Monday, June 30, 2014

Changing of the Guard

I cannot wait for you to turn 40.  You are just going to love it. 



Something astounding happens. I mean, it is a little frightening – if I am being honest – the reality of it is a little frightening….

But, it happens when you least expect it – it is definitely something that just APPEARS, so there is no sense trying to prepare for it…it just happens one day...

maybe even at your local pool…while your children are in line at the snack bar, whipping their dollar bills around in the significant (tree-bending) breeze, while you yell, “That is going to blow away, and I am not going to chase after it, and you are not getting another one….”

It just whacks you. 

What is “it?”  Hold on…hold on….

It is startling at first, and then temporarily disappointing.  It is sorta like arriving at your dad’s childhood amusement park after a ten hour drive, and you are all like, “That?”




You are disenchanted, but you quickly accept it for what it is, and you decide it is good to be off the road, the long road that required endless map checking and dangerous turning around in the middle of the highway.

You have no idea where I am going with this.

Sorry.

OK.  So,  when you turn 40…I mean, not like THAT day….it doesn’t arrive in a box with a fluffy red bow or anything like that…not on your actual birthday.  BUT, when you turn 40, you are on the threshold of

THIS; and, what this is…is THIS:

you enter another social or neighborhood scene prepared to look around you for answers, for hints, for pointers, for a mama-Yoda...

and you are prepared to receive guidance in your usual head-down, barely-making-eye-contact, repentant manner, “Oh…thank you; I’m sorry.  I am just figuring this parenting thing out,” 

WHEN…and here is the key part…WHEN, you notice a woman interacting with her child and you say to yourself very matter-of-factly,

“This woman doesn’t know what she is talking about.”

And, you just shake your head, get that image out of your mind…but, guess what – it isn’t over - you walk smack dab into another,

“That woman doesn’t know what she is doing either.”



And you get a little panic-stricken, and now you have your eye out for it, and you find another,

“Oh, snap…that one is unsafe, too.”

And then you start to feel breathless,

“Oh my WORD, what is THAT ONE doing?”

And, you barrel around the bend to see an entire gaggle of cluelessness.


The gaggle is bikini-clad, with phones in their hands, sitting outstretched on low chairs with their limbs exposed TO THE SUN, and they have children…many many children…but they are not watching them AT ALL!  Their children are beating each other with folding chairs near the zero entry area of the baby pool.  There is an all-out beatdown going on, with four year olds flashing gang signs and chucking anything not cemented into the ground.



Your eyes are open in a way they have never before been.




Women everywhere are ruining their children, right in front of your old face.

No one has any idea what to do.


Good Googily Moogily.

Could it be?

You are in charge?




After countless more of these enlightening observations…

you realize…you come to see that

YOU…

you are the answer-holder now.




It is a changing of the guard, if you will.


You are “the veteran.”

You have been alive a long-a$$ time. 


Now, YOU know. 
See. 
That is it. 
You came into this scene ready to learn more from the old hands,

but – as far as THIS scene goes…you’ve got the oldest hands…

and that is going to be the case in basically any scene from now on where there are young children running around….

You know basically what there is TO know, and you have been elevated from TAKER to

GIVER.

I mean, you can still learn a few things…I guess…I mean, you can go read a bunch of parenting books, and you can get some newish info…like the latest thing…if you are so inclined.  But, in general, you know how to keep your kids alive,

and – these chicks…

their kids might not make it to supper.



Just like your kids almost didn’t make it to supper back in the day…
or you just didn’t cook supper….

That’s irrelevant now.  Your kids are clearly still alive.





You have a responsibility to be the knowledgeable, experienced one.

And, even if you still are completely convinced that you have NO idea what you are doing…

you are going to have to fake it and ACT the part.

Cause they are coming…

they, the younger people with children, are looking at YOU.

So, stop digging that little white crunchy thing out of your nose and pulling your wedge out, thinking no one is looking…

cause they are studying you and your mystical ways…

and you just told a whole table of newbies that it is okay to pick your nose in public.




Except the bikini chicks…they aren’t studying anything…they are, like, texting.



I know…go ahead and laugh maniacally. 

How scary –

YOU ARE THE EXPERT!




But…let’s face it.  You were never given any good directions anyways.  You were never told anything that incredibly brilliant during your own sojourn in instability. 

