came out sounding slightly accusatory.
“I am!” she responded, Valley Girl accent and teenaged attitude meshing perfectly with the hand placed oh so emphatically on the hip.
“And…” I paused, gesturing at the eight fourth graders who were now dispersing toward the living room.
“Well, M called and YS invited her over to play and she brought all those other kids with her.” YD looked at me and I could see the wheels turning in her mind as she quickly calculated the effect her words were having. Realizing that, as the “responsible” party I had left in charge for the day, she was still in the hole, she added, …and he didn’t even ask me, and they all just showed up.”
“Does M’s mother know that there is no adult here?”
“Uh…no,” YD admitted. “But it’s actually easier with all of them than it was with just the three boys.”
Ignoring her rationalization, I continued, “Do you think that perhaps it would have been a good idea to let her know?’
“Well…I guess.”
“Do you think it would be a good idea to call her now?”
“Uh…yeah.”
I stepped back, raised my eyebrows and gestured toward the phone. YD didn’t move a muscle. “Yeah, but you’re here now,” she pouted.

YD hates the phone. Even when her friends call, she cuts the conversation short, trying to get rid of the phone more quickly than she would a burning piece of coal.

“You could just call when you leave,” she suggested, pursing her lips in a mock frown and working to perfect a look that is the perfect combination of pathetic yet beguiling.
She nailed it and I agreed to make he call.

As it turned out though, neither of us had to make the call as the game of hide-and-seek had ended and the mystery children banged out the front door and headed back down the street to the neighbor’s house.

YS and the boys YD was babysitting stayed behind.
I pulled YS aside and sternly reminded to him that he cannot invite people over without checking with me first.

Chaos cleared, I grabbed an apple and got ready to head back to work, when I heard a bump at the top of the basement stairs, OS appeared.
Oops. I had forgotten that he had wanted to tell me something earlier.

“Uh…Mummy?” he began, fumbling for words. “Uh…you like to know when someone is at the house…uh…so…uh…this is Elizabeth.”

A beautiful curly haired brunette with a Pepsodent white smile and a shy, “Hi,” rounded the corner.

Oy!! This parenting stuff is not for the faint of heart!

Forgiveness

2008-03-25T17:56:00.000-07:00

Over at Fully Caffeinated, Carrie brought up the issue of forgiveness. Coincidentally, I have been struggling with this issue.
A lot.
What does it mean to forgive?

As a mother, I forgive regularly and often.
It's easy.
I love my children.

Unconditionally.

I have forgiven them for the little things: the unmade beds, the rooms knee deep in clothes, both clean and dirty, that apparently, leap unbidden, from the chests of drawers and closets, the bathroom sink artfully decorated with green toothpaste spit.

The repeated daily offenses that require little, repeated daily forgiveness.
Petty nuisances that require constant nagging but require neither relationship repair nor restoration of trust.

I have forgiven them for the big things: the sticky fingers that somehow removed items from the store without first removing money from a wallet, the cheating at school, the overt and physical disrespect.

The one-time doosies that require big, God-love forgiveness.
Severe blows that require compassion and understanding and break the heart, increasing its capacity to love and accept.

I can do this.
I have done this.
I will continue to do this.

Not forgiving is not an option.

Then there is forgiveness for a friend.

I had a friend, a “best” friend, who judged me and found me wanting.
The Puanani she needed was different from the Puanani I was capable of being and, I think, different from the Puanani I wanted to be. This difference was unacceptable to my friend and she chose to severe our relationship.
Abruptly.

I was angry and hurt.
But, she was angry and hurt too.

She had been a friend who had gone above and beyond for me. She helped me to maintain my equilibrium during my divorce, at a time when I was teetering precariously on the edge of sanity. She had a certain vision of how my life would look after balance was restored. She expected me to have that same vision; after all, we had become like sisters, able to complete each other’s sentences and feel each other’s emotions.
We were of one mind...until we weren't. When my own was fully restored to me, I found that we did not always want the same things nor did we share the same vision. This hurt my friend and she was angry.

I could understand her feelings.
I forgave her and waited for her to forgive me.

A couple of weeks ago, she mailed me a note. It feels as though she has forgiven me.

Yet, when she asked if we could get together, my answer was "no".

I see no point. Rehashing the past would simply tear open old wounds and expose raw nerves.
I cannot mold myself to fit her image of who I should be – being her friend would require that I not be me. And, being my friend would require a change on her part that she cannot make. So I choose not to resume this friendship.

Some would say that this means that I have not truly forgiven her. I disagree.
I have.
I have also recognized the fact that we have chosen different paths, paths that have diverged, like a fork in a river. Coming together now would require damming that fork, leaving one side dry and barren, devoid of the life it once knew, and the other filled beyond its capacity, overflowing its boundaries and flooding the banks.
I do not want to be a raging river nor do I want to be a dry creek bed.
I do not want to alter my course. Luckily, forgiveness does not require that I do.

Forgiveness for Patrick, my children’s father, falls in another category.
Clearly, we did not love each other unconditionally.
Our marriage fell apart after being together for twenty-three years. I thought I knew this man, and I think he thought he knew me. Both of us were surprised by how little we really knew.

Our divorce proceedings were long and ugly.
Forgiveness and compassion were nonexistent.

Understanding…I had that.
I understood how he could feel hurt and angry. And so, I would try to forgive him. And just when I would get close to finding that forgiveness, he would reach into my chest.
Again.
And rip out my heart.
Again.
And stomp all over it.
Again.
Hard.

And I couldn’t, and still can’t, get away from him. He is inexorably twisted into the fiber of my life. I cannot say, as I did with my friend, “no”. He is a nagging itch under my skin that will not go away.

Sometimes, our relationship is better than others. Last Christmas, it felt as though we were on the brink of becoming friends. It passed. In January, we were back to sitting on opposite sides of the gym, resenting that we both had to breathe the same air.

Having him in my life requires almost daily forgiveness. The great big God-love forgiveness. And he is not my child, and sometimes, I don’t feel like forgiving him and I don’t want to forgive him and I resent that I feel like I should forgive him because he doesn’t deserve it, and he hasn’t forgiven me, and…just because.

I do know that when I am able to forgive him, I feel better. That sour taste, the alum in my mouth feeling that sucks the moisture out of my mouth while simultaneously causing me to salivate the way one does right before one throws up…that feeling goes away.
I also know that sometimes, forgiving him just takes more effort than I have in me.

But I want peace.
I know that forgiveness will give me peace.
And so I struggle with it.

I struggle with forgiveness.

What it means to forgive.
How to forgive.

6 Words

2008-03-21T20:05:00.000-07:00

Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are all extremely busy. In order to make their lives a little easier, I have often volunteered to do some of the leg work for them.

This year, the Easter Bunny asked that I research books that might be appropriate to include in my children's Easter baskets and to make recommendations. In the past, I have been able to plumb the depths of my memory to come up with several good suggestions. This year, my memory banks are frighteningly bare. The recesses of my mind, which should be filled with useful information, instead feel as though they are sucked dry, swept by tumbleweeds and sun parched wind.

Unwilling to admit defeat to my favorite of bunnies, I jumped on line and began perusing the stacks at powellsbooks.com. I was able to find several good choices, which I have passed along to the Bunny so that she can make her selection.

In the search process, I came across a book entitled Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure.

Interesting.

It got me to thinking about my six words. I could feel them bubbling, prickling my consciousness, until they burst forth in an explosion of light.

Plagued by miracles and blessed mistakes.

What are your six words?

Sisters

2008-03-20T06:58:00.000-07:00

It was August of 2001 and we were vacationing in Northern California with my sister and her family. After a lazy afternoon spent reading books and playing board games, my sister and I decided to go for a brisk walk down to the beach before addressing dinner. Joined by our gaggle of children, we donned our jackets and headed out the door.

The wind danced through the long golden grasses as we walked down a path of rippled sunshine. The children led the way, their walking sticks in the air, batons meting out the rhythm of our parade. My sister and I played the caboose.

We stopped when we reached the bluff overlooking the ocean. Gnarled gray trees stood sentry, their roots clinging steadfastly to the hardened earth. Far below, the sea undulated gently and the salt air rose to welcome us in her warm embrace. Out on the rocks, a lone sea lion lifted his chest to the sky and bellowed. My oldest daughter, OD, stood stock-still. “Shhh,” she commanded, “he’s talking to me.”

“What is he saying?” I asked, intrigued by her ability to understand his wild barking.
She closed her eyes and smiled, softly shaking her head, “it’s a secret.”
I watched her savor the moment as it settled in her soul. I wondered what seed had just been planted and I wondered if I would notice when it grew.

We continued on our journey, each lost in quiet contemplation. A thin black garter snake slithered between our feet and darted under an ancient graying log that lay sheltered under the wind swept branches of the evergreens. Flailing walking sticks and shrieking quickly replaced our silence, all of us scampering madly to avoid a snake that was already off the path and was clearly just eager to avoid us, as we were to avoid him. We dissolved into a comedy of keystone cops as we hopped and scuttled our way past the small stand of trees.

Moments later, we crossed a tiny wooden bridge that spanned a dry creek bed. The rocks below us were smooth, faded orbs shaded in grays and browns. Our feet clomped loudly over the weathered timbers.

“Who’s that tramping over my bridge?” boomed OD.
“It is I, the smallest Billy Goat Gruff,” responded my youngest daughter, YD, in her squeakiest and highest pitched voice. She clenched up her arms and her hands became tight fists as she spoke, trying to embody the most diminutive goat of the Gruff family.

My girls are separated by almost five years, yet at this moment, they are totally in synch with each other. I can see the tiny golden thread that each of them has cast out to the other. It will join with other random moments, twisting together and weaving the strong rope that will forever bind them together as sisters.

It has been a long road since that summer day. OD and YD have grown to be as different as marshmallows and brussel sprouts. They have often wondered to me how they could even be related. They have ignored each other, complained about each other and gone out of their way to be as unlike the other as they could be. They were not merely drifting apart; they were running as hard and as fast as they could in opposite directions.

It made me sad to see such a deep chasm grow between them. I wanted them to be the kind of sisters that my sisters and I weren’t. It seemed, however, that history was doomed to repeat itself

And then, in January, in the soggy, wet, miserable dead of winter, the sun rose and its warmth enveloped my daughters and their hearts began to thaw toward each other.

This winter, YD, a freshman in high school, needed a dress to wear to Winter Formal. I am NOT a shopper nor am I up to date on the latest fashion trends. YD knows this, she also knows that her sister is, so when I asked her if she would like me to check with her sister as to where to shop and what to buy, YD eagerly dialed the phone and handed it to me.

“Oooo!” OD squealed when I asked her advice, “can I take her shopping?” Her desire seemed genuine, but my daughters’ years of mutual misunderstandings made me hesitate.
“Pu-leeeez?!” she begged. “I know exactly where to take her.”
“Well…” I hedged.
Sensing a weakness, OD swooped in and took control, “How much do you want to spend? Ooo, and after we choose a dress, I can take her to Nordstrom for a make-over!”

YD, sitting next to me at the kitchen table, began to smile and her head started moving until she looked like a bobble head doll come to life in my kitchen.
OD was in her element. Fashion ideas were bubbling out of her. Her excitement was spilling through the phone and YD was lapping it up until the room was pulsing with anticipation.

We formulated a plan, and the next day, OD picked up YD after school and took her to the mall.
Two, over the top happy girls came home to me that evening, smiles big enough to bridge the Columbia River. They had found the perfect dress and had scored some fabulous samples at the make-up counter.
Most importantly, they had each found a new, tiny golden thread and both of my girls were busily weaving once again, strengthening the rope that would bind them together forever as sisters.

Ready to Sprout

2008-03-15T19:18:00.000-07:00

Just after I accepted my new job and before I had started, my mother called.
“How are you?” she asked, voice full of concern.
“Fabulous!” I reply, smiling. “Absolutely fabulous!”
“But you never call anymore,” she whines.
“And you never call anymore,” I echo.
“Well, I don’t want to be a nuisance…” her voice drops off as she lets her words hang precariously between us, waiting for me to reassure her that she could never be a nuisance.
Instead I laugh, “Oh, but you do it so well!”
Silence.
When I don’t rush to fill it, she does.
“It’s just that we worry about you.”
“Please don’t. I’ve asked you not to, and really, I’m fabulous.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
“Well…is anything new?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I got a job.”
“Really, doing what?”
“I’m going to be working with an outreach program, with survivors of domestic violence.”
“Oh. That’s just the sort of job that I’ve always said you should get. Counseling. Remember how I always said when you were married that you should go back to school and get a degree in counseling? Oh, that’s just your thing. Now I finally have something to tell my friends. They keep asking about you, you know, and I never have anything to tell them.” My mother’s voice is all bubbles and sunshine.
I try to match my voice to hers and smile, “So glad I was able to help you out.”
“Yes, well, you’ll call me if anything new happens, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll call you.”
“Okay then, cheery-bye.”

I hang up the phone and my mind is swirling.

When I was married, I had seriously considered going back to school to get a Masters in Social Work. Neither Patrick nor my mother thought it was a good idea. They were both very logical in their reasoning. I already had a full time job mothering. Besides, where would I get the money? You know, it costs money to raise four children. And why, for the love of God, would I ever want to get a Masters in Social Work? Why would I want to work with people who had problems?

And so, I backed down.
I knew that it was easier to stay malleable. To remain the blank slate so that others could write my story for me.
There was really no point in rocking a boat that was already plenty rocky on its own.

A week into my job, my mother called again. It’s a Sunday afternoon and I am busy scrambling to get all the shopping done before the children come home from their father’s house.

“How’s the job going?” she chirps into the phone.
“I’ve got a lot to learn, but it’s going really well.” I try to keep my answer short so that I can get off the phone as quickly as possible.
“All my friends are just so excited for you,” she gushes. “They all agree that counseling is just your thing.”
I try to bite my tongue, but the words escape before I can stop them. “I’m not really doing counseling,” I explain. “I’m working with people who are in violent domestic situations and who need help getting out. It’s more about listening and offering options.”
“Yes, well…counseling. That’s just your kind of thing.”
I give up. “I’m glad you approve,” I concede. “I remember when you thought working in social services would be a fate worse than death.”
“I never thought that!” My mother’s voice raises an octave as she vehemently disagrees with me.
“Yes you did,” I argue. “Remember when I said that I wanted to get an MSW? You thought that would be the worst idea in the world.”
“I NEVER said that! Why would I say such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh, tired of running in circles on the same wheel. “I think it had something to do with the sorts of people with whom I would be working.”
“Hmm,” my mother sniffs into the phone. “Well, my friends and I all think it’s just your sort job. I always knew you would be good in counseling.”

Last week, my mother and I revisited the subject.

“How’s the job?” she begins.
“Well, I still have it, I still like it and I still have a lot to learn.” I joke, bracing myself for the “counseling” dance that has become so familiar.
“Yes, well I’m sure that you will get it all soon. Counseling is your thing.”
I roll my eyes at the phone and get ready to launch into my standard rebuttal, but my mother rushes on before I can start.
“Actually, I’m calling you with egg on my face, begging a thousand pardons.” I think she is going for a tone that is contrite and I imagine her wringing her hands and forcing tears that well up and threaten to spill over her thick blond lashes.
“For what?” I ask, as I will away the sharpness that has formed at the edges of my voice.
“For what I said about you getting a Masters in Social Work. You were right. I think I was imagining you as the Social Worker of my youth. You know, the Cherry Ames sort of person who worked in the slums. That’s just not what I wanted for you.”

I am stunned!

My mother memories of the past have always been thickly laced with maple syrup.

She does not remember the mother that hit her children with yardsticks and hairbrushes. She does not recall the times that she “forgot” to pick me up, nor the cat fights we had in the front hall when I was seventeen, nor the eleven months of silent treatment she forced me to endure when I refused to move back home after college graduation.

Instead, she remembers the mother who volunteered at the local hospital and pulled strings to make sure that I would have around the clock nursing care after adenoid surgery, the mother who stood up to a teacher in defense of her daughter, the mother who went to every choir recital, the one who made sure that her children had the best of everything.

My mind is racing, searching for something to say. But I don’t know how to respond to this woman, this mother who suddenly seems to understand me.

My mother, apparently, doesn't notice my confusion and she races on, determined to finish what she has started. “...and I realize now that what I wanted, was beside the point.”
“It’s okay,” I finally stammer.
“No, it isn’t,” she argues softly. “What you needed was support…and I didn’t offer any. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, my vision blurred by gently falling tears that water the barren landscape of my thirsty heart.
“Yes, well then,” my mother’s voice is suddenly brisk as she rushes to avoid the awkward moment that hovers at the border of our conversation. “That’s all for now. Cheery-bye.”

Click.

And just like that, our phone call is over.
But the seed that has long been awaiting its chance to bloom has been tended. Weeds have been cleared and the soil has been moistened. It remains to be seen whether or not it will blossom, but clearly, it is ready to sprout.

