Month: November 2009

Florida So Far

My children, who are like surly teenagers when I wake them up before school, both bounded out of bed on Wednesday morning at 6:00 without a single complaint.
“Is it today?” they both asked as I shook them awake. We were at the airport bright and early (I have a well-documented early problem, which might actually be an asset when traveling with children).
Our shoes at security. Both kids had to carry their own backpacks of books and toys. This resulted in some major complaining that they could not fit all of the assorted random stuff they wanted to bring to Florida in there. But I held firm. Sure, Grace had two doll heads sticking out of the top of her backpack. They carried their own stuff. Major victory.
It was raining on Wednesday, hard. And drizzling yesterday. But yesterday afternoon I took Grace and Whit to the pool, where the requisite shoe shot shows the change in climate. I sat and shivered, wrapped in towels, while they played for over an hour. Jumping, jumping, jumping. Splashing, splashing, splashing. Yelling, yelling, yelling. Despite being as scrawny as birds, both of them, they did not let the chilly day daunt them.
They alternated between being happy compatriots and ruthless enemies. For every hand-holding jump there was someone dunking the other for a few seconds too long. It interfered with my reading of my book, that is for sure.
After some “quiet time” that was lacking in all forms of quiet, we got dressed for dinner. Grace and Whit were totally wired by now, frantic with unexpended energy and running around shrieking as they beat each other over the head with plastic golf clubs. I dressed them in each others’ clothes which they thought was the absolute funniest thing in the entire world. What can I say? I’m hilarious.
After dinner, the children had sprinkled some heavy sugar onto their already frenetic exhaustion. It was a fabulous cocktail. They bounced out of bed, one after the other, refusing to go to sleep. But they were so tired they were whiny and tearful, each complaining that the other was keeping them up.

I felt that exasperation that may be familiar to some of you at the end of the day: Good GOD, children, why won’t you sleep? Their loud voices ricocheted off of the cavernous apartment, all wood walls, floors, and ceilings. I felt my thin-at-the-best-of-times patience fraying, my voice rising to compete with theirs, the gratitude I had managed to carry with me all day leaking away.

Finally I took Grace into my bed, where she told me she could not sleep with the light on (It was 8:02 and I was not quite ready to go to sleep). I pulled the lamp down onto the floor and she admitted that “Okay, if I shut my eyes, it gets dark.” I read and emailed on my iphone, watching her eyes flicker shut.

Within minutes she was sound asleep. Abruptly my mood turned, patience and calm flooding in to fill the hollows that had moments ago been overflowing with aggravation and frustration. I watched her sleep, thinking once again that I really do love my children most when they are asleep, wondering again if this is a bad thing. They just radiate a peace that I cannot help but absorb when they are sleeping.

And I thought about the fact that this might be the very definition of motherhood, this day: shivering in the gray drizzle while the children swim, finding the capacity for jokes and being richly rewarded by their delight, cutting chicken fingers and allowing M&Ms for dessert, chasing and shhhhh-ing overtired children and wrestling them to bed, feeling annoyed, strung tight and thin, close to snapping, and then leaning into a wave of emotion, love, and patience that floods in, like a tide, to wash away all the day’s frustrations.

Seven years ago

Thanksgiving 2002

My grandfather, my mother, me, and my daughter. We all have the same family name: Eldredge.

I miss you, Ba.

Thanksgiving 2009

Thanksgiving. My heart is full, the kind of fullness that verges on discomfort. I reread my 2007 and 2008 posts about what I was thankful for, and it all still feels right today. Also in my mind right now, adding to the fullness of my heart, is the memory of seven years ago, of my father-in-law’s heart transplant. I am reminded, again, of all the days and hours that I am not grateful enough, for this good fortune and for a host of others.

I read Anne Lamott’s Plan Be: Further Thoughts on Faith on the plane ride down to Florida. (Aside: one thing I am very grateful for is having a seven-year-old who can be utterly entranced with a combination of Jet Blue cartoons and Magic Treehouse books for a 3 hour flight, allowing me to read undisturbed). I think I underlined something on every single page – there’s no question that Anne Lamott is my favorite writer. But one passage really stuck with me, and that seemed to speak to me where I am right now, in this season full of both thanksgiving and lengthening shadows.

Maybe this is what grace is, the unseen sounds that make you look up. I think it’s why we are here, to see as many chips of blue sky as we can bear. To find the diamond hearts within one another’s meatballs. To notice flickers of the divine, like dust motes on sunbeams in your dusty kitchen. Without all the shade and shadows, you’d miss the beauty of the veil. The shadow is always there, and if you don’t remember it, when it falls on you and your life again, you’re plunged into darkness. Shadows make the light show.

