In Flawed Abundance

The last weeks I've slowed the pace of life, allowing time for gratitude, being, and total occupation of a moment. This deliberate, languid pace quieted the cacophony of thoughts and actions usually clamoring for my attention:

Rush. Do this. Do that. Orchestrate. GET IN THE CAR!!! Must do...Should do... Hurry! Oh shit. Hurry faster. Whirl, swirl, rush rush rush.

It's easy to continue to speed along, living on the facade while not delving into these inky, vital, churning masses. My new awareness makes the practice of being present easier and softer. More natural. I've seemed to step off the maddening swirl, creating a tapestry deep in rich nuances and emotions, allowing me to do the living and exploring that needed to be done.

As I've cultivated this slower cadence, any previously ignored or brushed-aside parts needing attention percolated to the surface. A collection of assorted subcutaneous themes (which, for me, usually reside just below the frenetic pace of life) actually gained voice and traction.

*****

At any given time, I help and guide my children. That's a given--I am their mother. Conflicts come and go. We talk, resolve, hug and regroup. With my newer, slower approach, however, I've quieted long enough to truly explore feelings and nuances where before I didn't necessarily allow enough time to delve.

Currently, my sweet daughter Abby is unsettled. The underlying, inky source of her conflict? Moi. More specifically, her perception that she isn't getting enough of me. She's been temperamental and short-fused. Sassy. Traces of disappointment and unease shadow her usually clear blue eyes. Luckily, she's started to master her ability to articulate her frustrations. While I applaud her ability to express herself, I must admit some of her observations are fairly biting. Like...

Mommy, I feel like all you do is text and tweet.
Mommy, you're always on your computer.
Mommy, when you're always on your phone, I feel like you're not taking care of me.

Ouch.

And you know what, she's right. My phone is my constant companion; it blings and pings and I slide that baby open, reading the current tweet/text/blog/email de jour. As a result, I'm only giving her part of my attention. I've created a situation where she feels she needs to vie for my attention. She's starving for me. And competing with my phone.

This is not okay with her. It's not okay with me. She wants and deserves solid, undivided, full eye-contact chunks of my attention. Her perception IS her reality. And therefore, mine. Her disappointment is palpable--her emotions raw. As for her perception that I'm not taking care of her--well, my first reaction was, That's preposterous! I mean, who does she think puts all the clean laundry in her room, the laundry fairy? And prepares the meals and drives to school and activities...,

but then I looked beyond her words and soaked up the message infused between them: I haven't been fully present in my moments with Abby. As a result, her foundation suffered hair-line fractures and I needed to patiently repair the damage. With patient explanation and gentleness. And time.

Luckily, I had it. This slower cadence I've cultivated allows time. Time to excavate and explore the ruins of a parental mistake. Time to create a cavernous space of possibility--allowing the dissonance to sharpen in brilliant focus. The priority? My daughter.

The steps I took to address Abby's concerns were neither novel nor inspired. Merely obvious footholds of problem-solving. I mentally created computer- and phone-free time. I let her be the one to end conversations. I allowed her be the first to end a hug. My epiphany lay in the novelty of my approach--I allowed space for the clamoring discord to have its rightful spot in the bright spotlight. Traces of Abby's doubt still linger, holding to the edges of her newly bolstered belief in her mother's love. Gratefully, I now see a returned brightness in her eyes.

*****

A woman, a mother, must stoke the fires of her own life. She must craft solitudes to fill her parched soul. I do this. I've gotten really good at this. But in the process, I've created an imbalance. Probably because I left myself thirsting for so, so long. And now, I must restore equilibrium--that precarious balance between my needs and theirs, constantly recalibrating, tweaking, stepping-back-to-analyze. The elusive balance is never easy; and it is forever shifting. I know that if I completely plunge into their lives, I lose myself. If I immerse completely into mine, I lose them.

*****

I read a glorious poem this morning and the following words resonated with salience:

Stripped of causes and plans and things to strive for, I have discovered everything I could need or ask for is right here— in flawed abundance.
(From Mark Nepo's poem, Accepting This)

My deliberate cadence allowed my flawed, cracked abundance to shine through. For this, I offer supplications of gratitude. For in the quiet magnitude of a moment, I learned the simplest, most profound lesson. Slow. Down. Listen. My hope: that the brilliant, humbling clarity will carry me through.

My Sick Lair

I got smacked with a great winter bug. Sore throat, feverish/hot/cold and total and complete lack of brain synapse. Yesterday, I lay on this couch all day long.

Today: second verse, same as the first.

Instead of pretending (like I'd do in the past, I'd keep going, all-martyr-like, until I made myself really sick), I spoke the truth. I. Feel. Awful. (And look pretty awful, too.)

And my real-time angels keep offering the most decadent support:

"I'll pick up Henry from school and bring him home for a play date".

"I'm going to the grocery store. What do you need?"

"Honey, you go to bed. I'll put the kids down."

"Mommy, can I do anything for you?"

When I returned from driving the kids to school this morning, I found a treat bag full of magazines, chocolate, vitamin drink and sunshiney-yellow, we're-here-to-cheer tulips.