Because, in truth, no one ever really knows.  They just faked it and got it to catch on and others starting doing it and then it became a thing,

and the more people doing the thing, the more substantiated it becomes, and then…it is more than a thing, it is WHAT you do, and everyone is doing it….

You have been fed bullhockey for years and years. 


You have been doing it, raising your kids on it.  Those veterans weren’t wise…they were probably laughing at your gullibility.

You just realize this, one day...around the age of 40. 

You just realize…

YOU, quite likely, know more than most…at this point.


Scary?

Yes.  Darn scary.



Go make up something good…

and get other moms doing it….










Sunday, June 29, 2014

Hide Your Face

In my last blog entry, I shared that I need to check my motivation for writing.

And, probably, it's about more than writing.



Can't really see it...just yet.


A dear friend and I fleshed this out a bit more, and I think I am getting closer to understanding the destination that I can almost...almost....see in the distance.

But before I search the horizon for more signs, I am sure I need to talk about Facebook. 

Makes sense, right?  We have to talk about Facebook because it is such a part of our today...every day;

it might be in the way of seeing what is on the horizon.

Excuse me...

I don’t want to bash Facebook.  Maybe there were good intentions behind it.  I totally seriously doubt that...I am betting the intention was cashola...cha-ching, but…still…

I don’t want to bash Facebook, but I do want to talk about what we have done with it...

and what you know about Facebook:



it is EE-VIL.


OK.

You agree.  Fine.  I know you do.  We can all plainly see that Facebook is screwing up the world one person at a time, but not a one of us wants to acknowledge that we too are contributing to this crisis.

Glad we got that off my chest….





Oh.  Wait.  It isn’t off yet, and I detect maybe just a hint of disagreement on your part.

That’s reasonable; I mean, you might be among the 1% who are not crippled - to some degree - by your use of Facebook.



The problem, right off the bat, is the word “Face” in the title.  

We produced a book around our face…not our heart - Heartbook; not our soul - Soulbook; not even our rearend (immaterial, possibly, but - for most of us - we consider our rearend to be everything that is wrong with us, so maybe that would have been more genuine…to call it Buttbook, and then we wouldn't be on there so often...).

But, alas, not a butt…we were asked to craft a Face.

We're looking for the one in the middle, 
but he may have altered his appearance...


Over and over, the expression “Save Face” comes to mind, which – of course – speaks to maintaining our honor and our prestige.



Honor and prestige…neither one has much to do with humility.

And, humility is pretty darn important to our authentic happiness –

note the word authentic...

AUTHENTIC!




We are talking about real, enduring happiness…not the kind you buy at the mall...not the kind you post about and want people to "Like."  

We are talking about deep happy…permanent happy…happy you can build on...die with.


Anonymity promises authentic happiness.  


Anonymity, as in...no one thinks about YOU.


And, if we can do good deeds and not do them to get people thinking about US,
then we are NOT doing good deeds for... 

ourselves.  


We are actually doing good deeds for...

the sake of the GOOD. 



Doing IT for the sake of the GOOD.

That's Real Good.


We have corrected our motivation.  

  


We have removed our face.



We get no public credit, but we are getting deep happy….

We are giving ourselves deep happy.  

Instead of "likes," we get deep happy,

and deep happy lasts.



"Likes" make us happy...sure,
but "Likes" are a lot like a drug - you need to go get more when it wears off.


  
Didn't know you could be happy without posting about it?




I am so sorry this sounds so curmudgeony.  This sounds like something the Burgermeister would tell ya, 

No More Facebook!


Maybe that should be my new profile pic.


Let's just go ahead and get all the quotes out of the way...


  1. The words of Oscar Wilde, “I think it's very healthy to spend time alone. You need to know how to be alone and not be defined by another person.”
  2. And, a quote from The Lego Movie, 

“The only thing you need to feel special is to believe you can be,”



(Note:  no mention of Facebook in the quotes.)




We must stop wasting time doing all this stuff,

posting pictures of it,

and waiting for comments about it….



Just DO the stuff.

And then do MORE stuff...

GOOD stuff...


not phony, posing, pretentious, crafted FACEBOOKY stuff.


Do AUTHENTIC STUFF for the sake of the GOOD...




not for the sake of the face.


