Yesterday I made cookies. I was somewhere through the creaming and adding when I was filled with something that made me stop and wonder just what I was feeling. Looking into the bowl of thick, gloppy stuff, I realized it was some combination of peace and hope and memory. Gratitude.
Not long ago it was fairly frequent that I figured a bowl of cookie dough and a glass of whiskey made a really tasty and reasonable supper. They were nights I hadn't fully prepared for, nights that were regular and predictable, but would still sneak up on me every week. Every week, I judged myself. Some weeks I made cookie dough. I was very blessed in that time to have two people in particular who would simply sit with me, without judgment of any kind, and share cookie dough. One would also share whiskey. Both would let me talk if I needed to, or sit quietly and eat. Or we would watch something on Netflix to make us laugh or cry.
The gratitude I felt yesterday was related to all of those things. And because that time is behind me. And for the memory itself. I'm grateful that I have dear friends who know my heart - not simply because they do, but also because they are willing to listen to me, to look at me and into me. To play "worst case" with me, and also to talk about far-fetched dreams that really mean something else I'm truly aiming for.
Once upon a time, I thought I had hope, that I knew what hope was, is. The other day, emailing a friend, I said that I felt something I couldn't quite define, but it was small, deep, and good. I liked it. In the course of describing it, I realized what I was feeling was real, honest to goodness hope. It's smaller than I pictured it, but stronger, in a nebulous and changing kind of way. Where I'd thought hope was supposed to be something grand and visible to everyone around me, I discovered this hope is mine and mine alone. This hope is attached to the dreams I have that develop into goals - goals that are changeable, malleable, flexible, and even discardable. This hope feeds my soul, rather than my judgment. I spent a whole lot of my life thinking that a goal was permanent; once it was set, it had to be attained, or failure was the result. I never knew there were other options - modifying goals, maybe (but only to make them harder to reach), but scrapping them? Never. Hope, I'm discovering, is related to true humility - seeing yourself for who and what you really are. Knowing, acknowledging gifts and flaws, and working to improve both. I think hope is what feeds that growth.
this hope is what came from those cookie dough and whiskey nights. It's what had me washing those dishes the next morning, and making it through another week. It's what's pulled me away from that self-judgment zone; or rather, is pulling me away, as I still run into it more often than I'd like. It's what brings me peace when the unavoidable "unpleasantries" crop up, as they do almost daily. Because it's always there. The Big Hope I thought was so definitive seemed easier to lose, to have to look for and work for. That hope left me feeling hopeless, and therefore like a failure in some ways for having lost it or let it go. This new hope, this small nugget of reality, is with me regardless of what I see in front of me. Quite often it peeks around my shoulder and looks at me without saying a word until I realize its presence and smile. Like the best of friends, like a lover. This hope stands by me in the pain and hurt, and in the good times, too. This hope says, "yep, that'll be fun, if we get there" without ever saying "that's impossible." Sometimes it does ask "is that really what you want?" And sometimes my response is "yes, it is what I want, even though I am fully aware that it's not what I need, or maybe even not what's best for me, but for today, it's what I want to dream about and wish for." And there's no guilt in the wishing. This hope laughs with me and cries with me, and showed me how far I've come - with a bowl of cookie dough.
I have miles to go. And I'm looking forward to every one of them: steep and rocky, rough and uncharted, smooth and freshly paved, fast, slow, and in between. I have hope as a companion.
Showing posts with label contentment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label contentment. Show all posts
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Saturday, May 2, 2015
a shared space
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The purpose of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land is not to visit a place; it is to find a God: the God made visible in His Son Jesus, who walked these lands; and with each step made not only this place, but the whole world holy.
~Fr. Chet Snyder, A Sabbath Shared
Perhaps this is why I still have a hard time knowing what to say when people ask about my trip. There was a priest I spoke with on the roof of Notre Dame, overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, who told me that he preferred Jerusalem to Rome, not because of the sites and location, but because of the people who visit. He told me the disposition of the heart seemed different: those visiting Rome tended to be visiting the place, while those visiting Israel were looking to know a Man.