Silent Sorrow

2008-03-13T19:53:00.000-07:00

I want to dance in the arms of my grandfather
To smell the maile that rises from his breath
I want to hear the words that he was forced to swallow
That strangled his soul and buried our song
I want to ease my grandfather’s sorrow

I want to free my father to his heritage
To give honor to the names and the places that have haunted him
Ancestral memories that have sucked the light
Pushing him into the shadows of unspoken shame

I want to understand the ghosts that have caressed my dreams
Growing more insistent with the years
Now frantically tugging me out of my sleepy stupor
Propelling me into my unknown past
With ragged whispers

I want to bless my children with the beauty of their birthright
To weave meaning from the confusion of familial pride
I want to give them the voice of my grandfather
The melody that seeps from their souls
Giving rhythm to the beating of our hearts

Marching With the Saints

2008-03-08T16:12:00.000-08:00

My youngest son, YS, starts school half an hour after his siblings, so this morning, after I have safely deposited his brother and sister at their respective schools, he and I are home alone.

He is in the living room and I am in the kitchen. I hear him take out his guitar and begin playing “When the Saints Go Marching In”.

“How was that, Mummy?” he calls from behind the two walls that separate us.

“Perfect!” I yell back as I stuff cold pepperoni pizza into a sandwich bag for his lunch.

“Wait, wait. I’m coming in there. I’ll play and you sing. Okay?”

He thumps loudly across the floor as he makes his way into the kitchen. At nine, his feet are almost the same size as his eighteen year-old sister’s, although he is still a good foot shorter than she. He has yet to figure out how to maneuver these massive boats that have suddenly grown on the ends of his legs, and they get in his way when he pulls out the kitchen chair. He trips and his guitar twangs loudly and bangs against the table.

“Careful!” slips automatically between my lips, rushing to place some sort of magic shield around the guitar to protect it from the exuberance of my budding guitar protégée.

A cloud passes briefly over my son’s face. He breathes deeply and rolls his eyes so far back in his head that the irises threaten to disappear completely. I breathe and roll my eyes right back at him. With my mindless and annoying “careful” thus noted, we are now freed to move on.

YS settles his guitar in his lap and drapes his right arm over the top. He is barely big enough for the instrument, and the curve of the guitar’s body nestles snuggly in his armpit. His left fingers deftly find the proper fret and his right index finger begins to pluck at the strings.
I stand watching with a proud mother smile plastered across my face, while a tingle of joy sparks in my chest and expands in echoes until it bursts through my skin.

The music suddenly stops. My son’s fingers dangle loosely in front of the strings.
“Muh-meee!” He inhales deeply with the first syllable and forcefully exhales the latter, throwing my name across the room with the explosive breathing of a bellows.

“Wha-hut?!” I blow back to him.

“You’re supposed to be singing!”

“You’re right,” I admit. “Sorry. Can you start again? I’ll be ready this time.”

YS sighs, the breath coming all the way from his toes, and begins strumming.

“Oh when the saaa-ints…..go mar-chhhing iiiin….oh when the saaaa-ints….gooo...mar-chhh-ing iiin,” I warble, dragging out the words so I can keep time with his notes.

We march haltingly through the song.
Our version is, by no means, the “standard” version of the song. The rhythm is hesitant and the words are slightly off key, but when we finish, it is as though all the saints that have ever graced this earth, have marched right through our kitchen and I can feel the blessings that each and every one of them has bestowed upon us.

YS is beaming. “No mistakes!” he says with pride. “And you knew all the words!” he adds, letting a little of his pride spill over onto me. “Wanna do it again?”
“You betcha! One more time, and then it’s off to school.”
We do an encore performance for ourselves and it feels just as good the second time through.

As we walk down the driveway and turn down the sidewalk toward school, YS reaches for my left hand and holds it firmly in his right. His hand is warmer than mine and that warmth spreads through my entire body. Although no words pass between us, we simultaneously begin lifting out knees high and our walking turns into marching, and, even though the guitar has stayed at home, we can feel the saints marching right along with us, all the way to school.

Time Redefined

2008-02-17T12:59:00.000-08:00

I’m not sure how you people do it.

After over eighteen years of being a stay-at-home mother, the transition to working mother is humbling! I am struggling with how to lop ten hours out of my day and still have time to do all the things that need to be done.

I know that I will get it figured out.

And, for the most part, I am enjoying the process of figuring it out.

It’s just…
WOW!
It feels as though I am sprinting while everyone else is on a Sunday stroll, and yet, I am falling farther and farther behind.

The first thing to go has been my “me time”.
Coffee dates with friends are a thing of the past. Now, when I drink coffee, I drink it alone. Often, I get so absorbed in work that by the time I am ready to drink my coffee, it is no longer hot.
Meeting for lunch. Gone. Lunch is a half an hour broken into five or ten minute increments during which I exchange the cold sludge in my mug for hot coffee or dash to the locksmith to get a copy of the front door key made so my children can get in the house without climbing over the back gate.
These “sacrifices” came as no surprise, but, I miss these times with my friends.

I tried exchanging lunch dates for dinner dates on the nights my children are with their father, but that hasn’t worked out so well. I’m an eight-hour a night kind of girl which means that if I’m not ready for bed by nine or ten, I’m wearing sandpaper eyelids for the next two days.

The “me time” thing I am missing the most is my four-plus day a week yoga routine that has dwindled to one class a week.

I miss yoga, and yet, I have consciously chosen not to go. I just cannot justify it to myself nor can I justify it to my children. I feel as though I am already away from them too much. Choosing to be at yoga for two hours rather than with my children just is not an option. Missing yoga is preferable to missing my children.

It was fine to leave my children at home and go off to do my own thing, when I spent time in their schools and I taxied them to and from practices and appointments and I molded my life to fit into theirs.
Now though, I am asking my children to adjust their lives to mine. They get up earlier, eat dinner later and spend the time in between being spectacularly independent.

When I worked from home, our time together was plentiful. I could, for the most part, be completely available to them whenever they needed me to be. I did the daily school drop-offs and pick-ups. I was available after school for homework help and snack making. I attended every single game, meet and performance.
I loved having that kind of time with my children. I loved it, but I’m afraid that I was also careless with it. In the back of my mind, I gave myself permission to miss moments because I knew that another one would be coming along right behind it and I could just grab that one.

Since starting work, I have not made it to a single of my daughter’s games. Homework help happens long after the time that heads should be filled with sweet dreams rather than questions about book reports and thesis statements.
The moments that took for granted are no longer a given. Accidental togetherness is rare.

And so, I have had to redefine “me time”.

Me time is now the precious moments that I get to spend with my children not away from them.
Adult time. That now happens at work.
My chores get done when the children are with their father. My children do their chores when I am at work.
Blogging happens in the time left over, meaning daily posts and jaunts through the blogoshpere are mere memories.

Keeping all these balls in the air is hard and the learning curve is steep.

I bow to all of the women who have managed to do this with such dignity and grace.
Thank you for proving to me that it is possible.

I Dated A Man

2008-02-14T22:16:00.000-08:00

I dated a man. Sweet man. Helpful man. Needy man.

He called one night. After three weeks of nothing.
I picked up the phone, even though caller ID warned me not to.
I couldn’t ignore it. I HAD to see what he was going to say.

“Hello?”
“Will you marry me?”
“What?!”
“You heard me…I want to marry you.”
“No, you don’t want to marry me AND we need to talk.”

There are so many things wrong with this conversation.

It doesn’t take a crystal ball to figure out that the rest of the conversation did not go much better. He did not call to listen to me; he called so that I could listen to him.

I’m good at that. Listening. So I listened and I soothed and I thought.

I thought about a conversation I had just had with my oldest daughter. The one where I told her that relationships should add to your life, not take away from your life. A good relationship makes you feel better, look better, be better. Not all the time, but most of the time, enough of the time to make it worth the effort.

My relationship with this man had lost most of the better.
When it was finally my turn to talk, I told him that.

I told him that one call a month cannot sustain a relationship.
He said he was sorry and he had been selfish. Then he pointed out that I had not called him either.
Classic turnabout tactic. Clearly he was listening when his coach taught him that the best offense is a good defense.
“Yes,” I responded, shutting my eyes so as to avoid seeing the brick wall against which I felt compelled to bang my head, “I didn’t call because, the last time we talked, you said that you would call me back as soon as you got out of the store.”
“You’re right, I did say that. I can’t remember why I didn’t call you. Something must have happened, a call from the kids or work or something. But I’ve been checking my phone for the last three weeks to see if you’d called, and you never did.”
Ah, he took lessons from my mother as well. Just keep repeating yourself, like a broken record. No matter what the other person says, just keep on repeating your main point. Don’t respond. Repeat.

I see that the conversation is going nowhere fast. But, what the heck, it felt so good to pound my head against that familiar brick wall, so I kept on going. “I’m tired of always being the one to call, so this time I waited.”
“You’re not always the one to call. I called you. Even though you didn’t call me for three weeks!”

And so it goes. Around and around. Until we can’t talk anymore. Until I get angry and he hangs up because “it’s pointless to talk angry”. He always says we’ll continue our conversation after we have “cooled down”. Of course we never do. By the time it’s time to talk, memory makes the conversation into an irrational discussion about who was supposed to call whom, which really doesn’t matter, and is not worth rehashing.

The deeper discussion, the part that gets buried under the rubble of a failed conversation, is lost.
This time, I think it’s best just to leave it there.
Leave it there and move on.
Without him.

I Am From

2008-02-11T05:45:00.000-08:00

I am from black sand beaches licked by warm purple seas, from stiff new Weejuns penny loafers and the Ko’olau Mountains wreathed in mists of the gods.

I am from picture posed houses, Daddy’s big squishy chair and the blue electric sizzle of termites greeting death in the bug light. From musty books and midnight rainstorms, ancient bullfrogs and proud roosters.

I am from the stiff lauhala tree, roots stacked like a bonfire, orange crepe paper ilima fashioned into lei, the rainbow halo of the full moon on a clear Hawaiian night. From creaking bamboo and the whisper of a carp tail breaking free from the water, buzzing mosquitoes and ducks nesting in trees.

I am from stockings before Mass on green Christmas mornings and too flat button noses. From Mollie and Kekaula and all the Kanamus, steadfast and prudent, holding tight to the land.

I am from the perfect family and secrets, in dark corners of basements. From hallways and pianos, frozen fragments of time, from lawnmower furrowed grass and tangerine trees.
I am from because I said so and troll hair unbound, dancing untamed. From a breath never exhaled and a prayer waiting to be granted.

I am from a crucifix strung from the rafters, incense jangled into smoke. From questions and white lace mantilla dusting brown braids pulled tight. I am from Our Father and dry wafers on moist tongues, alleluia and amen.
I am from ti leaf offerings of gin placed carefully to appease, from rocks stolen and returned, giving peace to a soul.

I'm from England and China, the Emerald Isle and the North American plains. I am from royalty of Hawai’i and Germany, lau lau and garlic crusted lamb chops.

I am from the Hawaiian boy in Boston on a corner in the snow, from the first and final stop of an adventure around the world, from the daughter left alone to wait for a miracle. I am from summers on the lake in Tennessee and kick the can in the dark of a neighborhood street. I am from chlorine and salt water, concrete and sand.

I am from the drumbeat of paddles on koa canoes and words stolen by strangers being reclaimed by fresh voices. I am from my grandfather, my grandchild, my inner child, my crone. I am from what has been and what is yet to come, from wisdom and faith.

Thank you Molly for the challenge.

Rules of the Game

2008-02-10T08:08:00.000-08:00

My youngest had a basketball game today.
They lost.
Again.
He felt discouraged.
Again.

The good news is that they only lost by five points today instead of by the twenty plus point losses they have been enduring all season.

Still, my boy walked back to the bench with his head hanging and his shoulders sagging.

I go over and give him a hug. “You played some really good defense today,” I say to the top of the sweaty head that is buried against my stomach.

A grumpy voice mumbles into my shirt, “I didn’t like the refs. Joe got fouled and they didn’t even call it.”

“Well,” I sigh, “that’s the thing about basketball. The refs are going to call it the way they see it, whether you agree with them or not. That’s their job. And what is your job?”

He takes a breath so deep that his shoulders lift. I can feel him rolling his eyes at me as he admits, “To be an athlete”.

“That’s right,” I nod, hugging him a little tighter. “And you did that really well today.”

“But we still lost,” he argues.

“Yes, you did,” I agree, “but did you do your best?”

“Uh huh.”

“And that’s what matters, lovey,” I say, detaching myself from him so that I can get down and look him in the eyes. “And I know that sometimes it feels like your best is not enough, and I’m sorry for that, because really, it really is enough. It’s everything.”

“But we lost,” he repeats, a tape stuck in a continuous loop.

I nod, “ And I’m proud of you. You played hard all the way through. You didn’t argue with the refs or get mad at the other team or pout when you got subbed out. You encouraged your teammates. You all worked together and listened to your coach. And…you played some stellar defense.”

His face lights up. “Yeah, did you see when I stole the ball?!”

“I did! And you blocked that shot in the third quarter.”

“Yeah,” he says. His eyes are bright with the excitement as he stands up and goes into instant replay mode. “He was coming down the court and he threw the ball up and I stretched out really far, like this, with both hands and the ball kinda ran into my hands and my hand bent back, like this.”

I smile at him and agree, “You did. It was just like that! It was totally awesome!”

He sighs with satisfaction and turns away from me to walk back to the bench to get his gear.

My heart bursts with pride for my little man and I am thankful for the lecture I went to last summer about the role of parents in athletics.

It was offered to parents of high school athletes, but I have found the information I was given has been useful for all of my children.
It was presented by a man named Bruce Brown. He gives talks to parents of athletes, sharing with them the things he has learned in his thirty-five years of being a teacher and coach.

Here’s what I came away with:
At any kind of athletic competition, there are four different jobs available.
You need to pick your job before the competition starts.
You can only choose one.
Once you have chosen your job, you need to stick with it for the entire contest.

Your choices are:

I always choose fan.

As a fan, my job is:

I love Bruce Brown for teaching me this. It makes it so much easier to go to athletic events.

He taught me that:

It has been liberating.
I no longer have to worry about the calls or second guess the coach or remind my child to remember to use this or that skill. Those things are someone else’s responsibility. Those are the jobs of the coaches, officials and the athletes.

My job is to encourage and appreciate.
Period.

Done!

Yes We Can

2008-02-09T06:44:00.000-08:00

"I must do something" always solves more problems than "Something must be done."

Anonymous

What do you think?

Behind the Shadow

2008-02-08T07:54:00.000-08:00

Some of my favorite memories of my childhood are not my memories at all, they are my mother’s.

The stories she tells are of a toddler who is strong willed and determined. A child who knows her mind and is not going to let anyone make her change it.

A two year old who loathed being called a baby and bristled, “I’m not a baby, I’m a bear!”
A three year old who ate her dinner of shrimp cocktail and onion soup under the table at a New York restaurant because it was better that way.
A four year old who stopped an entire neighborhood carpool from going home after school by hiding underneath the car because she was afraid to get in that car with a father whom she had never met.

I love that girl.
I’ve missed her.
She was beaten out of me.

The last time I remember seeing her was when she was four and a half.
She was playing at a friend’s house and wanted desperately to go home, but she was afraid to ask. The mother had a strange southern accent. To a child who was barely three and a half feet tall, the woman seemed large and loud, scary and foreign. And so, rather than ask, the child set out on her own, determined to get back home.

Home was four miles away, through windy neighborhood streets and down a four-lane highway. But this little girl’s heart knew the way, knew that this little girl needed to be there.

So she set off on her own, brown braids wagging back and forth, bangs ruffled by the breeze. Her round tanned cheeks jiggled as she marched resolutely toward home. She slowed a few times to admire the flowers, stopping once to climb up a small plumeria tree for a particularly alluring and delicate blossom.

Walking through the neighborhood was peaceful. As she neared the highway, the whoosh of busy cars alerted her to the fact that she was more than half way home.
Rounding the corner, the sidewalk ended abruptly and the smell of exhaust fumes filled her nose. The girl walked as far off the highway as she could, through the dust and gravel along the side of the road. The bottoms of her sandals were smooth and slick and they refused to bend to accommodate the sharp edges of the gravel. Her beautiful, baby blue, crisp cotton dress with the appliquéd sailboat began to wilt as it collected dust that was kicked up by the cars flying by at 45 miles per hour.
And the girl soldiered on. No one noticed her. No one stopped. No one slowed. And that was fine with the girl. She wouldn’t have talked to anyone anyway. She knew better. Besides, she really didn’t notice them either. Home was calling. That was all that mattered.

Half a mile later, she turned off the highway into her own neighborhood. She passed by the low grey ranch where her friend Debbie lived. Around the next corner was the tall brown fence behind which hid Kelly’s house. Down the street, was the white ranch with the brown-shingled roof belonging to Pam’s family.

And finally, there was the familiar tan house with the peaked roof and the lauhala tree in the front yard. She banged the gate loudly as she ran through it and straight into her grandmother’s room where she was greeted with the smell of violet candy and a surprised smile, “You’re home. I didn’t hear the car door.”

“I walked,” the girl replied quietly, but her fiercely beating heart and up thrust chin betrayed her deep sense of pride.

“I see,” her grandmother nodded.

