A downpour is goin' on outside. A beautiful way to begin my morning.
It has been dry this summer. Rumor has it we're in a drought and I don't doubt it as splotches of brown can be found on the ground where before? Only deep green. We need this rain. This rain is a beautiful thing.
Fall is in the air. Leaves are on the fringes of changing as a few golden leaves can be found dotted amongst the trees. And I am ready.
The girls at work and I have been talking lately on our walks about how we are all ready for autumn: pumpkins and crisp apples with caramel and sweatshirts and scarves and trees that display the wonder of a thousand colors and marshmallows over a fire. Mm.
Probably my most favorite thing, though, is the long evenings. Already I'm getting a taste of this bounty of time that is spread before me when I get home in the evenings as I've been walking earlier than normal, so by the time I'm home from work, walked my three miles, supper is over and done and I've hopped in the shower, it's 6:30.
Yeah. 6:30.
For the past three nights I've actually been in my jammies before 7:00 with this wide open space for doing whatever I please. Ah. Heaven.
Last night? I watched the season opening of Nashville and caught up with a friend whom I haven't spoken with in almost 5 years. It's kind of ridiculous how much time can go by when you blink twice.
I've managed to be in bed every night by 9:30. That is unheard of during summer days when the sun shares its bounty for far longer than it does during winter days.
A few days ago, the girls at work and I were doing our usual walk when we noticed this older man attempting to walk across the street from the courthouse. It's set up as two one way streets with a sidewalk of sorts in between so that one only has to cross one street at a time. We noticed him as he was crossing the first street, painfully putting his walker in front of him and slowly taking a single step, and then repeat. It was painful to watch, and the three of us just stood there, deliberating whether we should assist. But he was making it, one step at a time, and the cars were patiently waiting as he inched his way forward. When he got to the other side of the first road, we heaved a sigh of relief and again talked amongst ourselves: should we help him? And about that time, he started forward yet again, inching slowly, one step forward...walker, step, walker step...as we held our breath. And then to our delight, as we just weren't sure if our assistance would be welcomed, a tall middle-aged man stopped as he was crossing and spoke to this elderly gentleman. We couldn't hear them, of course, but we could imagine the exchange that was happening between the two of them. The middle aged man nodded his head and continued on his way while the elderly gentleman pursued his course.
We sighed in relief and moved on down the road, comfortable that this little old guy would be okay, that he was determined and independent, that it didn't matter how long it took to cross the road, it only mattered that he crossed it.
I happened upon this old epithet awhile ago that reads like this:
Remember, friends, as you walk by,
As you now are so once was I.
As I am now, so you must be.
Prepare yourself to follow me.
When I first read that, it stopped me in my tracks because of the stark reality of its words. Life is so short, filled with seasons that change, subtly at first, and then whisk in with splendor. Life is filled with valleys and mountains, with plains of every day normal, with joy and sadness. And then? Well then it's over.
When I was talking to my friend last night, she told me that she has days of such sheer joy and then moments of deep sadness. That's okay, I told her, as she is considerably younger than me. What is important is that you keep feeling that joy and feeling that sadness, because that is what life is about. It's when we don't feel that we become disconnected, numb to our realities. And that is a dangerous thing.
Some days we are all that little old man who is crossing the street. Somedays we just have to plod forward, inching our way, hoping and praying we reach the other side. And some days we're watching Nashville in our pajamas, a steaming cup of herbal tea in hand, dreaming of all our tomorrows.
Friday, September 25, 2015
Monday, September 21, 2015
Mother
I hate being called 'Mother.'
Sometimes Roy has made the comment to one of our kids in one of those stern voices, "Listen to your mother." And I will say, with my nose scrunched while shaking my head, "Don't call me mother."
Darian has realized over the years that it's my least favorite term for myself so she inevitably says, when she comes in a room, "Hello, Mother!" in her most cheerful voice.
Darian is not a communicator. I'm always saying, "You need to communicate! You'll discover that life rolls much easier!" So recently she was having a conflict with someone there in Bolivia and was finally able to communicate her feelings. She emailed me about it and said that she feels so much lighter, that things are going so well now, and then she ended the story by saying, "You were right, Mother!"
And, as I always do, I cringed.
And here is why.
When I was a little girl, I had a Grandma Great. That's what we called her. She was, of course, my grandma's mom, and, in my eyes, she was ancient. In retrospect, Grandma Great was quite a lady--very classy and elegant. But I didn't realize that at the time.