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Not long ago, my pastor asked where I would go back to, which site, which spot would I choose to go to and stay for a few hours. Without hesitation I replied, "The hotel lobby in Jerusalem." I knew it seemed an odd answer to him, but I had been considering the question since our return (without thinking I'd ever be asked), so I had a ready explanation. Jerusalem was our last hotel, and we stayed there three nights. Each day when we returned to the hotel, I'd go up to the room and drop off packages, freshen up, and go to the lobby. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always with a glass of wine or a cup of espresso. And I would unpack the day, the sites, the sounds, the very air. Whether I was engaged in conversation or sitting alone, I truly pondered how everything was fitting together. In that lobby is where we saw the group come in wearing their Purim costumes, heading to a party, so we Googled Purim and wondered at the marvelous timing of our trip. We watched and heard interactions in a language and custom we didn't know or understand. That lobby is where I began to really know some others on the trip; where we shared feelings, doubts, questions, personal histories. But all the while, I was very aware that Christ was in our midst, sitting with us, listening, laughing, sharing.Reading Fr Snyder's words this morning, I was again sitting in the lobby, only my physical self was in Pennsylvania at our dining room table. Lately, when I think of God, of praying, of finding comfort, I am sitting in an armchair in the Leonardo in Jerusalem. Actually, that was the point of the question from my friend. We were talking about prayer. His advice was to ask Jesus to join me in the lobby for a glass of wine or a cup of espresso, and spend time together unpacking the day: the good and the bad, the challenges for the next day, and the celebrations in my heart. And I do. Not every day, as I probably should, but certainly more often than I had been reviewing, preparing, praying with Him as a Friend. My laptop won't recognize my phone since my return, so the nine hundred or so photos I've taken are in limbo. As I think of sharing them, I email them to myself, or pull from Facebook something I've posted there. I've wondered why this inconvenience doesn't bother me terribly. And I've wondered, too, why I'm not more frustrated by the technology. The thing is, what's most important about going to Israel, being there, is in my heart, not on my phone in digital photographs. Eventually I will manage to get them to my computer and print a few. In the meantime, I have the clearest pictures in my mind, because I'm still there most days, for at least a little while.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
scare the world
Goofing off, avoiding what I really want to do (and need to be doing) now that I feel better after a few days of being sick, I came across this. It struck me, because of how much I still sometimes fear being me. Not because I don't know who I am (which used to be the reason), but because of the reaction that typically follows.
Unfortunately, I think the "scare people" part is spot on. I scare people. I've never intended to. To be honest, I don't think they are actually afraid; I think they think they are because they don't know how else to define it. I make people uncomfortable. I'm an introvert who doesn't like to pretend. I can; I just don't like it, and I'm not very good at it. I don't like to talk about nothing, and I don't like to talk about people, and I don't like to talk about personal things (my own or others') with people I hardly know.
Bottom line: I'm a mom. I always have been, and I always will be. I have a job, but it's just a job to me, it's not a career. I suppose there's a possibility that there is plenty of time for a career for me, but in all honesty, being available for my kids -- and now my mom -- is far more important to me. When all of them got old enough to be alone for extended amounts of time, I was told that I would feel more gratified, more satisfied, happier, even, if I started working full time. Actually, the opposite is true. I feel far less appreciated, needed, capable now than I ever did as a stay at home mom. Both at home and in an office. Don't get me wrong; I like my job as much as anyone else. I just feel less connected to my family, and less able to finish anything that I start.
One day, I will be replaced at my job. It's inevitable, whether it's two months, two years, or two decades in the future. I will be replaced, and that is a good thing. Nothing can ever replace my family. More often than not, that's where I am in my thoughts when you see me; I'm with my family. Always. Or I'm praying -- that they know that I am not trying to find fulfillment somewhere else.
Unfortunately, I think the "scare people" part is spot on. I scare people. I've never intended to. To be honest, I don't think they are actually afraid; I think they think they are because they don't know how else to define it. I make people uncomfortable. I'm an introvert who doesn't like to pretend. I can; I just don't like it, and I'm not very good at it. I don't like to talk about nothing, and I don't like to talk about people, and I don't like to talk about personal things (my own or others') with people I hardly know.
Bottom line: I'm a mom. I always have been, and I always will be. I have a job, but it's just a job to me, it's not a career. I suppose there's a possibility that there is plenty of time for a career for me, but in all honesty, being available for my kids -- and now my mom -- is far more important to me. When all of them got old enough to be alone for extended amounts of time, I was told that I would feel more gratified, more satisfied, happier, even, if I started working full time. Actually, the opposite is true. I feel far less appreciated, needed, capable now than I ever did as a stay at home mom. Both at home and in an office. Don't get me wrong; I like my job as much as anyone else. I just feel less connected to my family, and less able to finish anything that I start.
