If I were posting regularly right now, I feel like my posts would be so predictable as to even feel like I'm bragging. Or proclaiming myself for martyrdom. Because here's what I would say, each and every day:
You guys, I am under water. I don't know where the minutes go when they go, but they go, and I'm still under water.
It's one of those things I don't like to mention because it almost feels like I'm slapping you, my friends, in your pretty cheeks; you're busy too, right? So why is it okay for me to whine? You, with the full-time job, and you, with your volunteer work, and you, with your homemade Halloween costumes, and you, with your medical issues, and you, with your deployed spouse --
You feel more important than me, with my messy house and growing kids. I accomplish almost nothing all day -- nothing but the basics -- and I lay myself down at night and I don't feel extra-worn out, necessarily, but there's a nagging feeling that I'm leaving something off. The feeling that I'm forgetting to do something very important.
Maybe that something is writing, because, let's face it, I need to spill my beans on a regular basis or they pile up and scatter across the floor I just finished sweeping. Maybe that something is relaxation because, also facing it, I rush for most parts of each day.
There are only so many chances to get to the grocery store between baby-naps and preschooler-pickup and first-grader-pickup and dinner prep and ballet and gymnastics, and, and... And none of those chances include a spare second to really think about my thoughts. So maybe the something I'm forgetting, the very important something, is attention.
But no -- that can't be right. I'm paying so very much attention to these darlings --
Sometimes I think I must be doing this wrong. If I'm so behind and under and rushing and unable to catch hold of some spare minutes, I must be doing this wrong. I must be a complete rookie, right? Frazzled and thoughtless and late, perpetually late? There are other moms who are better at this than I am, and they are calm. They can find a stillness in which to lounge or think or write. And they probably would tell me that it has to be cultivated and prioritized --
But Mia comes tiptoeing down the hallway in her pajamas -- I don't know it until I hear her small voice echoing down the wooden staircase. The house is finally quiet after the day's little explosions, except: You forgot to sing Somewhere Over The Rainbow, mama. She is not accusatory, nor is she beseeching, nor is she demanding. She is simply there, stating a truth and wondering why the song disappeared. It is my first alone minute in the past fourteen hours, but this little ritual, this origin of a memory, it beckons.
I peel myself off the couch.
And I tell myself that I am not doing this wrong, no; I'm maybe hopefully doing this as right as I know how, which is to fall into the rush and just let myself be swept along for the time being. It's short and it's breathtaking, and I might not have the time to write. Or the will. Or the desire. It's alright, because this is my correct and this is my song that cannot disappear, even if I forget to sing it.
Maybe.
Showing posts with label Seriously. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seriously. Show all posts
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Just Write
They are arguing again. They are arguing again, and it's over nothing important. Something stupidly inane enough to make me want to claw at my chest with irritation. What is it about bickering that makes me so crazy?
I step out of my body in those moments and see a second Sarah. One who is trapped in a dark, bricked box. She pounds her fists and elbows against the walls, scratching at the corners. Sparks fly from her fingers and toes, finding no tinder, dying on the floor. She screams with her head thrown back and rips at her scalp with torn and bloodied fingers. There is simply no escape, though, and nobody to hear her.
She sinks to the floor, leans into a corner, and takes a shaky breath. Whispers a threatening curse.
When I step back into my body, I feel better. The steam is evaporating and all I am left with are two little girls, irritated girls, and I wonder:
are they trapped and clawing and yelling within their own boxes?
And relying on me to unhinge their walls?
But no, the box for me is my patience. It is where I keep my outbursts. It is my secret place, where nobody can see me as I fall apart and apart and apart, swirling sand in a leftover tidepool.
So the sisters aren't in boxes at all. They are spinning wildly in free air, throwing scowls instead of disguising them. Stomping on sibling toes instead of kicking against unmoving walls.
For a minute, I envy them that freedom.
And then I feel my throat, tight from a held-in scream, burning from a not-released cry, and it grounds me. Like a lightning rod grounds a bolt of electric fire: it takes the heat and current, and moves it along to somewhere it cannot cause harm.
I bury the lightning in my belly, and move forward.
They are sisters, and this is normal, and I carry the lightning so we don't all burn the house down with our feelings.
I'm linking up today with Heather for Just Write. Because I just needed to write. Sometimes it's my lightning pole...
Go check out all the people who are Just Writing at The Extraordinary Ordinary! It's a veritable party of thought. Good stuff.
Monday, March 19, 2012
A Nighttime Tour
He smells like Switzerland, I think. I press more deeply into my pillow and breathe the air from both sides: damp air blowing from the night beyond the window across the room and his mountain-tainted air billowing next to me. Sweet and clean and fresh.
It's not Switzerland itself surrounding him, of course. No glaciers or pines or wisteria or lakes or vineyards or lamb-studded meadows. Just some perfect combination of after shave, deodorant, and his personal pheromones that invoke memories of the country. We were sweet and fresh, ourselves, when we were there. I pull the sheet further up over my shoulders and smile, tucking my legs into his.
It was spring, then. Tiny, perfect crocuses were pushing through stubborn clumps of snow in the lower Alps, and great, foggy clouds huddled around us as we wound through mountains. Every other switchback, there was a gushing waterfall, emptying the peaks of their clear, snowy water.
For as much as we loved the smoothness of the green countryside, the cities we visited were enchanting. In Lausanne, our hotel room was charming and tiny with a brass bed and high ceilings. Somehow, we always ended up in a room next to a trio of matronly English ladies with silver hair and flowered skirts. They were on the same traveling schedule as us, and the way they tittered and smiled as we exited our rooms each morning made me blush. They thought we were on our honeymoon, probably. And we might as well have been. We hadn't even been married for two years and were understandably clingy. We walked places as a unit, arms and hands and bodies always touching. We gazed with syrupy lust across lakeside tables and shared sips of warm, red wine from rustic stoneware cups.
Those little old ladies knew love when they saw it, I guess.
And though it was seven years ago, I wonder about those ladies. Strange what I took away from that trip: the memory of proper English grandmothers and their sense of adventure. Even they stopped the forward motion of a (presumed) simple life to travel across the continent on a grand expedition.
But I don't know -- maybe this was their yearly habit. Maybe they'd been knocking out European countries with their steely-eyed gazes for a few decades. Maybe we were the umpteenth giddy lovers they'd witnessed traipsing arm-in-arm over old-city bridges and browsing city markets.
Maybe they're still taking adventures together.
Back in my own bed, I wonder, with the air blowing in waves of remembering, if I'll ever have adventures again.
My brother and his family, right now, are traveling for a year. Working in quarter-long stints at exciting locations: San Antonio; the Virgin Islands; Florida; DC. They're seeing things. Meeting people. Walking arm-in-arm over historic paths and scenic beaches.
My high-school friend and her husband sold almost everything they own, packed the rest into a rough-shod SUV, and are currently somewhere in Central America, driving the entire length of the continent with no agenda and no strings holding them in place. They have each other, they have their vehicle, and they have whatever happens tomorrow.
One of my bridesmaids invited us to share a house with them in Mexico this summer. I can almost hear the laughter and stories that would unfold there -- the sunny heat, the sultry dark, the sandy sea.
Lenae has pinned her hope on a steadfast faith and is living with her family in Azerbaijan. Emily has followed her husband to exotic locations year after year, ready to open her eyes and soul to new cultures each time; she's going to Australia in a few weeks.
And those laughing English grandmas....
I take another deep breath and look towards the open window. A gust of humid, cool air touches my face. The world is out there, I think.
And I am in here.
It's not Switzerland itself surrounding him, of course. No glaciers or pines or wisteria or lakes or vineyards or lamb-studded meadows. Just some perfect combination of after shave, deodorant, and his personal pheromones that invoke memories of the country. We were sweet and fresh, ourselves, when we were there. I pull the sheet further up over my shoulders and smile, tucking my legs into his.
It was spring, then. Tiny, perfect crocuses were pushing through stubborn clumps of snow in the lower Alps, and great, foggy clouds huddled around us as we wound through mountains. Every other switchback, there was a gushing waterfall, emptying the peaks of their clear, snowy water.
For as much as we loved the smoothness of the green countryside, the cities we visited were enchanting. In Lausanne, our hotel room was charming and tiny with a brass bed and high ceilings. Somehow, we always ended up in a room next to a trio of matronly English ladies with silver hair and flowered skirts. They were on the same traveling schedule as us, and the way they tittered and smiled as we exited our rooms each morning made me blush. They thought we were on our honeymoon, probably. And we might as well have been. We hadn't even been married for two years and were understandably clingy. We walked places as a unit, arms and hands and bodies always touching. We gazed with syrupy lust across lakeside tables and shared sips of warm, red wine from rustic stoneware cups.
Those little old ladies knew love when they saw it, I guess.
And though it was seven years ago, I wonder about those ladies. Strange what I took away from that trip: the memory of proper English grandmothers and their sense of adventure. Even they stopped the forward motion of a (presumed) simple life to travel across the continent on a grand expedition.
But I don't know -- maybe this was their yearly habit. Maybe they'd been knocking out European countries with their steely-eyed gazes for a few decades. Maybe we were the umpteenth giddy lovers they'd witnessed traipsing arm-in-arm over old-city bridges and browsing city markets.
Maybe they're still taking adventures together.
Back in my own bed, I wonder, with the air blowing in waves of remembering, if I'll ever have adventures again.
My brother and his family, right now, are traveling for a year. Working in quarter-long stints at exciting locations: San Antonio; the Virgin Islands; Florida; DC. They're seeing things. Meeting people. Walking arm-in-arm over historic paths and scenic beaches.
My high-school friend and her husband sold almost everything they own, packed the rest into a rough-shod SUV, and are currently somewhere in Central America, driving the entire length of the continent with no agenda and no strings holding them in place. They have each other, they have their vehicle, and they have whatever happens tomorrow.
One of my bridesmaids invited us to share a house with them in Mexico this summer. I can almost hear the laughter and stories that would unfold there -- the sunny heat, the sultry dark, the sandy sea.
Lenae has pinned her hope on a steadfast faith and is living with her family in Azerbaijan. Emily has followed her husband to exotic locations year after year, ready to open her eyes and soul to new cultures each time; she's going to Australia in a few weeks.