Humility requires a lot of anonymity, and – well…you can see my point, right?  I mean, if we are always shoving our face in front of another’s face, then there isn't much anonymity. 


In any case...or face…

I am sorry I came down so hard on Facebook.  I know very few people are ready to talk like this on this subject.  I just had to get this out in the open - full disclosure...Facebook really bothers me.  It really really really really stinkin bothers me.  It bothers me.  I hope it bothers you for the same reason it bothers me.

I want authenticity.



I am trying to find my destination;

and so, I am trying to correct my motivation.


It’s a process.

You are privy to the process.

Sorry it is messy.

I think I mostly just wrote this for me...again.  









Thursday, June 26, 2014

Silence Speaks

Blogland is lonely; I ain’t gonna lie to ya.



Over here on The Blog, seems I be talking to myself, which I am pretty good at fortunately, but – still – seems like I sentenced myself to silence

Over there in Facebook, I got a lot of love.  Folks be commenting all the time.  It was chatty and congratulatory.  What woman doesn’t want a cup of that?

Indeed, things at Facebook were going so well.  My long posts were catching on…after just four long years in the throes of mothering toddlers:  I was deranged and candid…just like Honey Boo Boo, and look how trendy she is! 

Facebook Friends would see twelve paragraphs, my signature post size, and they would just know it was from me.  They didn’t even have to understand the entire thing.  They could just read the first and last paragraph and then throw me a bone.  It was loving. 

Now, I check my blog stats, and I am being read. 

Sure. 

My words have been read by over 3500 people now. 

But…psst…like, who are these people? 


I feel so revealed; yet, to whom?  Why am I writing this blog?  Why did I stop blogging all over Facebook?  It wasn’t broken…why did I fix it?


But, nonetheless…I felt I needed to blog.  My husband said something inspiring one day, and I had to blog.  He probably didn’t even know what he was saying….  Heck, he probably wasn’t even talking to ME.  But, it was like he inserted a quarter, and out popped a blog.  No thinking.

Perhaps this blogging is a necessary segue between talking to my family and talking to...strangers.  

This takes guts, talking to outsiders, and – yes – it is a lot less congratulatory.  I mean, your family – even if it is your Facebook family – is very skilled at telling you that you look nice even when you have an apple-sized zit on your nose.

But, these silent strangers...

can they be trusted?



.
I am betting, based on my history, that I am getting what I need. 

I just don’t like it – right away. 

It takes some getting used to. 

What I mean is that – to grow, perhaps as a writer…perhaps as a person – I probably need a little silence,

and a little less acknowledgment,

and maybe a little less agreement.



I don’t know why yet.  I am just sitting here, all silence and stuff, waiting. 




Like sitting in your white “tie it in the back” gown at the doctor, and you can hear the voices outside the door, and you have been waiting in that room, staring at every tacky picture on the wall, to include the long-haired lady with the umbrella on the boat who is now morphing into a dude with a beard,

and you were sure you were dying, which is why you came to the doctor - you urgently hobbled over here to report your symptoms and get some feedback….

So, now you are waiting in this sterile holding cell...anxiously, you tap your foot, waiting, staring, thinking, repeating your symptoms over in your head…for like 45 minutes, in your white cotton gown with green stripes - ew, with your rearend numb and cold, and every time you hear just a little tap near your door...just a little rustle, you sit up straight like, “Oh…yeah…someone is coming in; we are going to get some answers,”

but …no one comes yet,

and so you sit some more, and you attune your listening just a bit further, and now you can hear even the faintest nurse noises down the hallway, and you are able to detect what room the doctor is in…the guy on the other side of the wall is talking to a doctor..they sound chipper...maybe that guy will make it...

and you are completely in the WAITING, doing everything there is to do while waiting...

and by the time the doctor actually comes IN,

you are over all of it. 

You waited yourself well.






Had the doctor entered earlier, all the emotions would have been fresh; your blood pressure would have been through the roof, and you could have convinced the doctor of anything.

But, he waited, so you waited.

And the doctor could quickly see there was nothing much wrong with you.

Had he come earlier,
He might have been convinced of something else,

and YOU could have remained YOUR focus.



Sometimes we are trying to go backwards.



Sometimes, we wait…

To learn we don’t need much of anything…

To learn that we are as we should be - for the moment...