Instead of resisting the love and support of my friends and family (I'm fine, I can do it all), I fell, open-hearted into their healing sustenance. I said,

"Yes, thank you, I'd love that and so would Henry."

"Would you please bring me a pint of Hagan Daas chocolate and a rotisserie chicken?"

"Thank you, love, I'll do just that."

And I did. I went to bed. And slept, A LOT.

And even though I'm still sickly and curled up in my sick lair, interestingly, I feel lifted as I lounge, supported. Saying Yes to help is a really, really good thing. Saying Yes to support is as healing of an action as I can imagine.

My lack-of-power brain and I are signing off now. Cough. Sniffle.

Like a Warm Hand

I procrastinated. The words ached to get out but I told them "not yet", "just a minute". I ran the washing machine. I put away toys. I made myself a sandwich. Now the washer has stopped, and begs me to take out the wet clothes and transfer them to the dryer. I ignore her pleas.

The winter scape sits patiently outside my window. Aching to be lauded and appreciated. I watch the gorgeous everything, begging for my attention. I turn inward, back to the bubbling words.

I gain a sense of order and calm when things are....orderly. And calm. But those words, in my head? They started hopping like overheated atoms. Pushing against my brain, spilling out, whether I had the foresight to place them onto the paper, or not. I ignore the washing machine and the winter white wonders so I can stay here, with the words, with the security of my computer to capture the words as they tumble and fall.

***

In a myriad of conversations with friends (both spoken and written), their words, salve-like, normalize my human experience. As I live this life of mine, I yearn for connection and solace in a story shared, a communion of experience. Whether it be a friend sharing the spirals of a rocky day or me submerging into an article or book, nodding as the writer eloquently shares her story, their contributions shine lights on my own wobbly, imperfect, human path. I bathe in the comfort of knowing we all share the sameness of humanity: perfect imperfection. Their words delivering their own unction, unifying me with others.

I read Katrina's beautiful piece sharing the bumps in her path.

I read Amy's incredibly liberating piece about The Witching Years which so tracked my emotional feelings I thought, perhaps, she'd tapped my first five years with my children.

I read Lindsey's words about the conscious presence and acceptance of life's everyday gifts, packaged in unassuming wrapping. And about Grace.

And Christine's constantly inspiring posts about her journey through depression.

Like a warm hand, slowly and lovingly extended, the words of these brave women sprinkle grace into my life, easing the pain of experiences by knowing I am not alone.

Again, I say: this sharing of life normalizes the human experience. Today, as I was gearing up to write (yes, procrastinating), I decided to read Dani Shapiro's latest blog post. Predictably, her words resonated with insight. I happened to look down and see that she'd responded to a comment I'd left on a previous post, one she wrote about Exposure-- writers sharing our intimate details. I commented that even though they make me nervous, I find that my grittiest posts are the ones that seem to resonate most with readers. Dani replied,

"Sometimes, what we think of as the "grittiest" may well be the most universal part."

Yes. Oh my yes.

With all of our varied chapters and moments, we all share in a common experience. Being human. Once I lifted the shroud of secrecy from my experiences, I found peace. And acceptance. The liberation in sharing and finding kindred souls along the way, also living their own versions of this universality, delivered grace. And connectedness. The beginning was so scary; peeling back my protective layers of perfection, and stopping the masquerading forced vile to bubble in my stomach. It felt like a powerful vise gripped my lungs. I felt the fear and did it anyway.

I can now look back and see how much fuller my experiences could've been if I could've only fully felt the extent of what was really happening. If I could've embraced my realities instead of cohersing, editing and hiding behind the mask. And I try, while embracing this lesson moving forward, to not judge my younger self. I know she did the best she could.

As I sit with some parts of my life still ensconced within me, I know that more words and other memories beckon, aching to be released. My hope that I can soon share the fullness of my story. And I sincerely hope that in that parlaying my heritage, those very dark, inky reaches of my history, I will ease the path of another. I know with certainty that I will ease my own. Baby steps. I've still so much to share--sharing that will undoubtedly further connect me to this pulsing, kinetic human experience. I'm working up to the day when I share my entire story. All the grittiest parts.

What's in a Name?

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my blog's name. Musings de Mommy perfectly suited this space when I started writing here years ago. But I sense that my words and posts are evolving, changing...they're not just about motherhood. Yes, that's still a big part of my life, and therefore it shapes my writing content. Technically, I'll always be a mother who muses.

But.

I think I'm ready for a new name. One that more broadly captures what I do here, in this space. I have some ideas. Inspired by Aidan's post asking for name suggestions for her soon-to-arrive baby girl, I'd love to hear from you. If you were going to name this blog...what would you call it? Would you help me?

A few words about my blog:

I write about my daily journey. About the unique paradoxical nature of life. I explore the triumphs and challenges with my children, and sometimes, if he's really lucky, my Hubby. I write because I have to...it's become as necessary as breathing. I write about my challenges as I try to stay present in this moment, the very one I inhabit, right NOW. I write about my emotions. About trees and shadows and the seasons. I share my thoughts about the ebb and flow of life...the darkness that necessarily, predictably precedes the light.