And those laughing English grandmas....
I take another deep breath and look towards the open window. A gust of humid, cool air touches my face. The world is out there, I think.
And I am in here.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Guardian Boy, Guardian Moon
11:29 PM
The dark house is almost perfectly still. The others have been asleep for hours and it's just me, alone, moving around. Right hand out, left arm down, I graze touchpoints as I go.
The refrigerator; three steps to the living room; four steps to the rocking chair;
I close my eyes, crushing eyelids together, creating a burst of stars behind them. I pretend it's not dark, only that I've chosen to walk blindly as a game.
Because actually, I am afraid of the dark.
Instinctively, I feel a pressure at my calves. The warning of a presence. I speed up as the pressure rises. It's against my thighs, the small of my back. It pushes with insistence: be afraid, because you cannot see me.
There's a catch in my gut -- a flipped-over fear -- and I'm in the hallway. Both arms are out now, spanning the width. The closet door; one step to the bathroom; two steps to the bend; four steps to the nursery; I find the knob to turn it just-so to avoid the creaking snap of an old mechanism.
I can hear him breathing from across the room. He's snug in his bed, broken free of his swaddle, and then lifted heavily into my arms. I pull him to myself and he opens his mouth without needing any guidance.
I look around the room with adjusted eyes. The full moon presses through curtains to highlight one slow curve of one perfect cheek, and my sleeping boy suckles. The darkness isn't black anymore, it's just grey. And the creeping presence was only the presence of my imagination, creating a whorling mess of grasping unknowns behind me.
Erased by the real warmth and safety of this new baby in my arms, protecting me with his innocence.
4:03 AM
I am deeply under. Sunken into sleep with a great weight pressing from above; immersed in a thick, stifling fullness. Although the pressure is from above, there is a bulk of gravity below and something within it tugging at me. I try to shake it off, but it tightens...
and suddenly dissolves -- the pressure, the fullness, the gravity -- leaving me weightless and startled and awake. A floating mess of edge-less worry.
My jaws are clenched so hard that my teeth are individual bits of clay: moldable; smashed.
A single shaft of moonlight has fallen across my face, glaring onto my closed eyes. I blink, and lie still to test the weightlessness. When I feel sure that I'll neither drift nor sink, I rise and cross the room.
The window blinds are half-open: a moonlight concession from last night's phobia. I intend to turn them the other direction -- block the piercing light -- but as I glance into the early morning darkness, the moon stabs at me and I recoil. I squint against its intrusion. It's not huge, soft, or yielding, but distant, sharp, and focused.
It is vigilant and possessive.
I look back at my pillow and trace the line of blue light to where it ends over Justin's black hair. I leave the window as it was and climb back into bed. My head falls exactly where the moon can see it.
And I rest within the fierceness of the light.
This piece is one that I shared in a practice run of Bigger Picture Blogs' new Writing Circles, which are open to you all now! Anyone is eligible join a writing circle, and we HOPE you will; they're an amazing way to give and receive feedback, support, and guidance as we try to hone our writing skills and realize the vision behind our expressed thoughts. If you think sharing your work for constructive criticism by friends and peers sounds helpful, please give Writing Circles a try!
Monday, February 20, 2012
Mean Girls
1990
The school bus smells like old rubber and smoky oil. It is thick and damp inside, warmed by the elementary school bodies and their competing voices, while outside, the sky is gray and close. Beads of mist have gathered into drops of water; they cling together on the far side of the windows.
I am eight years old.
Inexplicably, a fifth grade girl has chosen to sit beside me. I am snugged up against the glass, watching the drops of water trek backwards from the force of the bus's forward motion. She sits with her legs in the middle aisle, laughing with friends.
I accidentally look her direction at the same time she looks mine. She smiles, and although I know it is false, I can't help but smile back. Maybe? I think. Maybe she is nice?
But, no. "I like your sweater vest," she says. Her smile has turned to mockery.
I clutch the hem of the vest, looking down quickly at its patterns. Chevrons and hearts, pink and white and yellow and blue.
Then, there is a fist in my stomach. I curl around it, gasping.
The older girl laughs as she withdraws. Tears sting my eyes.
1993
*ring, ring*
"Hello?"
"Hi, is Sarah there?"
"This is her..."
"Oh, hi! This is Allie. I was just talking to some friends about going shopping, and we were wondering if you wanted to come. We'll be shopping for jeans, and my mom always just gives me her credit card."
"Allie? Allie R.? You want me to go shopping?"
"Sure. I mean, if you can. Or if you even need jeans. How many pairs of jeans do you have?"
"Well...I don't know. I mean..."
"How many pairs of Z Cavaricci Jeans do you have?"
"...I don't have any Z Cavaricci's."
"Oh. How many pairs of Pepe Jeans do you have?"
"None."
"Huh. How many pairs of Calvin Klein Jeans do you have?"
"I don't have any."
"And how many pairs of Guess Jeans do you have?"
*click*
1995
My brother and I are walking into school together. He stops by a crowd of friends and I hang back, waiting. I blend into the wall, dig in my backpack purposefully.
A girl with shiny black hair moves to stand closer to him. She is a cheerleader, her skin smooth and golden brown, her eyes glittery black. He talks to her for a minute; she laughs. He tosses his fist over his shoulder, pointing one thumb in my direction before glancing at me. She follows his action and catches my eye.
I smile, hopefully. What a beautiful girl -- talking to MY brother!
She narrows her eyes critically, then speaks to him without turning away. Without even pretending to lower her voice.
"You're so much better looking than she is." Her black hair grazes her shoulders in a curtain of silk as she looks back towards her friendly crowd.
My pale face blazes with heat, and I slink desperately to the nearest hallway.
This is what frightens me about having daughters. These are only a bare (and even mild) few of the memories that still cling to my insides, threatening to return me to low places. It's only with age and time and love that I no longer believe the words and actions as truth -- but my daughters have yet to gain age and time and love enough to withstand such things. It's all coming.
I worry about mean girls. Do you?
The school bus smells like old rubber and smoky oil. It is thick and damp inside, warmed by the elementary school bodies and their competing voices, while outside, the sky is gray and close. Beads of mist have gathered into drops of water; they cling together on the far side of the windows.
I am eight years old.
Inexplicably, a fifth grade girl has chosen to sit beside me. I am snugged up against the glass, watching the drops of water trek backwards from the force of the bus's forward motion. She sits with her legs in the middle aisle, laughing with friends.
I accidentally look her direction at the same time she looks mine. She smiles, and although I know it is false, I can't help but smile back. Maybe? I think. Maybe she is nice?
But, no. "I like your sweater vest," she says. Her smile has turned to mockery.
I clutch the hem of the vest, looking down quickly at its patterns. Chevrons and hearts, pink and white and yellow and blue.
Then, there is a fist in my stomach. I curl around it, gasping.
The older girl laughs as she withdraws. Tears sting my eyes.
------------
1993
*ring, ring*
"Hello?"
"Hi, is Sarah there?"
"This is her..."
"Oh, hi! This is Allie. I was just talking to some friends about going shopping, and we were wondering if you wanted to come. We'll be shopping for jeans, and my mom always just gives me her credit card."
"Allie? Allie R.? You want me to go shopping?"
"Sure. I mean, if you can. Or if you even need jeans. How many pairs of jeans do you have?"
"Well...I don't know. I mean..."
"How many pairs of Z Cavaricci Jeans do you have?"
"...I don't have any Z Cavaricci's."
"Oh. How many pairs of Pepe Jeans do you have?"
"None."
"Huh. How many pairs of Calvin Klein Jeans do you have?"
"I don't have any."
"And how many pairs of Guess Jeans do you have?"
*click*
------------
1995
My brother and I are walking into school together. He stops by a crowd of friends and I hang back, waiting. I blend into the wall, dig in my backpack purposefully.
A girl with shiny black hair moves to stand closer to him. She is a cheerleader, her skin smooth and golden brown, her eyes glittery black. He talks to her for a minute; she laughs. He tosses his fist over his shoulder, pointing one thumb in my direction before glancing at me. She follows his action and catches my eye.
I smile, hopefully. What a beautiful girl -- talking to MY brother!
She narrows her eyes critically, then speaks to him without turning away. Without even pretending to lower her voice.
"You're so much better looking than she is." Her black hair grazes her shoulders in a curtain of silk as she looks back towards her friendly crowd.
My pale face blazes with heat, and I slink desperately to the nearest hallway.
------------
This is what frightens me about having daughters. These are only a bare (and even mild) few of the memories that still cling to my insides, threatening to return me to low places. It's only with age and time and love that I no longer believe the words and actions as truth -- but my daughters have yet to gain age and time and love enough to withstand such things. It's all coming.
I worry about mean girls. Do you?
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
In Love
If we sat in a candle-lit dining room, surrounded by the hush of lovers' whispered hopes and dreams, looking across a too-small tabletop into the face of our future, we didn't yet know it.
We were so young -- not even a ring on my finger yet -- and so deep in it. You walked out of a room and I physically felt your absence: the air was heavier; I was heavier. You touched my neck and my skin caught fire. You laughed and I marveled at the richness of a perfectly common sound.
If we showed up on doorsteps with roses and chocolates in our hands, stepping out into a night that was meant to celebrate love, we didn't understand it. Not how far it could reach.
We were so encapsulated. Muffled within our own reflected gazes. We never knew.
If we played music in our first tiny-roomed apartment, and used our wedding china for the very first time, filled it with culinary romance, and talked about where life -- love -- would take us, we still didn't understand.
It was all so fledgling. So unripened.
Because now, we are here. With depth and experience and truth and love; oh, love. And if here is so good, so fulfilling and breathtaking and better than any February 14th from the past twelve years, where will we be in another dozen?
When does the growing stop?
I will make the answer:
Never.
We were so young -- not even a ring on my finger yet -- and so deep in it. You walked out of a room and I physically felt your absence: the air was heavier; I was heavier. You touched my neck and my skin caught fire. You laughed and I marveled at the richness of a perfectly common sound.
If we showed up on doorsteps with roses and chocolates in our hands, stepping out into a night that was meant to celebrate love, we didn't understand it. Not how far it could reach.
We were so encapsulated. Muffled within our own reflected gazes. We never knew.