Which allows me to move past myself.

To know what I SHOULD be doing.



To know that what I should be doing has very little to do with me,

other than I am the one who has to do IT.


YOU are the ONE.





And, so…I think this silence is what I need.  The waiting is what I need.

It doesn’t mean to quit – we shouldn’t quit just because the result is not what we are used to receiving.

It might mean to check your motivation.





I think I was writing for me.



I think I am supposed to write for someone else.







And I shouldn’t need a comment.








Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Afloat

Husband was home for a week, and the boring daily routine I have created as a flotation device was swept away in a vibrant wave of all that is Husband:  adventure; conversation; impromptu everythings; cleaning; locating missing items, fixing stuff, and food…lots of food. 

When Husband is not here, we – the kids and I - don’t really do any of that stuff. 

We don’t have adventures;
we don’t talk;
we don’t do anything unless it is planned;
we don’t clean;
we don’t find stuff nor do we fix anything,
and we don’t eat.

Kidding.  I am kidding. 

We absolutely make occasional utterances, 

and we do track down provisions.

breakfast, lunch, and dinner...right here


But, as for the rest of it…not really. 

We, the kids and I, hunker way down.  We slow our pace; we slow our intake; we slow our output; we conserve.

Really.  If I picture the kids and I moving around the house…around the town…around our lives…without my husband…

it very much looks like…survival.


here's a big box of survival right here...


Because…

there is a difference between clinging to a flotation device and happily riding on an enormous inflatable party raft.

Husband makes us brave.

Then, he moves us past brave to enjoying the ride.

And, the next thing you know,



it’s a party.




I, the unflappable mama, make us stable.  Stable is important.  I might not be a party.  But, you can rest with me.  Chill.  I will apply your sunscreen.  I will say things like, “You’re dehydrated.”  And, I will force a nap on you.

It is what I offer.



You don’t really know what your spouse brings to the table of your marriage…of your family…until he is not bringing it daily.  You might be tempted to believe that most of what keeps you all afloat comes from you…just you.  You might be proud enough to think that.

When you remove your spouse, repeatedly and predictably, you come to see his effect…you come to see what he offers.

In my house, my husband is the difference between carefully clinging



  

and bravely riding.





And, I did this - I caused this great reveal:

this reveal of who offers what; brings what; causes what…. 

Well.  I didn’t create it.  God did. 

God fashioned it for me…because I kinda asked for it. 

I mean, I didn’t ask for it:  I cried, and I whined a lot, and I complained to a few lucky friends who listened without really commenting at all because the last thing you want to do when you are talking to a crying, whining friend is say anything besides, “You are awesome,” and “You can do anything you put your mind to doing.” 


But, I did unconsciously ask for this.

About three years ago, you remember...when my husband went through a little health scare, and he couldn’t work for a while, and he was home all day every day, and we were sharing a very small living space with our bounty of children…

and my husband and I were so smooshed together,

seriously…like smooshed.

I'm behind him


And please - right this minute - forget every fantasy you ever had about just aimlessly lounging, tangled limbs, with your husband…and a bunch of grapes…on a raft of bliss…in a sea of nothing…except for your lovely love for each other….

Or, at the very least, put a time-limit on that lovely love stuff…in a sea of nothing…because after about half a day,

you are going to be like, “OK…Lovely Love, what do you have planned for yourself for today?”

And.  When ol Lovely Love says, “Oh nothing...”

You are going to be like, “Oh.  O…K…..”

And when you get off the raft and try to do your thang, and lovely love isn’t doing anythang…you might just be tempted to turn around and scream,

“Hey Lovely…Paint the raft.  Or somethang.”

We had eaten all the grapes



During that time – the time of the unpainted raft…choking down grapes…I couldn’t see where I ended and where Husband began.  I couldn’t see what I did; what Husband did.  Most days, I felt like Husband was trying to do what I should be doing, and I felt like I should just go do what Husband should have been doing…or what I thought Husband should be doing….

It was just a big jumbled mess of role disorder and confusion and tangled limbs.

You can imagine how hard it is to blog like this


And during that time,

I think I remember saying…

okay, I do remember saying it.

I screamed it…

like two inches from his nose…

okay, like an inch from his nose…

“You need to find a job where you like travel or something…”



And, he probably acted like he didn’t even hear me.

