Tag: being present

To-do List…

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My brain is like a sieve. It is capable of trapping some things and holding on to them, but most things slip right out like sand through your fingers.

There are many things I need to do. Appointments need to be made. Thank you notes need to be written. Expressions of sympathy need to be acknowledged. Thoughts need to be conveyed. And these are all things that have to be done now rather than someday down the road. I have to work them in amongst the daily bustle of my already jam-packed life.

So… I made a to-do list. The other night while I was getting ready for bed, I took a Post-it note and stuck it on my bathroom counter. As I thought of things I needed to do, I wrote them down. I listed the appointments, the people who need thank you notes, all of the extra pieces that need to be addressed. And now, it would seem I’m organized, on top of things, and ready to get things done.

If I could only remember where I left that to-do list….

Grief

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As the year began, it was my goal to blog more than last year, and I started out well. But the roller coaster of life took over. Suddenly, like so many friends and acquaintances my age, I experienced the unexpected loss of my father, and I am now navigating the uneven waters of grief.

These waters are thick and heavy, fighting against me as I press forward, day by day, moving ahead with life. I cling to the things I recognize in a life that will now and forever be different.

My journey through these waters is slow and difficult. The current is unpredictable, and the undertow often grabs me and pulls me under when I least expect it, waiting for me to thrash and fight.

Then, just as suddenly, it lets go, and I float to the surface, able to catch my breath—at least for a moment. But by the end of the day, I am exhausted from battling these waves as they come and go only to come again.

Some days, I feel as though I will never write again, and other days, I feel as if I start writing, I will never stop. Writing for me is a necessity—a place to find sense and peace and light.

Grief is where I’ve been hiding, but in time, I am hoping to blog more this year….

The Things that are Missing…

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At that university where I work, I meet with student writers from all walks and backgrounds. I mainly meet with undergraduate writers, but I also work with students who are professionals in the midst of careers—returning to school for professional development or to get a degree. And then there are the graduate students who range in age from 22 to 92.

Recently, I met with a woman who was an acquaintance of mine in a former iteration of my life—years ago when I was single and worked a different job. She is in a demanding graduate program, she works full time, and she deals with the every day stresses and curve-balls of life that we all deal with.

She was struggling. Her professor had told her that her final essay could end her participation in the program; she was under more pressure than usual, and she was taking it out on herself. Briefly, she let me in on the frustrations she had with the class—the only class in which she had struggled in the program thus far. Now, she felt the need to put exactly the right words on the page, which is never good for the writing process; she was over-editing because she felt under-confident.

I asked her how many classes she had completed in the program. Seven. And then I reminded her that she had seen me two years earlier—when she had first started her program—feeling almost exactly the same way. And I reminded her that she hadn’t seen me since. “What is it about these two classes that stripped you of your confidence?” I asked her.

Her response had nothing to do with school. She mentioned the loss of a loved one several years earlier; the holiday season without that person; the stresses of her work; a birthday celebration that needed to happen in the midst of everything else. And the pressure to finish this one last paper.

Often at this time of the year, we are too able to focus on what’s missing. The longing for what is missing blurs the present and what we have. And sometimes, we don’t even consciously recognize that we are struggling with loss or stress or the need to be everything to everyone.

And so I say this: be gentle with yourself, not just at this time of year, but always. You are not alone. We are all in this together. Chances are, if you are willing to say, “You know what? I am struggling today,” someone will step in to offer support and to lift you up.

Christmas Lights

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img_2667It’s nearly winter where I live. The shortest day of the year is less than three weeks away, and the past few days have been particularly dark and dreary with heavy clouds, drenching rain, and murky fog. The rain has offered some needed relief from the months’ long drought, and while it may seem as though I am complaining, I am not. In fact, I find rainy days offer an opportunity for introspection.

But sometimes dreariness lingers, as it has recently. So with the shorter days, I am doubly glad I put up my Christmas tree this week. I am a huge fan of LOTS of lights One small tree (well, it’s a bit taller than I am…), 520 colored lights. (Yep, I like the colored ones). It bathes my living room in a pinkish glow of cozy warmth.

I am intrigued by the fact that so many winter traditions include festivals of lights. Even the early people knew that lighting the deepening darkness was a good thing that might make them happy. As I sit beside my tree in my living room, I am grateful for the thoughtfulness of their traditions.