The girl peeked through her long brown lashes, searching to see if her grandmother’s face matched her words. She was relieved to see that her grandmother’s eyes were soft and wise with understanding. Their eyes bowed respectfully to each other and, just over her grandmother’s shoulder, the girl saw her mother enter the room.

Her mother’s eyes carried no respect, only anger. She grabbed the girl by the wrist and dragged from the room.
“Do you know how frightened Susie’s mother was?” she spewed, spitting anger at the girl. “She had the whole neighborhood out looking for you!”

“I wanted to come home,” the girl explained, hoping that her need would make a difference.

“You could have asked,” her mother replied through clenched teeth, as she yanked open the broom closet door and reached for the yardstick.

“I was afraid,” the girl pleaded, but she already knew that her feelings wouldn’t matter.

“I’ll give you something to be afraid of,” hissed her mother. She pushed the girl down on the hikie’e (hawaiian daybed). The girl’s nose was buried in the cotton cover, which smelled of starched humidity. She felt her mother lift the yardstick high over her head and heard it’s whistling descent. The air stung the girl’s legs and then she felt the crack of the yardstick against the back of her thighs. Once. Twice. Three times. Until, finally, it splintered in two.

The girl knew she deserved it. She realized, too late, that her brave and daring trek home had been neither brave nor daring to her mother; rather, it had been a source of humiliation.
The girl knew that her crime was unforgivable. She was expected to be perfect, and, on this day, she had fallen miserably short of the mark.

She vowed that she would never let it happen again.
On that day, she understood that she was not enough. And so she left.

She was replaced by a shadow who knew how to remain soft and malleable, who allowed herself to be shaped into her mother’s idea of perfection. Even the shadow couldn’t get it right all of the time, but her mistakes were as timid and wispy as she was and were easily squashed.
Occasionally, the girl would peek out from behind her shadow to see if it was safe to come out. Someone was usually there to chase her back into the dark.
Sometimes, the girl could come out and play with her grandmother, but she always made sure to hide before anyone else caught her.

It took me forty years to be brave enough to ask her to stay.

We’ve been getting to know each other again.
I keep telling her that I love her and that she really has always been enough, that, in fact, she has always been perfect.
It has taken a while, but she is finally beginning to trust me.
I think, this time, it is finally safe enough for her to stay,

Your Excellencies

2008-02-06T08:25:00.000-08:00

Hearts In San Francisco over at Guilty with an Explanation has given me an Excellent Blog award.

This is my first ever award and I am so thrilled that it came from Hearts. I discovered this blog on one of my rambles through the blogoshpere and I have been coming back for regular visits. Hearts’ blend of humor and intellect make her blog a wonderful read. She has the ability to take an ordinary situation and turn it into an extraordinary experience.

It is now my responsibility to pass on this award. It was hard for me to choose between my favorite blogs – I have at least two dozen bookmarked. As a way to narrow down my choices, I decided that I will give this award on to the people who currently live next to Hearts in my bookmark bar.

They are:
Molly at The Molly Bawn Chronicles.
Molly inspires me with her wisdom and grace. I rely on her to make me laugh out loud. Her life chronicle provides me with a template for my own life and shines a light to help me to see where I am going.

Shauna at Up In the Night.
Shauna reminds me not to take myself too seriously. Even situations that make her “blather like a nutcase” get turned into comical experiences that provide me with the inspirational view that is sometimes needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other. That, and the joy of being introduced to the incredible number of angels in Shauna's life, are what keep me coming back again and again.

Claudia at at On a Limb.
Claudia’s clean, clear writing informs and inspires. Her idea for practicing daily acts of kindness has changed my life, helping me to see that my glass really is half full – at least!

Carrie at Fully Caffeinated.
Carrie seamlessly blends humor and relevant information in a way that is readily accessible. Her Top Ten lists have inspired me and made me laugh. She allows me to walk in her shoes for a bit, to look at things from another point of view, which has led me to a greater understanding of my own life.

Michelle at Full Soul Ahead.
Michelle is one of the most well informed people I know. I count on her to keep me abreast of the latest news. Her writing about her life and her family are filled with love and hope. Her dedication to making a difference is proof that one person is all that is needed to start a revolution. Michelle constantly teaches me how to make lemonade out of lemons.

Karen at Cherrio Road.
Karen is amazing. Visiting her blog gives me peace and shows me that I am not alone in my struggles. Karen words penetrate my skin and burrow deep into my soul. Her writing is beautiful and simple and real.

Thank you to each of you for making a difference.

First Days

2008-02-05T07:59:00.000-08:00

I was awake at 5:15 and, before the alarm clock even had a chance to sound, I was out of bed. Ignoring the sandpaper that seemed to have replaced my eyelids while I had been sleeping, I stumbled into the bathroom and began my morning.

As I brushed my teeth, the mirror informed me that a perfunctory shower was not going to be sufficient today. My hair was a tangle of sleep and neglect that was threatening mutiny if it didn’t get the love and attention of a good conditioner. Picture brillo pad meets electrical outlet and you’ve got a good idea of what I was seeing.

Ten minutes later, my freshly laundered tresses are wrapped in a towel turban and smelling of citrus and sun, and I am standing in my closet. I had listened to my daughter’s advice and had chosen my outfit the night before, but this morning, I felt it was necessary to second-guess my decision.
Would the new, light brown, crisp cotton trousers really make the proper statement in the middle of winter? Perhaps the green plaid wool skirt would be better. But…I’ve never seen anyone else in a skirt. I’ve volunteered with these people for a year and a half and I’m the only one I know who has ever worn a skirt. I spend the next too long weighing the pros and cons of each choice, finally settling on my original outfit, a symphony of chocolate and gold.

My smart brown flats tip tap on the hardwood floor and I head down to the kitchen.

My mind swims with the tasks that need to be completed before I head out the door.
The sun is not yet even a hint on the horizon and I impress myself by actually thinking about dinner. Usually, thoughts of dinner do not even enter my cluttered mind until at least 5pm, when the hungry masses start circling. But today, I am all efficiency and planning and I drag my crock-pot out of the cobwebs at the back of the cupboard and set it on the counter. My youngest enters the kitchen as I am browning the pork roast.
His face betrays his confusion as he glances out the window, checks the round red clock on the wall, and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.
“Uh…breakfast?”
“Nope,” I reply succinctly. I’m all business this morning, no time for wasted words. “Dinner. Why don’t you go get ready for school while I get the oatmeal started.”
He wanders back out of the kitchen and I hear him thumping back up the stairs.
I flip roast out of the pan and it lands with a plop on top of the vegetables that blanket the bottom of the crock-pot. The smell of garlic and spices dance in the air, and the oatmeal starts to burble on the stove.

I start to yell down the stairs to make sure my oldest son is up, and my holler bounces off his body as he rounds the corner at exactly the same moment. His sleepy senses are not happy with my unexpected greeting, and he growls a brusque, “Morning,” and brushes past me on his way up the stairs to take a shower.

I hear the bells on my daughter’s bedroom door jingle and I know that she is up and moving. I decide to let her ease into the morning without any interruptions from me.

I begin making lunches. Soup and nuts for my daughter, leftovers, a sandwich, extra vegetables and trail mix for her oldest brother, pizza and juice for the baby. Everyone gets cookies and fruit. I decide on humus, veggies and an orange for me.

It’s 7:15, my children are just sitting down for breakfast, and I’ve finished my meal preparations for the whole day! Woohoo.

I’d like to say that the rest of the day went as smoothly, but alas, it was not to be.
I neglected to take into account the whole driving part.
I have this strange, misguided, misbegotten idea that I can get to anywhere in Portland in fifteen minutes or less. It’s not true. I’ve lived here for over twenty-five years. I have repeatedly proven to myself the absolute absurdity of this notion. And yet, I challenge it on an almost daily basis because…it works for most places that I need to go.

Today, I find that getting to work is not one of the places that falls within my fifteen minute parameter, especially when I overshoot and go forty blocks past the office.
Going home is no better. I have half an hour to get to school to pick up my son from extended day before they would start charging the $1 a minute late fee.
No problem, except, by the time I leave work I have only twenty-five minutes. Factor in the fact that the rest of humanity is clogging the cities arteries, and that every single stoplight in the entire town is red, and you can see how I might have a slight bit of a problem!

I pull up outside school and the clock on my car ticks to 5:59. I race inside, desperate to beat my 6:00 deadline and I realize that I have no idea where to find my son. A helpful parent points me toward the whiteboard that informs people of the whereabouts of their children. Only, it lists the names of the extended day teachers, not the students and I have no idea which of the six teachers listed belongs to my son.
When I finally reach the basement classroom where they are hiding my baby, he is the last student there. He is wearing his backpack and standing on his coat. I come flying through the door, panic personified, and he smiles gently and almost coos, “Hi Mummy. How was work?”

His calmness washes over me, a warm ocean wave cleansing my anxiety.

“Hi, I’m Liz,” his teacher says, extended her hand to me. “You need to sign him out on the clipboard,” she explains, gesturing to the table in the corner. I head over to the clipboard and I hear her smile to my son, “Wow, this is not a hurry up, I’ve got ice cream melting in the car kind of mom.”

I feel a warm hand grasping mine and pulling me toward the door. Soon I am lost in the story of a day in the life of a nine-year old boy and the excitement of his first day in extended day.

Life is good!

Kindness Chronicles III

2008-02-03T22:31:00.000-08:00

Driving home from my youngest son’s basketball game yesterday, we saw a bumper sticker that said “Individual thoughts lead to mass consciousness. Be peace.”

This morning, in the Opinion section of the Oregonian there was a piece written by Chauncey Canfield in which he pondered the question posed by so many mothers who have tried to reason their children out of certain undesirable behaviors by asking, “what if everybody…?”

These two encounters had me looking at group behavior from opposite ends of the spectrum and each time, I reached the same conclusion -- group behavior is individual behavior that had been multiplied, making a HUGE difference.

Which leads me to ask, “What if everybody decided to be kind?” This is question posed by Claudia (at On a Limb) who inspired Everyday Kindness.

Imagine that world for a moment.
That is the one that I want for my children.

And so, I continue my quest to be kind. Every day. Some days it is easier than others.

At the beginning of the week, I was in a good place. I was able to let go of the anger and resentment I feel towards Patrick and actually cleared my mind enough to come up with a list of all the things about my relationship with Patrick for which I am thankful. I’ve read that list every day and have sent kind and loving thoughts his way.
Today, I ran out of kind and loving thoughts for him. Anger and resentment were happy to see me return and they wrapped me in their warm embrace. So warm, in fact, that I actually had steam coming out of my ears! I made an emergency call to my friend, Wanda, and her soothing words and much cooler head talked me back down to a more rational place.

I was able to go all week without any complaining. Actually, it was eight days! Today…well, today happened, and so tomorrow, I will start on day one. Again.

I thanked the referee at my daughter’s basketball game for her efforts in calling the game. Not only did she call the fouls, but she also made sure that the girls behaved in a sportsmanlike manner. It was nice to see an official who cared as much about the girls’ character as she did about the rules.

I caught my children doing nice things at least a dozen times this week. I made sure to let them know that I had noticed. It felt good to notice something besides the open bag of potato chips left in the TV room, the unmade beds, and the clothes that didn’t make it up from the laundry room.

As I launch into my fourth week of everyday kindness, I will also be launching myself into the world of the forty-hour work week. I wonder if the interaction with a wider variety of people will make being kind easier or more difficult.

Time will tell.

Angel Love

2008-02-02T10:23:00.000-08:00

I love my angels.
I love the way they watch over me and my children.
I love they way they keep us safe.
Even when we have no idea that we are in danger.

Thursday night, they were working overtime.

I came home late, after an evening at a friend’s house. Parking my car in the driveway, I paused a moment to enjoy the quiet. The rain had stopped, but the air was still wet. The clouds parted just enough for me to see two stars. I wondered if they had been the first two stars in the sky that night, the ones that my youngest son baptizes each night, christening them Sam and Twinkle.

The house was still. The bedroom windows were dark and I knew that each of my children must be deep in Dreamland.

Down the street, I heard my neighbor dragging his garbage can to the curb for the morning trash pick-up. It reminded me that I still needed to put out my recycling.

I turned and walked up the steps to the front door. Opening the door, I knew immediately that something was wrong.

The house smelled hot, like skin that’s been in the sun too long.
I glanced quickly at the heat vents and sniffed the air again.

No noise. No smoke. No flames. No excessive heat. Just the smell of summer car hot.

As I headed toward the kitchen, the quiet was replaced by the sound of empty air burning.
Reaching the back of the house, I found darkness that was illuminated only by the hood light over the stove. It shined like a spotlight on the teakettle standing center stage, silently screaming.
The stainless steel skin was no longer shiny, rather it had become pock marked and scarred black. The air was filled with agony.
I rushed over and turned off the licking flame, but the screaming didn’t stop. I reached down to lift the lid and found that it was firmly soldered in place. I turned on the fan and the screaming stopped as the pain was gently lifted and ushered out into the night.

I left the kitchen and made my rounds of the house, checking on each of my children. Deep breathing came from beneath the mound of pillows and blankets in Bub’s room. Ely’s golden blond hair covered her face, stirring slightly with each breath. Ugly Dolls formed a halo around the head of my littlest, watching over him as he slept.

Assured that everyone was safe, I exhaled. I hadn't realized that I had been holding my breath. The air felt good in my lungs. I turned toward my room. I reached over and flipped off the light switch and, as the hallway turned dark, I’m sure I heard a little flutter of wings.

Smiling, I looked up and whispered, “Thank you!”

A Call for Help

2008-02-01T21:37:00.000-08:00

I was wasting time, cruising the blogoshpere and, somehow, for some reason, the Universe sent me here

I know next to nothing about this woman, and very little about her book.

What I do know is that she is a writer. A woman writer. A woman writer with four children. A woman writer with four children who needs our help.
This may not be your type of book. You may not have the time right now to read. But perhaps you know someone for whom this book would be absolutely perfect.

Pass it on.

I Miss Him...Still

2008-02-01T10:07:00.001-08:00

My grandfather died the year before I was born.

I miss him.

I don’t know how that can be, I just know that there is an ache in my heart that should filled with him.

I used to carry a picture of him in my wallet. I carried no other pictures, not my grandmother, not my parents, not my husband, not my children. Just my grandfather.

The sepia toned photo did not age well in my wallet. It is jagged around the edges and the crease down middle threatens to tear my grandfather in two.
The photo is irreplaceable. It should have been preserved in a frame, but I couldn’t take it out of my wallet. I needed my grandfather with me. Without him, a fissure would appear, the fault lines would shift and my world would start to tilt.

When Daddy gave me Nana’s ring, I was finally able to wrestle my grandfather’s picture from my wallet. It now hangs on the kitchen bulletin board, presiding over our schedules and blessing each of our activities.

I’ve heard the stories that amputees tell about their missing limbs and the phantom feelings that linger, and I want to yell, “Yes, yes! I know EXACTLY what you mean! I have a phantom grandfather!”

I can feel my grandfather.
He is right there.
Close enough to touch.
Standing just behind my left shoulder.
He smells like tropical weight wool and skin freshly toasted by the sun.
His breath on my neck is warm and slow, and rolls gently like the waves. In and out. In and out.

Sometimes, he talks to me.
Mostly, he’s just there. Silent.
Loving me.

And still…
I miss him.

I Sent You

2008-01-31T13:03:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago I went to a Buddhist retreat in Houston. One of the participants was a Presbyterian minister, another, a Catholic nun. Neither of these women saw any conflict between practicing Buddhism and believing in God.
The Lama, however, did.
At a group meditation one day, he asked for someone to explain it to him.
“I cannot believe in God,” he said, “because how could a benevolent being allow so much misery in the world.”
Not a new question, and yet, it was one that no one answered for the Lama.

I’ve been going around and around with this.
Today, the light bulb flickered.
The idea is still raw and unformed, and I write quickly, before the light goes out.

The Lama believed that the karma that each of us creates in this lifetime will affect future incarnations.
Others take the position that each soul chooses an incarnation based upon the lessons that that soul wishes to learn in this lifetime.
Both of these ideas place our souls at the center of Creation, giving each of us the power of the Divine.
I love the idea of each of us being Divine. And, I understand how, believing in our own divinity can seem to almost preclude the existence of a separate God.

Unless…

There is a God.
And this God allows free will. Both in heaven and on earth.

If that were the case, then God would not be responsible for allowing misery in the world. We would be responsible for allowing misery in the world.

Because…
God’s answer to the Lama’s lament, “Why don’t you do something?” is,
“I have. I sent you.”

Ten More Things

2008-01-30T07:09:00.000-08:00

Top Ten Thank Yous to Patrick

Ten Things

2008-01-29T22:15:00.000-08:00

Patrick and I were together for 23 years! He is the father of my children.
I want to like him.
I don’t.

I tried.
At Christmas, I thought we had crossed that bridge.
We didn’t.
Apparently, we were walking in opposite directions on two completely different bridges.

This is a source of endless frustration for me.
After banging my head against the same brick wall for the past two years, I’m realizing that I’m pretty banged up, and there is not even the hint of a dent in the wall.