Grandma Great had 9 children: 7 girls and 2 boys. One boy was born, I believe, with spina bifida and passed when he was just 2 or 3 years old; the other boy, her baby, had Downs' Syndrome and passed in his early 20's. But the girls were all healthy and when I was growing up, they would all come home to visit once a year (at least) and gather at Grandma Great's house in Thomas, Oklahoma. So, of course, we would always go hang out with them when they were in town and it always proved a raucous time filled with so much laughter and chatting it up and fun. I loved it when they all came to town. Aunt Lena was always my favorite aunt when I was a little girl because we had the same birthday and so she took a special interest in me. She bought me a gift on every one of my birthdays until I was 18 years old and I looked forward to receiving that gift like none other. It was always perfect. But honestly, all of my great aunts were fabulous. They were cheerful and personable and helped create in my life a strong sense of what family is about.
I remember one time when we went to visit they were all gathered in the kitchen and a large pot was on the stove, the water boiling rapidly. "What's in there?" I asked, and someone lifted the lid to reveal a long cow's tongue cooking in the bubbling broth. Repulsed, I stepped back. "You're going to eat that cow's tongue?" But they did! I remember watching, fascinated, as my aunts split it amongst each of them and dined on what they each considered a delicacy.
I considered it gross.
Ew.
Grandma Great had a cellar out behind her house. It was on a slight hill so that the cellar door was slanted and built into the earth, creating a hill of its own that was, in the mind of a young child, quite a piece of fun. I remember spending all kinds of time out there on that cellar door, running up and down and up and down and, most likely, creating my own world in my head.
Grandma Great had a bookshelf filled with books right by her chair. One day, when I was about 8 years old and we were visiting, I picked up a book that Grandma Great had there on the table by her chair and started to read it, just for something to do. After a minute or two, Grandma Great came along and saw me reading her book. She quickly snatched it out of my hand. "You don't need to read that," she said, placing it on one of the bookshelves that was out of my reach. But she didn't take it before I noted that it was titled The Thorn Birds. Grandma Great was never harsh, never impatient, and so her quick words startled me, and that title was emblazoned in my head. When I was in high school and meandering the public library one day in search of a book as I was an avid reader, I remembered that experience and checked out a copy of The Thorn Birds. And then? Well, then I knew why Grandma Great snatched it out of my hand.
During regular life when my great aunts weren't in town, Grandma Great would occasionally be visiting Grandma when we would go the farm on the weekends. I can remember her sitting in Grandma's chair, her feet kicked up, and Grandma putting warm wool socks on her so that she wouldn't get cold.
As the years went by, Grandma Great eventually moved into the nursing home there in Thomas. We stopped to visit her occasionally and she always so pleasant, so happy to see us, so kind. She never appeared disgruntled that life placed her in a nursing facility. She was, from all appearances, a happy sort of person. Content.
One time when I was talking to Aunt Lena about what life was like for her as she was growing up in the midst of all of those girls, she told me what an amazing mom Grandma Great had been. She said, "We told her everything. I thought all moms were like that--that every girl went home from a date with a boy to their mom waiting at the door, anxious to hear every detail, because that's how my mom was. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized how unusual that is."
But here is the thing. Everyone called Grandma Great...
Mother.
Everyone.
She was a great lady, a great mom, a patient, kind lady. But I was a child and she was...well, she seemed old to me. And her name was Mother.
So when my kids call me Mother? I see walking with a walker, wool socks on my cold feet.
I see old.
Don't call me Mother.
Sometimes Roy has made the comment to one of our kids in one of those stern voices, "Listen to your mother." And I will say, with my nose scrunched while shaking my head, "Don't call me mother."
Darian has realized over the years that it's my least favorite term for myself so she inevitably says, when she comes in a room, "Hello, Mother!" in her most cheerful voice.
Darian is not a communicator. I'm always saying, "You need to communicate! You'll discover that life rolls much easier!" So recently she was having a conflict with someone there in Bolivia and was finally able to communicate her feelings. She emailed me about it and said that she feels so much lighter, that things are going so well now, and then she ended the story by saying, "You were right, Mother!"
And, as I always do, I cringed.
And here is why.
When I was a little girl, I had a Grandma Great. That's what we called her. She was, of course, my grandma's mom, and, in my eyes, she was ancient. In retrospect, Grandma Great was quite a lady--very classy and elegant. But I didn't realize that at the time.
Grandma Great had 9 children: 7 girls and 2 boys. One boy was born, I believe, with spina bifida and passed when he was just 2 or 3 years old; the other boy, her baby, had Downs' Syndrome and passed in his early 20's. But the girls were all healthy and when I was growing up, they would all come home to visit once a year (at least) and gather at Grandma Great's house in Thomas, Oklahoma. So, of course, we would always go hang out with them when they were in town and it always proved a raucous time filled with so much laughter and chatting it up and fun. I loved it when they all came to town. Aunt Lena was always my favorite aunt when I was a little girl because we had the same birthday and so she took a special interest in me. She bought me a gift on every one of my birthdays until I was 18 years old and I looked forward to receiving that gift like none other. It was always perfect. But honestly, all of my great aunts were fabulous. They were cheerful and personable and helped create in my life a strong sense of what family is about.