(P.S. I must admit that this whole name-change notion makes me nervous. How will people find me? Is it silly to change now? Will I change my twitter account? Will people know that it's me??? If you've been through this process, I'd also love to hear your advice and strategies. Please?? And Thank You (in advance).)

Betwixt the Bewitching

Finally, I realized it. Fancying myself a quick learner, I'm continually amazed at how long some things take to soak into my essence and become obvious. But, finally. I understand.

Why I want to slow down.

Why I want to nestle in next to my children for hours.

Why I want to cuddle under covers, warmed by multiple bodies, while I watch the steel gray winter sky threaten to sink so low that I could reach out and touch it.

Why I want to submerge into hearty recipes, warming my kitchen with the fragrant grace and bounty of stews and soups.

Why I crave slow, languid hours of quiet solitude.

Because I stopped long enough to hear it:

the combined whispers of my soul and winter and the earth, mingling in quiet harmonies:

Slow down.

Go within. Hibernate.

Release yourself from any guilt, remorse or shame. Do not push.

Rest. Recuperate. Relax.

Do so deliberately, and allow yourself to be thrilled by the quotidian, imperceptible passage of moment into moment.

Marvel at the winter's bewitching light, allow the mesmerizing power of the tree's intricate tapestry of branches to hypnotize you.

Stop.

All is well.

Trust your instincts.

Trust your path.

Trust.

I hear it. The occult, soft singing. So, so soothing. And I figure, since I'm lucky enough to sit betwixt the lullaby-like harmonies of soul and earth, I may as well join in.

Shadows and Light

I lay in bed. The clock read 11:03 pm. Emotions, hot and raw, bubbled inside, clawing to get out. Nothing terrible--just one of those emotive passages of life. The rather unfortunate timing of this particular outlet: it was the evening of Hubby's 40th birthday. (And I adore birthdays. They are sacred days of homage to the special birthday person. Not days for emotional outburst and catharsis.)

I tried. I squelched. I pretended. I even told those emotions to take a hike. To avoid spilling my emotional beans, I vanished into the kids bedrooms, tears brimming and falling down my face, hoping that my dear Hubby would be asleep upon my return. I watched those sleeping angels and kissed, kissed kissed them through teeming emotion. I sat on the precipice of release--the great, freeing feeling of cleanse that descends once the emotions are freed. Once they're allowed to do their job.

I padded back to my room. Hearing the soft snores of Hubby punctuate the dark, I thought I'd succeeded. I didn't ruin his birthday with tears. I climbed back into bed and through that same darkness, I heard,

"How are the kids?"

Shit.

"Fine," my voice wavered in response.

"What's wrong, honey?" he asked. I thought, No, no no not today not on his birthday.

Too late. Once released from the feeble confines of my controlling grasp, the emotions gasped for air. I gasped, too. He wrapped me into him. Game over. I offered up, through my tears, a silent supplication of gratitude for this wonderful man who is my husband, with whom I get to traverse this life.

***

Life's mystery comprises in its complexities: dark, then joyous; despondent, then brilliant. I know I am not the first to delve into life's intrinsic paradox. But comfort and sure-footing sit within this paradoxical equation. When I sit in my moments of emotional catharsis, settling into this knowledge and understanding yields comfort. Remembering helps--remembering the cyclical, idiosyncratic pulse of life, the thread that connects all of us, each of us, helps.

As I sit on the precarious perch of my life, sometimes smiling, other times crying, I ground myself in the knowledge that the predictive flow and ebb continues. Even when in the inevitable seat of growth and catharsis, the brilliance and joy of life linger on the edges of the shadows and sadness, promising the inexorable return of the light, and the giddiness in my soul.

He Dreamed a Dream

A repost from January 2009.

*******

This morning, Hubby and I talked with the kiddos about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When I asked Abby if she knew who MLK was, she said yes; she saw a picture of him in her classroom. I asked her if she knew why we celebrate his life. She answered that he helped the “brown” children and the “peach” children go to the same school.

We discussed the many gross inequities in our country’s history and how Dr. King’s goal was to have people judged “not…by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”.

We watched moments of his powerful, goose-bump giving 1963 speech, “I Have a Dream.” We talked about the significance of the inauguration of our country’s first African American president, Barack Obama.

After we wrapped our impromptu history lesson, I asked Abby what she now knew about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She answered,

“He dreamed a dream that everyone would be safe.”

Oh, a child’s perspective. Simultaneously innocent and wise.

I often reflect on the history of our country. Living in Little Rock, where one of the most notable Civil Rights moments occurred, I often take note of the currents. For instance, I could’ve done cartwheels when we first visited Abby’s new Kindergarten class and saw all the beautiful, diverse faces sitting around that room. My heart still skips each time I visit her classroom and see so many different faces smiling at me.

Dr. King also dreamed that, “one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”

Well, Dr. King, we’re not in Alabama, but just a little west, here in Arkansas. I see those children holding hands daily. The little “brown” boys and girls, the little “peach” boys and girls, the little Hispanic boys and girls, the little Asian boys and girls…they all hold hands.

We still have a lot of work to do. But it gives me hope to see one small iteration of your dream, realized. Thank you, Dr. King.