For the past couple days, I have been seeking refuge in this welcoming light—both early in the morning, as I drink my coffee, and late in the day, when the daily activity of my house is winding down. Over the next month, I will continue to find moments and create excuses to sit by the tree and think and hopefully, write. My blog challenge in November didn’t go as well as I would have liked, so I have downloaded two lists of prompts for December. If my creativity is not sparked by one list, perhaps it will be sparked by the other. And perhaps I will produce extra blog posts this month.

Because … hope. It “springs eternal,” whatever that means. And for this month, at least, I will sit in the light of my Christmas tree as if I am soaking up the vitamin D infused rays of the sun. And I will quietly wait for inspiration to land here with me in this space.

Enough

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Some days (many lately), I am overcome by the pressures of life and the expectations put on me by so many people. I struggle with the need to be all things to all people. I think some people are more prone to this fight than others in our way too high-pressure, you-must-do-it-all society. I believe single parents have an extra tough challenge as they not only have to be all things to their children, they sometimes succumb to a need to make up for what is lacking in their children’s lives.

I am no stranger to the pressure to measure up and fit in with outside expectations. I grew up in a small town—the type of place that most people would see as idyllic. But if you have experience with small town life, you know that there is just as much drama in a small town as there is in a large one. There are just fewer people to carry the weight.

Growing up, I fell victim to the playground girl-drama. Nothing about me was ever quite right, and after awhile, I knew I was never going to be enough. My clothes were wrong. I was not pretty enough. My hair never fell flat and straight and perfect. I was not tall enough or talented enough. I was not athletic (…at all, never mind enough). I was not social enough. And despite graduating near the top of my class, I never seemed to be smart enough. There were always people around who were willing to make me feel inadequate because somehow, they were more than enough. Looking back, I thank God I did not grow up in the days of social media.

In an attempt to run away, to escape from the drama, I threw myself into solitary activities in which I could be myself without the pressure from others. I took up the clarinet and later added the flute, the oboe, the piano, and the guitar. From my earliest days, I spent hours lost in the worlds hidden in the pages of the books that lined the shelves of the local library and bookstore. I would become so lost that when I had to stop reading for dinner… or homework… or because the book ended, I would be slightly disoriented as the real world of my home came rushing back into my consciousness. Hadn’t I just been on a grand adventure with Laura or Pippi or Pollyanna? Certainly, here—in the pages of a book—was a place where I never felt the pressure to measure up.

As I grew older, I delved into art and writing. I began to run—initially because I was preparing to coach a high school cross-country team. But the more I ran, the more meaning I found in the rhythm of my steps and the wanderings of my mind. I was soothed and inspired as my muse would often come to play while I was pounding out the miles on the road. It seemed my interests were beginning to blend in ways I hadn’t known they might. And so, the solitary pursuits continued.

Through losing myself in solitude, I found myself in truth. My state of mind began to shift to encompass and accept my enoughness. I became an artist, a writer, a runner. I discovered that even though I might not live up to other people’s standards, I was enough. I had always been enough. The best of me, the me I put out in the world every day, would always be enough. And being enough is a powerful place to be.

But when life gets busy and hectic, I sometimes slip into old patterns of thought. When things aren’t coming together and I can’t please everyone and the people around me are letting me know I am not meeting their needs, my enoughness begins to fade. With a lot of work, a little struggle, and a push to refocus on my needs, I can usually return to enough.

And being enough is important. For all of us. We are all enough.

Creativity

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I am struggling through a dilemma that has slowed my blogging. Lately, my mind has been laced up tight with ribbons of business and busyness, trapping any trace of Creativity deep inside where I cannot access it. Every now and then, Creativity gets restless and tugs at the laces, poking a shiny bright finger through like a ray of sunshine piercing a sky heavy with storm clouds. It is taunting me, daring me to race after it. When I reach for the light, it disappears back into the far corners of my mind, and when I follow, Creativity is nowhere to be found.

I am in search of Creativity, and it is elusive. It stays one step ahead of me always, darting around corners and out of sight when I am almost close enough to touch it. I am cranky and moody and not myself. Without Creativity, I am lost.