I remember one time when we went to visit they were all gathered in the kitchen and a large pot was on the stove, the water boiling rapidly. "What's in there?" I asked, and someone lifted the lid to reveal a long cow's tongue cooking in the bubbling broth. Repulsed, I stepped back. "You're going to eat that cow's tongue?" But they did! I remember watching, fascinated, as my aunts split it amongst each of them and dined on what they each considered a delicacy.
I considered it gross.
Ew.
Grandma Great had a cellar out behind her house. It was on a slight hill so that the cellar door was slanted and built into the earth, creating a hill of its own that was, in the mind of a young child, quite a piece of fun. I remember spending all kinds of time out there on that cellar door, running up and down and up and down and, most likely, creating my own world in my head.
Grandma Great had a bookshelf filled with books right by her chair. One day, when I was about 8 years old and we were visiting, I picked up a book that Grandma Great had there on the table by her chair and started to read it, just for something to do. After a minute or two, Grandma Great came along and saw me reading her book. She quickly snatched it out of my hand. "You don't need to read that," she said, placing it on one of the bookshelves that was out of my reach. But she didn't take it before I noted that it was titled The Thorn Birds. Grandma Great was never harsh, never impatient, and so her quick words startled me, and that title was emblazoned in my head. When I was in high school and meandering the public library one day in search of a book as I was an avid reader, I remembered that experience and checked out a copy of The Thorn Birds. And then? Well, then I knew why Grandma Great snatched it out of my hand.
During regular life when my great aunts weren't in town, Grandma Great would occasionally be visiting Grandma when we would go the farm on the weekends. I can remember her sitting in Grandma's chair, her feet kicked up, and Grandma putting warm wool socks on her so that she wouldn't get cold.
As the years went by, Grandma Great eventually moved into the nursing home there in Thomas. We stopped to visit her occasionally and she always so pleasant, so happy to see us, so kind. She never appeared disgruntled that life placed her in a nursing facility. She was, from all appearances, a happy sort of person. Content.
One time when I was talking to Aunt Lena about what life was like for her as she was growing up in the midst of all of those girls, she told me what an amazing mom Grandma Great had been. She said, "We told her everything. I thought all moms were like that--that every girl went home from a date with a boy to their mom waiting at the door, anxious to hear every detail, because that's how my mom was. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized how unusual that is."
But here is the thing. Everyone called Grandma Great...
Mother.
Everyone.
She was a great lady, a great mom, a patient, kind lady. But I was a child and she was...well, she seemed old to me. And her name was Mother.
So when my kids call me Mother? I see walking with a walker, wool socks on my cold feet.
I see old.
Don't call me Mother.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Relatively Speaking
Today I mistakenly entered into a wee bit of a political debate.
Heavy heavy sigh.
I know better.
Here's the thing. People are passionate about their politics. And the piece of that puzzle that I find baffling is that one's perspective absolutely determines one's position. It isn't about facts. It's about one's perception of those facts. So if one mentions Obama to a devout Republican, for example, he is a menace to our nation. But the very same Obama with the very same policies is, to a devout Democrat, a great president.
It's all about perspective.
And so, I've kicked myself a good part of this day because I dared to go there.
What was I thinking?
This evening Piper and I took our typical walk down Holcombe Cove Road and, as we always do, we passed this absolutely monstrous dog--a Newfoundland, I believe, except he's white and I'm not sure that breed is white. Anyway, this big guy always paces back and forth behind the white fence and barks as we go by. But here's the thing: there's a huge chunk out of the lower part of the fence as the bottom board is missing. All that he would have to do is simply crawl under the middle board and...freedom. But? This fence has been broken for quite some time now and clearly this guy hasn't realized how close he is to exploring the world beyond.
I think we all have a piece of that Newfoundland. We are corralled inside our own little box and don't have the foresight to see beyond it.
When I was in high school, my English teacher was a guy named Bickell. His full name was Calvin Bickell but we all simply called him Bickell and it fit him perfectly. Bickell had this way about him that made us all stop and listen. He was cynical and clever and cool. Earning Bickell's approval? It was everything.
Anyway, I met Bickell my freshman year of high school and I will forever remember one of his first writing assignments. We read this story about a guy who lived on a ranch and had all of these crazy experiences. So Bickell asked us to rewrite the story from the horse's perspective.
What?