(And thank you, Abby, for getting it.)

Its Constant Passage

And the winds of time will take us, with its sure and steady hand,

where the river meets the sea. - John Denver, John Denver & The Muppets

Each and every time I hear these lyrics, my eyes glisten. Even though it's technically a Christmas song, when it pops up on my iPod, I listen--regardless of the season. This morning, the song came on and the familiar tears stung my eyes. These lyrics, confound me, stop me. I find them simultaneously true, sad and hopeful, always urging reflection. These words remind me, as if the wrinkles and the lengthening of my children weren't enough, that time knows no stop signs. It does not nap. It proceeds on its continual, immutable journey.

Time, moving me through challenges and complexities. Time, delivering me to hard-earned moments of grace. Constantly in flux. Dependable. Maddening. Sure.

Today, as I drove to pick up Henry from school, I passed the cemetery. Cars lined the snowy street. People gathered to say goodbye to one of theirs. A cloud passed through my heart, aching for the loss of life. I sent up a wish for the departed that their life had been what they had wanted it to be.

Time, in certain moments, hypnotizes me with it's certainty--the hush-like descent of twilight, always followed by the promising glimmer of sunrise. At others, it's rash, steadfast passage smacks right up against my heart.

Snowflakes and Seconds

The last two days, the forecasters have promised me snow. I awoke with a start at 4:13 am this morning and peered through the blinds, anticipating my beloved snow.

No snow. Luckily, I entered sleep-land again, despite my nagging disappointment.

But when Abby came in at 7 am, asking if there'd be school, I quickly scanned outside. White. Everywhere. Ahhhh. The snow came, as promised. I exhaled deeply.

Now, the snow falls, falls, falls, steadily and patiently. Snow alters me on a cellular level...a panacea of sorts. It simultaneously calms while invigorating and awakening some part of my soul, lying dormant, heralding the arrival of the blankets of fluffy white. I love the way the air smells when it snows. I love the trappings of snow...fires, fleeces, red-cheeked faces. There's hope in that snow. A promise of sorts.

The graceful flakes hypnotize as they descend to my world. The gradual layering of peace...so achingly beautiful to me. I imagine the slumbering earth below. It seems as if Mother Earth pulls up her blanket of snow over her layers of mulched leaves and acorns, burrowing in for her winter slumber.

Tall, bare trees reach starkly, boldly into the low winter sky; their roots holding steadfastly to her frozen bed. I see the trees as the Earth's sentries. Guarding the hibernating land through the harsh, pounding winter, then, months later, gently alerting everyone of spring's imminent arrival.

The trees, they never cease to inspire wonder and awe in me. So stoic. So tall. So graceful. Today, laced in muted whites.

I stand outside, and look up at the sky and allow the snow to fall on my face, my hair. I feel small--wonderfully small, aware of my microscopic place in this life. Yet full of appreciation for the opportunity to fulfill it. My own little perch--a place to observe, learn, retreat and replenish.

***

The last several days, I purposefully observed my interactions with my children. I took more deep breaths. I found little gems hiding beneath snarky comments and tired eyes. I sense a softening in me; a welcome shift, for sure. I feel more tender, more open to the experiences as they present. And I suspect that my appreciation--amidst another tantrum, another pair of urine soaked pants, a barley squelched dramatic interlude--starts with the rekindled awareness that these moments are finite. As my friend Lindsey beautifully writes, these moments show "tangible evidence of the wheeling forward of time, inescapable proof that our moments on this planet are numbered. On the whole time’s movement seems an odd combination of quixotic and inexorable, some moments stretching endlessly and others passing with blinding speed."

Blinding speed. Blinking and years are spent. Yes. But in this quiet moment, fueled by the snowy tundra outside my window and the (thankfully) happy chatter of my children, time slows. The ethereal grace of this moment prevails. The seconds fall softly and slowly. Like snow flakes. I sit, satiated by the prevailing tenacity of our connectedness. Warmth from the fire. Abby, Henry and me. Together. Enjoying the endless stretch of this moment.

New Year

The dawning of the new year and new decade have me feeling introspective. My acute awareness of freshness glints and reflects off all the new moments of 2011. As I feel the pulses of the new year, I realize that each and every moment in life hold the same promise and power as the arrival of a new year.

I must admit that this epiphany feels a bit obvious, elementary. I even feel a bit silly sharing this non-profound insight. I mean, last year, I wrote and wrote and wrote myself hoarse about the beautiful power of Now. And that I finally embraced the beauty of living in this moment--and showed up in each one--instead of living in passed moments or those that have yet to come. Because, not surprisingly, in living that way, I missed moments that I wish I could now reach back and soak up.

Anyway, as with all lessons and epiphanies, another iteration and layer of this evolving knowledge awaited me. I don't need a new year, a new month, a new decade on the calendar page to infuse me with an appreciation of the possibility that exists all the time. Yes, of course, calibrating with the pomp and circumstance of a new year certainly helps.

But. Now, I sit with this newfound knowledge--each moment holds freshness and possibility--all year long.