And, I think I even took it back.

I know I at least backed away from his nose.



But, God heard me.

God heard the sentiment.



And, so, here I am…

carefully clinging to my flotation device,


with five kiddos,

most of whom want to be on the party boat.




Extremes teach us a lot, but they are not to be sustained:  Husband is looking for a job where he will travel less.




















Thursday, June 19, 2014

Bringing Peace Home

There is a room in my house that brings me great peace. 

When I wake, I lumber straight for this room.  I make sure that I wake before anyone else.  This is key.

I enter this room; I open the blinds, and I sit down in a wooden chair.









For a few moments, I can hear myself breathe.

Then, I notice the sounds of the birds, and I am thankful for them.

I then see a statue of the Blessed Mother, which is a gift given to me by the little Pennsylvania church in which I was raised. 

I was raised Lutheran, attending a little church right down the sidewalk from our house.  I have beautiful memories of that place and its people.  I developed a love for religion there.  I found religion to be like a manual, helping me decide what to do. 

Kids secretly love a manual. 

In my family, though everyone was going to church, no one told me to follow a manual; I chose to follow,

and I am glad no one told me to follow because I am pretty sure – being the way that I was and still am – if someone had told me to follow, I would have stopped following.

I have always been the poster child for freewill.

I digress.






The Blessed Mother statue in my peaceful room stands over 2 feet tall; it was found in my Pennsylvania Lutheran Church about five years ago.  The church was moving to a new location, and they were going through about 100 years worth of “stuff,” getting ready for a big rummage sale. 

They came across this beautifully-painted, flawless statue of the Blessed Mother. 

No one knew how it got there or why it was there.   This was the kind of statue you would find in a Catholic Church.  They concluded that it had been there for a very long time, hidden.  They moved on to packing up the rest of the church.






I had converted to Catholicism when I was in my early twenties.  I began the process because my husband was Catholic, but I continued the process because I found such incredible Truth in my individual study of Catholicism.  

It was the manual of all manuals.

The priest, Father Check – Thank GOD for Father Check – who brought me through my study of Catholicism, was brilliant and perceptive, and he handed me the Catechism and said, 

“Read it.  Let me know if you have any questions.” 

How is that for perfect – for me? 

I read every page, and I wrote pages and pages of questions, and I went to Father Check’s door with them, over and over and over again, and I sat in a wooden chair, and he sat in a wooden chair, and we hashed it out…

for a year.

I started a lot of questions with “What about…” and “Yeah, but…”

and he calmly explained to perfection.

I was fresh out of my Ivy League education, but – I am telling you – this was the best class yet.  The brilliance flowing from this man’s mouth made those highly-paid Ivy Leaguers fade in comparison.

How could one priest take so much time on ONE soul?

I have no idea, 

but to say I am grateful doesn’t even come close to expressing how grateful I am.

I left there informed…to say the least.





Back in Pennsylvania, the Blessed Mother statue was claimed by my mother, who still attends the little Lutheran Church in Pennsylvania to this day.  She explained to the Church Board that her daughter was now Catholic, had a deep love for the Blessed Mother, and she took the large statue home and called me.





We were meeting in Myrtle Beach that summer.  Everyone on my side of the family would be there – grandmother, mom, brother, sister-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews…and the Blessed Mother statue.

My mother wrapped the large statue in towels and blankets, and she placed it in a clothes basket in her loaded-down-for-vacation trunk.  She drove the highly fragile statue from Pennsylvania to Myrtle Beach.

I drove across the country with my – then – four children…I drove without my husband, who had to work.  It was a pilgrimage…driving four young kids from Texas to South Carolina is nothing short of a pilgrimage. 

When I arrived and saw this statue, I couldn’t believe its perfection – the blue of her robe was a blue I had once painted a wall.  It was THE blue.  It is a blue that is bottomlessly deep – you can jump in this blue for a Baptism. 




I stared at her and her, both of my mothers, with tears,





and I couldn’t believe my little church found this and agreed to give it to me…just me….



It was as if, somehow, my little church was telling me it was okay to go, to be Catholic, that we were all One.

And my mother, my very own mother, had carried this statue across six states,

for me.