I was baffled, clueless, didn't get it. And so, I took that story home and rewrote it word for word as the author had written it with the exception of when the horse and the main character were in a scene together. And then I awkwardly flipped it around to somehow be about the horse. It took me a forever as the story was several pages in length. But I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and when I handed it in the next morning, I was fairly certain I utterly failed that assignment.
Seeing from a different perspective? It was like speaking a foreign language.
Bickell never said a word to me about that assignment. To my memory he didn't even hand it back. He must have recognized my inability to see beyond my own limited walls and through the eyes of another. But he didn't give up. I sat at Bickell's feet for four years, learning slowly to think beyond my narrow world and recognize that my truth was simply mine, not necessarily anyone else's. And others? Well, they had their own truth too.
Truth is relative.
And so today when I ventured into the land of politics, well...I quickly tried to turn around and tiptoe right back out where I started from.
And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow I'm keeping my mouth shut. Tomorrow I'm talking about the weather and my weekend plans and what I'm having for dinner.
Because my perspective is simply mine...and sometimes one's perspective is better left inside.
Heavy heavy sigh.
I know better.
Here's the thing. People are passionate about their politics. And the piece of that puzzle that I find baffling is that one's perspective absolutely determines one's position. It isn't about facts. It's about one's perception of those facts. So if one mentions Obama to a devout Republican, for example, he is a menace to our nation. But the very same Obama with the very same policies is, to a devout Democrat, a great president.
It's all about perspective.
And so, I've kicked myself a good part of this day because I dared to go there.
What was I thinking?
This evening Piper and I took our typical walk down Holcombe Cove Road and, as we always do, we passed this absolutely monstrous dog--a Newfoundland, I believe, except he's white and I'm not sure that breed is white. Anyway, this big guy always paces back and forth behind the white fence and barks as we go by. But here's the thing: there's a huge chunk out of the lower part of the fence as the bottom board is missing. All that he would have to do is simply crawl under the middle board and...freedom. But? This fence has been broken for quite some time now and clearly this guy hasn't realized how close he is to exploring the world beyond.
I think we all have a piece of that Newfoundland. We are corralled inside our own little box and don't have the foresight to see beyond it.
When I was in high school, my English teacher was a guy named Bickell. His full name was Calvin Bickell but we all simply called him Bickell and it fit him perfectly. Bickell had this way about him that made us all stop and listen. He was cynical and clever and cool. Earning Bickell's approval? It was everything.
Anyway, I met Bickell my freshman year of high school and I will forever remember one of his first writing assignments. We read this story about a guy who lived on a ranch and had all of these crazy experiences. So Bickell asked us to rewrite the story from the horse's perspective.
What?
I was baffled, clueless, didn't get it. And so, I took that story home and rewrote it word for word as the author had written it with the exception of when the horse and the main character were in a scene together. And then I awkwardly flipped it around to somehow be about the horse. It took me a forever as the story was several pages in length. But I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and when I handed it in the next morning, I was fairly certain I utterly failed that assignment.
Seeing from a different perspective? It was like speaking a foreign language.
Bickell never said a word to me about that assignment. To my memory he didn't even hand it back. He must have recognized my inability to see beyond my own limited walls and through the eyes of another. But he didn't give up. I sat at Bickell's feet for four years, learning slowly to think beyond my narrow world and recognize that my truth was simply mine, not necessarily anyone else's. And others? Well, they had their own truth too.
Truth is relative.
And so today when I ventured into the land of politics, well...I quickly tried to turn around and tiptoe right back out where I started from.
And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow I'm keeping my mouth shut. Tomorrow I'm talking about the weather and my weekend plans and what I'm having for dinner.
Because my perspective is simply mine...and sometimes one's perspective is better left inside.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Magic and Stardust Now
Young love is a beautiful thing.
On Saturday night, we hosted an engagement party for Savana and Guerin.
When I got engaged, we just told people and people said, "Congratulations!" Or not. But in today's world? We throw engagement parties. It was so much fun and these two got so much support from friends. Good food, lots of laughter, great friends. What could be better? Savana and I have watched videos and looked at pictures and laughed a million times since that night, reminiscing about what a great evening it turned out to be.
I am currently reading a book for my book club entitled The White Masai. It is a fascinating read but I am absolutely dumbstruck at what this young European girl does for the sake of love. She has this great life--owns her own business, has a stable boyfriend and people proclaim them a perfect sort of couple--and they head to Africa on a trip of sorts to see the land when suddenly she sees a Masai warrior. She is awestruck and determines that he should be hers. And so? She leaves everything -- the comforts of a modern home and her stable boyfriend and her comfortable life -- for the rugged plains of Africa where she sleeps on the cold, hard ground and wants for food and learns to adapt to a life that is as far south as her previous life was north. I can't put this book down, but the entire time I'm reading it I am shaking my head. "Whhhaaattt???" I just want to shake her. All for love.