***

Yesterday I stood in the checkout line at Marshalls. And a woman stood in line behind me with the tiniest baby all snug in her car seat, coozily nestled in her stroller. The mom looked down at her baby and smiled--you know the smile. The one where all else ceases to exist and the hearts and souls of that mother and baby twine together, satiated in love and togetherness. I love you. I adore you. You are my world.

I remember some of these moments with Abby, and even fewer with Henry. Yet sadly, there are many more that I don't. That phase of my life, those nows, have passed. Now I'm at Marshalls, by myself. Just me, my purchases and my purse. I love these moments by myself (and looked forward to them for a looooong time) and yet...I'm longingly staring at this new mother behind me, craving my own tiny baby to share a smile with. In unsuspecting moments, like this one, the realization slaps me--my children are no longer babies. Hubby and I will not have any more babies. No more pregnancy tests, nursing, rocking, awake-all-night, mustard-seed poop diapers, binkies, tiny onesies and heavenly baby smell. I've graduated to solo-trips to Marhshalls, independence, 8 hours a night and a new set of joys and challenges I never could've imagined.

What I do know is this: now that I'm living presently, I savor the moments of youngness with my children. I notice, peripherally, the mother of teenagers smiling longingly back at me when I'm walking through the parking lot, tightly holding both of my kids' hands. The teenagers of that other mother walk ahead, heads lowered as they engage their iPhones, Northface fleeces pulled low over their quickly moving fingers. I turn back to the blond heads of my children. And smile down at Abby. Then at Henry. You know the smile.

Sigh.

I embrace the moments of our current reality. Nighttime spooning with Abby. Henry's silky hand in mine as we walk up the walk to his preschool. The complete and utter chaos of mornings. The gentle, steady beat of their voices--needing me, calling for me. Those moments are numbered. One day, they won't call out for my help. They'll send secret teenage-smoke signals that I'll need several books (and bottles of wine) to decipher.

So, we move forward, marching along into this Now, and the next, and the next. Goodbye babyhood and toddlerhood. A bittersweet lump forms in my throat, tangled with emotion. Bitter because I realize with the passing of each, we will never return to the splendor of those moments again. Sweet because many other unknowns await. Bruised ego moments. Holding hands moments. Even the crabby bitch moments (Abby and Henry can confirm). ALL of them. Even when I'm redirecting and reprimanding Henry, AGAIN. Pissed off moments. Blah, joyous, sad, soaring, slammed-doors moments. Toy-story reenactment moments. Mitigating. Celebrating. Living. Holding tight, fingers and souls twined together.

Now.

Happy Hew Year. Happy New Now.

King of the Non Sequitur

Henry has, at the tender age of four, mastered the non sequitur; he utters so many non-related tidbits he keeps us in stiches. But I don't think anything demonstrates his agility and prowess more than the following photo. I walked into the family room this morning and found this:

Yes, Denise, There IS a Santa Claus

...There is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

- Francis Pharcellus Church, September 21, 1897, The New York Sun

I remember the Christmas that I decided that Santa Claus wasn't real. I remember it clearly as if it happened just yesterday, yet it was 31 years ago. It was a very, very sad moment, when the brilliance of faith and belief were temporarily snuffed.

I was seven. It was Christmas Eve, 1979. That afternoon, I played over at a neighbor's house. My friend and I created this fun activity where we jumped over the couch in the basement. On my last trip over the couch, instead of landing on my feet, I landed on my chin. And my chin landed on the marble floor.

My parents were called; my chin was inspected. They made the executive decision: to the ER. So my mom, dad, three-month-old baby brother and I piled in the Impala and drove to the ER. I received seven stitches in my chin. My chin hurt. A lot. That evening, I sat in the family room. The multi-colored lights of the Christmas tree cast a magical glow across the rainbow shag carpet. I looked at my Mom. Tears streamed down my face.

"Mommy?" I said.

"Yes, Denise?" she replied.

"Is Santa Claus real?" I asked.

Her calm reply, "I believe in Santa Claus."

"Yes," I persisted, "but is he REAL? Do you and Daddy put the presents under the tree? And in the stockings?"

She looked at me, with crestfallen pain in her eyes. "Yes, we do."

Through hot tears, I choked out, "And what about the Easter Bunny? The Toothfairy?"

She sadly shook her head. "But. I believe, Denise. Faith is believing in things you can't see or touch. I have faith. I believe."

I went to bed, chin and heart throbbing, stitches bulging under wrapped bandages. The next morning, Christmas morning, felt dull. Numb. My heart ached. I remember my dad saying to me, through his own sheen of tears, "You know, Denise, I will always believe. Santa will always live inside my heart." And he invited me to continue believing, too.

That moment, I decided. I believed. And would always, always believe. To this day, I believe. I have a built-in talisman, the scar on my chin, to forever remind me that belief and faith are choices. Ones that I consciously choose every day. Now, in 2010, Abby sits on the precipice of her very own Christmas of 1979. She straddles the innocence of pure, blissful belief and the more arcane equation of faith. I can see the lightening bolts of uncertainty knit themselves into her eyebrows.

She's seven.