Clearly, my focus has been on the wrong person.
I cannot change Patrick. I cannot make him like me or forgive me or see things from my point of view.

I can change me. I can see the silver lining instead of letting my view be obscured by the cloud. I can let go of the destination and focus on the journey.

So, even though it's the dead or winter, I've found a new leaf and I'm turning it over.
I'm going to stop focusing on my grievances and his perceived faults and start working at it from a new angle. A more positive angle. An angle that can change me. The Carrie Wilson Link Top Ten angle.

Top Ten Things I Learned From Patrick

These lessons were worth learning.
Thank you.

Seeds Do Sprout

2008-01-28T08:32:00.000-08:00

I was out in my backyard the other day, cleaning up dog debris, so I was down low. And there, under the picnic table, I saw a cracked clay pot, partially filled with dirt, with four green leaves sprouting out of the top.

I stopped what I was doing and went over to investigate. Scraping the caked mud off of the outside, I revealed the Christmas montage that was painted on the outside – a Christmas tree in a snowstorm, valiantly protected by a scarecrow wearing a blue shirt and brown hat.

I smiled, remembering the fat little first grade fingers that had handed me that pot with such pride. How could three years have passed already?

He was so excited about the secret that he had planted inside.
He was so disappointed when no secret was revealed, when the bulbs he had so carefully planted refused to sprout.

I scooped dirt out of the flowerbed and gently pressed it down around the leaves, covering the tops of the bulbs.
Bringing the pot inside, I placed it on the windowsill, over the kitchen sink.
My son noticed it immediately when he came in. He looked at me with questioning eyes.
“Do you recognize that pot?” I asked him.
“Uh-huh. Where’d you get the plant?”
“Those are the bulbs you gave me…with the pot. Remember?”
I can see the wheels turning in his head as he processes what I have just said. And then he smiles. The kind of smile that makes all the petty annoyances of mothering disappear, bursting them like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“I thought they weren’t going to grow,” he admits. “How’d you make them grow?”
“I didn’t,” I confess. “I guess they were just finally ready.”

And, it comes to me. Seeds are like that.
They grow when they are ready, and not a moment before.
It does no good to second guess, or worry, or despair of the process.

I am filled with hope and excitement.
Finally…finally, the seeds I have been carrying in my soul, the ones that have been so deeply buried they could barely breathe, the ones that I had forgotten…finally…they are beginning to sprout.
Finally, they are ready to blossom.

And the colors...they are going to be amazing!

David's Journey

2008-01-27T10:12:00.000-08:00

It was a drippy, grey, slippery Portland afternoon. My oldest son and I were on our way to watch my youngest son, and his only brother, play basketball.
We pulled off the freeway at the 42nd Ave. off ramp and, there at the end of the ramp was the homeless guy. It’s not always the same guy, but there is always a guy sanding there with a cardboard sign, asking for money.
Only today, it wasn’t just any homeless guy. Today, it was David, our homeless guy. He was still wearing his used to be red converse, but an army green canvas jacket covered his too many holey sweaters. His blond hair was slicked to his head by the rain. In his hands, he held a wet piece of cardboard
The light was green, so we couldn’t stop.
David averted his eyes as we drove by.

“That was David,” I said as we turned the corner.
“Who?”, my son asked, drawing a momentary blank. “Oh, you mean that guy from Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, that guy from Thanksgiving,” I echo, irrationally annoyed at my son for relegating David to such a one-dimensional existence.

And then I’m annoyed with David. I want to yell at him, “Why are you standing on a street corner...in the rain…begging?”

This was not the first time that I have seen David.
I saw him once, just before Christmas, on Hawthorne Blvd., when I was walking back to my car after having lunch with Carrie. I was surprised to see him there, on the opposite side of town. I didn’t get the chance to talk with him, but I remember thinking, “I wonder if he’s over here because of a job.”

Then I saw him again, in January. I was walking through the park by Lloyd Center when I saw him. He had just arrived and he was setting up…and I knew that he still didn’t have a job.
He was arranging himself on the west side of the statue, out of the wind with a hint of protection from the mist that was threatening to become a full-fledged rain shower. He propped up the cardboard sign against his crossed legs and he pulled his fingers back into his sleeves.

When I got closer to him, he looked up. The words froze in his mouth and a flicker of recognition darted through his eyes.
“David,” I smiled, stooping down next to him so we could speak, eye to eye.
“Oh, hi,” he answered awkwardly.
“Have you been doing alright?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve been spending time over on Hawthorne. I was over there on Christmas day, but no one was out.”
I am incredulous…and sad. Why would he expect to be able to panhandle on Christmas day? Why was he alone on Christmas day?! But what I end up saying is, “Yeah, people don’t usually go out on Christmas. What did you end up doing?”
“I went downtown and they were serving dinner down there.”
“You know, I meant it when I told you that you are welcome to come back over…anytime”
David lets my words hang in the air. “Yeah, sure,” he says, but he looks the other way and I know that he doesn’t really mean it.

I want to take him and shake him by the shoulders. I want to say, “David, you’re a smart guy. Why are you wasting your time sitting on sidewalks? Portland has so many services for homeless youth. Use them, dammit!”

But I don’t.
I know that he already knows this. I know that this is why he is in Portland in the first place. He told us that on Thanksgiving, that he had left Seattle because Portland was a better place to be homeless.

I want so much more for this young man. This boy who moved to the US when he was seven. This boy who has dreams of building ships.

And I know that what I want doesn’t matter. All I can do is be here, for him. This is David’s journey, not mine.
And so, I stand up, and continue on my way.
“Good seeing you,” I say.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, and he is already looking away from me, down the sidewalk, toward the next person, the person that might have some change to spare.

Horse of a Different Color

2008-01-26T11:09:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 5:30 this morning and have spent the past five hours drifting in and out of dreams, cruising the blogoshpere and talking myself out of going to two different Bikram yoga classes.

I LOVE YOGA!
LUH-UV YOGA!

I love…

very first time

I LOVE YOGA!

I don’t love the going to yoga part. And clearly, I don’t do it very well.
Once I’m there, I’m fine.
But getting there…now that’s where that horse of a different color rears his colorful head.

That’s where he tells me that I have time to do just one more quick thing before I get ready to go. I fall for it every time and it is never just one more quick thing.
Or where he convinces me that I deserve to stay in my warm, cozy, comforter cocoon and I can just catch a later class, that I miss because I am busy doing that one more quick thing.
Or where he says that I’ve been to yoga three days in a row so missing today will be okay.
Or where he badgers me into serving my children’s irrational needs and insists that they must be fulfilled at exactly the same time as yoga class is offered.

I have one more shot at getting to yoga today.
I’m going to lock that mythical horse in the equally mythical barn and see if I can make it to class.

Wish me luck.

Feelings

2008-01-25T16:04:00.000-08:00

My oldest is worried about her father.
“He never goes out!” she complains. “He needs to go out.”

“Don’t worry about your father,” I tell her, hoping that I am concealing the annoyance I feel toward him for being mopey around her. “That’s not your job. You have enough to do without worrying about your father. Let him take care of himself.”

“Yeah, but he seems so old! You don’t.”

“Thank you, AND, quit spying on your father. Life goes in cycles. He used to go out a lot. Now he doesn’t. He’s just not in the going out phase right now. It will come around again.”

“But I HAVE to spy on him! Besides, I spy on you too.”

“What?!” I swallow hard and silently reprimand myself for being annoyed with her father two seconds earlier.

“Yeah, I ask Bub if you still yell a lot. You know like you used to with me.”

The guilt I still carry with me over our past comes flying out of the neat compartment in which I had it stored. It hovers at the edges of our conversation, threatening. I hold my breath and brace myself for an answer I don’t want to hear and I ask, “And what does he say?”

“He says that he just tries to do what you ask because if you guys have an argument, you always end up going downstairs and apologizing and then you want to talk about feelings and he really doesn’t want to talk about feelings.”

I exhale and the pressure in my chest eases.

My daughter and I laugh. I laugh because I love the way my son deftly parried to avoid really answering the question. I laugh because his response succinctly sums up the difference between my two older children and my two younger children, the difference in the atmosphere in which they were raised.

When I was married to their father, feelings were the Cinderella step-sister of his sensible household where facts reigned supreme. There was no emotion that logic could not over power, no feeling that couldn’t be trumped by fact.

I became the keeper of feelings. I was not big enough to hold them all. When they finally crashed through the walls that had been so meticulously erected, the avalanche shook our world and buried my marriage.

My oldest son is not yet comfortable with the new order of things. He is learning. He is getting better at sharing feelings…occasionally…on his terms. He is finding out that harmony and anger, love and hate, are merely the bookends to a whole range of emotions.

“You know,” I tell my daughter, hesitating a bit, summoning that breath of courage before I go on, “things have changed since you and your father moved out. I have changed. And it’s not because of you.”

“I know,” she replies, “and it’s good. And I love you.”

I smile when I hear this, and, when I take a breath, it is big and deep and full of light. Every cell in my body jumps in, eager to be expanded. They all join together as I exhale, "I love you too, my sweet girl."

Driving to School

2008-01-24T14:06:00.000-08:00

I was driving my youngest daughter to school today when the song Why Don’t You Stay?, by Sugarland, came on the radio. It’s a song from the point of view of the “other woman”.

My daughter wondered out loud what that would be like. “If you loved someone,” she said, “you would totally forgive them, right?”

Hoo boy! Loaded question for a five minute drive to school.

So I hedge my bets. “You know,” I say, pausing and breathing deeply, “everybody’s situation is different. It is so easy to be black and white about things, except that’s not real life. Everybody has their own set of circumstances and their own points of view and their own reasons.”

Silence.

I glance over at her in the passenger seat. She is looking at me and she nods her head, encouraging me to continue.

I tact to the left. “Did you know that every cell in your body regenerates itself? You know how you’re constantly sloughing off old skin cells and replacing them with new ones. Well, every cell in your body does the same sort of thing. I’m not sure what the time frame is, but at some point, you have a completely different body than you used to have. And that happens repeatedly throughout your life. So you are literally, physically, not the same person.”

“Wow. That’s kinda weird to think about.”

“It is. So the person I am today, is not the same person as I will be next year or next month or next week. Even tomorrow, I will be different. Like with you and your sister. I was a different person when your sister was your age. I made different decisions with her than I do with you.”

My daughter chuckles. “Yeah, she was your practice child.”
She has heard her sister throw this accusation at me more than once, but I am still surprised to hear it repeated.
I think she is surprised that she said it and when I turn toward her, she can’t look at me and instead glances out the window to watch a leaf blow down the sidewalk.

“No, she was not a practice child, but I know more things now than I did then. I see things differently and I understand more than I did when she was your age. I made the best decisions I could given the set of circumstances that I had. I might make different decisions today, I might not. And, I have not changed any of our basic rules, just my reaction to the breaking of those rules has changed.”

“Yeah. Totally!” she agrees.
“You know how you act differently when you are with your basketball friends or your volleyball friends or your middle school friends?”

“Yeah?” she answers a bit warily, unsure of where I am going with this.

“It’s the same thing with parents. Each child is different. If I tried to be the same with each of you, it would be unfair to all of you.”

We reach the school and I begin circling, looking for a place to park.
I go off on a tangent about how different my sisters and I are and about how the circumstances in which we were raised were different. I keep on babbling and the moment changes from a teachable moment for my daughter into an “aha” moment for me. The fist tight fingers of resentment surrounding issues I have with my mother begin to loosen, not completely, but a little, and my lungs have room to breathe.

We loop around the block and another song comes on the radio “…and your high school sweetheart becomes your bride,” warbles the country singer.
My daughter is humming along and I turn to her and ask, “So, are you going to marry your high school sweetheart?”
She smiles, a big, wide, grin. “Weell, I would say “no”, but I don’t know really know what all the circumstances will be when that time comes, so…” she finishes with a shrug.

I laugh. “I guess you do listen to your mama’s babblings.”
“Duh!” she says, pursing her lips and giving me a kissy face.

Kindness Chronicles II

2008-01-23T16:01:00.000-08:00

I made a promise to myself to go for two consecutive weeks without complaining.
My commitment to be complaint-free for two weeks is my gift of kindness to myself as well as to those around me.
Kind of the flip side of telling people when you notice nice things.
More recognition and appreciation of the positive.
Less looking for and commenting on the negative.

I thought I was starting out small. Just one two-week period in 2008. Any two weeks out of the entire 52 weeks available in the year. Thankfully, I was wise enough to include a leniency policy in my effort so as to avoid the very real possibility of having to flog myself for failing. I told myself that I could start over as many times as I need in order to reach my two-week goal.
I have already started over eight times.
My record is six days.
Yeah! Almost halfway to my goal and there are still eleven months left in the year!

I shared my promise with my youngest daughter. Now she is tracking me. She’s on the look out for any complaining.
And she calls me on it.
Every time.

I tried to scoot out of it once by tacking “not that I’m complaining” on to the end of a major whine.
She called it.

One morning, I observed that people should pull over to the side of the road when dropping off their children at school rather than just staying in the line of traffic and having children slide sleepily out of the car, which delays EVERYONE in the line, especially when each car in succession does the exact same thing!
She called that too.
I was using a “tone”.

She is a rigid taskmaster.
And I, it turns out, have been a complainer.

The American Heritage Dictionary defines complaining as

1. To express feelings of pain, dissatisfaction or resentment.
2. To describe one’s pains, problems or dissatisfactions.

Who knew? I thought I was being funny…sarcastic…even, clever. Turns out, it was complaining, complaining cleverly disguised as comedy, but complaining nonetheless.

Complaining has become a habit. It has become my own little stand up comedy routine, only I’m usually sitting and I usually only have an audience of one. I have justified it by saying that if I was laughing and causing others to laugh, I wasn’t really complaining. As though laughter somehow mitigated my negativity.

Like this morning. I had coffee with Carrie, just so we could chat and catch up. We talked about life and kids and men, all things ripe with complaint possibilities. We reaped a bountiful harvest and spent a lot of time laughing.
But when, I told her about my efforts to put a moratorium on complaining, she cocked one eyebrow and dipped her mouth behind hands that were clasped over her coffee mug, stifling a smile.
“I know,” I complained, realizing my blunder through the world of whine far too late, “Now I’m going to have to start at day one…Again!”

But I have had some successes.
I mean, six complaint-free days! Judging by my coffee date with Carrie, I’ve passed up dozens of opportunities to complain.
I managed not to complain about a particularly awful person I saw at my daughter’s basketball game. Ditto the long line at the gas station, the rude driver, the broken heater and the three trips to the grocery store.

I’m a work in progress. I have 45 years of training to overcome. Like Shrek, I am an onion -- I have a lot of layers left to peel.

My Cup Runneth Over

2008-01-22T22:58:00.000-08:00

When Lynn offered me my job – note the use of the personal pronoun here, it’s gone from the job to my job – I danced around my room and yelled “thank you” to the walls and did a whole lot of whooping. I didn’t think that anyone could be more excited about my new job than I.
I was wrong.

My children are over the moon excited about my new job.

My youngest cannot believe his good fortune at being able to attend extended day (i.e. after school care).
“When do I get to start?” he asked, face bright enough to power an entire Third World country. “Do I get to go every day?”
“Yes you do,” I smile back to him.
In my head, I’m screaming, “It’s daycare! Did you hear me? D-A-Y-C-A-R-E! You’re not supposed to want to go to daycare!”

My youngest daughter does a fist pump and says, “Tight! Now when people ask me what my mother does, I can tell them you have a job!”
Apparently, my dabble in the independent sales rep world didn’t qualify as a job. “You worked at home,” she explains patiently, as though talking to a petulant two-year old. “You didn’t go to work.”
“I went on business trips,” I whine in my best terrible-two voice.
“That doesn’t count,” she states, emphatically.
Inside, I am incredulous. “My guilt about being away for week long sales trips, missing meets and tournaments, was merely gratuitous guilt. Who knew?”

My oldest son acts nonchalant.
“It means that I may not be able to drive you to school every day,” I warn.
“No problem. I’ll just get a ride from Lauren or do a morning run to get to school,” he flips. “Yeah, that would be a good time to do my run,” he adds with a smile.
And I’m thinking, “Huh, I’ve been struggling all year to get you and your sister to schools that start at exactly the same time every morning and are located on different sides of town and it’s no big deal to you to have to find another way to get there?! Could you maybe have let me know this a little sooner?!”

I am thrilled that my children are thrilled. Really. But come on! Is it really necessary to make me feel foolish for trying so hard with the stay-at-home mom-ing?

Of course, they are not making me feel foolish, I am making me feel foolish.

There is a verse from the Talmud, “We do not see things as they are, we see them as we are.”

My children have been seamlessly able to switch from being children with a stay-at-home mother to being children with a mother working outside the home. Neither is inherently better or worse than the other, it’s all about the view.
I didn’t see them changing.
Apparently, they did see me changing.
Even before I did.
And they accommodated my change.

I know we're all in a bit of that honeymoon phase. I know that the landing into reality may be a bit rocky. And, I know that we'll make it through just fine.
We'll make it through just fine because my children see a glass that is half full.