One day, I will be replaced at my job. It's inevitable, whether it's two months, two years, or two decades in the future. I will be replaced, and that is a good thing. Nothing can ever replace my family. More often than not, that's where I am in my thoughts when you see me; I'm with my family. Always. Or I'm praying -- that they know that I am not trying to find fulfillment somewhere else.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
lunchtime
"Mozzarella balls always seem a better idea before I eat them."
"Yeah. It's almost like my memory of them is better than they are. And cheese sticks are just bad when they get cold."
"Exactly.....Pretty much they are bad unless they are burning everything--the plate, your fingers, your tongue. If they are not too hot to taste, they really aren't all that great. Maybe I just don't really like mozzarella, and just never realized it."
"Ha! Maybe. But string cheese is good. Maybe it's the breading that's bad. "
"Yeah. String cheese is good stuff. It's mostly just raw cheese sticks."
Something to think about.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
turn, turn, turn
This afternoon, I closed up the porches for the season (though not the patio--I'm seeing at least one more fireside before it gets way too cold!). The furniture was put away, and the table folded up, the floors swept, and the rug rolled. Many other years, this process has frustrated and depressed me. Getting someone to help me out with carrying and moving, or simply not grumble while doing so has stressed me and irritated me far more than even I thought necessary.
Today, though, was different. The boys went out to rake, and when I joined them, they reminded me that there weren't enough rakes for me to help them. They got the leaves moved (and worked well together, to boot! Bonus!), and I told them I would take care of the furniture. As I worked, I thought about how much had happened on those porches this summer: the laughter, the tears, the growth, the pain. I thought about the prayer, the reading, the learning, the friendships that formed and developed, the wine that was poured, and the food that was shared. I reflected on the moments, the memories, the Love. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy at having spent the time well, and at the prospect of opening up again in the spring. For the first time, the seasonality of outdoor living areas became revitalizing in the hibernation phase.
Last night I heard news of a young woman--the age of our eldest--who died suddenly. Guy and I prayed for her, her family, her roommates and classmates, friends and relatives. We don't know her, but that's irrelevant; we are parents. We care. We talked then about hard topics, prayers, God, trust, peace and lamentation. This morning at church, three of the songs we sang were favorites of Dad's--songs he would either sing out especially energetically at church, or that he would sing at home as he wandered around, puttering. At communion, after we sang, and while the piano continued, I was suddenly filled with the joy of knowing that Dad had been one of the souls there to welcome her home. That's what Dad would do, that's who he was. Once again, I found myself smiling and chuckling while tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed at the statue of the risen Lord over the altar.
Closing up the porches was a welcome today; a welcome home to the heart of our home. Expanding onto the porches for the warmer seasons is the open armed embrace of our family spirit. Filling them with the people we know and love, and even occasionally with strangers, feels like the group hugs I often crave when I'm out and about. Dad was always involved in those, and in them I felt safe, loved, elevated. In the spring, I hope that I remember today, and the marvelous interplay of emotions and the thankfulness in my heart. More than anything else I have in my life, I am thankful for the faith I have, and for the Relationship made possible through it.
Today, though, was different. The boys went out to rake, and when I joined them, they reminded me that there weren't enough rakes for me to help them. They got the leaves moved (and worked well together, to boot! Bonus!), and I told them I would take care of the furniture. As I worked, I thought about how much had happened on those porches this summer: the laughter, the tears, the growth, the pain. I thought about the prayer, the reading, the learning, the friendships that formed and developed, the wine that was poured, and the food that was shared. I reflected on the moments, the memories, the Love. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy at having spent the time well, and at the prospect of opening up again in the spring. For the first time, the seasonality of outdoor living areas became revitalizing in the hibernation phase.
Last night I heard news of a young woman--the age of our eldest--who died suddenly. Guy and I prayed for her, her family, her roommates and classmates, friends and relatives. We don't know her, but that's irrelevant; we are parents. We care. We talked then about hard topics, prayers, God, trust, peace and lamentation. This morning at church, three of the songs we sang were favorites of Dad's--songs he would either sing out especially energetically at church, or that he would sing at home as he wandered around, puttering. At communion, after we sang, and while the piano continued, I was suddenly filled with the joy of knowing that Dad had been one of the souls there to welcome her home. That's what Dad would do, that's who he was. Once again, I found myself smiling and chuckling while tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed at the statue of the risen Lord over the altar.