And when she asks me, as I know she will, "Mommy, is there a Santa Clause?" I will answer, with conviction,

"Yes, Abby. There IS a Santa Claus. I believe. I believe in Santa, magic and power and an abiding force larger than any one of us. I believe in forgiveness and wonder and love that swells larger than the largest ocean wave. I believe in faith--I choose to believe. I believe in a spot that simultaneously resides in your body, and tethers to a universal symphony and cadence of the human experience. I believe. I believe in Christmas, Santa and the mystic twinkling of Santa's sleigh bells. Santa will always live in my heart, and yours. If you so choose."

And I will invite her. Through my own curtain of tears, I'll invite her to believe.

(from newseum.com)

Henry and Me and the Drive

I drove Henry to school the other morning, like I do most mornings. The road holds an eclectic mix of houses--small, quaint, farm, colonial, suburban, dilapidated--and a distinct New England air that I adore. This road opens to a cemetery, a pumpkin and Christmas tree farm, as well as a soccer field. The road curves, dips and moves with abandon. Old, distinct trees border the road--tall, stretching sentries lining our way.

The drive usually fills up a part of my soul that I often didn't know needed filling. This road provides a moving sanctuary for Henry and me--it's our quiet time, our alone time. For us. After the bustle of lunch boxes, hats, backpacks and shoe-tying, H and I enjoy our drive, when we co-exist, watching the wonder unfold outside our windows.

The car is usually quiet. I alternate between watching Henry and watching the evolving landscape. Although I've memorized the dips and topography of the land, it still manages to grab me each and every day. I admire the slope of his nose, the rose of his cheeks, the swath of his eyelashes.

Typically, Henry clasps his hands and he peacefully rests his head on his carseat. He absorbs everything. The creek. The horses. The trees. The cows. The birds. My heart usually soars and repeats this silent song: I love you I love you I love you. We sit silently together, yet alone.

"I love you, Henry" I tell him, finally out-loud.

After a thoughtful pause, he says, "I love you, too, Mommy." Our eyes meet for a moment in the rear-view mirror. Sometimes I reach back and hold his still soft, still (but-not-for-much-longer) pudgy hand.

Then, the world continues by. And we watch. Together. And alone.

5 Minutes

I haven't Reverbed in way too long. So today, I did.

Reberb10, December 15 – 5 Minutes. Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in five minutes. Set an alarm for five minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010. (Author: Patti Digh)
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The enlightenment spreading through Abby's eyes as I finally shift the way in which I explain something, and she finally shifts the was she receives it.
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When Hubby and I first started dating, we lived in two different cities. Surprise visits were the best. thing. ever. The other night, the kids and I had dinner at one of dear friend's homes while Hubby had a work dinner. His dinner finished before we got home, and he came over to our friends' house to surprise us. I didn't hear the doorbell, but as I passed from one room to the next, I peripherally saw Hubby waving wildly in the front door's side windows. The giddy delight that bubbled up seemed to come from 1999, the year we first started dating, and the time of many surprises.
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Bear hugs from Henry.
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Forgiveness leads to brightness, enlightenment and freedom.
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My children's love, at times, crushes my lungs with its power and force.
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New kindred friendships bless my minutes and days.
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This lesson: when I focus my energy on something, it grows.
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(Oops. That was 6 1/2 minutes.)

Suffused With Peace

In the meantime, the answer to every question really does seem to lie in letting go, settling into the long, spacious days and restful nights...and trusting that, for the moment, anyway, we are exactly where we need to be. Whenever I manage to do that, when I can give myself over to the moment at hand, I am suffused with peace. - Katrina Kenison, The Gift of an Ordinary Day

The last weeks have provided much fodder for my mind. A normal time, but not an easy one. Periods of change and transformation aren't necessarily my shining moments. Big swings of life's pendulum tend to render me weary, with uncertain footing. My kids change and therefore I, too, must change. Adaptable, pliable, flexible. I have to work hard to embody these things because often, I'm just curmudgeonly and happy in the ways of yesterday.

Katrina's warm, wise words above remind me. Guide me. Provide a beacon during this somewhat melancholy time of consideration and personal growth:

giving myself over to the moment can suffuse me with peace.

Especially the quotidian moments, the pedestrian moments, that pad my life with meaning:

During last's week deluge of, ummm, parental growth for me, this moment wowed me. There it was, patiently awaiting my attention. No bickering. No jockeying. Just peace. Peace, a fire, a book and a moment, predicated on the always-underlying connection and love Abby and Henry share.

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Henry loves paper hats, made in the style of Pilgrims (I mean, didn't all Pilgrims wear hats made out of The New York Times?). His teachers made him one in school for Thanksgiving. He wanted one for his Orange Dog. So I said, "Sure, I'll make Orange Dog a newspaper hat." Henry was so overcome with happiness that he took many pictures of me making said hat.

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As I continued to make Orange Dog's newspaper hat, Henry continued his photo shoot of many things. Peripherally, I watched him take up-close photos. Simple photos. Blurry photos. This one, of his snowman snow globe, well, its simplistic beauty and pure composition just threw all my bottled emotion into my throat. Tears gathered into the corners of my eyes. The snowman seems resolute. Strong. A bit lonely. Moving forward. Maybe even a bit sad. A metaphor of me.