The Blessed Mother had been waiting for me in that little church…

while I sat through my Sunday School classes;

played in the nursery;

attended Vacation Bible School;

sang in the Children’s Choir;



she was somewhere, hidden, waiting for me.



and I was taking her with me now.



She fills this room in which I now sit

with a peace that I come straight to each morning.


I remember the urgency I felt when driving to get this statue.



I would have driven anywhere to get Her.

And, I know that my mother would have met me in Anywhere – to give Her to me.













Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Metaphorically Speaking

I have been talking about roller coasters. 

I’ve decided that marriage is a roller coaster. 






The information is in the image of the roller coaster – the image conveys so much….

It does such a great job conveying…

that I am able to rest.

We can just think about the roller coaster proudly together.

We point at it – “Look.  We are on a roller coaster.”




Sometimes images just come in and match that with which we are grappling.  Images help immensely.  I like them.  I can pin my theories onto metaphors – they become a sort of bulletin board I use – to display my thoughts. 



Think of them as mental Pinterest…less kitschy…more psycho. 

Your Pinterest board is nothing more than a bunch of images you have located, most of which you will absolutely never ever ever create. 

You just like to collect the ideas…and display them, so that others (including yourself) will know what ideas appeal to you and what you like and –



let us be honest – when you “pin” something – you kinda feel – at some level – like you just made that thing. 

You don’t even have to torment yourself with yarn and hot glue and a pricey trip to Hobby Lobby. 

You pinned it; therefore, you have expressed it.  You don’t have to get dirty. 

What a site, what a pal.

Thank you, Pinterest.  I thought I hated you, but I think I just redefined you.





I can share a metaphor, and someone will GET me…however fleeting.  Neither one of us gets dirty.  We both look at the board and admire the work up there, and it is familiar to us.  We can appreciate it.  



You even feel good when you get me.  You feel smart.  We like this getting each other:  I get you.  You get me.

All this getting makes us feel something.

We like it.

We even like the metaphor-users.  We appreciate their goods.  Sometimes, old guys in taverns get a little carried away with the metaphors, but – even then – we are glad they have found a way to communicate in their stupor.



"Well, aren't you a tall glass of water."



Good metaphors hit you like finding something you have lost…finding it right in front of your face.  You think something magical and mystical and supernatural just happened. 

YES!  I GET IT!  There it IS!




Having that experience with a metaphor will cause a person to make a sound like,

“Oooooooo.” 

You see it.

And, all at once, something is better understood. 

We all just want to be understood.  Understood feels awesome. 

When your husband gives you an “Oooooo,” you crack a smile – you just cannot help it.  Your husband “Oooooo-ed” you, and that means he just advanced in the course...the course of who you are.  That is some form of intimacy, a fortifying type.  It is as if we experience this “Ooooo” as a new guarantee.  Someone understands you a bit better, and – therefore – someone can accommodate you a bit better.  



Maybe your life will get just a smidge easier because someone has more insight as to what makes you tick…what is ticking inside of us…right now.

We are ticking.

Ticking time bombs?

How’s that for a disturbing metaphor?

I totally didn’t even want that one – I just put it there for effect.  You probably thought, “I am NOT a ticking time bomb.  I don’t get what she is saying at all.”







See – the wrong metaphor is just as powerful.





I pin an image.  You get what I have in my head.  You know more about me. 

But, an image-based type of knowing is limited.  It is nothing like being in there for the long haul.

From an image, maybe you will extrapolate way more than I wanted…you might springboard in a direction that is way off.

If I pin one picture of a rag doll with red yarn hair, you might start sending me pictures of Raggedy Ann, and I will be like, “Why?”  I pinned the red yarn hair picture because I liked the way the face was done on that doll.  I hadn’t even thought of the hair.





One image...

One metaphor...

doesn’t mean you know everything there is to know about me.

No image...no metaphor can do all that.




And so – back to the roller coaster.

I think my marriage is a roller coaster.

You might say, "Ooooooo."

And, then you might extrapolate, "That GIRL'S life is a MESS. Lawd have MERCY.  I am glad I am ME."


Marriage is a roller coaster, but so is life.

Except – we didn’t ask to get on.  We don’t know when we are getting off.

What kind of ride is this? 

For my life ride, 

I think I should have been put on the Swan Boats.






Which ride do you wish you were on?