This weekend, I spent some time hunting and engaging in activities carefully designed to entice Creativity to come back. These activities generally involved a mindful pause in the crazy weekday activity that is often my life. On Saturday, I went out for a walk, bringing my pocket sized camera just in case I happened on a moment that might inspire. Color. Nature. Feeling…. Moments happened, but Creativity did not rejoin me on my journey.

On Sunday, I baked some bread. I made two delicious loaves of sourdough, their warmth and goodness filling the kitchen with heavenly smells. But creation does not equate to Creativity. I tried sewing, but I got tangled in the threads of all that wasn’t being accomplished, and I was back to square one. Perhaps an artistic endeavor—drawing, painting, wire work, or journaling.

But time said no. And Creativity does not come to stalkers.

Creativity comes to those who are still and quiet and patient and open. It comes in the moments when our filters are down and we are least expecting it. It comes on walks, in stillness and in prayer. It comes when we are just about to fall asleep and our minds have given up the stresses of the day and are just beginning to slip into dreams. Creativity comes when it wants.

I am looking to rediscover the voice that Creativity abandoned, the voice that has become buried in the mire of every day chaos. I think I am getting closer, but one never knows. Creativity cannot be forced to join me, so I must enjoy the journey, wherever it takes me. Who knows? What I seek may be around the next corner!

Lessons from a challenging week…

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It was a crazy week in my life. I have to say my life because it wasn’t specific to my house. It wasn’t focused on my family. It wasn’t only at work. It was my life. Everything I touched became completely crazy.

I could say that I encountered some bumps on my journey this week, or I could say that a mountain appeared on the path in front of me. I prefer to think of it as some minor speed bumps designed to get me to slow down. To reevaluate. So I slowed down, and I used this week to gather some lessons to share. The good, the bad, and the silly.

  1. You don’t have to stay positive, but it will certainly make the tough times more pleasant. All of us, in our lives, will encounter a bumpy road every now and then. As I look back on my week, I am picturing a child on a bike, hair blowing back with the speed of travel, feet off the pedals, legs outstretched, and a gleeful smile on her face. Staying positive will help you make the most of the moment.
  2. You might be presented with a hill or a mountain or a sheer rock face, but believe in yourself. Whatever happens, life goes on. Put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.
  3. Sometimes, cookies will take the edge off. When one of my coworkers called and asked what she could do to help, without a second’s hesitation, I joked, “Cookies! We need cookies!” I arrived the next morning, and on my desk I found—you guessed it—cookies!
  4. If you don’t occasionally put your own needs first, you will be useless to those around you. This is a lesson that I am constantly struggling with. It seems I spend my days addressing the needs of everyone around me, but when it comes to simple things like sleep, deep thinking, relaxation, etc., I don’t make myself a priority.
  5. Here’s the thing about hills… you can’t see through them. Things may well be more beautiful on the other side. Once all the crazy, negative energy settles, we will see where we are. I am going to keep climbing and see where life takes me. At least I can enjoy the view along the way!
  6. No matter what happens, you are not alone. There will be people who will offer to climb with you. Sometimes, they might simply walk by your side and keep you company; sometimes, they might carry you. Take them up on their offer. Life is better when you share the trials as well as the triumphs.

Oh… and bring the cookies. They might come in handy!

This Moment

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[I began this post last week, right before my son left for college, but I wasn’t able to finish it. Until today.]

The car is packed and sits waiting for the inevitable morning drive to college for freshman drop off. I stare out the window, watching the silent car sitting in the drive, wondering if I will be able to sleep.

Over the past few days, I have lived in a state of internal panic. My mind is bombarded with all of the wisdom I have neglected to impart to my son, the lessons I didn’t remember to teach, the “teachable moments” that have slipped by as I carelessly thought, Next time, I’ll teach that lesson. As a single mother, the burden of guiding and teaching has fallen solely on me, and I know there are things (many things) I have forgotten.

Yet, this day is one that has been looming on the horizon since the birth of this child. It has been talked about, planned for, worked toward, and encouraged for as long as I can remember. As long as my son can remember. My son, my first-born child.