Yesterday Jace came home from school and said, "Hey, Mom. I want to tell you something. When I left school today, a certain girl (I won't share her name) ran up to me and said, 'Hey Jace! Give me a hug goodbye!'" And then, according to Jace, she proceeded to give him a very tight hug. He said, "That was really weird. Is that normal?"
(Oh, how I love how I get to be a part of these stories! But I realize that my time is short...I shall relish them while I can.)
Stories of love are everywhere and most of us are intrigued. Who doesn't love a good love story? But in today's world, love stories often have tragic endings, decimating the hearts of all involved--or at least one of them, usually. But clearly it's a game we're all willing to play as, you know, it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.
When Roy and I got engaged, I went home from school one weekend and attended church with my mom. The teacher of my class, LaRee, knew I was engaged and so she brought in this little couple who had been married 50 plus years to talk to the class about what makes a marriage last. That was obviously quite a long time ago so I don't really remember their words of wisdom, but I do remember LaRee saying, "Young love is so romantic and fun. But I think the best stories come from old love."
At the time, I questioned her reasoning because, of course, when I looked at this couple, I saw wrinkles and white hair and old people. I didn't see what I see today: strength and courage and an unbreakable bond that has weathered the years and loyalty and commitment. We have all heard the stories of people who have been married for their entire lives and when one partner dies, the other passes not long after because life without their partner is simply not worth living.
I am so excited for Savana and Guerin. They are a great couple, compatible, happy, stars in their eyes. They will have a good life--I know it. But give it a few years and they will be like the rest of us old married couples. They will have conquered hurdles, raised children, endured life's stresses, fought when they shouldn't have, lashed out at each other, and acted in ways that, today, they can't imagine possible. But oh it's possible, and it happens. To the best of us.
But they will also experience a deepening love that quietly grows year by year. Give it some time and the stars in their eyes may dim. That certain glow that comes with the hopes and dreams of a young couple in love will very likely be replaced with the weathered solidarity that comes with knowing your partner like the back of your hand. Their marriage will become a partnership--a machine that works in silence.
Magic and stardust now...
And then?
Security and redemption and commitment and wrinkles from the laughter and a life filled up with the beauty and wonder and heartache of living side by side with the one you love.
On Saturday night, we hosted an engagement party for Savana and Guerin.
When I got engaged, we just told people and people said, "Congratulations!" Or not. But in today's world? We throw engagement parties. It was so much fun and these two got so much support from friends. Good food, lots of laughter, great friends. What could be better? Savana and I have watched videos and looked at pictures and laughed a million times since that night, reminiscing about what a great evening it turned out to be.
I am currently reading a book for my book club entitled The White Masai. It is a fascinating read but I am absolutely dumbstruck at what this young European girl does for the sake of love. She has this great life--owns her own business, has a stable boyfriend and people proclaim them a perfect sort of couple--and they head to Africa on a trip of sorts to see the land when suddenly she sees a Masai warrior. She is awestruck and determines that he should be hers. And so? She leaves everything -- the comforts of a modern home and her stable boyfriend and her comfortable life -- for the rugged plains of Africa where she sleeps on the cold, hard ground and wants for food and learns to adapt to a life that is as far south as her previous life was north. I can't put this book down, but the entire time I'm reading it I am shaking my head. "Whhhaaattt???" I just want to shake her. All for love.
Yesterday Jace came home from school and said, "Hey, Mom. I want to tell you something. When I left school today, a certain girl (I won't share her name) ran up to me and said, 'Hey Jace! Give me a hug goodbye!'" And then, according to Jace, she proceeded to give him a very tight hug. He said, "That was really weird. Is that normal?"
(Oh, how I love how I get to be a part of these stories! But I realize that my time is short...I shall relish them while I can.)
Stories of love are everywhere and most of us are intrigued. Who doesn't love a good love story? But in today's world, love stories often have tragic endings, decimating the hearts of all involved--or at least one of them, usually. But clearly it's a game we're all willing to play as, you know, it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.
When Roy and I got engaged, I went home from school one weekend and attended church with my mom. The teacher of my class, LaRee, knew I was engaged and so she brought in this little couple who had been married 50 plus years to talk to the class about what makes a marriage last. That was obviously quite a long time ago so I don't really remember their words of wisdom, but I do remember LaRee saying, "Young love is so romantic and fun. But I think the best stories come from old love."