Talk about hitting the jackpot!

I get to do something I really want to do AND my children are happy and supportive about it.

Apparently, someone, somewhere, taught them well.
Woohoo!

A Rose By Any Other Name...

2008-01-21T13:07:00.000-08:00

I have a Hawaiian name. Kapuananiokalaniakea – beautiful blossom of the wide heavens. Pronounce every vowel, and you’ve got it.

Hawaiian tradition says you must use a person’s full name. Addressing someone using an abbreviated portion of her name is thought to also abbreviate the person.
I am a whole person. I deserve a whole name.

Makes sense, except…look at my name! It’s twelve syllables long! It’s too much for standard American tongues.
So I shorten it to Puanani – beautiful blossom. Which gets shortened to Pua – blossom. Which gets shortened to Pu.

Pu?!

Hawaiian Dictionary definition

Hmm.
Perhaps it's time to re-examine tradition.

Love...Unconditionally

2008-01-21T08:44:00.000-08:00

Love often comes with strings.
I love you if…
I love you when…
I love you because…

Love like this hurts.
I have been loved like this. A lot.

This is not love.
Love is unconditional.
Love loves you like my grandmother, Nana, loved me.

She loved me whether my grades were good or bad. She loved me whether I went to church or not.
She loved me even when I tried to make her stop. Even when I stole money from her purse, she loved me. Even when I wouldn’t eat the food she cooked for me, she loved me.
When I dropped out of college for a term in the spring of my sophomore year, my entire family stopped talking to me, everyone except Nana. She kept on supporting me. She kept on checking in to make sure that I was okay. She kept on loving me.

She learned about love with my grandfather. She loved him from the moment they met until the day he died, and thirty-four years beyond that, until the day that she died.

A few years after Nana died, my father gave me her wedding ring. He had been keeping it in his sock drawer. He gave it to me out of the blue, without ceremony.
“Here, do you think you might want this?” he said, casually dropping it into my hand. “It belonged to Nana,” he added, as though it needed identification. As though I wouldn’t be able to recognize the ring I had admired all my life.
When Patrick asked me to marry him, he asked what kind of ring I wanted. I tried to describe Nana’s rings to him. Patrick tried to match what I described, and he got it close, but not quite.

The little band of gold that my father so lightly tossed into my hand means more to me than anything else I own.
It is a narrow gold band, etched on the outside with a swirly design that the years have aged to a secret whisper between lovers. When I wear the ring, I can feel my grandparent’s love, their love for each other and their love for me.
I feel their courage. Their willingness to love in spite of rules that said they shouldn’t.
When they met, Nana was a sweet young thing, the thirteenth of fourteen children, and the only girl in a proper Chinese family. She had been encouraged to go to college and afterwards, she began a successful career as a traveling dental hygienist. Still, her brothers had plans for to marry a nice Chinese doctor.
Grandpa was Hawaiian, a widower and ten years her senior. His family wanted him to marry another Hawaiian woman, so as not to dilute the bloodlines.
They were not supposed to meet. They were not supposed to fall in love. And yet they did. When they got married, Nana’s older brothers, all twelve of them, disowned her. Grandpa’s family never accepted her. But they had each other, and then they had Daddy.

I wear their ring to remind me where I am going and from whence I came. On “fat” days, it goes on my left hand. On “thin” days I wear it on my right.
It gives me courage. It gives me strength. It gives me love.
Unconditionally.

Thank You

2008-01-19T10:57:00.000-08:00

Woohoo!!!
Clang the cymbals. Bang the drums. Strike up the band!

Guess who just got exactly the job she wants?!
Uh-huh! That would be me.

And so, feeling like a winner, I will follow in the footsteps of all the winners that have gone before me by thanking all those people who made it possible.

Thank you Lynn for your flexibility.

Thank you Samantha for sharing your knowledge.

Thank you Tini for saying all the right things.

Thank you Heather for your skills as an advocate.

Thank you Kim for providing a bridge between then and now.

Thank you to my yoga teachers for leading the 90-minute moving meditations that clear my mind and heal my body.

Thank you Carrie for reminding me what is important.

Thank you Wanda for the boundaries and support.

Thank you Helen for your strength.

Thank you to my blog community for your insights and inspiration.

Thank you to each of my children for loving me, with or without exactly the right job.

Thank you to the Circle for giving me faith.

If I have inadvertently forgotten anyone, please forgive me and know that I really do appreciate you.

You all have taught me so much about life, about love, about me and about what matters.
I am blessed to have you in my life.

What's the Problem?

2008-01-18T12:35:00.000-08:00

The front page of the Oregonian this morning carries a story about sea lions. Specifically, about how a group of sea lions are camping out at the bottom of Bonneville Dam and feasting on the salmon that are trying to head back up the river to spawn.

The salmon are “trying” to get back up the river, but it is HARD WORK because there is a damn dam in the way! It slows them down and makes them easy pickings for the sea lions.

People have tried everything – noise, rubber bullets, sea lion relocation -- to get the sea lions to stop eating the salmon. They have failed.
They have failed because this is what sea lions do -- they eat salmon. The sea lions have found the best, most conducive environment in which to pursue their work.

Humans have done the same thing. Anglers camp out on the same area to catch the same salmon. At times, the sea lions have become aggressive – one even jumped into a boat to retrieve “the one that got away” and had to be beaten off by the frightened fisherman.

So now, humans want to kill them.
Humans want to kill them because the sea lions are killing the salmon. Only that’s not what the sea lions are doing. The sea lions are eating the salmon because that’s what sea lions do!

The problem is that the salmon are endangered. Salmon are endangered, in part, because the dam makes it too damn hard for the salmon to get back up the river to spawn. Salmon are endangered because their habitat is being destroyed. Salmon are endangered because they have been over fished.

Anglers are mad because they cannot go over the predetermined catch limit. They have to put certain salmon back in the river. They are mad because no such restrictions have been placed on the sea lions.
The article outlines a proposal to restrict the sea lions to a limit of 1% of the run. If the sea lions “over fish” they will be subjected to fines ranging from hazing (which thus far has not worked) to death.

To me, it makes more sense to say that the fisher folk must stop fishing. Humans caused the salmon to become endangered in the first place. Anglers might say that that is not fair – they’ve already been restricted enough. Why should today’s anglers be forced to pay the price for the misdeeds of their forefathers?

Because, they were your forefathers, not the sea lions’.

The sea lions are simply reacting to a situation that was caused by humans. How is it fair to penalize them? How is it right to murder an animal for doing what it was born to do?

I think the sea lions are not the problem. The sea lions are a simply a symptom. It is the problem that needs fixing, not the sea lions.
I do not have a solution to the problem, so perhaps I shouldn’t be ranting.
I just know that fixing the symptom never really fixes anything.

Finding the Courage

2008-01-17T13:53:00.000-08:00

Why no one told me that my body would become a battlefield, a sacrifice, a test? Why did I not know that birth is the pinnacle where women discover the courage to become a mother? Anita Diamant, THE RED TENT

When I was very young, the first thing I ever remember wanting to be when I grew up, is a firefighter. Of course, back in those days, I called them firemans, and I wanted to be one with such intensity that it made my face flush and my skin sticky with anticipation.

For so many reasons, I was never able to bring that dream to fruition, but I can vividly recall the ardent desire that I felt for that career, the unwavering knowing that filled my young body with its rightness.

My body is no longer young and my desire to be a “firemans” has long since waned. But the feeling, the seat of my soul certainty that I felt about being a “firemans”, that, is back. This time, it is accompanied by knowledge and understanding.
So, when I got a call on Monday offering me exactly the job that I want, the job that resonates with rightness in every fiber of my being, I surprised myself by hesitating before I answered.

The reason I hesitated is that the pay is less than I had hoped. Less than I had hoped, AND less than I need.

In that moment of indecision, the breath between “yes” and “no”, I found the courage to say, “Yes…if”. It made my heart race with panic and the palms of my hands grew sweaty.
“Yes,” I said with conviction, faking a strength I didn’t feel, “I will take that job IF you can offer me enough to support my children.”

My words shot into the phone and I watched them travel down a long, dark, twisty path toward the ear of the woman who held the power of “yes” and “no”.

She, too, hesitated.
She, too, said, “Yes…if”.

‘Yes,” she said with understanding, “we want you for this job and I will see if we can offer you more. I am not in charge of the budget, but I know there is often some flexibility.”

She should have some sort of an answer by the end of this week, the beginning of next week at the latest.

And so I wait.
I wait with strength and courage and tranquility, and I know that she will find that flexibility.

*Photo by Asif Akbar

Kindness Chronicles I

2008-01-17T00:00:00.000-08:00

This is the first post in the Kindness Chronicles, weekly updates of my adventures in kindness.

This first week has been one of learning.
I have learned that, although I often do kind things, I do not often do kind things intentionally.

I was unintentionally kind at the grocery store on Thursday. In the juice aisle, I encountered a vertically challenged woman who was standing on her tippiest of tippy toes, struggling to reach the last bottle of Pomegranate Pucker juice that was hiding at the very back of the top shelf. I offered to grab it for her and I think I could an actually hear a sigh of relief from her toes as she allowed the muscles in her body to relax. She asked me if I could just make sure that there were no more hiding just beyond her reach and her line of vision. I checked behind the Very Berry, the Pineapple Passion and the Mango Madness, and found that there was no Pomegranate Pucker escaping purchase. We exchanged smiles and continued on our separate ways. I was better for our encounter.

I was intentionally kind at Costco. My intention that day was to let others know when I thought something nice about them. Sometimes, it’s nice to know that others notice you in a positive way.

So, I was in the check out line and an older woman and her husband were in front of me. The woman had perfectly coiffed silver hair, fashion forward spectacles, complete with rhinestones at the temples, and the clearest, brightest, sparkly-est, robin’s egg blue eyes I have ever seen. She was dressed for Costco, pink crocs with fuzzy lambs wool liners, faded old lady jeans, a cream colored long sleeved t-shirt and a cozy blue-grey fleece. Her hands shook a little as she wrote out the check for her groceries. I watched her and was overwhelmed by her beauty. So overwhelmed, in fact, that she left before I could say anything to her.
Dah-yum!

When I picked up my daughter from school, I told her this part of the story, and she said, “It’s a good thing you didn’t say anything, she would have thought that your were a stalker and you would have scared her.”
“Ah, but wait,” I laughed to her, holding up my index finger and wagging it at her, “the story is not over.”

You see, the couple had purchased over $240 of groceries. Their shopping cart was full to overflowing. I, on the other hand, had but a handful of items. I resolved that if I saw them in the parking lot when I was leaving, I would say something.
I walked out to my car. No couple.
I loaded my groceries into my car, returned the cart to the cart corral, and started to leave. Instead of driving out the first exit, though, I drove through the parking lot to the exit at the far end. I peered down each lane as I passed, and, as I drove passed the third lane, I spied them. They were still loading their car, a late model silver Toyota sedan.
Quickly, I looped around. As I neared them, I rolled down the window.

At this point in my story, my daughter is cringing in the passenger seat. She is holding her head in her hands screaming, “No. No! You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t!”

My lips tighten together as I nod sadly at her, “I did.”

I rolled down my window and said, “Excuse me.”
I think I may have given the woman a bit of a start. She was squatted on the pavement trying to drag one of those mega packages of toilet paper off the bottom rack of the cart where it was wedged. My voice broke her concentration and she glanced up at me, her face a mixture of surprise and annoyance.
“I was in line behind you at the check out,” I explained, “and I just wanted to let you know that I think you are the most beautiful woman.
She kind of glanced behind her to make sure that I was talking to her, then, she looked back at me and smiled. Before she could say anything, her husband danced from the other side of the car. He did some sort of a little two-step jig, stuck his thumbs through his imaginary suspenders and laughed, “What about me?”
I waved at him and laughed back and said, “Nope, I can’t do that. That’s your beautiful bride’s job.”
As I drove away, I glanced at them in the rearview mirror. They were standing by the open trunk of their car smiling broadly at each other and for an instant, I could see the young couple who fell in love and promised to spend the rest of their lives together.

“Aw,” my daughter sighs, hands clasped under her chin. “That’s so sweet!”

“Yes it was,” I agree. “So am I forgiven?”
She takes on the air of a queen granting a pardon, looks down her nose at me and nods, “Yes, you’re forgiven.”

Next week, she’s going to join me in the kindness challenge as long as I promise that it is not just a scam on my part to con her in to being nicer to her younger brother.
I promised.

A Mother's Words

2008-01-15T22:40:00.000-08:00

Still stuck on the mothering thing.
This time, it’s a memory from my childhood, and it has me looking at motherhood from the other side.

I remember when I was about ten and at Mass with my family. I was wearing a jersey knit outfit consisting of navy blue bell-bottom trousers and a sleeveless navy and white stripped shirt. On my feet I wore white sandals, on my head, a plaid, Mr. Toad type motor cap. My dark hair was cropped short, into a pixie cut. I felt too fine for words.

I have no idea what the readings were nor do I recall the sermon. What I do remember is the Communion hymn – Lord of the Dance.

Dance, dance, wherever you may be.
I am the lord of the dance said he
And I’ll lead you all wherever you may be
And I’ll lead you all in the dance said he.

I LOVED THAT SONG! I sang it with all my heart and soul. I felt God smiling down at me and I reveled in the Light.

My mother didn’t love the song.
My mother didn’t sing with me.
My mother didn’t see the light.

I don’t know what she saw.
I do know what she said.

She peered down at me from behind her hymn book, scrunched her eyes, wrinkled her forehead and, in her best church whisper she hissed, “What are you doing?!”

Looking up at her, the air around me suddenly felt too heavy and I wondered if I could continue to stand.
I knew I must.
But I couldn’t hear the music anymore. So, I stopped singing and, like my mother, began to mouth the words.

I am 45 years old, and the sting I felt on that Spring Sunday still smarts.
I’m sure that my mother no longer recalls that day. I’m pretty sure that she forgot that moment the second she turned her attention back to her hymnbook.
To her, it was a casual comment.
To me, it was a crushing blow.

I never sang at Mass again. Ever.

The power of words is amazing and can only be matched by the power of a mother.
I like to think that I have been able to use that power wisely with my children.
Sweetly sad upturned faces and my too late apologies tell me that I may have failed.

Multiple Personalities

2008-01-14T11:34:00.000-08:00

It’s funny.
I gave birth to four children.
My four children all have the same father and the same mother.
Except for that…they don’t.
I am a different mother to each of my children.

This fact is painfully evident with my daughters.
When one of my oldest daughter’s friends said, “Wow, you’re mother is so chill!” (i.e. so cool she is BEYOND cool), she responded by saying, “Yeah, well…she’s nice.”
When one of my youngest daughter’s friends said, “Wow, you’re mother is so chill”, she responded by saying, “N0…she’s icy chill!”

Of course, I understand that part of it has to do with the fact that my daughters are very different girls.
But, at least part of it has to do with me. With how I raised them. With who I was when I raised them.

My girls were born four and a half years apart.

My oldest got a more traditional mother. A stay-at-home, Catholic woman who volunteered endlessly, taught Sunday school and believed in the “Father Knows Best” model of family life. She got a my needs come last, my opinions don’t count for as much, I am here to serve you sort of mother. In short, she got someone who was more uptight, less confident and angrier.

My youngest daughter got a mother who was beginning to realize that her view of the world was rather narrow. She definitely got a lot of the angry, but she also got a mother who spent less time channeling June Cleaver and more time getting in touch with her inner Morticia Adams.

Both of my girls got a mother who listened to them, but my younger daughter also got a mother who could hear.
My oldest got a mother who would find solutions to her problems, proper solutions, but solutions that didn’t always fit my daughter. Her sister got a mother who helped her figure out her own answers.

My youngest daughter got a mother who reads aloud to her every night from Fearless Girls, Wise Women & Beloved Sisters. Her sister got a mother who didn’t even realize that gender was an issue.

My oldest daughter got a mother who unconsciously split household chores into “boy jobs” and “girl jobs”. My youngest got a mother who splits chores based upon interest, time and need – my oldest son asked to do the laundry, my youngest son enjoys unloading the dishwasher and my daughter loves to bake.

I realize that it is not as though these two different mothers are mutually exclusive nor do I delude myself into thinking that I only house two mothers within me – I haven’t even touched on the kind of mothering I have given to my boys – or that I got it “all wrong” with my oldest and am getting it “all right” with my youngest daughter.
I do believe, however, that I am becoming a better mother, even though I know that I have always done my best.

Nourishing a Soul

2008-01-14T01:09:00.000-08:00

From the moment my oldest daughter was born eighteen plus years ago, I have been reading to my children. I read them all of the stories that I had listened to and loved when I was a child. I read them newer stories too. I didn’t give much thought to the gender of the characters in the story, other than the fact that I rarely read “girl” stories (Madeline, The Lonely Doll, etc.) to my sons.

But last week, when I was at the library, a book literally jumped off the shelf at me, Fearless Girls, Wise Women & Beloved Sisters. It is an anthology of folktales from around the world featuring heroines. And by heroines, I mean female heroes, not Disney inspired Cinderella princesses.