And I remember. That melancholy moments can be tinged with grace, suffused with peace, sprinkled with seeds of possibility. I must give myself over to each moment. Every one. And the grace will await me.

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(An aside: my Mom recently said to me that she senses an overriding theme of sadness in my posts. I believe that she's right...I do often write about the complexity of sadness, or of melancholy days. And I believe that I do so because although I experience many euphoric, joyful, happy and peaceful moments, those are easier to comprehend. It's the others, like those I dissect above, that sometimes confound and confuse me. And so, I write. To understand. To make sure, like Katrina says, that I give myself over fully to each moment. xo)

Wonder

Reverb10, December 4 – Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (Author: Jeffrey Davis)

*****

My year has been littered with wonder, laced with exquisite luminosity and ordinariness. I love the myriad of ways wonder arrives...in gallant leaps, in gradual steeping, with practiced patience, like a seasoned parent. Wonder dipped and bounced throughout each day, frequently sprinkling its stop-you-in-your-tracks splendor.

The juxtaposition of 2010 against past years made me realize that in the past, I didn't tap into wonder as much as I could've. I felt it--the wonder reached me--but I know that many moments passed, carrying wonder in its midst, when I could've experienced more but did not. Thankfully, wonder can hide under layers and layers of expired, antiquated beliefs. Unforgiven grievances. Road blocks.

Wonder's tenacity permeated the finicky caverns of my sometimes fearful, or negative, mind and allowed for wonder cameos. It radiated through melancholy and doldrums. Wonder provided the pinnacle of belief and the tenacity of hope.

*****

Wonder sits in the midst of explicit ordinariness. For me, there exists an intrinsic relationship between wonder and gratitude. The more I give thanks, the more awe and wonder I experience.

So, I've contemplated wonder. Why has this year been so laden with wonder? I believe it began with forgiveness of decades-old hurts. And a purposeful cultivation and prioritization of self. Wonder--a splendid, phosphorescent jewel, just waiting to wow me. (I do wonder (predictable pun intended): do I cultivate it, or does it cultivate me? Carefully plodding and awaiting my recognition of its power?)

And so I sit, in wonder. Of each day I wake and stretch. Of the evolving complexity of my seven-year-old daughter. Of the constant progression of time. Of the smell of baking cookies. Of the power of the wind. For the much-needed embrace. Of forgiveness. Of darkness. Of the multitude of permutations of the sun's light.

One Moment

Reverb10, Dec 3 – Moment.

Today's prompt: Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)

A solitary blanket of snow, a 40-foot pine tree and me. Cold punctuated my cheeks, blazing red--yes, from the northerly winds, but flush predominantly with unbridled joy. My black parka camouflaged into the inky night, steeping me further into the raw now. I peered from my hood, my eyes belying my calm exterior: my soul bubbled with giddy delight. Giant snowflakes, laden with hope, steadily fell. The pine tree soared, all-powerful, intoxicating with it's delicious scent. I stood, mesmerized, at the base of the pine tree. I was alone. Pores open, awareness heightened, alive. Just me, the tree, the night and the snow. My legs and feet buried in the gorgeous white accumulation. The genuine, mystical beauty quietly whispered promises of possibility--of this, of anything, of everything.

In these moments, I feel a kindred connectedness, like historical synapses, or strings of white twinkle lights, linking to the magic and possibility of the millions of brilliant moments preceding this one. Time moves, moments flee but magic always returns. I keep company with this knowledge, heeding its comfort.

(Luckily, I had my camera in my pocket, and snapped this photo.)

You Don't Love Me

This morning started out cheerfully, as most mornings do. Breakfast proved a bit dicey, as it always does. I should just record myself and hit play:

"Sit down. No, I will not cut the crust off of your toast. Don't touch your sister. A touch is not a hit. Sit down. I'm not serving candy for breakfast. I don't care that your brother looked at you. The next person who removes their hiney from their seat will enter their schools hungry. Now SIT DOWN."

(I'm pretty sure that I have an amazing opportunity for improvement here, but...I'm so ensconced in the cadence of our rituals that I'm finding it hard to feel the rhythm of a new way.)

Anywhoo, the morning proceeded as usual. I asked them to please just get along. And to get ready for school. Kids went upstairs to brush, comb, wash and dress. Arguing began. Luckily for me, from my perch at the breakfast bar, the floor between us muffled the actual words. Abby then appeared in the kitchen to announce the following transgression:

"Henry stuck his tongue out at me."

As I chewed my cereal, I sat in awe. And chewed on this thought: Really? She's tattling on her four-year-old brother for that? (Side note: I've been encouraging my children to work through these arguments on their own. Another side note: You can see how successfully I've deployed said encouragement.)

So, I told Abby that I thought she was being ridiculous and tattling.

Folks, that's when the wheels fell off the bus.

Her voice went up two octaves. And the rampage began:

"You don't love me as much as you love Henry. (Sob, sob.) Everyone likes him more. (Drip, drip.) You don't love me. No one in this house loves me. I'm going to run away from EVERYONE and from this house."