At the time, I questioned her reasoning because, of course, when I looked at this couple, I saw wrinkles and white hair and old people. I didn't see what I see today: strength and courage and an unbreakable bond that has weathered the years and loyalty and commitment. We have all heard the stories of people who have been married for their entire lives and when one partner dies, the other passes not long after because life without their partner is simply not worth living.
I am so excited for Savana and Guerin. They are a great couple, compatible, happy, stars in their eyes. They will have a good life--I know it. But give it a few years and they will be like the rest of us old married couples. They will have conquered hurdles, raised children, endured life's stresses, fought when they shouldn't have, lashed out at each other, and acted in ways that, today, they can't imagine possible. But oh it's possible, and it happens. To the best of us.
But they will also experience a deepening love that quietly grows year by year. Give it some time and the stars in their eyes may dim. That certain glow that comes with the hopes and dreams of a young couple in love will very likely be replaced with the weathered solidarity that comes with knowing your partner like the back of your hand. Their marriage will become a partnership--a machine that works in silence.
Magic and stardust now...
And then?
Security and redemption and commitment and wrinkles from the laughter and a life filled up with the beauty and wonder and heartache of living side by side with the one you love.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Living Greatly
Some days I envision greatness.
I have always been a dreamer, living more in my head than outside of it. Lazy days filled with a cup of steaming tea, a journal, a dog-eared book, and lounging pants spell perfection in my mind. Though I am married to a man who loves nothing more than being "on the go", I am quite the opposite. I could settle down in my living room for days on end, never seeing a soul, and be perfectly content.
I think I have my grandparents' blood. My grandfather on my dad's side loved home. Grandma always complained about it, sneering that she never got to leave the house because Donnie wouldn't go anywhere. But the truth was, when opportunity knocked and Grandma had the chance to go? She chose to stay. So really, she just liked blaming her love for "staying put" on Grandpa when the truth was, she was just as content as he.
When I was a young girl, I dreamed of being a famous author, or a singer on a stage with bright lights and a swooning crowd. (Other than carrying a key, I can't sing. It was just a dream.) Some days I dreamed of being an actress or maybe a famous basketball player as I knew my dad would burst with pride.
Clearly those were all just pipe dreams because, well, here I am and last I knew, nobody was knocking at my door and begging for my autograph.
Fame is the dream of youth. Jace often talks about being a famous you-tuber, getting over a million likes on his creations, and having the world fall at his feet in admiration. I tell him frequently that in order for that to happen, he needs to start creating videos...
But my vision of greatness really doesn't involve fame.
Sometimes I still ask myself, What do I want out of life? What are my goals? my ambitions?
And that's where the "greatness" comes in. Because I have to remind myself that true greatness is in the little things.
I think I am done going to school. At 48 years old, just the thought of hitting night classes and burning the midnight oil exhausts me. I realize that many people go back at my age...but? I think my day is over for attaining my Master's and changing gears in my career. Again.
Yesterday one of my previous students who is now married with a couple of kids (how does that happen??) posted on Facebook about how I used to have a mailbox in my classroom entitled "V-Mail." I had totally forgotten about that. It was a way for students to voice concerns, ask questions, or submit writings for me to read and give feedback. Anyway, that post generated comments from previous students and memories of the good ole teaching days and my reality that those days are gone. But teaching? It created greatness in my life. Teaching touched lives and made a difference.
My current job isn't about greatness. Not really. It's a great job--I am absolutely not complaining. I am always happy to go to work, to see my people in the office who have become a part of me, to literally have almost zero stress in the workplace. That, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
But I miss the feeling of greatness, of making a difference in the world.
And so, somedays I wonder, what can I do? How can I matter?
And it in those moments I have to stop myself and remember:
Life isn't about being great.
Life is about living greatly:
Soaking in the sunsets
Laughing on the beach
Lunch with a precious, precious friend
Deep conversations with family
Achieving another notch on the bucket list
Tossing the ball for the dog
A warm and happy home
Long walks down Holcombe Cove Road
Giving when you don't have to
Being authentic, even when it hurts
I have always been a dreamer, living more in my head than outside of it. Lazy days filled with a cup of steaming tea, a journal, a dog-eared book, and lounging pants spell perfection in my mind. Though I am married to a man who loves nothing more than being "on the go", I am quite the opposite. I could settle down in my living room for days on end, never seeing a soul, and be perfectly content.
I think I have my grandparents' blood. My grandfather on my dad's side loved home. Grandma always complained about it, sneering that she never got to leave the house because Donnie wouldn't go anywhere. But the truth was, when opportunity knocked and Grandma had the chance to go? She chose to stay. So really, she just liked blaming her love for "staying put" on Grandpa when the truth was, she was just as content as he.