In reading the introduction, I was embarrassed by the fact that I had never noticed that Dr. Seuss books, the ones that we read so often that my children had them memorized, used male pronouns almost exclusively. When I mentioned this to my fourteen-year-old daughter, though, she gave me that “no duh” look and said “Yeah, except for Lola Lee Lou, Maizie and the sour kangaroo. And they’re all either vain or lazy or mean.”

The author, Kathleen Ragan, noticed this too. She went out in search of stories that feature strong females. What she found was that the most readily available folktales and fairy tales present women as passive, beautiful and helpless. In addition, she found that the ratio of male protagonists to female was severely skewed, with at least 90% of the stories featuring heroes. Through her research, Ragan found that many of stories have been altered to diminish the power of the feminine. In the original German version of Little Red Riding Hood, for example, she encounters another wolf the second time she goes through the woods and this time, she vanquishes it herself.

I have been reading this book to my daughter. She has been listening with the ears of a child who is finally hearing her own language. She has been drinking up the stories, nourishing a soul that had become an arid wasteland of want. We dragged the book with us to a doctor’s appointment and she actually sat in my lap -- all five feet-ten inches of her, with her head scrunched down resting on my shoulder -- so that she would be close enough to make sure that she hadn’t missed a word.

I cannot change the past. I can affect the future. I can give my daughter inspiration and honesty, heroines in all their flawed beauty.

Thank you Kathleen Ragan.

* Photo from Amazon.com

Why Can't We Be Friends?

2008-01-12T15:39:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago, when I was first separated and starting the process of becoming divorced, I was at my youngest daughter’s basketball game. Everybody’s parents were there, cheering for the team. There was one couple in particular, though, that caught my eye. They had come to the game in separate cars. When the mother arrived, she greeted the father with a big hello hug. They sat together, and while they watched the came, they laughed and joked and enjoyed each other’s company.

My children’s father and I, by contrast, sat on opposite sides of the gym. We were like two opposing magnets that couldn’t be brought together. No matter how hard we, or anyone else tried, the invisible force field couldn’t be broken. But this is how we wanted it. At that point, even knowing that the air I was inhaling may have mingled with the exact same air that he was exhaling was akin to breathing noxious gasses.

I watched the happy couple and thought back to a time when I was part of a happy couple.

Patrick and I met at a basketball game. He was a player, I was a fan. We had mutual friends in common, and after the game we all went out to celebrate their victory. Some good conversation and a few beers were all it took for the spark to ignite between Patrick and me.
We started dating, fell in love and got married.
We continued to go to basketball games, he, as a player, me, as his greatest fan.
When we had children, they joined us at the games. The hot sweaty smell of the gym wrapped my babies in warmth and the steady dribble of the ball down the court lulled them to sleep. Nothing, not even the buzzer, could disturb the peace my babies felt at a basketball game.
My children loved watching their father play, and, when they got old enough, he taught them the game.
Over time, Patrick began to spend less time as a player and more time as a fan. We would sit together and cheer for our children. Sometimes, we would hold hands
Basketball was woven into the fiber of our marriage, the first thread in the tapestry of our lives together.

At halftime of my daughter’s game, I started talking with the woman I had been watching. It turned out that the reason she had hugged the man when she arrived was that she hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks. She hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks because they were divorced!

I glanced over at Patrick and, holding back the urge to vomit, I asked the woman how she did it.
“My husband and I are going through a divorce,” I explained, “and we can’t stand to even look at each other.”

“Yeah, we were like that,” she nodded. “It gets better.”
“How? When?” I pleaded.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “We’ve been divorced for almost five years. It just kind of gradually happened.”

This Christmas, I thought it was finally happening. I took Patrick shopping to help him buy gifts for the children. It went well. We talked. I gave him gift ideas, he listened and actually took my advice. Together, we chose a gift for my oldest daughter’s boyfriend. I tried on clothes to see if they would be the right size for our youngest daughter. I explained to him what Uggs are and took him to Nordstrom so that he could buy some for his mother. I even went halves with my oldest daughter and we gave Patrick tickets to a Blazer basketball game for Christmas.

Last week, our youngest daughter had her first basketball game since Christmas. I arrived first. When Patrick got there, he saw me and took a seat on the opposite side of the gym. Afterwards, he left without talking to me.

And I am left wondering if I dreamed Christmas.

BE Kind

2008-01-11T00:35:00.000-08:00

No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible. - Voltaire

It is so easy to point fingers and say "It's not my fault!". I am discovering, though, that it is ALL my fault -- and not in a bad way.
It's all my fault in a good, we're all in this together kind of way. Every word I speak, every thought I think, every action I take, is a pebble dropped in a mirror smooth mountain lake, the ripples reaching far beyond what my eyes can see.

Thich Naht Hanh says that, "It is not by going out for a demonstration against nuclear missles that we can bring about peace. It is with our capacity of smiling, breathing, and being peace that we can make peace."
I love that! Not being peace-ful, but being peace.

I thought of this when I heard about a new project on which Claudia is working. It is a new blog called Everyday Kindness that challeges us to be kind.

To commit one act of kindness every day.

Simple.
No big statements to make.
No huge rallys to attend.
No letters of protest to write.
Just be kind.

I've decided to accept the challenge.
I've decided to drop at least one pebble of kindness in my pond every day.
Just think what a difference we could make if everybody did the same.

Luh-uv That Cat!

2008-01-10T00:23:00.000-08:00

It’s 11:49 at night. It is waaay past my bedtime but I can’t sleep because of the incessant meowing at my window. I try to ignore it. I am almost successful, but our cat uses her well-honed sixth sense and, realizing I’m about to nod off, she ups the ante. Out come the claws. She draws them painfully s-l-o-w-l-y
D
O
W
N
the windowpane.
Once.
My ears start to itch.
Twice.
My jaw tightens with that uncomfortable, tasting-something-too-sour feeling.
Thrice.
Sharp needles explode from my ears and jaw and rain down on my body.
I open the window.
Cat – 1. Me – 0.

It is raining outside and the cat wastes no time. She is inside in a blink and pounces on my bed. On my bed with a white comforter. On my bed with a white comforter with her rain stained body and roof debris dirty paws.
Cat -2. Me – still 0.
It’s 12:07. I’m tired. It’s only dirt. I can wash the comforter in the morning.
I crawl back into bed.
Wet rag of a cat crawls in with me, except she does not snuggle down and go to sleep. NOOO! I discover that this cat is the top student of a certain Ms. Link and that this cat is FULLY CAFEINATED! So fully cafeinated that she is oozing spastic energy from every pore! Apparently, she’s done ALL the extra credit that her favorite teacher ever even thought of assigning!

“Hey, scratch me under my chin. No, I mean between my ears. Actually, how ‘bout if you make me a nice cave of covers. Nope, too hot. Can I just rub up under your chin. Don’t you think my butt smells fabulous?! Didn’t get a good whiff? Here let me stick my tail up your nose to make sure you’re all cleared out up there. You know, I’m kinda wet, so maybe it would be good to get under the covers after all, ‘cuz it’s nice and dry in there and I can get rid of some of this wet. Darn, I think I got something stuck in my claws. Oh, oh, ahhhh! Got it. Did I ever tell you your arm makes a great scratching post?! By the way, have you seen my mouse anywhere? I know I left her around here somewhere. Hey, why aren’t you scratching my ears anymore? You gotta put your hand up here. Oh, look, you’ve got something on your face there. Here, let me get it. The rough on my tongue works really well for getting off dried on stuff. Hmm, it’s not coming off, must be a freckle. Quit hogging the pillows. I want that one. Not that one, that one. Oh, guess you were right, the first one was better. I know, let’s get out the laptop and do a little writing. You like writing, don’t you? Let’s do a little writing. Don’t forget to keep scratching, though. I need you to keep scratching. Why are you doing my ears? It’s the chin, the chin needs scratching! Write about me. You’re not going fast enough. Here, let me help. Does my butt still smell sweet? Hey look at that -- if I press here, I can hide the last few sentences you wrote someplace in a previous paragraph. Neat trick,huh? Bet you can't find them! You know, you’re not much fun. I’m gonna go check out what the kids are doing. Don’t forget to post that.”

Cat – 3. Me – -100.

I Swear

2008-01-09T05:50:00.000-08:00

#!*@**#@!!!

“I didn’t like playing that team,” my youngest daughter laments, climbing into the car after her last basketball game. “The girls kept on swearing, like the “s” word and everything!”

“Not the “s” word,” I say in mock horror, holding my hand up to my mouth in my best June Cleaver imitation. “That’s shocking!”

She rolls her eyes at me, “Muh-mee!”, she breaths. “I don’t swear.”

(She and I are still at that denial stage in our relationship. I don’t swear in front of her because I am trying to set a good example and teach her better ways of expressing herself. She does not swear in front of me because to her I’m just an old fuddy duddy mother who wouldn’t even know how to swear.)

“No,” I agree, “not in front of your mother anyway.”

Her eyes grow wide as she wildly searches her memory for when she may have slipped and I might have overheard her swearing. She recovers just in time to blink back the panic that threatens to escape. “How would you know?”
She pouts the question to me.
“Because, sweetie, my eyes are everywhere and I can see you.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says in her best Valley Girl voice, “that’s ‘cuz we’re like, identical twins.
She and I actually look almost nothing alike. She has blond hair, blue eyes and skin so fair that she can spend an entire month in Hawai’i and come home without a tan line. I have dark brown hair, brown eyes and olive colored skin.

“Dah-yum, girlfriend, you’re right,” I agree, hitting myself on the forehead.
(Note: The first syllable in the word “dah-yum” is emphasized and is executed on a slightly higher note that then slides into the “yum”.)
“Muh-mee! You’re not supposed to swear!” she admonishes me.
“I didn’t.” I say defensively.
“Yes you did. You said the “d” word.”
“No, “damn” is the “d” word,” I correct her. “I said “dah-yum”. It’s okay to say “dah-yum”.

My daughter struggles with this distinction for a bit and then asks for an explanation.
“Damn”, I explain, “is an angry word. “Dah-yum” is not. As in, dah-yum that was good! Or Dah-yum that’s funny! Or plain ‘ol dah-yum by itself when you’re just speechless with surprise. It’s sort of like a verbal exclamation point.”

She tries it, but the “dah” gets stuck in her throat, and the “yum” jumps out in a hiccup.
“No, no, no. It’s dah-yum.” I repeat.
She tries again. This time she gets it backwards and the “dah” is a lower note than the “yum”.
I repeat it for her again.
She breaks down laughing. She laughs so hard that she’s crying.
“I am so telling all my friends,” she laughs.
“What?”
“I’m gonna tell them all that my mother is trying to teach me how to swear!”
And then I start to laugh too, because her interpretation of our conversation is so “dah-yum” funny.
Someday, she will probably hear me swearing. Someday is not today.

Impossible?

2008-01-08T06:17:00.000-08:00

I picked my youngest up from soccer practice at Adidas Field and noticed a HUGE sign strapped to the fence that said “IMPOSSIBLE IS NOTHING”.

When I was vacuuming, I found Sue Monk Kidd’s book First light hiding under my chest of drawers. When I pulled it out, it fell open to page 29 and this passage:
In ALICE IN WONDERLAND the White Queen practiced believing six impossible things every morning before breakfast. My daughter Ann and I became intrigued. “Maybe we should try it,” I said.
Next morning when I woke her for school, we conjured up six “impossible” things to believe in. “I believe I will make a hundred on my science test today,” Ann said. Since this was her hardest subject, I knew this was a leap of faith.
My turn. “I believe I can write two speeches before tomorrow,” I muttered. Foolishly, I’d agreed to fill in at the last minute for a conference speaker who’d canceled. It seemed like an impossible feat.
That afternoon Ann bounded in the house from school. “What did you make on your science test?” I asked.
“A hundred!” she cried.
I looked down at two finished speeches on my desk. How limited the world would be if we confined ourselves and God to what we think is impossible.”

Hmm. Curious that these two events would happen almost simultaneously.
Interesting that they happened now, as I contemplate my choices for president.
Coincidence?
I think not!
___________________

Impossible.
It has been said that Barrack Obama’s vision of America is impossible. It’s naïve. It’s idealistic. It’s just words.

He asks us to believe in him AND to believe in ourselves. He challenges us to be the change that we want to see in the world.

Can Barack galvanize John and Jane Q. Public into action?
Watch TV. Read the newspapers. He’s already done it. Record numbers of people are turning out to vote. More people than ever are caring and are participating the process.
I am caring. Me. A formerly uninformed, uninvolved citizen. Me. Whose main purpose in voting had very little to do with a passion for the issues or the candidates and very much to do with setting a good example for the children.
And I don’t think my caring is based on the fact that Barack and I were classmates in high school; I don’t think that I’m just riding the wave, caught up in the excitement of his words.

I think it’s hope. In this bleak time, Obama offers hope.

Naysayers argue that Obama’s vision is impossible. They ask that we limit ourselves, the Universe, the Divine, God, to what is possible!

I say “NO!”
I argue that it is by reaching for the impossible that we grow and in achieving the impossible that we create miracles.

So I’m jumping. I’m grabbing for that brass ring. I’m believing.

Words Matter

2008-01-07T05:24:00.000-08:00

”Stick and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.” from popular children’s rhyme

I don’t know if it’s a sign of aging, maturity, boredom, or a commentary on my love life, but on Saturday night, I sat alone, cross legged on my bed, sipping ginger tea and wearing sweats, and I watched the New Hampshire Presidential Debates.

The Republicans went first, during dinnertime, so I missed most of that. But I watched the Democratic debate in its entirety.

Hillary was cute when she feigned disappointment at not being as likable as Obama. Obama clearly outlined his position on healthcare. Edwards spoke passionately about internal motivation. Richardson played the elder statesman card well.
(Interesting, isn’t it, how all the male candidates are generally referred to by their last names, while Hillary is called Hillary.)

Each candidate’s supporters claimed victory in the debate. I can't say that I noticed any clear winner.

But one line did stand out for me. Two words, actually. Spoken by Barrack Obama. He said, “Words matter.”

Ga-zing!
My head snapped to attention and I quickly pressed the TiVo rewind button. What did he say?!
Stop. Play.
Obama leaned forward on his elbows, put his mouth closer to his microphone, turned his body towards Hillary and said, “Words matter.”
YES! I heard it right!
Words matter.

Words matter because the ability to express oneself well can be the difference between understanding and confusion.
Words matter because they can draw us together or tear us apart, engender understanding or ignite opposition.
Words matter because they are a direct expression of an individual and carry the power of feelings.

Words matter.
And the way in which words are used, matters.
I love you! I love you. I love you? I love. You?
Words that matter…differently.

Words matter.
And the absence of words matters.
Silence is silence. Or silence is unspoken words. It makes a difference AND it matters.

Words matter.

The way I speak to my children matters.
The way I express myself to people seeking my advice matters.
The way I choose to demonstrate disappointment, frustration, anger, love, sadness, joy…all of it matters.

Will these words affect my decision for president? Maybe. Maybe not. BUT…they do matter.

Words matter.

It's a Two Way Street

2008-01-06T07:33:00.000-08:00

There is a poster in the hall at my yoga studio that depicts a yogi in a series of over 900 different yoga poses. Every time I go to the studio, I see that poster. I have marveled at the way this man can gumby his body.
In the bottom right hand corner of this poster, in very small print, it says, “I am not this body. I am not this mind.” I’ve seen that a million times too.

Yesterday, I understood it.

I’ve heard similar statements before. My interpretation has always focused on the aspect of me extending beyond -- an outward migration of my energy, extending me beyond the limits of what is traditionally thought of as “me”. The idea that even my thoughts are energy and can have an effect upon others.
I knew, of course, that if I can affect others, they can affect me. I’ve experienced the veracity of it – how one person’s grumpiness can cause my own grumpy meter to rise.

I thought I got it.
The Divine is inside us. The Divine is outside us.
Check, check. Yup, I agree.

Frankly, though, this idea has, as often than not, felt more dissipating than empowering.

But, yesterday, something shifted.
I actually felt the energy of this truth. Physically.
As I sat there, totally immobile, drippingly sweaty and completely wiped out by 90 minutes of Bikram yoga, the proverbial light went on.
This huge tiredness is huge, only if it only belongs to me. But, if this tiredness is global, if it belongs to the entire Universe, then…WOW!
My mind grabbed this idea and started running with it.
WOW!!!
I was filled with the awe as I literally felt the weary being lifted and shared.
As I write this, it sounds foolish.
Epiphanies happen after major, life altering events, not after a particularly tough yoga class.
But, there it is anyway. For a moment, for a marvelous, shining moment, I GOT it.

Scary Dream

2008-01-05T17:06:00.000-08:00

Tap, tap, tap. Tentitively tapping.
“Mummy,” my nine year old whispers, face buried in the door.
“Yes,” I answer, immediately awake. It doesn’t matter that it’s 2:45 in the morning. I am mountain lion alert and ready to pounce on whatever it is that has disturbed by sleeping baby.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course, love.” The door creaks open and I move over and turn back the covers. My little one crawls in and snuggles into the warm space I have left for him.