If we played music in our first tiny-roomed apartment, and used our wedding china for the very first time, filled it with culinary romance, and talked about where life -- love -- would take us, we still didn't understand.
It was all so fledgling. So unripened.
Because now, we are here. With depth and experience and truth and love; oh, love. And if here is so good, so fulfilling and breathtaking and better than any February 14th from the past twelve years, where will we be in another dozen?
When does the growing stop?
I will make the answer:
Never.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
My Life as a Sentence
Yesterday -- all day long -- I snapped photos. Of breakfast, of playing, of messes, of relaxing, of cleaning, of dinner...I snapped photos. The idea was to capture A Day in The Life of me. Of my normal day, when it starts and when it stops and what happens in the middle.
Simply Rebekah is hosting a link-up of day-in-the-life photo collections at her blog on February 6th, and I was inspired. Doesn't it sound like fun? Capture everything you do on a normal day? Set it down, share it, see others' lives?
And it was fun. I enjoyed the day in such a new way: I saw the beauty in a stack of dirty dishes, oh yes I did. I let Lauren haul out the much-underutilized-of-late craft box, simply to see what colorful things she would produce. I was completely present in the day -- the whole day. I saw it all, top to bottom.
I love this life. It's true and it sounds cliche, but I really do love it. There are days when I wake up and feel joy bursting from my skin in fizzles and sparks of possibility. The contentment washes over me. Lifts me up. Carries me through the mundane. There are other days, too: those that find me disappointed or bored out of my fizzly skin. It's true. It's life.
But yesterday, at the end of the day as I took my last photo before crawling into bed, something else hit me about this life:
It is a giant run-on sentence.
I snuggled into bed near midnight. A little later than usual due to a good book making me lose control of my limits. I stared at the window thinking, I will probably remove myself from this bed at least 5 times before the morning officially comes. This day WON'T actually end as my eyes close.
Because it just keeps repeating. Morning, noon, night, midnight: it's all the same. It rolls over and over -- in this season of babies and little ones, at least -- without pausing to designate THIS day from THAT day. Motherhood is my run-on sentence.
I could feasibly snap photos at 1:34 AM when Landon wakes up, restless. Or at 2:18 AM when Lauren is crying because she needs to go potty. Or at 4:21 AM when Landon needs re-swaddled, his cold fist banging into his confused face. Or at 4:24 AM when I forgot to replace his binkie. Or at 5:49 AM when I crawl into his bedroom and nurse him so he'll stay asleep until I actually deign to begin my day at
7:30 AM.
The days do look different: their verbs and nouns and clauses and subjects shift. The sentence becomes a part of our fabric.
But it doesn't actually have a stopping point.
It turns into a paragraph.
A chapter.
An essay.
All without a definite end. We just keep rolling, catching our breath on commas of rest, dwelling inside parenthesis and descriptors.
It makes me tired.
I love it all more than fire loves air and the ocean loves the moon. But, God help me,
the prospect of a sentence that never ends
makes me tired.
Simply Rebekah is hosting a link-up of day-in-the-life photo collections at her blog on February 6th, and I was inspired. Doesn't it sound like fun? Capture everything you do on a normal day? Set it down, share it, see others' lives?
And it was fun. I enjoyed the day in such a new way: I saw the beauty in a stack of dirty dishes, oh yes I did. I let Lauren haul out the much-underutilized-of-late craft box, simply to see what colorful things she would produce. I was completely present in the day -- the whole day. I saw it all, top to bottom.
I love this life. It's true and it sounds cliche, but I really do love it. There are days when I wake up and feel joy bursting from my skin in fizzles and sparks of possibility. The contentment washes over me. Lifts me up. Carries me through the mundane. There are other days, too: those that find me disappointed or bored out of my fizzly skin. It's true. It's life.
But yesterday, at the end of the day as I took my last photo before crawling into bed, something else hit me about this life:
It is a giant run-on sentence.
I snuggled into bed near midnight. A little later than usual due to a good book making me lose control of my limits. I stared at the window thinking, I will probably remove myself from this bed at least 5 times before the morning officially comes. This day WON'T actually end as my eyes close.
Because it just keeps repeating. Morning, noon, night, midnight: it's all the same. It rolls over and over -- in this season of babies and little ones, at least -- without pausing to designate THIS day from THAT day. Motherhood is my run-on sentence.
I could feasibly snap photos at 1:34 AM when Landon wakes up, restless. Or at 2:18 AM when Lauren is crying because she needs to go potty. Or at 4:21 AM when Landon needs re-swaddled, his cold fist banging into his confused face. Or at 4:24 AM when I forgot to replace his binkie. Or at 5:49 AM when I crawl into his bedroom and nurse him so he'll stay asleep until I actually deign to begin my day at
7:30 AM.
The days do look different: their verbs and nouns and clauses and subjects shift. The sentence becomes a part of our fabric.
But it doesn't actually have a stopping point.
It turns into a paragraph.
A chapter.
An essay.
All without a definite end. We just keep rolling, catching our breath on commas of rest, dwelling inside parenthesis and descriptors.
It makes me tired.
I love it all more than fire loves air and the ocean loves the moon. But, God help me,
the prospect of a sentence that never ends
makes me tired.
Friday, January 6, 2012
My (Not-So-Blind) Psyche
In the dream, I'm half-blinded with fuzzy vision. I stumble from room to room or from person to person, searching for help with my sight. Pastels and floating lights cloud my path, like tinted cotton balls packed around my eyeballs.
And there is always some urgency. Some necessary reason that my sight MUST be restored soon, or else...
There might be a storm approaching, with wind whipping and raindrops lashing. There might be a consuming fire, and I can smell the acrid smoke, like a fire of its own, burning inside my lungs. More usually, it's not so dire: the kids want breakfast or I'm late for an appointment. Sometimes, I'm at an appointment. An imaginary work meeting or important presentation.
So to remedy my blindness, my cotton-packed failure to see, I race to the nearest mirror and open my contact case. There, I sigh with relief. Help is on the way, in the form of a tiny, gellish disk.
Except, in the dream, the contacts are not tiny. They're huge and unwieldy. They fold over in my palms, flopping uselessly. They might be the size of quarters. Sometimes they're the size of saucers. As the dream proceeds and I become more helpless trying to wrap the slippery disk around and behind my sightless eyes, the contacts expand. They take both hands to hold. They bear the thickness of a slice of provolone cheese, but translucent. Blue-tinged.
And I despair. Haven't I always known how to do this one simple task? I've been putting contacts in for years -- without incident.
But I never seem to notice that the reason I can't do it this time -- the reason it's impossible -- is because the circumstances have changed. The objects of my necessity are overwhelmingly impossible to bring within my control.
I wake up either irritated or terrified. Rubbing my eyes to wipe away the reminder of fuzziness that still threatens me. I turn on the bathroom light, blinking away the stabbing darts of brightness, and open my real contacts.
I breath out gratefully. The contacts are tiny. Dime-sized and razor-thin. I know I can handle these babies. I place them in my eyes, wondering how I could ever not understand why a dish-sized contact wouldn't fit under my eyelids.
I walk out of the bedroom, and I confront the day, ready to tackle the known tasks that lay before me.
But I'm suddenly worried that I won't recognize a circumstance requiring something more of me than I have to give.
Hoping that I won't wear myself out trying to fit a frisbee into the space designed for a mere sequin.
And there is always some urgency. Some necessary reason that my sight MUST be restored soon, or else...
There might be a storm approaching, with wind whipping and raindrops lashing. There might be a consuming fire, and I can smell the acrid smoke, like a fire of its own, burning inside my lungs. More usually, it's not so dire: the kids want breakfast or I'm late for an appointment. Sometimes, I'm at an appointment. An imaginary work meeting or important presentation.
So to remedy my blindness, my cotton-packed failure to see, I race to the nearest mirror and open my contact case. There, I sigh with relief. Help is on the way, in the form of a tiny, gellish disk.
Except, in the dream, the contacts are not tiny. They're huge and unwieldy. They fold over in my palms, flopping uselessly. They might be the size of quarters. Sometimes they're the size of saucers. As the dream proceeds and I become more helpless trying to wrap the slippery disk around and behind my sightless eyes, the contacts expand. They take both hands to hold. They bear the thickness of a slice of provolone cheese, but translucent. Blue-tinged.
And I despair. Haven't I always known how to do this one simple task? I've been putting contacts in for years -- without incident.
But I never seem to notice that the reason I can't do it this time -- the reason it's impossible -- is because the circumstances have changed. The objects of my necessity are overwhelmingly impossible to bring within my control.
I wake up either irritated or terrified. Rubbing my eyes to wipe away the reminder of fuzziness that still threatens me. I turn on the bathroom light, blinking away the stabbing darts of brightness, and open my real contacts.
I breath out gratefully. The contacts are tiny. Dime-sized and razor-thin. I know I can handle these babies. I place them in my eyes, wondering how I could ever not understand why a dish-sized contact wouldn't fit under my eyelids.
I walk out of the bedroom, and I confront the day, ready to tackle the known tasks that lay before me.
But I'm suddenly worried that I won't recognize a circumstance requiring something more of me than I have to give.
Hoping that I won't wear myself out trying to fit a frisbee into the space designed for a mere sequin.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
A Cough, Mingled with a Melody
I've got one for you:
What do you call an unwelcome visitor in the midst of the busiest season of the year?
Pneumonia. In a two month old baby.
What do you call an unwelcome visitor in the midst of the busiest season of the year?
Pneumonia. In a two month old baby.
------------
The hospital room contained three noises: the rattle and choke of Landon's mucousy lungs as he tried to fall asleep in my arms, the intermittent pump of his IV, and the rasp of the rocking chair's rear upswing as we rocked.
Justin slumped in a deep chair across the room from us, closing his eyes against the morning's stress. If I had to guess what he was seeing behind his eyelids, I'd say it was a combination of the doctor's face as she urged us to go to the hospital and the way Landon looked so helpless on the exam table as nurses tried to take urine and blood samples and start an IV.
His veins were entirely too small for anything like success to happen, and after six needle pokes in five locations on his tender limbs, the nurse finally got a line started on his head. For 45 minutes in the exam room, Landon lay on his back while they extracted the necessary bodily fluids to diagnose his condition. His eyes -- crying with real tears -- almost never left their lock on my own. I knew exactly what he was saying to me as I watched the nurses' progress.