When I was a young girl, I dreamed of being a famous author, or a singer on a stage with bright lights and a swooning crowd. (Other than carrying a key, I can't sing. It was just a dream.) Some days I dreamed of being an actress or maybe a famous basketball player as I knew my dad would burst with pride.
Clearly those were all just pipe dreams because, well, here I am and last I knew, nobody was knocking at my door and begging for my autograph.
Fame is the dream of youth. Jace often talks about being a famous you-tuber, getting over a million likes on his creations, and having the world fall at his feet in admiration. I tell him frequently that in order for that to happen, he needs to start creating videos...
But my vision of greatness really doesn't involve fame.
Sometimes I still ask myself, What do I want out of life? What are my goals? my ambitions?
And that's where the "greatness" comes in. Because I have to remind myself that true greatness is in the little things.
I think I am done going to school. At 48 years old, just the thought of hitting night classes and burning the midnight oil exhausts me. I realize that many people go back at my age...but? I think my day is over for attaining my Master's and changing gears in my career. Again.
Yesterday one of my previous students who is now married with a couple of kids (how does that happen??) posted on Facebook about how I used to have a mailbox in my classroom entitled "V-Mail." I had totally forgotten about that. It was a way for students to voice concerns, ask questions, or submit writings for me to read and give feedback. Anyway, that post generated comments from previous students and memories of the good ole teaching days and my reality that those days are gone. But teaching? It created greatness in my life. Teaching touched lives and made a difference.
My current job isn't about greatness. Not really. It's a great job--I am absolutely not complaining. I am always happy to go to work, to see my people in the office who have become a part of me, to literally have almost zero stress in the workplace. That, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
But I miss the feeling of greatness, of making a difference in the world.
And so, somedays I wonder, what can I do? How can I matter?
And it in those moments I have to stop myself and remember:
Life isn't about being great.
Life is about living greatly:
Soaking in the sunsets
Laughing on the beach
Lunch with a precious, precious friend
Deep conversations with family
Achieving another notch on the bucket list
Tossing the ball for the dog
A warm and happy home
Long walks down Holcombe Cove Road
Giving when you don't have to
Being authentic, even when it hurts
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
A Lens of Wonder
Yesterday after I got home from work, a message suddenly appeared in my inbox:
Hey Mom! I have internet for a little while!
It was Darian. What a fabulous surprise. We spent the next bit of time texting and sharing photos and acting as though life is normal and she's just around the corner instead of thousands of miles away in a completely different country.
I read a quote recently that said we should look for the miracles every day.
So I don't know about you, but I'm not one to think that miracles happen in my life on a daily scale. Miracles are those things that surprise us on a grand fashion, that one hears about and stops in wonder. But what about if I changed my attitude? What about if I did expect miracles every single day. What a beautiful lens that would be to view my life.
Yesterday after I enrolled Jace in Pathfinders, I went for a quick walk with a little bit of jogging thrown in for good measure. (That would be a very loose interpretation of jogging--just saying.) As I left the house, was walking quickly down the driveway, I spied something out of the corner of my eye, and whattayaknow, there was Ajax, bounding down the hill with full intentions of following Piper and me.
Ajax has just discovered that he has the ability to leave the yard. Prior to this realization, he would hang on the edge of our yard and cry loudly and pitifully after me. It was adorable. But then one day, on a whim, he decided to just truck after us and I had to use my ninja skills to catch him and throw him back in the house for fear he would follow me all the way down to Holcombe Cove Road.
And so yesterday, when I saw him bounding beside us, I quickly tried to snatch him up. He evaded me and realized I was after him. Now he was genuinely excited as I was playing his favorite game: Catch Me If You Can. As it was rather late and I knew I would be racing sunset as it was, I wasn't too enthralled to be in this cat and mouse game with Ajax.
And then, because I am looking for miracles with my newfound attitude, a miracle happened: I caught him. Relieved, I snatched him up, carried him back up the driveway, and tossed him (loose definition of tossed so no worries) in the front door and shut it firmly behind me.
Ah. Success.
And then off we went, Piper and me, ready for our walk.
But guess what.
Out of the corner of my eye? Ajax. As soon as those little paws hit the floor of the entranceway, he bounded across the living room and right out the cat door and beat me to the road.
Yeah. That happened.
And so this time I did the next best thing: I yelled like a banshee and stomped my feet towards him, scaring the living daylights of him so that he ran for the bushes and hid while Piper and I made a mad dash up the hill.
And then I heard it--that loud, pitiful wailing that he does when he feels abandoned.
It was a great walk.
Miracle #3. (Miracle #1, in case you're wondering, is hearing from Darian...)