“I had a bad dream,” he confesses.
His golden eyes are wide and round, bravely struggling to hold back the fear that woke him so abruptly. In the dark, they search for mine and when our eyes meet, the scariness of his dream leaks out in small, hesitant tears.

I pull him closer to me. He is warm and damp with fear. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
He nods.
His words spill out in a confused jumble, the sequencing falling into the familiar scatter pattern of dreams.
“Ea was in her car and a bad man was chasing her and there was this ghost and the man was beating on her windows and Ea couldn’t get away and there was a river and it was dark and no one was helping and she was alone and I don’t know what the ghost was doing and then I woke up.”
“Wow, that sounds scary. I’m glad you told me about it. Now...let it go,” I soothe, gently blowing over his head. My breath scatters the threads of his dream and they dissolve in the darkness.
He snuggles in closer and nestles his head under my chin.
“Pink cloud or white,” I ask.
“Which one is stronger?”
“Well, pink light is love and white is God. What do you think?”
“I think they’re the same.”
“I think you’re right. Let’s do both.”
Together, we surround ourselves in the protective light of love and the Divine.
My baby relaxes.
Before he drifts off he mummers, “Mummy, it’s okay if I have bad dreams because if I have all of them now, you can just blow them away for me and then I won’t have to have any anymore.” Then he nods, as if setting that thought in place, turns his head, and sleeps.

Who's Responsible?

2008-01-04T10:04:00.000-08:00

I read Steve Duin’s recent column in the Oregonian. As a parent, I was incensed at he mercenary behavior of the cab driver.

It got me to thinking about responsibility.
To whom and for whom am I responsible?

Since I am the only person over whom I really have any control, does that mean that I am only responsible for myself?
If I always try to do my best, (meaning the best that I am capable of doing in any given moment, not the best that has ever been done in the history of the entire world) is that enough?
What if my best conflicts with someone else’s best?

What about my children?
Where does my responsibility to my children end?
If I make sure that they are fed and clothed, have I fulfilled my parental responsibilities? Do I have to love them too? AND, I do love my children! I love my children with every breath in my body and every ounce of my being. But I have read enough memoirs and heard enough stories about mothers who are found to be at fault for not loving their children the right way. Am I responsible for every neurosis and socially unacceptable tick that my children may develop as a result of the way in which I have loved them?
Is that fair?

And what is my responsibility to the world at large?
Am I my brother’s keeper?
If I pick up a hitchhiker or befriend a homeless person, am I being socially responsible or reckless?
Caring for and about others is an important aspect of being a responsible member of a community. But what if that hitchhiker is a mass murderer or that homeless person a thief? Haven’t I just then been the poster child of irresponsibility by choosing to help a stranger and putting myself and, by extension, my children in harm’s way?
Am I being more responsible by showing my children that we are each part of something greater or am I being irresponsible by not loving them enough to put them and their safety first? Am I setting up my children for a lifetime of therapy or am I preparing them to become fully functioning members of society?

The questions keep coming and my brain is hurting.
I realize that that this is not really what Steve Duin was talking about and that there are much greater problems and more important questions to be answered than the inconsequential wondering of a mind with too much time, but…there it is anyway.

A Mouse By Any Other Name

2008-01-03T13:01:00.000-08:00

Read this in my Chinese horoscope today.

“Light four seasons lamp to bring good luck, and invite the golden mouse home to increase wealth.”

I could really use some increased wealth! Please tell me that above mentioned golden mouse and the mice of Mice are not related.

No Christmas Cookies

2008-01-02T18:40:00.000-08:00

Every year since my oldest was old enough to walk, we have baked Christmas shortbread cookies and the children and I have delivered them to all of our neighbors. Some years, they were New Years cookies. But every year, there were cookies.

Last year, our neighbors were surprised that we did the cookie thing given the fact that it had been a “difficult” year for our family…what with the divorce and all. But they were all so excited to se us galloping up their walkways with our basket of cookies. Each household received a little bundle of cookies wrapped up in tissue paper with sparkly ribbons. Everyone greeted us with HUGE smiles and proclamations of undying love for their very FAVORITE cookies.

This year, for the first time, there were no Christmas cookie deliveries.
No New Years cookies either.

This year we found out that my two middle children have food allergies.
A lot of them.
Technically, since they merely cause breathing problems and skin conditions and fatigue, rather than throwing anyone in to anaphylactic shock, they are “sensitivities”, not “allergies”. Either way, though, these food “issues” have radically changed the way we eat.

Gone are the days of indiscriminant grazing, of going to the grocery store and buying whatever looks good regardless of what the label says, and of following our noses into a restaurant.
Eating now takes planning and label reading and menu adjustments.

Things on the “No Buy” list include, but are not limited to:

Dairy

Wheat

Beef and Lamb

Cane Sugar

Onions

Until I started reading labels, I did not understand exactly how restrictive this list is.
Avoiding wheat does not just mean no bread. It means, no pasta, no pizza, and no baked goods. I found wheat in soy sauce, oatmeal and even in red whips!
No dairy means that ice cream, most chocolate, cheese, and eggs are out. Whey and casein are hidden in all sorts of things, from non-dairy cheeses to taco seasoning.
And avoiding cane sugar is like trying to stay out of the sun in the desert. It’s everywhere!

The whole process of feeding my family takes a whole lot longer now. Everything, from the shopping to the preparing, takes more time.

At the grocery store, every label must be read before anything graduates from the shelf into our cart.
Ready-made foods are pretty much a thing of the past. There are gluten-free foods, and there are dairy-free foods, but there are very few gluten-free/dairy-free foods. Almost every canned soup or sauce contains onions. And, if you can find a packaged cake or cookie that has no cane sugar, I will worship the ground that you walk on.
That quick dash through the Burgerville drive-through on those nights when everyone has conflicting schedules is a thing of the past. In fact, dashing to any restaurant is a thing of the past. We need to carefully check menus to make sure that they offer foods that we can eat. If it’s an Italian restaurant, we take rice pasta and have them cook it for us, if it’s a burger place, they have to serve chicken, Chinese food should be safe, but we need to make sure that the soy sauce is wheat-free.

I’ve got it mostly figured out, though. I know where to get the flour and I know who makes the best rice bread. I’ve learned how to substitute maple syrup for cane sugar and buffalo for beef. We make our own birthday cakes and cook spaghetti sauce from scratch.
The hardest part about our new diet is learning how to visit friends. It takes planning and preparation. My children can no longer simply go on a sleepover and expect to be fed. They need to pack soy milk and cereal and rice pasta in addition to jammies and toothbrushes.
But for the most part, our food adventure has brought more good into our lives than it has taken away. With everything in our lives moving so fast, this has forced us to slow down. My daughter and I bake together a lot more than we used to – having a teenager spend more time at home rather than less, is a rare and wonderful thing. Once I got over feeling completely overwhelmed, I learned to cook with intention. More love goes in to the food I prepare, and that has to be a good thing.

There is one thing, though, that I have yet to figure out…how to make shortbread cookies without using any wheat flour, butter or cane sugar.
And so, this year, there are no cookies.

I hope the neighbors understand.

No Lines Crossed

2008-01-01T00:48:00.000-08:00

YEAH!!!
Look what I found in my inbox.

Thanks for your update e-mail. I know it has seemed like a long process
to get this position filled, but due to the holiday, several key players
in the interview process have been on vacation off and on so the
decision was made to not interview until after the first of the year.
We will be calling you soon to set up an interview.

I guess I'm okay on the etiquette front.
LOVE this taking charge of my own life thing.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Mother Superior Says...

2007-12-31T11:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve been looking for a job. Clearly, the one that I have is not working out very well. To add insult to injury, not only am I not making any money, this job is actually costing me money.
Hmm.
Time for a brief self-analysis.

I started this job because a friend needed help, and, coincidentally, I needed a job.
It seemed like the perfect fit.
I would be able to continue to work with books and education. My schedule could be flexible, which would allow me to continue to volunteer. I would only work during the school year, meaning that I would have the same days off as my children.
PURR-FECT!
Unfortunately, it’s not working quite as perfectly as I had hoped. The major drawback is the lack of a steady paycheck. Actually, right now, it’s the lack of ANY paycheck.
In addition, I am finding that, when done right, sales can be a rather soul sucking enterprise. I want my customers to have the best product for their needs, not the best product that I have available. The best product, period.
And up selling…? Not so much. It just rubs me the wrong way. I can make as convincing an argument as the next guy as to why you should buy the book and the video and the CD, but what I’m having a problem with is why I should make that argument.

And then last night I was watching The Sound of Music with my two youngest children. We watched while multi-tasking. We sang along, drank vanilla-banana milkshakes, played a rousing game of Cranium and channel surfed during the commercials. Still, we were able to track with the movie. We’d all seen it so many times that it was like visiting with an old friend. We all know every single word of every single song. We know how the Reverend Mother will “solve a problem like Maria”. We know that Maria will use the material from the draperies in her bedroom to make play clothes for the children because they cannot play “in straight jackets”. We know the “notes to sing” and we completely buy into the idea that we “can sing most anything!”.
And yet, last night, my old friend surprised me. It happened when Maria and the Captain have just declared their love for each other and are dancing around the gazebo. Maria presses her cheek up against the Captain’s chest and mummers demurely, “Mother Superior says, you have to go looking for the life you want.”

Tonight, this stupid little milk toast line, jumped out and thumped me right in between the eyeballs. Hard.
Damn!
I hate it when the obvious is so…obvious.

There are many things in my life that make my life the life that I want, AND, there are some things that could stand changing.
Thing #1 is my job.
I know exactly what kind of a job I want.
I volunteer at exactly the kind of a job that I want.
I have applied for exactly the kind of job that I want.

It’s been two weeks, and I have heard nothing.

So today, I fired off an email to the person who is in charge of hiring for exactly the kind of job that I want and I told her…”THIS is exactly the kind of a job that I want!” As a matter of fact, I sent it twice! Once on purpose, once as a result of a double clinking faux pas.
Twice was probably overkill, but I’m hoping that the fact of sending it at all has not crossed the line of proper job seeking etiquette.
And the thing is, if it did, I’m okay with that.
I’m okay with it because I stepped up.
I stopped waiting for my life to happen to me.
I made a decision that will allow me to happen to my life. That makes me a winner either way.

Abundance

2007-12-28T19:32:00.000-08:00

I know all about the Law Of Attraction – energy flows where attention goes. Concentrate on the positive and attract more of it. Dwell on the negative and get more of it.

Yada, yada, yada.

Hard to do when you’ve been busting your butt working for a year and have not one dime, not one thin dime, to show for it. Hard to do when the majority of jobs that you see advertised pay less than what your 16 year-old son earned at his first summer job! Hard to do when you watch money flying out of your bank account and know that the situation is not going to change any time soon and you start to wonder how much longer you can manage.

And then…

I’m sitting in the dentist’s office, waiting for my son, and I pick up a People magazine. (I confess. I pick our medical providers by the number of fluff, completely mindless magazines that they have in their waiting rooms – the more fluff they have, the more points they earn.) I read all about the latest celebrities to get married/divorced/pregnant. I see the lovely red carpet attire and learn about celebrities who have flown off to the far corners of the world to help children living in poverty.

But dig a little deeper, and I come across an article about “Heroes Among Us”. People who give away at least half of their incomes! Regular people. People like you and me. People exactly like you and me, except for the fact that they give away at least half of their incomes!

Stunning!

These are people who truly live a life of abundance. They have completely rejected the attitude of scarcity. They know.

They KNOW!

Right down to the depths of their beings, they know that there is more than enough. They know that having is empty if it is not paired with giving.

And I read about these people.
And I see what is real.
And I know that I will be okay. The universe is abundant and I will be okay.

It feels good to let that one go. And to think…I have People magazine to thank. Go figure.

Check our your giving potential.

Home

2007-12-27T22:03:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, no matter how much you love someone, you just need to get away. Not far away, just far enough away. A space of your own.

I have four children. Two girls and two boys.
I have a house with four bedrooms. A grown-ups’ bedroom, a boys' bedroom, a girls' bedroom and a guest room.

Rooms, in our house, have always been shared.
Until last year.
Last year, my husband and I divorced.

The master bedroom became my room. I moved furniture and painted the walls tea green. I hung my favorite pictures, the ones that remind me of Hawai’i and of my children. I put an antique red and white Hawaiian quilt on my bed and bought lovely side tables made of sustainable hardwood by Javanese craftsmen. I made myself a space. My own space.

My oldest daughter chose to live with her father. The things she wanted to leave here were moved into the guest room. Much of what she left behind represented her childhood -- her blankie, her stuffed animals, her fairy picture – things she felt she needed to escape in order to grow up.
But I wanted her to know that she could always come back. So we made the guest room into her room. The namby pamby pale pink walls were not a color that said, “Come back and stay a while.” Together we selected Divine Gold and I repainted the walls the rich, warm color of a sunny beach. The color plays off the yellows and greens of her quilt, making the room sing, “Welcome Home!” We moved the desk out of my room and into hers and hung a beveled mirror over it so that she would have someplace to sit and put on makeup. We no longer have a guest room, but we do have a room for my oldest. Her very own room.

The girls’ room became my youngest daughter’s room. To make it her own, she picked a lovely color called China Silk for the walls. It’s a deep blue that looks purple in some lights. It’s a royal color that exactly fits my little princess. She has a lilac vanity, a tangerine yellow desk, hot pink curtains, a soft, slouchy pale pink chair and ottoman and a bed that is overflowing with her babies and pillows. Her room is an explosion of life and color that reflects her secret soul.

The boys’ room, remained the boys’ room, shared by my 16-year-old son and my 9-year-old son. Neither of them complained, but when I asked my oldest son if he would like his own room, his face lit up like the first spring sunrise following a drippy, grey Portland winter. I told him he could move down to the basement, carefully pointing out that I would not be putting in a bathroom down there anytime soon. “We have two and a half other bathrooms,” he pointed out. “I’m okay with no bathroom in the basement.”
So we began remodeling the basement.
We worked all summer and fall to fix up a room for my oldest son. We sheet rocked and put up molding. We painted evergreen walls and laid hazelnut carpet. We found a marvelous chest of drawers at Goodwill and uncovered a comfy, but stylish chair at a neighborhood garage sale. Fabric Depot had the perfect fabric and, as soon as I get the sewing machine fixed, he will have a perfect set of curtains hanging over his windows. He moved in just before Christmas. He loves his new Manland.

Today, my youngest son and I started working on his room. It was knee deep in the clutter and mayhem that his older brother left behind. We began in the closet, sorting clothes. We filled three shopping bags with clothes that no longer fit or are otherwise unsatisfactory. Toys were next. Three Tupperware under-the-bed boxes filled with toys have become four shoeboxes on the shelves of his closet. The metal bunk bed has turned into a loft and separate twin bed and the space under the loft is now a “tight” fort, complete with soft, squishy pillows and a blue rope light. His Lego trunk makes the perfect bedside table. He still likes the pine green color that he and his brother originally picked for the room, so no painting will be required. Tomorrow, he will test out his newly decorated digs by having a sleepover with a couple of his neighborhood friends.

It’s been fun watching my children create their own space. Each room is a completely unique reflection of the child who dreamed it. We have spaces to come together and spaces to be apart.
My house has finally become our home.

Christmas Wins

2007-12-25T22:31:00.000-08:00

I went to bed at 4:15 this morning.
At 7:15 a warm, happy 9-year-old boy launches himself onto my bed.
“Merry Christmas, Mummy,” he smiles from his heart. His voice is full of excitement, wrapped softly in deep contentment. I don’t know where he got it, this inner calm, but he brought it with him into this world, and sometimes, it dances around the edges of his words filling everything with peace. I peel my eyes open and he presses his nose against mine and smiles.
And then, in the blink of a moment, he is all little boy again.

“Can we open stockings now?” he bubbles.
“If you can wake anybody else up,” I yawn, “we can open stockings.”
He bounds off on his mission. I roll over and blink, trying to wake up and wishing that the sandpaper covering the insides of my eyelids would just please, go away.

Christmas with three teenagers and a nine-year-old is a balancing act. My youngest is still filled with the all the eager anticipation of Christmas that defies the body’s internal clock, rerouting the circuitry to provide that extra burst of holiday energy. His siblings, on the other hand, are ruled by the rhythms of the teenaged body that demands to sleep until at least 10 am.

I hear my son banging on doors and turning on lights, ho-ho-ho-ing and Merry Christmas-ing like a miniature Santa-in-training. He's working a tough crowd, though, and his are the only feet I hear pitter-pattering.
And I hear them pitter-pattering back into my bedroom.
I lift my eyebrows, silently asking him if he has had any success.
He shakes his head. “I tried to wake them up,” he admits, “but nobody is getting up.”

“Well, why don’t we check on Bubba and Joey and wish them a Merry Christmas?” I offer. Bubba and Joey are his virtual pets on Club Penguin. The pets that will actually die unless they are feed and played with and cared for every day.
He agrees with a smile and I buy a few more minutes of dreamless oblivion for my teenagers. For once, Bubba and Joey help me. I silently promise not to complain about taking care of them the next time my son is with his father.