Pick me up, mama. Please, hold me. Make this stop.
And I would have. Except I was desperate to know what was causing my sweet boy such distress. Days of choking coughs followed by fevers and inconsolable crying. He was pale. He wouldn't nurse. He wouldn't relax. He barely slept. He just cried, in an exhausted, inevitable way.
So we went to the hospital, and settled in for a nice, December visit. The chest x-ray showed pneumonia.
------------
I couldn't stand the silence of those three noises. They were an orchestra of sadness and worry. So I started singing a lullaby to help ease Landon into restfulness.
Lightly row, lightly row
o'er the flashing waves we go.
Smoothly glide, smoothly glide
On the silent tide.
Let the wind and waters be
mingled with a melody.
Sing and float, sing and float
in our little boat.
He slept and rattled, while across the room, Justin fell asleep to the lullaby as well. Eventually, my sweet baby boy nursed and smiled. Overnight, he pinkened up again.
And we went home, late the next night. Tired and thankful. The lullaby feels like a talisman now -- I sing it against the sickness and against the winter and against the worry. It soothes us all.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Bigger Picture Moment: The Island
I come here sometimes. To my island.
It's not usually a planned trip but I keep visiting regularly, showing up on the shores to watch a sunset or listen to the crashing surf. It's gorgeous here, of course: lush and green and shady in the middle and sun-sparkled and jeweled on the edges. I can get comfortable here. Burrow down and be alone. Forget the world.
Or, try to forget the world. But try as I may, the world infringes. I bring my luggage with me and inside the leather flaps are stowaway pieces of world. A worry. A care. A list or fear. Somehow I forget to pack my joys. The island is not about joy. It's about fret. It's about stew and ponder. About pick and second-guess.
The pieces of world get stuck in the sand of my island, and I am forced to navigate them over and over on my circuits around the perimeter. They trip me up when I have to flee from sea-storms, which crop up with surprising frequency; there's always a new, blustery problem blowing ashore.
And I hunker down -- by myself -- to figure it all out. I have to survive alone, because that's what my island is: solitary. Unknown and unapproachable. Self-contained. No outside help allowed. Anyone else might mess up my system of fret and wallow and worry. They might organize my pieces of world into 'donate' and 'trash' piles, and my beach would be clean.
I like it just the way it is, messy and unwelcoming. Pretty from afar but treacherous up close.
But I get lonely.
So when I notice that there's a salt-crusted bridge on the far side of my island, I'm intrigued. It is mossy and weather-worn. Old wood that used to be golden and supple is now splintered and gray. I step on it and peer across the turquoise water to the horizon.
There is something out there. It glows. It pulses. It dances. A sweet wind emanates from there to blow the hair from my furrowed brow.
But to step away from my brooding island, where all the problems are about to be solved by me alone....it feels like an anchor. Still, the pulsing glow looks promising, and I could use a dance...
I can cross the bridge. As soon as I give myself permission to.
Probably, when I get to the other side of the bridge, abandoning the need to harbor my own worries and doubts instead of allowing a comforting word or piece of advice, you'll be there. And you. And you, too. And my husband. And some strangers. And my God (who's been with me all along, waiting for me to notice). You'll all be dancing and smiling, wondering what took me so long.
And you'll have to help me burn down that old bridge so that the messy island -- which is like a beautifully tantalizing black hole -- will drift away across the ocean. Until it no longer holds any pull on my heart.
We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Melissa's place today! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.
It's not usually a planned trip but I keep visiting regularly, showing up on the shores to watch a sunset or listen to the crashing surf. It's gorgeous here, of course: lush and green and shady in the middle and sun-sparkled and jeweled on the edges. I can get comfortable here. Burrow down and be alone. Forget the world.
Or, try to forget the world. But try as I may, the world infringes. I bring my luggage with me and inside the leather flaps are stowaway pieces of world. A worry. A care. A list or fear. Somehow I forget to pack my joys. The island is not about joy. It's about fret. It's about stew and ponder. About pick and second-guess.
The pieces of world get stuck in the sand of my island, and I am forced to navigate them over and over on my circuits around the perimeter. They trip me up when I have to flee from sea-storms, which crop up with surprising frequency; there's always a new, blustery problem blowing ashore.
And I hunker down -- by myself -- to figure it all out. I have to survive alone, because that's what my island is: solitary. Unknown and unapproachable. Self-contained. No outside help allowed. Anyone else might mess up my system of fret and wallow and worry. They might organize my pieces of world into 'donate' and 'trash' piles, and my beach would be clean.
I like it just the way it is, messy and unwelcoming. Pretty from afar but treacherous up close.
But I get lonely.
So when I notice that there's a salt-crusted bridge on the far side of my island, I'm intrigued. It is mossy and weather-worn. Old wood that used to be golden and supple is now splintered and gray. I step on it and peer across the turquoise water to the horizon.
There is something out there. It glows. It pulses. It dances. A sweet wind emanates from there to blow the hair from my furrowed brow.
But to step away from my brooding island, where all the problems are about to be solved by me alone....it feels like an anchor. Still, the pulsing glow looks promising, and I could use a dance...
I can cross the bridge. As soon as I give myself permission to.
------------
Probably, when I get to the other side of the bridge, abandoning the need to harbor my own worries and doubts instead of allowing a comforting word or piece of advice, you'll be there. And you. And you, too. And my husband. And some strangers. And my God (who's been with me all along, waiting for me to notice). You'll all be dancing and smiling, wondering what took me so long.
And you'll have to help me burn down that old bridge so that the messy island -- which is like a beautifully tantalizing black hole -- will drift away across the ocean. Until it no longer holds any pull on my heart.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
On Thugs and Panic and Thankfulness
I had a bit of a panic today.
Maybe it was spurred by the dream I had last night, in which a tornado, played by a 500-foot tall giant thug, stomped its way around my town. As he crushed and laughed, a few more thug-giants joined him, until there was nowhere left to hide. Their flattening feet kicked and smashed everything in their paths, and they were happy about it. After interminable minutes, they headed east and south away from us -- with grim smiles on their ugly faces -- leaving us alone, but with nothing.
I woke up sweating but calm: they were gone. It was over.
But the thing is, it's not. Enter: my panic.
We needed groceries. And, determined to structure our days as normally as possible, I loaded the girls into our vehicle, and headed to town. By now, they've been across the damaged swath, but we try not to linger. When confronted with the worst of the devastation, Mia's voice becomes babyish. She speaks in cutesy tones and cuddly words; she reverts into a place of absolute protection. She doesn't seem harmed, emotionally, but those baby-voiced sentences...they tell me that she's hiding herself from the fear. But still, we have to get groceries, and the only way to it, is through it.
With all of my concern focused on their little faces in the rearview mirror, I guess I forgot to prepare myself. See, it's become a habit of mine to breathe deeply and only glance at what's directly in front of or beside me. To see all of the devastation is too overwhelming. But I forgot. I was only going on an errand, only a quick drive into town...I forgot to get ready.
It hit me all at once, as I scanned the now-cleared horizon. Miles and miles of wreckage. Unfathomable, disgusting destruction. Not having my deep breaths in store, I couldn't breathe. It was too much. It is too much. I whispered words of horror and disbelief, while tears stung my eyes.
One of the truly fearsome parts about this huge tornado is that there was no hiding from it. People have wondered why there was such a high death toll -- did we not go to our safe-places? -- even with advanced warning. And I can't speak for the entire city, but I'm betting that most of us did. Only, no place was truly safe within the tornado's reach. You can hide in a closet or bathtub or crawlspace or even a basement, but what if your entire home is blown away -- closet and bathtub included -- or the forces of incredible wind and pressure crumbles your home on top of you in that crawlspace or basement? There's no amount of planning or preparation to make you completely safe in an F5 tornado.
Only distance can do that. We were approximately 3/4 of a mile from the tornado. Sheltered by distance.
Then, the greedy thankfulness sweeps in and ruins me with guilt. I'm so happy that we weren't in the tornado's reach. We are so lucky that our closet remains surrounded by a roof and walls. What terror must these people have experienced -- but not us...not us...
And no matter how many breaths I steel myself with, I can't escape that thankfulness. I don't even really want to, because it isn't bad -- it's natural. Still, the guilt pinches and pokes as I watch my girls play happily in the backyard. They snuggle with their beloved blankies in safe beds at night. All they know are sounds of comfort, not the roar of ripping winds. Next time a storm comes through, they won't soil their pants or empty their stomachs in fear.
They are still innocent, despite seeing the great, nasty stretches of ravaged land.
I don't know where I'm going with this.
I panicked; my daughters are still innocent; thankfulness is natural; the destruction is horrific.
And I forgot to get milk, so we have to go back across town later.
But at least we are all alive and housed and spoiled enough to think that an inconsequential gallon of milk is something to be needed.
Maybe it was spurred by the dream I had last night, in which a tornado, played by a 500-foot tall giant thug, stomped its way around my town. As he crushed and laughed, a few more thug-giants joined him, until there was nowhere left to hide. Their flattening feet kicked and smashed everything in their paths, and they were happy about it. After interminable minutes, they headed east and south away from us -- with grim smiles on their ugly faces -- leaving us alone, but with nothing.
I woke up sweating but calm: they were gone. It was over.
But the thing is, it's not. Enter: my panic.
We needed groceries. And, determined to structure our days as normally as possible, I loaded the girls into our vehicle, and headed to town. By now, they've been across the damaged swath, but we try not to linger. When confronted with the worst of the devastation, Mia's voice becomes babyish. She speaks in cutesy tones and cuddly words; she reverts into a place of absolute protection. She doesn't seem harmed, emotionally, but those baby-voiced sentences...they tell me that she's hiding herself from the fear. But still, we have to get groceries, and the only way to it, is through it.
With all of my concern focused on their little faces in the rearview mirror, I guess I forgot to prepare myself. See, it's become a habit of mine to breathe deeply and only glance at what's directly in front of or beside me. To see all of the devastation is too overwhelming. But I forgot. I was only going on an errand, only a quick drive into town...I forgot to get ready.