I'm not sure what lies ahead of me today. I do know that it's dark outside so the sun will be rising soon. And if things go as planned, my car will start and I will drive safely to work where I will meet my adorable coworkers who have all become so dear to my heart over the past year. And maybe I'll get a surprise text from Tammy as she goes about her day, or maybe Erin will suddenly find a minute in her crazy schedule so that we can walk this evening and catch up on all of the stories of her life. Maybe Roy will decide on a whim to come in and meet me for lunch. And maybe this evening I will talk to my dad, or my mom, or my sisters, and catch up with the ones I love the most in this world.
Maybe Darian will visit the river near town and have Internet once again so that we can pretend that life is normal and contact is daily rather than sporadic, depending on whether she's in a tiny town made up of dirt roads and haphazardly constructed shacks, or the jungles of Bolivia.
I think that life is filled with miracles. The fact that I breathe air every day, that flowers bloom, that birds sing, that the sun rises and sets and paints the sky shades of gold, that cars whiz down the highway, that pets share their love so abundantly, that people care enough to know my name...well, all of those things become commonplace and regular. They are expected.
But what a different life we would lead if we looked through the lens of wonder.
Hey Mom! I have internet for a little while!
It was Darian. What a fabulous surprise. We spent the next bit of time texting and sharing photos and acting as though life is normal and she's just around the corner instead of thousands of miles away in a completely different country.
I read a quote recently that said we should look for the miracles every day.
So I don't know about you, but I'm not one to think that miracles happen in my life on a daily scale. Miracles are those things that surprise us on a grand fashion, that one hears about and stops in wonder. But what about if I changed my attitude? What about if I did expect miracles every single day. What a beautiful lens that would be to view my life.
Yesterday after I enrolled Jace in Pathfinders, I went for a quick walk with a little bit of jogging thrown in for good measure. (That would be a very loose interpretation of jogging--just saying.) As I left the house, was walking quickly down the driveway, I spied something out of the corner of my eye, and whattayaknow, there was Ajax, bounding down the hill with full intentions of following Piper and me.
Ajax has just discovered that he has the ability to leave the yard. Prior to this realization, he would hang on the edge of our yard and cry loudly and pitifully after me. It was adorable. But then one day, on a whim, he decided to just truck after us and I had to use my ninja skills to catch him and throw him back in the house for fear he would follow me all the way down to Holcombe Cove Road.
And so yesterday, when I saw him bounding beside us, I quickly tried to snatch him up. He evaded me and realized I was after him. Now he was genuinely excited as I was playing his favorite game: Catch Me If You Can. As it was rather late and I knew I would be racing sunset as it was, I wasn't too enthralled to be in this cat and mouse game with Ajax.
And then, because I am looking for miracles with my newfound attitude, a miracle happened: I caught him. Relieved, I snatched him up, carried him back up the driveway, and tossed him (loose definition of tossed so no worries) in the front door and shut it firmly behind me.
Ah. Success.
And then off we went, Piper and me, ready for our walk.
But guess what.
Out of the corner of my eye? Ajax. As soon as those little paws hit the floor of the entranceway, he bounded across the living room and right out the cat door and beat me to the road.
Yeah. That happened.
And so this time I did the next best thing: I yelled like a banshee and stomped my feet towards him, scaring the living daylights of him so that he ran for the bushes and hid while Piper and I made a mad dash up the hill.
And then I heard it--that loud, pitiful wailing that he does when he feels abandoned.
It was a great walk.
Miracle #3. (Miracle #1, in case you're wondering, is hearing from Darian...)
I'm not sure what lies ahead of me today. I do know that it's dark outside so the sun will be rising soon. And if things go as planned, my car will start and I will drive safely to work where I will meet my adorable coworkers who have all become so dear to my heart over the past year. And maybe I'll get a surprise text from Tammy as she goes about her day, or maybe Erin will suddenly find a minute in her crazy schedule so that we can walk this evening and catch up on all of the stories of her life. Maybe Roy will decide on a whim to come in and meet me for lunch. And maybe this evening I will talk to my dad, or my mom, or my sisters, and catch up with the ones I love the most in this world.
Maybe Darian will visit the river near town and have Internet once again so that we can pretend that life is normal and contact is daily rather than sporadic, depending on whether she's in a tiny town made up of dirt roads and haphazardly constructed shacks, or the jungles of Bolivia.
I think that life is filled with miracles. The fact that I breathe air every day, that flowers bloom, that birds sing, that the sun rises and sets and paints the sky shades of gold, that cars whiz down the highway, that pets share their love so abundantly, that people care enough to know my name...well, all of those things become commonplace and regular. They are expected.
But what a different life we would lead if we looked through the lens of wonder.
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