Caring for Bubba and Joey turns into a quick reconnaissance of the world of Club Penguin, whittling away another half an hour. But ultimately, the reprieve is over.
“When is everyone else going to get up?” he asks, the whine threatening to bubble up through his patience.
“I don’t know,” I answer bluntly. “Why don’t you try again?”

He thumps down the stairs, calling for his brother.
He thumps back up the stairs, solo.
Down the hall and then back in to my room.
Head down. Alone.
I open my mouth to stammer out some sort of stocking alternative but I am interrupted by the jingle of the bells that adorn my youngest daughter’s bedroom door. A smile breaks across my son’s face, and I can almost hear the cherubim and seraphim singing his joy.

“I’ll go get the stockings!” he shouts as he turns from the room and dances down the stairs.
Our upstairs hall is only about fifteen feet long, but my little one is back up the stairs and into my room before his sister’s shadow even hits the door. He is clutching two stockings in his left arm and balancing three shiny red boxes in his right. He dumps them on my bed with a satisfied sigh.

My daughter is dripping sleepiness, but bleary eyed or not, she is aware enough to notice, and young enough to care, that neither of the stockings belongs to her.
“Why didn’t you bring mine?” my daughter yawns, slumping onto my shoulder. Her blond hair falls against my cheek and I can smell the kiwi conditioner.
“I didn’t see it,” my son explains. “These were the only two on the couch.”
“Did you check the chairs?” I offer.

The beat of his feet as he runs back down the stairs is the only reply I get.
One breath later, he is back carrying four more Santa gifts and two more stockings. Again, neither belongs to my daughter, but before she can ask, my son is gone. He returns triumphant, holding the final stocking high over his head, the winning trophy.

We hear my oldest daughter stumble into the hall. She squints into my bedroom. “Where’s Bub?” she asks, inquiring after her other brother.
“Still asleep,” my youngest succinctly replies.
“Well, I’m with him,” she mumbles, and she is gone with a bang of her bedroom door.

Even though we are not all present and accounted for, the stockings scream, “Open us!” My baby cannot wait a moment longer. My youngest daughter starts to protest, but a bounce on the bed slides one of the Santa presents into her lap.
She picks it up and waves it at me. “I bet this is a DVD,” she says with a knowing teenaged smile.
“I’ll bet you’re right,” I nod back. “And if you open stockings now with your little brother, I bet you can watch it while we wait for everyone else to get up.”
And that’s enough.
That’s all it takes for the wrapping paper to start flying and the magic of Christmas to trump the ennui of a teenager.

Love.

2007-12-24T09:04:00.000-08:00

He sped down the street. The rap music pounding out of his car windows assaulted each house as he passed. The sound was all anyone could see.

He parked in front of my daughter’s house and got out. The neighborhood fell suddenly silent, except for the sound of his sneakers as he crossed the grass, heading for her front door.

He wore baggy jeans. Saggy jeans, the crotch hanging down to his knees. His black t-shirt was too big too. His shortly cropped brown hair was all but invisible under his baseball cap, which, of course, he wore backwards.
Peeking through the curtains, all my daughter’s father could see was trouble.

Uh, uh,” he told her, wagging his finger. “The neighbors will not accept this.”

This was months ago.
I wish I could say it was hundreds of conversations ago. But it isn’t. I’ve met him once. Her father has seen him several times, but has rarely spoken with him.
We barely know this baggy boy.
And yesterday, we bought him a Christmas present. We bought him a Christmas present because we know one thing about this boy.
One important thing.
We know that this boy loves our daughter.

He loves her for exactly who she. He tells her that, even if he doesn’t know why, exactly who she is, is exactly what makes him smile.
We bought this boy a Christmas present because all you need to do is look in my daughter’s eyes to see that this boy makes a difference. He makes all the difference in the world.

Some people might say that he and my daughter are too young to know what love is. But right now, for this boy and this girl, this is love.

Love.

Mice

2007-12-21T18:27:00.000-08:00

When I was in grade school, I raised mice. We kept them on the back lanai in 10-gallon aquariums that my father expertly fitted with chicken wire lids. I tried valiantly to keep up with their rampant reproduction, but it was hopeless. No matter how many trips I made to the pet store with my latest batch of babies, it seemed as though by the time I had returned, I needed to add another aquarium to my rapidly expanding mouse city.
My favorite mouse was Blackie Gumbo. He was black, beautiful, and velvet smooth. Blackie Gumbo NEVER made the trip to the pet store. I suspect that perhaps he is one of the reasons I kept on having to add aquariums.

Now, almost forty years later and thousands of miles away, I am in the mouse business again.
This time, it is not voluntary.
This time, I have no aquariums and I definitely have no lovely chicken wire lids. These mice are of the wild variety, and they moved in without asking.
I have mixed emotions about these mice.

They took up residence in my attic and, and, while I must admit that they are the most adorable, soft little brown field mice that it has ever been my pleasure to meet, I rather resent their assumption that I would be okay with this arrangement.

The Emily Post in me simply cannot endure the fact that these mice display an appalling lack of manners. My children thoughtfully leave their lunch bags on their bedroom floors, giving our mice a lovely smorgasbord of leftovers from which to feast. And the piles of clothes that artfully decorate my children’s rooms provide an endless supply of easy to reach nesting materials for our mice. Yet my children have never received so much as a “thank you” for their efforts.
The sleep-deprived, over-stressed single mother in me wants to scream. It is patently obvious that our mice have never heard the phrase “quiet as a mouse”! They delight in running around in the middle of the night, waking up those of us who have finally managed to fall asleep! Their favorite game is tag. They play with our cat. Usually in my bedroom. The cat is always “it”. Our more out of shape mice prefer playing hide-and-seek, but again, the cat is still “it”. Occasionally, they will host a dance party in the attic. They do some sort of wild and crazy River Dance/haka/Stomp!/do-si-do combo that echoes in our bedrooms below keeping us awake until the wee hours of the morning.
The Buddhist in me is more compassionate. The Buddhist in me knows that every being has been my mother. The Buddhist in me says that I have created artificial boundaries and that these mice are sentient beings who have a right to live wherever they choose as long as they are not hurting anyone.

So with my best Buddhist intentions, I set out to convince our mice that they would be much happier living elsewhere. I joined the game of tag. I replaced the cat as “it” and chased one silly mouse at a time through my bedroom, down the hall, into the children’s bathroom, back out into the hall, down the stairs, through the living room, finally tagging them, one by one, under the couch. Gently, I would scoop up the mouse and carry it tenderly out of the house and down the street before releasing it in a cozy bush three blocks away.

My early years as a mouse breeder should have taught me that this would not be a very effective way to rid my house of mice. Clearly there is at least one Blackie Gumbo type mouse still living in, and repopulating, my house.

Plan B involved an ionizer. Rumor has it that rodents cannot stand the sound that is emitted by ionizers. Apparently, our mice missed that memo.

Then one day, while driving my youngest son to guitar lessons, I saw a van advertising Green Pest Eradication. Ignoring the fact that I was driving 60 miles an hour down the freeway I grabbed my cell phone and dialed. I rationalized my rash behavior by telling myself that dialing only took one hand while writing the number down would take two.
Three rings later, I was talking to a very pleasant man with a radio announcer voice. His name was Mike.
“I have mice,” I blurted into the phone.
“We can help,” Mike answered.
“Do you kill them?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh,” I paused. Somehow I had convinced myself that “green pest eradication” would not involve the death of our mice. I didn’t want our mice dead. I just wanted them to find a home of their own. I explained all of this to Mike. He laughed at my joke. When I didn’t laugh back, he swallowed his chuckle and explained that “green” referred to the fact that no harm would be done to the environment as a result of their pest eradication. The bait traps would be completely environmentally friendly and totally safe to humans and other animals.
I edged around the Buddhist in me. “It won’t hurt the mice, will it?” I pleaded.
“Oh no,” Mike assured me. “They eat the bait and get really thirsty so they go outside to find some water and then they’re gone.”
I wavered.
Mike explained that mice carry disease and they can wreak havoc in the structure of one’s home.
The Emily Post, sleep-deprived, over-stressed single mother in me trumped the Buddhist in me. I have four children that need, expect and have a right to, a safe, clean, quiet home. They are my first priority. Besides, according to Mike, our mice are causing harm.
I signed up for green pest eradacation.
Technically, I suppose I am causing the death of our mice. But, I’m choosing to look at it as speeding fellow sentient beings along the path to enlightenment. I mean, it’s hard to reach enlightenment as a mouse, and at least by helping them to leave their little mouse bodies I am giving them a fighting chance. Right?!

I Dreamed I Was Home

2007-12-19T08:51:00.000-08:00

I dreamed I was home
Warm air fragrant with rain
The too sweet scent of white ginger
Lifts with dew drops
To the sun

I dreamed I was home
The bamboo forest sways
Aching
In the wind
A reluctant partner in the daily dance

I dreamed I was home
Deep mountains of green
Steadfast soldiers stand sentry
Raked by time
And still strong

I dreamed I was home
Salt licks at my lips
Mangoes slippery and smooth
Tease my tongue with their taste

I dreamed I was home
My grandfather calls
Washed clean by the sea
Wet sand holding me
Rooted

Things That Matter

2007-12-17T05:36:00.000-08:00

Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

I don’t know when he said this, but, given what this man did and what he stood for, I’m sure he must have said it during some speech or talk about equal rights or peace or some other equally important issue that is, or should be, of global concern to all humanity. At least, that’s how I’ve always interpreted it.

Until Thursday.
Thursday, I had lunch with Carrie, a dear friend whom I had not seen for way too long.

I call her a “dear friend” today. I’m not sure if I would have done so before our Thursday lunch. Our friendship had been more of an accident, than an intentional act. We met through a mutual friend and, in less time than it takes to blink, the three of us were attached at the hip. We were a band of sisters.

We did everything together.
We laughed together.
We cried together.
We raged together.
We prayed together.
We escaped together.
We stayed together.

Until we didn’t.
Until our mutual friend decided we wouldn’t.
So we didn’t.

Without a word, without a nod, without a wave good-bye, Carrie and I accepted our fate.
We went our separate ways.
Deleted from each other’s lives.

But, Carrie did not delete me from her mailing lists. And when she sent out a group mailing inviting people to a workshop she is sponsoring, I received an invitation.
I thought perhaps she had sent it in error. In my darker moments, I was sure it was some sort of twisted plot to trap me uncomfortably in a corner and watch me pretend not to squirm. I ignored it for a while. Finally, I responded, politely declining her invitation.

Carrie wrote back. She had not invited our mutual friend.
Stunning!
The attached at the hip triplets that had turned into the attached at the hip twins had all returned to their former unattached selves.

Carrie and I met for lunch.
Thursday was crisp and dry, an unusual winter day in usually soggy Portland. We met at a local restaurant on Hawthorne Blvd. I got there first, but we had spotted each other as we were circling the neighborhood looking for parking.

Although I had only seen her head and shoulders through the car window, I knew she was impeccably dressed. Carrie is always impeccably dressed. Even when she is wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and no make-up, Carrie looks impeccable.
Thursday, she was wearing lovely gray-ish, tweed-ish trousers, a black shirt and a fitted black jacket that whispered just above her hips. Impeccable. From her perfectly painted Carrie pink lips to her perfectly pointed black shoes peeking from beneath the cuffed hems of her trousers.

When she entered the restaurant and saw me, she smiled. Not just a polite, nice-to-see-you smile. Carrie smiled a smile that seemed to start all the way down at her toes. A smile that gathered strength as it traveled through her body until it finally exploded in a brilliant display of joy that lit the entire room.

We hugged hello.
It was 12:30. The tag end of what must have been a very hectic lunch rush. A waiter led us to our table. All the booths were full, so he sat us at a table that was situated smack dab in the middle of the small, very busy restaurant. There were only two other tables open. The rest of the tables were either occupied by diners or by the debris and dirty dishes that diners leave behind.

The waiter handed us our menus and disappeared.

Carrie and I ignored the menus. We leaned in closer toward the table and began to talk. We started with easy stuff. Non-threatening stuff. Stuff that could make us laugh. Stuff like silly things our children had done and learning how to bake using neither wheat nor sugar and how getting older sucks because, without glasses, the crisp, clear focus of youth is but a memory.

The waiter came back. Carrie squinted briefly at the specials board and ordered the quiche that topped the list. I pointed to the salad described at the bottom of the list of salads. The waiter jotted these down quickly and went away.

It’s funny. I know it must have been noisy in that restaurant, but Carrie was all I could hear. I don’t know if there was a child having a tantrum, or a person celebrating a birthday, or a couple busily discussing what gifts to buy for Christmas.

All I know was that our silence had been lifted and we talked.
We talked about our families. We talked about our work. We talked about our lives. And finally, we talked about our friend.

We talked about things that matter and that has made all the difference.

A New Thanksgiving

2007-12-15T18:55:00.000-08:00

I’m 46 years old and this is the first time in my entire life that I have ever prepared a Thanksgiving dinner. This is also the first holiday dinner that all of my children will be home with me.

Last year, their father and I divorced after twenty-three years together. It was ugly.

Thanksgiving was our first holiday apart and the children were with him. They would celebrate with their father and his family in the exact same way they always had since their very first Thanksgivings. I spent the day alone, at the Coast. In my hotel room, I opened the window wide. It was forty degrees and rainy outside, and the smell of the sea wrapped me in her warmth.

This year, it’s my turn.

This year, I will help my children create new traditions. Our traditions.

The first thing to go is the turkey. My children don’t particularly like turkey. They like pork roast. Stuffing? Not so much. Corn? Can’t get enough of it. Mashed potatoes and gravy are not to be missed and green beans keep the plate from looking unappetizingly monochromatic.

Pork roast crackling in the oven, the smell of garlic and olive oil seeping through the cracks in the door, I move into the dining room. As I putter about setting the table with the “good” silver and my mother’s Autumn china and the forest green cloth napkins, I realize I have no candles!

No candles?

It’s 4:00 on Thanksgiving Day and I have no candles?!

I fly over to Safeway. As I tip tap across the sidewalk in my smart black, low-heeled shoes, I pass a young boy. He is sitting facing the entrance to the store, his back to the street. He is bundled in too many holey sweaters. I bustle past him as he shivers his fingers down into his sleeves and holds up a cardboard sign asking for money. I’m in a hurry.

I need candles!

Safeway does not have what I need. They have apple-cinnamon scented candle gift packages and tea lights and orange candles-in-a-jar. They have nothing that will fit in my candlesticks. No tapers.

I turn to dash back out to the car, desperate to get to another grocery store before it closes. As I head for the exit, I see the boy through the glass doors. He is still sitting in the same place. His nose is dripping from the cold and the wind blows his blond hair out of his eyes. They are blue. They are not angry. They are not sad. They just are. And they lift me out of my candle-induced haze.

I start madly digging through my purse, scooping out all the change that jingles at the bottom. I hand my little offering to the boy and he smiles. He mounds the coins in to a small pile on the sidewalk in front of him. The cardboard sign gets wedged between his crossed legs and the tiny silver hill and his fingers retreat back into his sleeves.

I continue down the sidewalk but when I reach my car I can’t get in. I can feel the boy’s mother.

She is not with him.

I don’t know their story. I don’t know why they are not together. But they are not together and it is Thanksgiving and the boy is alone wearing too many holey sweaters sitting on a cold sidewalk with a pathetic pile of change for company.

I turn and go back to the boy.

“Hey,” I say when I get close enough for him to hear me. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

He looks up. Confused. “Uh…I think they’re serving dinner downtown somewhere.”

I nod and lean down closer to him. “My children and I are having dinner at six. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

He looks a though he’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to do, so I fill the empty space between us by telling him where I live. His lips turn up in a half smile as he nods and repeats my directions.

“Six o’clock,” I say over my shoulder as I turn to walk to my car.

“Blue house,” he replies to my back.

In the car I am shocked at myself. I NEVER would have done this when I was married. My husband said that homeless people could not be trusted. “You never know about them,” he would say with his deep, important voice.

I smile. I’m glad I’m not married anymore.

I go to the next store and find my candles.

At home, I set a place at the table for the boy. Six o’clock comes and goes. I light the candles and wait a little longer.

Six-oh-five. No boy. I ask my oldest son to open the sparkling cider and take it to the table.

Six-ten. I carve the roast pork and fill the gravy boat.

Six-fourteen. A tentative tap on the front door. My nine-year-old son dashes to the living room, his little boy feet thumping loudly across the floor.

“Muh-mee,” he yells. “There’s a boy at the door.”

My heart jumps as I wipe my hands and follow my son’s voice into the living room. The outside light shines a circle around the figure standing on my front porch. Shines a circle around “the boy”.

When he sees me, he smiles, a look of relief on his face. “I was afraid I would be too late,” he apologizes before rushing on with his explanation. “It’s hard to tell what color a house is in the dark but I peeked in your window before I knocked and I saw your table all set for dinner so I thought I’d see.”

“I’m so glad you found us,” I smile back, extending my hand for his and pulling him inside. “My name is Puanani.”

“Hi,” he says, shuffling his tired, used to be red Converse over the threshold. “I’m David.”