It hit me all at once, as I scanned the now-cleared horizon. Miles and miles of wreckage. Unfathomable, disgusting destruction. Not having my deep breaths in store, I couldn't breathe. It was too much. It is too much. I whispered words of horror and disbelief, while tears stung my eyes.
One of the truly fearsome parts about this huge tornado is that there was no hiding from it. People have wondered why there was such a high death toll -- did we not go to our safe-places? -- even with advanced warning. And I can't speak for the entire city, but I'm betting that most of us did. Only, no place was truly safe within the tornado's reach. You can hide in a closet or bathtub or crawlspace or even a basement, but what if your entire home is blown away -- closet and bathtub included -- or the forces of incredible wind and pressure crumbles your home on top of you in that crawlspace or basement? There's no amount of planning or preparation to make you completely safe in an F5 tornado.
Only distance can do that. We were approximately 3/4 of a mile from the tornado. Sheltered by distance.
Then, the greedy thankfulness sweeps in and ruins me with guilt. I'm so happy that we weren't in the tornado's reach. We are so lucky that our closet remains surrounded by a roof and walls. What terror must these people have experienced -- but not us...not us...
And no matter how many breaths I steel myself with, I can't escape that thankfulness. I don't even really want to, because it isn't bad -- it's natural. Still, the guilt pinches and pokes as I watch my girls play happily in the backyard. They snuggle with their beloved blankies in safe beds at night. All they know are sounds of comfort, not the roar of ripping winds. Next time a storm comes through, they won't soil their pants or empty their stomachs in fear.
They are still innocent, despite seeing the great, nasty stretches of ravaged land.
I don't know where I'm going with this.
I panicked; my daughters are still innocent; thankfulness is natural; the destruction is horrific.
And I forgot to get milk, so we have to go back across town later.
But at least we are all alive and housed and spoiled enough to think that an inconsequential gallon of milk is something to be needed.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
After The Storm
Fact: When a tornado rips up a giant swath of your hometown, even if your home in particular was untouched, your routines will be changed.
Our bedtimes are nonexistent. Our days are fully unstructured. There is no place to go, except on the horseshoe-bend road that wraps itself under our city like a fishing net. This is the road to my parents' house, and it allows safe passage beyond all signs of tornado damage. (Unless it becomes flooded, which tends to happen with days upon days of rain.)
But once there, what do we do? We speculate and read the news and watch press releases. We hear stories from family who rode out the screaming winds as they flattened themselves beside a bed -- there was no time to crawl all the way under -- and looked up to find the roof missing. We talk about all the things we wish we could do to help, but have no way to accomplish. We laugh sometimes. We make large meals with our flowing electricity, inviting those who have none to come partake. We shush the kids as the new death tolls are being released. (And then we doubt the honesty of those numbers.) The doors open and close all day long, family and friends passing through for minutes or hours at a time. We clean up our bitty messes on kitchen counters and den floors, all the while wondering how the gargantuan, multi-legged, horrendous mess of our city will be repaired. We become a shrunken-extended family: together under one, whole roof.
When it rains, which it has done for far too long, we stand at windows and shake our heads. Haven't they had enough? The adults come and go, finding ways to help their neighbors or digging for salvageable items from their used-to-be-homes. The kids watch too many movies, become too argumentative, too tired, and too bored. But there is nowhere else to go.
I won't take them into town.
Any route would be circuitous and lengthy, but without exception, all roads bisect the path of damage. There is nowhere I can take them, short of a highway voyage, that would shelter them from seeing firsthand what's become of our world.
It doesn't have to be forever; they see news coverage when they're not running, screaming, with their cousins and friends, through the packed house. They hear us all discussing the particulars. They question the tornado's power. But to drive past it? To look at the nasty result of its carelessness? Even I can't speak in its presence. Driving by the rubble is painful, and just plain difficult: traffic won't allow for distractions on the newly cleared, but still congested and unmarked roads.
So we keep on playing, and when the sun finally comes out -- on the fourth day post-tornado -- we soak it up like a lover's gaze.
We play in the puddles and squish in the mud
and capture the caterpillars
and remember why it's good to have fun.
Even if we have to re-learn how.
Our bedtimes are nonexistent. Our days are fully unstructured. There is no place to go, except on the horseshoe-bend road that wraps itself under our city like a fishing net. This is the road to my parents' house, and it allows safe passage beyond all signs of tornado damage. (Unless it becomes flooded, which tends to happen with days upon days of rain.)
But once there, what do we do? We speculate and read the news and watch press releases. We hear stories from family who rode out the screaming winds as they flattened themselves beside a bed -- there was no time to crawl all the way under -- and looked up to find the roof missing. We talk about all the things we wish we could do to help, but have no way to accomplish. We laugh sometimes. We make large meals with our flowing electricity, inviting those who have none to come partake. We shush the kids as the new death tolls are being released. (And then we doubt the honesty of those numbers.) The doors open and close all day long, family and friends passing through for minutes or hours at a time. We clean up our bitty messes on kitchen counters and den floors, all the while wondering how the gargantuan, multi-legged, horrendous mess of our city will be repaired. We become a shrunken-extended family: together under one, whole roof.
When it rains, which it has done for far too long, we stand at windows and shake our heads. Haven't they had enough? The adults come and go, finding ways to help their neighbors or digging for salvageable items from their used-to-be-homes. The kids watch too many movies, become too argumentative, too tired, and too bored. But there is nowhere else to go.
I won't take them into town.
Any route would be circuitous and lengthy, but without exception, all roads bisect the path of damage. There is nowhere I can take them, short of a highway voyage, that would shelter them from seeing firsthand what's become of our world.
It doesn't have to be forever; they see news coverage when they're not running, screaming, with their cousins and friends, through the packed house. They hear us all discussing the particulars. They question the tornado's power. But to drive past it? To look at the nasty result of its carelessness? Even I can't speak in its presence. Driving by the rubble is painful, and just plain difficult: traffic won't allow for distractions on the newly cleared, but still congested and unmarked roads.
So we keep on playing, and when the sun finally comes out -- on the fourth day post-tornado -- we soak it up like a lover's gaze.
We play in the puddles and squish in the mud
and capture the caterpillars
and remember why it's good to have fun.
Even if we have to re-learn how.
Monday, May 23, 2011
I Don't Really Know What To Say
This is my home -- the streets I drive on every day to go to the places we inhabit.
Both of the churches we belong to and worship in are damaged -- one completely destroyed, the other being flooded with unstoppable rain through a roof that's been torn away.
My daughters' preschool and the church it belongs to -- there is only open air between crushed walls. Between walls that saw Mia's preschool graduation last Thursday evening. Walls that held happy parents and proud children.
Streets full of homes that were landmarks as we made our way through our days -- crumbled. We don't even know where we are sometimes.
Trees are naked. Bare bones reaching to a sky that's been filled with lightning for the past 30 hours.
The hospital where my daughters were born into a beautiful, terrifying world -- directly hit...unspeakably harmed. Irreparably harmed? It's a beacon over our city, standing defenseless, once hidden by neighborhoods and view-blocking trees, now starkly visible.
My aunt Sherry, my aunt Susie, my cousin Julie, my dear friends Annie and Jason -- have lost their homes and possessions. The tornado ripped through a heavily populated part of our city, and those four homes were in a place that wasn't completely leveled. Merely ruined. There are so many more. Friends of family, church family, friends I only hear from through Facebook...homeless and scared.
But all of this -- terrifying and devastating enough -- is small when I consider: there are lives lost here, where I've grown up, blocks away from where we sat hiding in our closet during the storm. While we hid and made shadow shapes on the wall with our flashlight, lives were being ripped apart.
Our home is unharmed and we are safe. We emerged to the dinner table before we realized how badly our city was hurt.
People are still being uncovered, but the storms and rain and lightning won't cease. It seems our hometown will be flooded soon.
Maybe with tears.
If you'd like to help Joplin recover, my dear friends at Bigger Picture Blogs are organizing a fundraiser. If you feel so compelled, your help would be greatly appreciated. And your prayers -- continuing prayers as we dig out of this disaster -- would be greatly coveted.
Both of the churches we belong to and worship in are damaged -- one completely destroyed, the other being flooded with unstoppable rain through a roof that's been torn away.
My daughters' preschool and the church it belongs to -- there is only open air between crushed walls. Between walls that saw Mia's preschool graduation last Thursday evening. Walls that held happy parents and proud children.
Streets full of homes that were landmarks as we made our way through our days -- crumbled. We don't even know where we are sometimes.
Trees are naked. Bare bones reaching to a sky that's been filled with lightning for the past 30 hours.
The hospital where my daughters were born into a beautiful, terrifying world -- directly hit...unspeakably harmed. Irreparably harmed? It's a beacon over our city, standing defenseless, once hidden by neighborhoods and view-blocking trees, now starkly visible.
My aunt Sherry, my aunt Susie, my cousin Julie, my dear friends Annie and Jason -- have lost their homes and possessions. The tornado ripped through a heavily populated part of our city, and those four homes were in a place that wasn't completely leveled. Merely ruined. There are so many more. Friends of family, church family, friends I only hear from through Facebook...homeless and scared.
But all of this -- terrifying and devastating enough -- is small when I consider: there are lives lost here, where I've grown up, blocks away from where we sat hiding in our closet during the storm. While we hid and made shadow shapes on the wall with our flashlight, lives were being ripped apart.
Our home is unharmed and we are safe. We emerged to the dinner table before we realized how badly our city was hurt.
People are still being uncovered, but the storms and rain and lightning won't cease. It seems our hometown will be flooded soon.
Maybe with tears.
If you'd like to help Joplin recover, my dear friends at Bigger Picture Blogs are organizing a fundraiser. If you feel so compelled, your help would be greatly appreciated. And your prayers -- continuing prayers as we dig out of this disaster -- would be greatly coveted.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Bigger Picture Moments: Things That Grow
I'm clinging to a small fixation right now: the speed of growth despite my lack of granted permission. I've been clinging here before, during certain phases of life, yes. But it hides dormant for whole swaths of time. Days and months go by before I remember what I don't want to think about.
There is some impetus, as usual, that prompts its return. This time...
Knowing that I'm carrying a tiny baby boy under my heart is making me both jubilant and reflective. I realize, all of a sudden, that the girls I have before me are no longer babies. No more are they wrapped in candy-colored blankets, nor do they wear ruffles on their diapered behinds. They might as well be grown, says my mother-of-baby-girls mentality.