Oh, yes. There is so much I love about this passage, too much to describe in this post. That would mean spilling the contents of my heart onto the page, and unfortunately they are too messy and incoherent for public consumption (except for a lucky few of you! :)). I love the image of “as many chips of blue sky as we can bear,” because it hints at something Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary helped me see clearly. It’s okay to admit there there is only so much brilliance we can take. This is an adjunct admission to that of owning that we are not capable of living fully engaged in the moment, heart open and receiving, all the time.

I am thankful today for the acknowledgment, by others and myself, that it’s okay to live this way. I am thankful for Anne’s gracious, lyrical reminder of the fact that shadows make the light show. There is self-acceptance, for me, in saying this out loud. It is simply the way I am, inclined towards melancholy, but that does not have to mean I have a sad life. Absolutely not. And I am thankful to Gwen Bell, whose words helped me see that just last week.

Isn’t it, after all, the interplay of light and shadow that provides the texture of our lives? The darkness creates contrast, but it also scoops out some emotional part of me, allowing me to bear – experience, recognize, feel – more joy. I am grateful, I realize anew, for way my lens on the world is striated with both light and dark.

I am thankful today for evening light on bare trees, for the deep, glowing blue of the afternoon sky, for the words of a friend that make me feel less alone, for the tousled hair of sleepy children, for the lyrics of a song that bring tears to my eyes, for the moments when I am really and truly present, when I feel my spirit beating like wings in my chest.

So, this is happysad day for me, in a reflective season. My heart swells with awareness of my tremendous blessings, of the extravagant beauty that is my world. My thoughts are quiet and shadowy, but lit by incandescent beams of light. Like a night sky whose darkness is obliterated over and over by the flare of roman candles exploding, their colors made more beautiful by the surprise of them against the darkness. Like my life.

Present Tense. With Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary.

Today is day two of Present Tense, an exploration of how various wonderful, wise women work to be more present in their daily lives.

I am honored today to share the words of Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary. Heather’s blog has become one of my most cherished. She truly does as the title says: she celebrates the extraordinary in ordinary life. She highlights small moments, like dancing in the kitchen with her sons, that, while seemingly minor, are in fact the very stuff of Life. Heather’s posts are pure poetry: she identifies, with lucid and lyrical prose, the beauty in the everyday. She has an incredible ability to hone in on the stuff that really matters, to speak of the mystical as expressed through the mudane, to radiate gratitude even when talking about normal everyday life. She reminds me, every single time I read her, to look around and see how fortunate I am.

Heather commented on my post last week, sharing her own difficulties with being present. To me, as a reader, her writing radiates presence – isn’t that where the luminous details come from? – so I was surprised to hear that she felt this way. I wanted to learn more. And, lucky for us, she agreed to participate in my project.
1. When have you felt most present? Are there specific memories that stand out for you?
I’ve been most present during my life’s greatest trials and greatest joys. I can so vividly remember these moments. Intense emotions due to tragedies or joys, their imprint is so vivid.I do think emotion has so much to do with being present. In times of trials or tragedies or great joys, you can make the choice as to whether or not you’re going to feel, it’s so powerful. To be present in the daily grind would mean being in touch emotionally all the time, and that’s terribly difficult. At least for me.
You know, something like:Life + emotional connection = being present (seeing life for the beautiful thing it is meant to be for your heart and soul)
2. Do you have rituals or patterns that you use to remind you to Be Here Now?
I put notes around my house that speak to that. I also carry around a little binder of recipe cards. They’re filled with quotes and scriptures that renew me, remind me to live fully, etc.I don’t know if this applies, but I also use a timer. It helps me stay on track with my ADD/busy mind. I set it for a certain amount of time and when it goes off, I stop what I’m (frantically and sporadically) doing that doesn’t really matter and I play with my boys. It’s hard for me, this being present in play thing, so I have to be disciplined about it in order for it to ever happen. Funny thing is, I always feel the most joyful about life when I do it even though it doesn’t come naturally to me.
So I guess: Life + discipline = being present
3. Do you have specific places or people that you associate with being particularly present? Who? Where? Any idea why?
Yes. One example is my friends, Kyle and Kelly. Their home is incredibly peaceful (and not just because they don’t have kids). I don’t know exactly why, but I’ve attributed it to their choice to live that way, simply. No clutter, clean lines and spaces, etc. But it’s also THEM. They are the most approachable, understanding, unconditional people, and the sense when you go to their house is that they genuinely want you there. Because they don’t do things out of duty or obligation or people-pleasing, but instead they follow their hearts and gladly spend time with people who they connect with. I want to be like them when I grow up.
From them I’ve learned: Life + being completely authentic = being present