And my lovely maternal response? Silence.

And Abby screamed, "Why aren't you answering me?!"

So I said,

"Are you done? Cause if you're not, could you go somewhere else and cry?" (Another aside: Does my response seem harsh? Mean? Well, let me tell you, it may have been. But it was better than the response running through my head. Yup. Much better. I am just SO done with the wha wha wha whining. Every morning I'm asked to mitigate some grievous, outrageous event that is neither grievous nor outrageous. Usually totally benign. And I'm done. I'm toast. DONE.)

"NO!", she hollered. "I'm telling you HOW I FEEL!!!! You don't love me and aren't even saying that you're sorry I feel this way." Huge tears continue their descent.

And I responded, "I'm sorry you feel that way." (And I then thought that maybe I should actually feel sorry that she felt that way. But it all seemed so nonsensical to me. Henry's tongue sticking out to nobody loves me? Huh? Maybe this is how hubby felt when I was preggers. Huh. Spinning head. Check. Crazy irrationality? Check. Hormones? CHECK.)

Where does she pick up these theatrics?

The good news? I stayed calm. The bad news: I stayed calm. She saw my actions as insensitive, uncaring and mean.

The storm clouds passed. I offered a conciliatory hug with these words:

"I love you."

When she got out of the car, I told her that there was one thing she needed to remember today: That I love her.

I've spent my quiet hours today digesting her outburst. A ploy? Displaced emotion? Her truth? I'll excavate, gently, trying to find clues providing insight and tender awareness. I'll try my best. I'll look for that different rhythm, a new synchronicity to guide us through. And I'll love her. Whether she thinks I do, or not.
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Encapsulating 2010

Reverb10, December 1 One Word.
Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?
(Author: Gwen Bell)

Trying to choose one word to describe and encapsulate my 2010 proved a difficult challenge. But, since I am completely smitten with the Reverb10 initiative, I bit. (In summary, they serve up a writing prompt each day to inspire reflection "on your year and manifest what’s next. The end of the year is an opportunity to reflect on what's happened, and to send out reverberations for the year ahead". Perfect.)

As I reflected on 2010, I cringed, I cried, I giggled...a small smile tugged at my lips. Many fabulous and descriptive words danced and shouted in my mind, cajoling and begging for selection.

I can best describe your year! Choose me! they yelled.

Shhhh, I told them. You're all lovely, but I can only choose one of you. (Ummm, yes, I just admitted that I talked to words.)

Finally, the most appropos, the most singularly accurate word came to me:

NOW.

In past years, I skirted the edges of living presently. Although I physically attended each moment, I didn't mentally inhabit each moment. Many moments I spent thinking about the past or the upcoming, and in so doing, I missed the Now.

But in 2010, I inhabited Now. The ugly nows. The epiphany nows. The blah nows. The euphoric nows. The grieving nows.

There are so many wise people and objects whom I wish I could thank for this awakening. The writers I read, the books I inhale, my children, the trees, my friends. I must especially thank Karen Maezen Miller. During her Boston Plunge Retreat, she welcomed us to Now. And then asked, "Have you ever been anywhere else?"

Yes! I wanted to shout. Many times, too many times, I wasn't in the Now because I was There, rehatching, rethinking, redoing...or I was There....planning, worrying, wondering. Not Now, but Then.

Her words reverberated with truth, and acted as a catalyst, a spark of sage connectedness in which all the messages and reminders culminated, returning me to my Nows. I was in that moment. And this one. Now. Wicked winds. Hypnotic candle flame. Classical music. Warm glow of my favorite lamp illuminating my white desk top, littered with cookie crumbs. Words flowing. Fingers typing. Now.

As for the future, in 2011 and beyond, well, I'd like live presently, in each Now that each of those years delivers. Perfect, on time and satiated in the present.

Not Like Before

In my past, when I gave thanks, I always expressed explicit gratitude for the explicitly good stuff:

The job. The love. My husband, my family, my kids. Money. The big win. My health. Kindred friends.

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As years and wisdom started inspiring my gratitude, new layers and permutations of thanks began. I started a new practice, one in which I offered thanks for the less flamboyant, but equally powerful:

Sunlit, spring-breeze dried clothing.

Still pudgy toes resting on a dusty baseboard.

Raw, barren wind chapping my skin, pulsing like life itself.

Muscles in legs that carry my body through each step.

Chocolate chip cookies (and the dough. Especially the dough.)

A laugh shattering a once-tense moment.

A pile of dishes representing a warm meal, time together and full bellies.

A stranger, smiling warmly and gently.

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And as I continue to practice, and become more seasoned, I implement a twist on my tradition of thanks. One which I hope will provide freedom and more space in my lungs, more room for the flux of life: there is a gift in each phase, each moment of my life.

In piles of snotty tissues.

In a broken HVAC system.

In a parent's divorce.

In panicked sadness.

In a dead car battery.

In an argument with Hubby.

In stomped feet, slammed doors, eye rolls and picky eaters.

In messes.

I recognize, although nascent in this discipline, that it all unfolds, exactly as it should. In each, a reflection of myself. In each, growth. In each, grace. In me, gratitude.