But they are not grown. They are just different than they were before, with lengthier sizes and new personalities. Soon, they'll have new job titles: big sisters to a little brother. Or something more streamlined, perhaps -- something that actually attaches a boy's name to that title.
The thing is, I don't know them as such. It's easy to believe that it will all fit just fine when the day comes. (After all, I am a person who jumps in before learning how to swim; I expect things to be new-normal if imperfect.) But until then, I allow myself plenty of wallowing.
They are growing, as they should. And it makes me long for a pause. A stretching of time, so I can gather them in well enough that I may never forget how perfect everything is right now.
The swing of tangled, dark brown hair, as the head and body it belongs to races away down a grassy hill.
The glow of rosy cheek and pucker of rose-bud lips in a face that still boasts of innocence.
The twinkle of laughter that bubbles over and around the simplest of silly moments.
The ease of comfort -- a blankie; a hug; a quiet talk; a kiss -- when emotions run over or pain is inflicted.
The wrap of arms around neck, legs around torso, bottom on hip, that feels perfectly comfortable despite the thirty-pound heft.
It's all so good and lovely and right, and I feel like it's slipping through my fingers. Just...if I can remember what will fill my palms when the wisps of childhood are all sifted through. But these are things I can't yet know. Futures will fill my palms. Hazy, shifting, tempting -- the world will be different because of the people my children are becoming. I cannot see it.
But I can imagine it, by appreciating the way things grow. Tall, ancient things --
Colorful, skillful things --
Delicate, bursting things --
They grow. They change. They shelter or intensify or adorn, and they are gifts, surely.
So here I am, loving the things that grow. And trying to love the caress as they slip through my fingers, filling my palms with memories.
We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us today at Hyacynth's place! Grab the button, link up and then go forth and encourage the two people before you while they are walking this journey of intentional living.
There is some impetus, as usual, that prompts its return. This time...
Knowing that I'm carrying a tiny baby boy under my heart is making me both jubilant and reflective. I realize, all of a sudden, that the girls I have before me are no longer babies. No more are they wrapped in candy-colored blankets, nor do they wear ruffles on their diapered behinds. They might as well be grown, says my mother-of-baby-girls mentality.
But they are not grown. They are just different than they were before, with lengthier sizes and new personalities. Soon, they'll have new job titles: big sisters to a little brother. Or something more streamlined, perhaps -- something that actually attaches a boy's name to that title.
The thing is, I don't know them as such. It's easy to believe that it will all fit just fine when the day comes. (After all, I am a person who jumps in before learning how to swim; I expect things to be new-normal if imperfect.) But until then, I allow myself plenty of wallowing.
They are growing, as they should. And it makes me long for a pause. A stretching of time, so I can gather them in well enough that I may never forget how perfect everything is right now.
The swing of tangled, dark brown hair, as the head and body it belongs to races away down a grassy hill.
The glow of rosy cheek and pucker of rose-bud lips in a face that still boasts of innocence.
The twinkle of laughter that bubbles over and around the simplest of silly moments.
The ease of comfort -- a blankie; a hug; a quiet talk; a kiss -- when emotions run over or pain is inflicted.
The wrap of arms around neck, legs around torso, bottom on hip, that feels perfectly comfortable despite the thirty-pound heft.
It's all so good and lovely and right, and I feel like it's slipping through my fingers. Just...if I can remember what will fill my palms when the wisps of childhood are all sifted through. But these are things I can't yet know. Futures will fill my palms. Hazy, shifting, tempting -- the world will be different because of the people my children are becoming. I cannot see it.
But I can imagine it, by appreciating the way things grow. Tall, ancient things --
Colorful, skillful things --
Delicate, bursting things --
They grow. They change. They shelter or intensify or adorn, and they are gifts, surely.
So here I am, loving the things that grow. And trying to love the caress as they slip through my fingers, filling my palms with memories.
We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us today at Hyacynth's place! Grab the button, link up and then go forth and encourage the two people before you while they are walking this journey of intentional living.Monday, May 9, 2011
Using Prince Phillip as Justification for Surgery
Sitting with both girls on my lap was uncomfortably snug.
It was storytime before bed, and we were reading Sleeping Beauty, the Disney version, in the light of the closet bulb. Lauren seemed to be following along mostly well, as usual.
Even though she's had some trouble hearing for the past several months, it's not severe. It only manifests itself in some situations, of which I can never be certain. Something in the atmosphere or her nasal congestion or the surrounding noise makes her squint and question. She'll say, "What d'jou say, mama? Say it louder." And then as I do, she'll watch my mouth to see what I'm saying.
Nobody else seemed to notice, but I followed my hunch anyway. I scheduled a hearing test, which confirmed my worries: she's having some hearing loss. Follow-up appointments happened, and now we're preparing for tubes this week, which will hopefully cure the problem. (I mentioned the tubes several days ago...yes, I'm still dwelling.)
As we read about Prince Phillip meeting the singing princess in the forest, Lauren stopped me.
"Why is his name Prince Pull-up?" Being three, she often mispronounces things -- sometimes I correct her, and sometimes I let it be, just to soak up her cuteness.
This time, I smiled and answered with his correct name: Phillip. Again, she wasn't sure. "Prince Full-up?"
I bent down and kissed her head before giggling out a response. "Never mind, sweetie, it doesn't matter."
But Mia caught my eye, and she was laughing like we do when Lauren is being silly on purpose. When she does something completely toddlerish and hilarious, we laugh, and this seemed similar at first. We laughed together for a second or two before I noticed Lauren's face again.
She didn't get the joke. She looked back and forth between us, not upset, just confused. "Mia, why are you laughing at me?" she asked.
I don't know if this was another cute mispronunciation, or a manifestation of the hearing difficulties, but it felt like the latter. I snuffed out the laughter, reassured Lauren (partly by redirecting her attention...), and went on with the story. Later, I told Mia that we need to be more careful with our laughter -- pay attention to how it might make somebody feel about themselves -- but I still felt awful.
My darling Lauren has been going through quite some time in her life without hearing the world as it really is around her. Is her world muffled? Garbled? Just confusing? Is this part of her shyness? Not being able to understand the words someone speaks to her would definitely make her feel uncertain...
I want her world to be clear and simple in so many ways, and at least in this one way -- the hearing way -- we might be able to make that happen. It's worth a little bit of worrisome (yet relatively common and safe) surgery if it means my sweet girl will be able to hear.
I'm all hopeful expectation. Or, mostly hopeful expectation. There's still a measure of worry in there, because it's surgery on my baby with anaesthesia. She's three, and she'll know that she's in a weird place, with strange people, and no mother to hold her hand before she goes under. (So maybe my measure of worry, here, is quite large. Prayers, if you have any to spare, would be appreciated.)
But if it means she'll be able to tell the difference between a Pull-up and a Phillip, I'm on board.
I wonder what her world will sound like in a few days....
It was storytime before bed, and we were reading Sleeping Beauty, the Disney version, in the light of the closet bulb. Lauren seemed to be following along mostly well, as usual.
Even though she's had some trouble hearing for the past several months, it's not severe. It only manifests itself in some situations, of which I can never be certain. Something in the atmosphere or her nasal congestion or the surrounding noise makes her squint and question. She'll say, "What d'jou say, mama? Say it louder." And then as I do, she'll watch my mouth to see what I'm saying.
Nobody else seemed to notice, but I followed my hunch anyway. I scheduled a hearing test, which confirmed my worries: she's having some hearing loss. Follow-up appointments happened, and now we're preparing for tubes this week, which will hopefully cure the problem. (I mentioned the tubes several days ago...yes, I'm still dwelling.)
As we read about Prince Phillip meeting the singing princess in the forest, Lauren stopped me.
"Why is his name Prince Pull-up?" Being three, she often mispronounces things -- sometimes I correct her, and sometimes I let it be, just to soak up her cuteness.
This time, I smiled and answered with his correct name: Phillip. Again, she wasn't sure. "Prince Full-up?"
I bent down and kissed her head before giggling out a response. "Never mind, sweetie, it doesn't matter."
But Mia caught my eye, and she was laughing like we do when Lauren is being silly on purpose. When she does something completely toddlerish and hilarious, we laugh, and this seemed similar at first. We laughed together for a second or two before I noticed Lauren's face again.
She didn't get the joke. She looked back and forth between us, not upset, just confused. "Mia, why are you laughing at me?" she asked.
I don't know if this was another cute mispronunciation, or a manifestation of the hearing difficulties, but it felt like the latter. I snuffed out the laughter, reassured Lauren (partly by redirecting her attention...), and went on with the story. Later, I told Mia that we need to be more careful with our laughter -- pay attention to how it might make somebody feel about themselves -- but I still felt awful.
My darling Lauren has been going through quite some time in her life without hearing the world as it really is around her. Is her world muffled? Garbled? Just confusing? Is this part of her shyness? Not being able to understand the words someone speaks to her would definitely make her feel uncertain...
I want her world to be clear and simple in so many ways, and at least in this one way -- the hearing way -- we might be able to make that happen. It's worth a little bit of worrisome (yet relatively common and safe) surgery if it means my sweet girl will be able to hear.
I'm all hopeful expectation. Or, mostly hopeful expectation. There's still a measure of worry in there, because it's surgery on my baby with anaesthesia. She's three, and she'll know that she's in a weird place, with strange people, and no mother to hold her hand before she goes under. (So maybe my measure of worry, here, is quite large. Prayers, if you have any to spare, would be appreciated.)
But if it means she'll be able to tell the difference between a Pull-up and a Phillip, I'm on board.
I wonder what her world will sound like in a few days....
Monday, May 2, 2011
Kumbaya
Almost ten years ago, when we watched our own country come under a direct and brutal attack, I watched, horrified.
Then, as revelers in foreign nations danced in the streets, celebrating our losses, burning our flags, and shooting happy bullets into the sky, I was doubly horrified. What sort of people could rejoice over death? Who could so heartlessly cheer to know that souls had been exterminated?
Today, I was horrified again, because those people dancing in the streets were my people -- only without the happy bullets.