4. Have you ever meditated? How did that go?

I could seriously copy your exact same answer here. Monkey brain to the max. And they keep switching branches and it’s so overwhelming and distracting. So meditation is hard for me too. I consider my hopeful thoughts to be prayers though, and I do have a whole lot of visionary thought. But to sit still and completely leave it all in peace…nope. When I sit down to pray, I mostly just sit there thinking. Sometimes putting myself in a position of prayer helps, like kneeling by the bed, but even then I forget what I was doing there. (I realize I’m thinking of prayer while thinking of “meditation,” but I guess that’s what it is for me.)
I have no little formula here, except for perhaps:Monkey brain + medication = being present šŸ™‚
5. Has having children changed how you think about the effort to be present?
OH MY YES. On many levels. I want to be present so badly WITH THEM. I have a friend whose Mom was and is always really good at being present. Her brain could multi-task. So she’d be folding piles of laundry while having a meaningful connection with her daughters, rather than acting a tad annoyed at “having” to do both. Being present with my boys looks like that, I think…peaceful and safe, open and understanding.
I don’t know how much it even has to do with playing with them, but it has more to do with exchanging my fear of being vulnerable (yes, even with my own children) for the ability to remain in intimate connection with them, rather than fearing it a bit, like it means I’m going to get hurt. That’s my pattern in human relationship, that became clear through having kids. I pull back to protect myself and it makes no sense to me, and it breaks my heart.
Yes, Love + vulnerability = being present
6. And just cause Iā€™m curious, what books and songs do you love?
OH BOY. Ready for a list? Some of my favorite books: While I Was Gone by Sue Miller. Anything Anne Lamott has written. A book called Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers (I was so moved by this book because it paints such an amazing picture of God’s love, but through a fiction couple. I needed that book because I had a very skewed perception of God, and believed a lot of things I had done left me unworthy or ugly somehow. This book started the journey toward NOT thinking that way, which helps me make strides toward being less shameful and more present.)
As for songs, there are many for many different reasons. Along the lines of being present, there’s one called I Just Showed Up by Sara Groves “I just showed up for my own life, and I’m standing here taking it in and it sure looks bright.” It’s about spinning your wheels, unless you’re being present of course :)Another one of her songs I love that applies to this is called Kingdom Coming. It’s about the purpose of life being more about the little things we do in love, opening our hearts and our homes…”it’s a little stone, it’s a little mortar, it’s a little seed, it’s a little bit of water…in our hearts” It’s about choosing not to live in fear of loving, basically.

*********
So, Heather. I love your concrete suggestions, like the timer. I’ve just started reading Harry Potter to my daughter, a couple of chapters a night and I am finding, truly, for the first time in my life as a mother, that the minutes melt away. Part of it is my excitement at the way she is falling for the story’s magic, but I am also letting myself lean into the moment, glancing at her earnest little face, seeing the words on the page, hearing them again for the second time as I read aloud. I imagine the timer sort of functions like this: removes the immediate checking-of-clock because you know that it will go off. For the time within the timer, you can be fully present, as I am at Hogwarts.

I also like the way you keep notes and a binder of quotations, words, and scripture with you. Similarly, I treasure a handmade, hand-written book of poetry and quotations; whenever I feel sad or lost I open it at random and immediately find myself somewhat comforted.

You say two things that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. The first is that you cannot always be completely engaged, that that would mean “being in touch emotionally all the time, and that’s terribly difficult.” I’ve been thinking about this, and even described a similar feeling myself this week.

I am heartened to hear you not only admit that you wouldn’t want to be fully present every single minute , but to embrace and normalize it. It is supremely encouraging to hear someone I respect so completely say this. Perhaps some of us are sensitive enough that full-blown presence is like staring into the sun. We can’t do it all the time. And, to hear you say it, that doesn’t have to mean anything bad. Maybe it’s just that for us, “presence” means something really open, and that is not feasible all the time.

The other thing you say that has lodged in my head is the notion that perhaps you shy away from authentic presence out of a fear of being vulnerability. This resonates strongly with me. Do we avoid being really conscious and engaged for fear of true intimacy? Perhaps. I have been called on that before by a close friend, and I fought it for a while before realizing it was true.

Heather, this is a place where your words on the page belie your own self-description. Your blog posts are so intimate, so open, speaking of and from your heart with a clarity and candor that is tremendously moving. And yet you say you fear vulnerability. Is it easier to be that way in words on the page than in person? I think that is true for me.

Can we be afraid of intimacy even with our own children? Yes, I think so, as you say. Maybe theirs is the most terrifying intimacy of all, because it is threaded, from the very beginning, with their departures.

Heather, thank you for your comments, both specific and supreme in scale. I have much to think about. And I am grateful every day for your presence in the blogosphere – and in the world! – your voice sings often in my head, reminding me of the kind of mother and person I want to be. Thank you.