This is the child who taught me how to be a mother. When he was born, the weight and solidity of his tiny infant body in the transition between womb and world was unexpected to me. In the early days and subsequent weeks—months… years—he taught me to sleep lightly, so I could hear the murmurs and cries when he woke. By sleeping lightly, I could hear the disturbances, the coughing, the bad dreams, and the nonsensical phrases uttered in the depths of sleep.

He taught me to watch carefully to protect him from dangers. He taught me to stay a step or two away, so he could explore on his own with me always ready to catch him—physically or metaphorically—if he fell.

I pushed this child gently, urging him to step away when he held tightly and wouldn’t let me out of his sight in his first days of preschool.

He taught me to be brave in the pediatrician’s office—most notably when the doctor was painstakingly and painfully placing four stitches into his three-year-old lip late one February night.

He taught me that my instincts for him, for all of my children, were as valid as a single teacher’s decree. When his preschool teacher advised me to hold him back so that someday he might be a leader, I chose to keep him with his age-peers. He became a leader on his own schedule.

He taught me to love fiercely because childhood is just a blip on a parent’s radar.

This child is the one who taught me how deeply a parent can love.

I now realize that over the years, this child has been teaching me to let go, a lesson that will continue through his college years and beyond. Now, this child is teaching me one of the toughest lessons of all: to say good-bye. Again and again.

Now, it is my job to step back, get out of his way, and watch him continue to grow, with guidance from afar, as he gains independence and finds his path.

This child…. This young man…. This moment.

 

Maybe…

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I once read the book The Boy on the Bus by Deborah Schupack. I believe this book was born out of the very familiar and somewhat unsettling concept that children tend to change just a little bit each day, until one day you look at your kid and you think, There is something vaguely unfamiliar about this child. Is this really my child?

The book itself was unsatisfying in its lack of resolution, but the premise of the book is that the boy who gets off the school bus one afternoon is not the same boy who got on the bus that morning. He looks almost like the same boy, but there are things that are just a bit off about the child.

I would like to admit this is a fairly universal experience for parents. Well, it is for me, at any rate. The child who leaves my house in the morning is sometimes very different from the child who comes home that afternoon—whether in mood or demeanor. And every now and then, the child even looks just different enough that I question myself. Is this really my child? Maybe not.

Earlier this summer, when I retrieved a child (my child) from a week at camp, I hesitate to admit that I almost didn’t recognize him. It had only been a week, after all. What kind of mother doesn’t recognize her own son after only a week??

Well, first off, he was wearing a baseball cap. The same red baseball cap that adorned the heads of all of the campers on that day. And my kid doesn’t wear a baseball cap. He hasn’t since he was about six or so. Second, all of the campers were dressed alike. And third, he had gotten a haircut right before he left. His hair was a bit shorter than usual, making him look older than I was used to. Therefore, I would attribute my brief lapse in recognition to the combination of those obscuring traits.

It took me an extra minute or two to find my child that day. But even on a regular day, I can look at one of my children, recognize something unfamiliar, and have the unsettling thought, Maybe this is not the same child….

 

*image is a silhouette of my child at sunset

Mother Image

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I sit in my car listening to NPR, staring out across the lake. A group of water-fowl float in a line in the middle of the lake, lazily drifting across the surface. The story on the news is focused on discussion of the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, the troubles in Rio, and the profound separation of the haves and the have-nots in that city.

It is peaceful and quiet at the camp. The campers left for home earlier in the day, and only the staff remains, finishing up their Friday staff meeting. Every now and then, a burst of deep male crowd voice breaks the silence. First, a cheer—a group of young men voicing the same words loudly and in unison—bursts from the meeting hall up the hill. A little while later, laughter. And still later, applause.

The voices are deep and grown up, and can’t possibly include my youngest child. But then again, they can. He has grown and changed—and continues to do so—on a nearly daily basis over the last year or so. The image that I have of him in my head doesn’t match the reality of who he is and who he is becoming. He is part of this group. He fits in.

Somehow, my mother-image of my children is not keeping up with their growth and their approaching adulthood. My image is mired in memories and the experiences of raising them from their earliest days through the years up to the present. Every moment blends together to create the image that I hold of them—always younger than they truly are unless they are standing right in front of me.

Some people might say my mother-image needs adjusting, but I think it is fine just the way it is. At least for now.