I don't love the man who was captured and killed; I have deep animosity (and fear) in my heart towards him and all who support his ideals. But to dance over his lost soul? To cheer and gather in celebration....it feels dirty. Cheap. It feels provocative of retaliation, and it feels anti-unity. Anti-peace.
If I weren't so conflicted in my emotions, I'd be better able to stake one side and lay claim to one feeling: joy or condemnation. But I am conflicted. I didn't want this man to live long enough to plan or execute more devastation, but...did I want him killed in retaliation? Who says who deserves to be killed? What terrible power does that give us in the eternal sense?
I'm certainly relieved that I'm not in such a powerful position to make these choices. Justice is different in every person's eyes, and to call my own opinion unfailingly 'just' seems to invite missteps. So no, I don't envy our leaders in the decisions they make in the name of justice and protection and war.
But where do we -- as a nation, as a world -- go from here? When does justice end so peace and love can begin? When will we see past our hatred and into the heart of unity?
A friend shared this quote with me, and I can't turn it off in my head. It keeps running on auto-loop, dampening my conflicted relief at the death of Osama bin Laden:
Then, as revelers in foreign nations danced in the streets, celebrating our losses, burning our flags, and shooting happy bullets into the sky, I was doubly horrified. What sort of people could rejoice over death? Who could so heartlessly cheer to know that souls had been exterminated?
Today, I was horrified again, because those people dancing in the streets were my people -- only without the happy bullets.
I don't love the man who was captured and killed; I have deep animosity (and fear) in my heart towards him and all who support his ideals. But to dance over his lost soul? To cheer and gather in celebration....it feels dirty. Cheap. It feels provocative of retaliation, and it feels anti-unity. Anti-peace.
If I weren't so conflicted in my emotions, I'd be better able to stake one side and lay claim to one feeling: joy or condemnation. But I am conflicted. I didn't want this man to live long enough to plan or execute more devastation, but...did I want him killed in retaliation? Who says who deserves to be killed? What terrible power does that give us in the eternal sense?
I'm certainly relieved that I'm not in such a powerful position to make these choices. Justice is different in every person's eyes, and to call my own opinion unfailingly 'just' seems to invite missteps. So no, I don't envy our leaders in the decisions they make in the name of justice and protection and war.
But where do we -- as a nation, as a world -- go from here? When does justice end so peace and love can begin? When will we see past our hatred and into the heart of unity?
A friend shared this quote with me, and I can't turn it off in my head. It keeps running on auto-loop, dampening my conflicted relief at the death of Osama bin Laden:
An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. -- Mahatma GhandiAm I alone in my confusion? I really can't even believe I'm writing this -- such a lost, opinionated post -- but I need to talk about it (respectfully) with others. What do you think?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Bigger Picture Moment: Worry and Light
This isn't monumental:
Our sweet Lauren Jade needs tubes in her ears. For months, I became more and more concerned with her hearing; she can hear, but she watches my mouth as I repeat sentences once...twice...three times. So: tubes. This girl has never had an ear infection in her life, which was the only reason I ever knew for which tubes were required, but: tubes. Surgery. Alone. It may not be monumental, but it feels that way.
And that's not all.
Everything feels bigger lately: worry about how I'm raising my children; doubts that I'm doing anything right (and what is right, anyway?); my terrible inability to keep our house clean enough to maintain the sense of calm that only comes when I'm surrounded by order; my family's diet, and whether or not it's as varietal and fresh and nourishing as it could be; deep desires to be a more faithful person, but desire isn't enough, is it?; the question of this baby's gender (as if I could control it, and if I could, would I even want to?) which occupies my thoughts for hours each day; fears about the difficulties my daughters' futures will hold; the constant, black worry behind my heart that pulses with the words loss -- death -- disease...
Although the (incomplete) list is mismatched in both severity and probability, it all feels huge. Driving down the road, listening to calm music, it still feels huge. Impassable. It swells and bulges (blocking my view), all of this wondering and worrying, and that's big in itself because I wouldn't generally classify myself as a worrier. Why all the sudden? Is it hormonal? Cultural? Societal?
Or is it just me -- being me?
The real drama comes when I survey the world. Oh, the lovely, terrifying world. The devastating tornadoes and earthquakes and tsunamis and droughts and wars and upheaval and politics and the constant drive to win. How do people get past this? How do you get past this? Especially if getting past it means tightening your net to only worry about the ones directly within your reach -- which brings us back to the non-monumental but still-bulging facts of life.
How do we poke a tiny hole in the impassive, massive balloon of concern that blocks our view and prevents us from moving forward? How do we drain it, let it all trickle away -- not ignoring its presence, just witnessing it and letting it take up only as much space as is due: droplets of thought to be pondered within proportion.
How?
Lauren, in short-sleeve-dress and bare legs, asserts her independence and denies the need for a jacket. She likes the coldmess more than she likes jackets. Mia follows her baby sister's lead, and together they hop down garage stairs and out to the driveway. I shiver. It is 54 degrees -- beautiful, but cool on my skin.
We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us today at Melissa's place! Grab the button, link up and share your Bigger Picture with us!
Our sweet Lauren Jade needs tubes in her ears. For months, I became more and more concerned with her hearing; she can hear, but she watches my mouth as I repeat sentences once...twice...three times. So: tubes. This girl has never had an ear infection in her life, which was the only reason I ever knew for which tubes were required, but: tubes. Surgery. Alone. It may not be monumental, but it feels that way.
And that's not all.
Everything feels bigger lately: worry about how I'm raising my children; doubts that I'm doing anything right (and what is right, anyway?); my terrible inability to keep our house clean enough to maintain the sense of calm that only comes when I'm surrounded by order; my family's diet, and whether or not it's as varietal and fresh and nourishing as it could be; deep desires to be a more faithful person, but desire isn't enough, is it?; the question of this baby's gender (as if I could control it, and if I could, would I even want to?) which occupies my thoughts for hours each day; fears about the difficulties my daughters' futures will hold; the constant, black worry behind my heart that pulses with the words loss -- death -- disease...
Although the (incomplete) list is mismatched in both severity and probability, it all feels huge. Driving down the road, listening to calm music, it still feels huge. Impassable. It swells and bulges (blocking my view), all of this wondering and worrying, and that's big in itself because I wouldn't generally classify myself as a worrier. Why all the sudden? Is it hormonal? Cultural? Societal?
Or is it just me -- being me?
The real drama comes when I survey the world. Oh, the lovely, terrifying world. The devastating tornadoes and earthquakes and tsunamis and droughts and wars and upheaval and politics and the constant drive to win. How do people get past this? How do you get past this? Especially if getting past it means tightening your net to only worry about the ones directly within your reach -- which brings us back to the non-monumental but still-bulging facts of life.
How do we poke a tiny hole in the impassive, massive balloon of concern that blocks our view and prevents us from moving forward? How do we drain it, let it all trickle away -- not ignoring its presence, just witnessing it and letting it take up only as much space as is due: droplets of thought to be pondered within proportion.
How?
------------
Rushing on our way to the last ballet class of the year, I bellow orders. Shoes! Jackets! Garage! Car! Seatbelts! Now, now, now!
Lauren, in short-sleeve-dress and bare legs, asserts her independence and denies the need for a jacket. She likes the coldmess more than she likes jackets. Mia follows her baby sister's lead, and together they hop down garage stairs and out to the driveway. I shiver. It is 54 degrees -- beautiful, but cool on my skin.
Exasperated, my jaw tightens as I watch them disobey (with joyful lightheartedness). They dance on the driveway while I put our things in the car. Girls! You have to get in right now! Come on! I've already asked twice!
I make sure nobody's changed their minds about jackets; they haven't. Mia bounces over to me. Mom you should go feel the sunshine! The shade is pretty chilly, but the sun! It's FABULOUS, mom! Go feel it!
But I don't have time. I buckle the girls into their carseats, slowing down only long enough to avoid a pinched thigh or a crooked clasp. One girl, then the other; all the while, they're chattering about the sun. It's been days since we've seen a golden ray of light, and it's captured their hearts first thing in the morning. Once more, Mia begs:
Please, mom? Step out there and feel the sun. You'll love it -- I promise. Her eyes are solemn and pure. Grayish blue like mine, but they see so much more. Sighing, I agree. I'll step out there, but only for a second. We can't be late (again).
Wrapping my arms around my torso, I shiver again -- why didn't I grab a jacket? -- and step onto the driveway. The long morning shadow from our neighbor's oak tree casts itself at my feet, and Mia's right: it's chilly, in a blue, misty, damp sort of way. Three more steps, and my right toe is in a patch of light. One more and my body is drenched in warmth.
Despite myself, I close my eyes and turn to the east. The startling whiteness of the sun flashes across my purple eyelids, and I endure a moment of blindness. I gather a breath. The air is so fresh and clean that my lungs ache to be more full than physically possible. I exhale and repeat, raising my arms and spinning a circle with the breeze. The shadows tickle my outstretched arms with cool -- the sun pulls me back around again.
I open my eyes, take in the blue dome of sky, greedily steal one last lung-full of air, and return to the garage, smiling and slow. There was time, after all.
------------
Here's one way: drop a thread of busy, worried time long enough to grasp a single moment's worth of sunlight and warmth. It will last all day, nestled where it was seared behind reluctant eyelids.
We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us today at Melissa's place! Grab the button, link up and share your Bigger Picture with us!Thursday, April 21, 2011
Bigger Picture Moment: Earthy Like a Child
It was chilly that day. Barely above 60 degrees, which, after several days of near 80's, induced goose-bumps on our pale skin. Still, the girls wore sundresses. Their shoulders are so narrow under growing piles of hair; they might as well be babies for how wistfully I admire those shoulders.
But I hoped they'd wear a jacket. I was shivering watching them play. I wanted them to stand still in a patch of sunlight and soak it up like kittens, or better yet, I wanted to snuggle them next to me so they'd stay cozy.
It wasn't to be. They kicked their shoes off, 'set their piggies free'*, and danced on the cold grass. The sky above was the kind of blue that makes you wonder where it's been all your life -- surely it's never been so bright before? So free of haze or glare? Surely a sky like that must be played under, despite a chilly breeze?