Parent-Teacher Conferences

My dad always said that parenting was 95% nature. I admit I didn’t fully believe him until I had my second child. And I was shocked, within days, by how very different this baby was than his sister had been. Where Grace was colicky and sleepless, Whit slept and cooed and smiled. She was dark, with thick black hair and deep brown eyes, and he was fair, a towhead with blue eyes. She ate everything, he was picky. She slept on her back (when she slept), and Whit slept on his stomach from the very first day (don’t tell the parenting police). Grace settled into an amenable toddler around age 2.5, but that was about the age Whit woke up and started making up for lost time with yelling and generally challenging authority.

In fact their differences started even earlier: with Grace I felt great for 40 straight weeks. With Whit I threw up every day for 20 weeks. So much for the morning-sickness-means-a-girl theory!

At their parent-teacher conferences yesterday I was reminded yet again of how very different my children are. It is easy to point to gender as the key distinction, but I think that is only part of the story; I can’t disaggregate gender and birth order, for example. I am struck, over and over again, by how much of gender seems truly innate. I know some of it is socially constructed, and I’m sure despite my earnest efforts not to I do perpetuate some of those norms. But some of it really seems just part of who they are, and it continues to surprise me.

Whit. As soon as Matt and I sat down in the tiny chairs in the Beginner classroom, Whit’s teachers were laughing. They said they can’t keep a straight face around him. They talked about his humor, his awareness of those around him, the way that he can be redirected with jokes. They described his strong preference for 3D activities like Lego and the “big blocks.” This doesn’t surprise me at all. Whit has engineer written all over him (possibly the only part of him that comes from my family).

Whit hates being alone. He loves friends, socializing, laughing, being a part of a group. This reminds me of his behavior at home. He has been known to cry from the top of the stairs if Grace and I are halfway down them, protesting that he ‘doesn’t like being aloooooone.’ As if being six steps away is alone. He plays mostly with boys and is comfortable with physical challenge despite being small. The teachers smiled recounting how he is a determined wrestler who simply jumps and clings onto the boys who are twice his size. He hangs on, and is hard to shake, they told us.

He is also physically affectionate: he loves to hug and cuddle. Last week one teacher was lying on the floor in front of the criss-cross-apple- sauce seated four year olds, working the vcr, and Whit jumped on top of her, lying flat along her body, settling himself in and pronouncing, “Best seat in the house!”

Whit has little to no interest in writing or drawing and prefers moving around to sitting, but can be coaxed into cooperation on a task if necessary. He is stubborn, however, and will dig in his heels if he really doesn’t want to do something. He barely eats at lunch because he is so busy chatting with his friends. The teachers told us a story about recess when Whit had stood up on a log and yelled “Quiet!” while sweeping his arms out. Apparently the playground quieted and all eyes turned to Whit. And then he smiled and said, “nothing,” – he had nothing to share, but seemed to want to test out his ability to get the attention of the group.

My stubborn, scrappy, social comedian, my boy who learns by doing, whose engineer’s brain is fascinated with building and creation. I love you, Whit.

Grace. The first thing Grace’s teacher told us was about how hard she is on herself. How she works diligently to be sure that anything she turns in is perfect. How she redoes assignments over when she makes mistakes. How she is careful and deliberate, eager to learn, but most of all eager to do well. The teachers talked about how she loves math and computers (she tells me these are her favorite subjects) and how she throws herself into all the subjects put in front of her.

My heart really swelled when I heard about how my daughter loves to read, loves to write. She talks about the books she is reading at home and curls over her journal, tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration, as she writes about her life and draws accompanying pictures. The teachers shared their concern about Grace’s perfectionism, wanting to be sure she doesn’t keep any frustration inside.

We then talked about her social anxieties, and I told them some of what Grace has talked about at home. About how she doesn’t feel that she fits in, about her insecurity about others liking her, about her deep desire for a best friend. She longs for a friendship around which she can orient herself, a wingman. She worries constantly about how others feel about her, and takes things very personally. She can read a room in a glance and is attuned to what others are thinking and feeling. I thought again about how Grace lately has seemed like such a liminal creature, both adult and child, struggling to subdue grown-up size emotions in her little-girl body.

My exquisitely sensitive pleaser, my wise, intelligent and driven little girl, over-concerned with the approval of others. I know you grapple already with powerful feelings and scary fears. Believe me, I know, and I will do my best to help you learn to manage them. I love you, Grace.

One of you is so familiar that the identification can sometimes cloud my mothering. The other of you is so foreign that occasionally I stare at you as though you are from another species. And yet I love you both with a fierceness I never anticipated, one that grows every day and continues to astonish me. I have learned more who I want to be and how I want to live from both you than I ever imagined possible. You continue to push and teach me every day.

Thank you, thank you.