So they played. Their skin was cold each time they dashed back to my side, but they laughed it off; they just didn't feel it. They only felt the freshness, the sun, the grass, and the sky. They felt childhood, really. The time when nobody cares how cold the creek is -- they wade in and return with red toes; nobody minds the sweat of a summer day -- they simply dash through an icy sprinkler and get back to business; nobody is irritated by that giant mud puddle -- they see only opportunity and splashes in their future.
What must that be like? To live without worry or irritation? To simply dance under the blue sky, tickling your toes on cool grass?
I'll try it if you will...
*I highly recommend listening and dancing to this delightful Ziggy Marley/Sesame Street song. It's so fun, and fits today's moment perfectly!
We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us today at Hyacynth's place! Grab the button, link up and share your Bigger Picture with us!Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Forgive Me While I Darken
I'm a rose-colored-glasses sort of girl. I see life as half-full and silver-lined more often than not, and if I feel myself slipping into worry, doubt, negativity...I pretend the joy until it becomes more tangible. Real tragedies are no less real to me, I just refuse to be shaken from my blind clinging to the faith that I -- we: my family, my world -- will be alright no matter what. Because it's my choice to turn towards hope and find joy in whatever circumstances we may find ourselves.
Like I said, though: real tragedies affect me hugely. And right now, I can't seem to focus on anything but what's happening in Japan. News stories around the world which would have held my attention only days ago are now relegated to the bottom of my thoughts. If the headline doesn't include 'Japan', I can hardly see it.
I like to think that my humanity alone is holding me captive over Japan's plight, but I think it's alright to admit that since I have friends there -- worrying about food shortages and radiation and aftershocks -- my sensitivity is doubly heightened.
And I'm still turning towards hope with a rose-colored tinge. For the people in Japan as well as myself and my family a world away in the middle of Heartland, USA. But I feel like I can't keep posting cute pictures of my happy, healthy daughters without also acknowledging this hulking, greedy, worried core inside me that only thinks of Japan, all day, every day.
So I guess I'm just saying...know that for every light, joyful, positive post or picture I publish, I'm also writing one in my head that rings with endless concern over Japan's crisis. I'm also making emergency preparedness lists and planning escape routes (from what?) in case we're confronted with a disaster of our own. Any cutesy, silly stories (if or when they get written) aren't me moving past my worry, they're me embracing the good, hopeful parts of my world, because I have to.
Right now is one of those times that I feel myself slipping into doubt and anxiety and restlessness, and I have to pretend otherwise or it'll consume me completely.
Like I said, though: real tragedies affect me hugely. And right now, I can't seem to focus on anything but what's happening in Japan. News stories around the world which would have held my attention only days ago are now relegated to the bottom of my thoughts. If the headline doesn't include 'Japan', I can hardly see it.
I like to think that my humanity alone is holding me captive over Japan's plight, but I think it's alright to admit that since I have friends there -- worrying about food shortages and radiation and aftershocks -- my sensitivity is doubly heightened.
And I'm still turning towards hope with a rose-colored tinge. For the people in Japan as well as myself and my family a world away in the middle of Heartland, USA. But I feel like I can't keep posting cute pictures of my happy, healthy daughters without also acknowledging this hulking, greedy, worried core inside me that only thinks of Japan, all day, every day.
So I guess I'm just saying...know that for every light, joyful, positive post or picture I publish, I'm also writing one in my head that rings with endless concern over Japan's crisis. I'm also making emergency preparedness lists and planning escape routes (from what?) in case we're confronted with a disaster of our own. Any cutesy, silly stories (if or when they get written) aren't me moving past my worry, they're me embracing the good, hopeful parts of my world, because I have to.
Right now is one of those times that I feel myself slipping into doubt and anxiety and restlessness, and I have to pretend otherwise or it'll consume me completely.
Monday, February 21, 2011
In Defense of Princesses
When we watch a princess movie, not a detail -- not a tiny bit, not a passing whim -- is left unquestioned. We go over what makes people sad and why they behave in ways we don't understand. We unpack motivations and fears.
Oh, we talk about the dresses and jewels and castles, too. Our interest is piqued, as always, by the magical lives of these adventurous girls. (And I admit -- I'm included in that 'our'. I've always loved fairy tales, whether Disney-altered or otherwise.) Mia talks about the kind of princess she wants to be when she grows up: an artist princess, or, lately, a baker princess. But the job title of 'Princess' is seemingly non-negotiable, here.
And there is no question that her princessly future will include a prince. Recently, she pretended for most of an entire, homebound snow day, that there was a young, blonde, kind, funny, slow-eating prince in our house. He was going to take naps here -- he would sleep on the couch, and I should take care not to be worried when I heard his massive, rumbling snores. Later, at night, she trusted that he would sneak into her room and play with her, because he is a new genre of prince that I've never encountered in my sheltered life: a Nocturnal Prince. But during the day, I'd be hearing snores. I might laugh, but I mustn't hurt his feelings.
Yes, we are a princessy household. As sure as I am that these pretendings and imaginings are healthy and fun for us, I can't help but notice all the ways young girls might be waylaid by the princess-mentality. The beautiful, entitled, womanly, rebellious, happy-ending mentality. My only argument against those things are to assert that our family doesn't live in a world that encourages diva behavior, and our princess fixations are playful and sweet. Our daughters don't wear flimsy, grown-up clothing or behave provocatively, and if they wander in those directions, we'll handle it.
I agree that it might be worrisome if the only pretend games we played were princess-centered, but I know otherwise: we are pirates and skunks and lions and ladybugs. We imagine we are islanders or mountaineers; we sail the oceans and explore in caves. We run the full gamut of imaginary lives in any given day, and I feel that my children are gaining well-rounded ideas of what life is or could be.
As for the happy-ending part, I'm torn. I think a good dose of hope and positivity is helpful in navigating life, and I harbor no illusions that my girls will grow to the age of 18 without understanding that princess stories are fantasy. I like the innocence of a baker-princess. The creativity of an artist-princess. And I like that my girls can dream themselves into unreachable positions before realizing the truth of hard work and dedication. 'Thinking on the bright side' is not something to be ashamed of, in my opinion. Even if that bright side is unrealistic, there are good aspects of our princess dreams that are worth aspiring to: kindness and adventurousness, helpfulness and creativity, curiosity and perseverance.
The other thing is, sometimes your dreams do come true.
In Beauty and The Beast, one of Mia's newest favorites, we don't know the name of the prince. We know he is a vain and selfish prince in the beginning, a temperamental beast in the middle, and a handsome, tattered man in the end. We've discussed his lack of a name and wondered why he's only known as The Beast, and now Mia's come up with a solution: we must name him.
She cocked her head to one side and scratched her ear. "Mama, I think the beast DOES have a name. His name is Justin." And off she skipped, dancing to a self-made tune and imagining herself as Belle with a no-longer nameless prince.
I don't think it's merely a lack of other boys' names on her mind that made her choose her daddy's name for the prince. I don't think it's an accident that she sees her father as handsome and valiant, brave and strong, kind and generous. And I don't think it's an impossible dream for Mia to imagine herself dancing off into the sunset with such a man.
It's an attainable princess-hope. It's a dream come true -- in reality, though.
It's a happy ending (and beginning) in the real world.
Oh, we talk about the dresses and jewels and castles, too. Our interest is piqued, as always, by the magical lives of these adventurous girls. (And I admit -- I'm included in that 'our'. I've always loved fairy tales, whether Disney-altered or otherwise.) Mia talks about the kind of princess she wants to be when she grows up: an artist princess, or, lately, a baker princess. But the job title of 'Princess' is seemingly non-negotiable, here.
And there is no question that her princessly future will include a prince. Recently, she pretended for most of an entire, homebound snow day, that there was a young, blonde, kind, funny, slow-eating prince in our house. He was going to take naps here -- he would sleep on the couch, and I should take care not to be worried when I heard his massive, rumbling snores. Later, at night, she trusted that he would sneak into her room and play with her, because he is a new genre of prince that I've never encountered in my sheltered life: a Nocturnal Prince. But during the day, I'd be hearing snores. I might laugh, but I mustn't hurt his feelings.
Yes, we are a princessy household. As sure as I am that these pretendings and imaginings are healthy and fun for us, I can't help but notice all the ways young girls might be waylaid by the princess-mentality. The beautiful, entitled, womanly, rebellious, happy-ending mentality. My only argument against those things are to assert that our family doesn't live in a world that encourages diva behavior, and our princess fixations are playful and sweet. Our daughters don't wear flimsy, grown-up clothing or behave provocatively, and if they wander in those directions, we'll handle it.
I agree that it might be worrisome if the only pretend games we played were princess-centered, but I know otherwise: we are pirates and skunks and lions and ladybugs. We imagine we are islanders or mountaineers; we sail the oceans and explore in caves. We run the full gamut of imaginary lives in any given day, and I feel that my children are gaining well-rounded ideas of what life is or could be.
As for the happy-ending part, I'm torn. I think a good dose of hope and positivity is helpful in navigating life, and I harbor no illusions that my girls will grow to the age of 18 without understanding that princess stories are fantasy. I like the innocence of a baker-princess. The creativity of an artist-princess. And I like that my girls can dream themselves into unreachable positions before realizing the truth of hard work and dedication. 'Thinking on the bright side' is not something to be ashamed of, in my opinion. Even if that bright side is unrealistic, there are good aspects of our princess dreams that are worth aspiring to: kindness and adventurousness, helpfulness and creativity, curiosity and perseverance.
The other thing is, sometimes your dreams do come true.
In Beauty and The Beast, one of Mia's newest favorites, we don't know the name of the prince. We know he is a vain and selfish prince in the beginning, a temperamental beast in the middle, and a handsome, tattered man in the end. We've discussed his lack of a name and wondered why he's only known as The Beast, and now Mia's come up with a solution: we must name him.
She cocked her head to one side and scratched her ear. "Mama, I think the beast DOES have a name. His name is Justin." And off she skipped, dancing to a self-made tune and imagining herself as Belle with a no-longer nameless prince.
I don't think it's merely a lack of other boys' names on her mind that made her choose her daddy's name for the prince. I don't think it's an accident that she sees her father as handsome and valiant, brave and strong, kind and generous. And I don't think it's an impossible dream for Mia to imagine herself dancing off into the sunset with such a man.
It's an attainable princess-hope. It's a dream come true -- in reality, though.
It's a happy ending (and beginning) in the real world.
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