Closing up the porches was a welcome today; a welcome home to the heart of our home. Expanding onto the porches for the warmer seasons is the open armed embrace of our family spirit. Filling them with the people we know and love, and even occasionally with strangers, feels like the group hugs I often crave when I'm out and about. Dad was always involved in those, and in them I felt safe, loved, elevated. In the spring, I hope that I remember today, and the marvelous interplay of emotions and the thankfulness in my heart. More than anything else I have in my life, I am thankful for the faith I have, and for the Relationship made possible through it.
Friday, September 6, 2013
standing still
I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.
At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.
This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......
Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.
"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)
At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.
This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......
Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.
"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)
Friday, June 7, 2013
a long way
I read something this evening that made me think hard about the good things in my life. About the pearls of wisdom, the blessings (big and small), the struggles that I have learned to embrace because in the grand scheme of things, they are nothing to anyone but me (and that's a whole level of selfish I don't even want to get into specifically right now!), and most of all, my faith. Lately, I've been thinking, pondering, attempting to discern what lies in my future. Today someone asked me a question that caught me off guard, but I was able to answer honestly--and the answer, with no guilt, was that I didn't know the answer. (Now that I think about it, that was directly related to the portion of Merton that I read at lunch!)
Anyway, what I read tonight was about comfort zones, and it's not the first time this person has brought them up! Over the past week or so, I've felt a little uncomfortable about faith, but for a reason I've never encountered before: I've been a tad uneasy because I've been comfortable. Sounds a little roundabout, but here's what it comes down to....the more I wonder where I'm going, while moving forward step by step, the more I keep coming around to who I am; who I've always known I was called to be. Yet it's evolving......and I'm honestly avoiding what I want to say right now.
Here's the thing: so many of the friends I've made at our church over the years have said, as I have, that our parish feels like home. It feels friendly, warm, inviting. In the time we've been there, we've had two pastors, which could be part of that feeling, but it comes from within the entire community. There is just something there, something special. This morning the Pope tweeted about need and wastefulness. A little later, my minute meditation was about sacrifice. Then a note about a nearby parish that is hoping to engage local youth in wholesome, safe activities to get them off the street. The page I read in Merton was about knowing oneself so as to ignore one's own desires to follow the will of God. Then the note I read tonight about an upcoming challenge.
Back to who I am. I'm a Mom. Even before we had children, I was attracted to the Mom role. So as I'm moving forward, as our kids are growing up and developing into fine young men, I've been wondering what happens next. I will always be their mother, but they won't always need mothering in the same way. I find I miss, truly, the huggy, clingy times; the frantic, too much to do in one day times. Not enough to depress me, but enough to be able to identify some of what is missing, diminishing in my life--the nurturing, the one on one, the deep gratitude for a few minutes alone. We have wonderful discussions, our laughter is on another level. Somehow, I'm feeling a need to share that some more.
I'm getting the idea that all of this will tie together somehow. But it may not. It could just be that a number of pieces kind of look like they belong in this part of the puzzle, but in reality, they don't fit together at all. That's okay. Just looking at them, admiring them, and trying them out in different combinations is fulfilling in and of itself. I've come a long way.
Anyway, what I read tonight was about comfort zones, and it's not the first time this person has brought them up! Over the past week or so, I've felt a little uncomfortable about faith, but for a reason I've never encountered before: I've been a tad uneasy because I've been comfortable. Sounds a little roundabout, but here's what it comes down to....the more I wonder where I'm going, while moving forward step by step, the more I keep coming around to who I am; who I've always known I was called to be. Yet it's evolving......and I'm honestly avoiding what I want to say right now.
Here's the thing: so many of the friends I've made at our church over the years have said, as I have, that our parish feels like home. It feels friendly, warm, inviting. In the time we've been there, we've had two pastors, which could be part of that feeling, but it comes from within the entire community. There is just something there, something special. This morning the Pope tweeted about need and wastefulness. A little later, my minute meditation was about sacrifice. Then a note about a nearby parish that is hoping to engage local youth in wholesome, safe activities to get them off the street. The page I read in Merton was about knowing oneself so as to ignore one's own desires to follow the will of God. Then the note I read tonight about an upcoming challenge.
Back to who I am. I'm a Mom. Even before we had children, I was attracted to the Mom role. So as I'm moving forward, as our kids are growing up and developing into fine young men, I've been wondering what happens next. I will always be their mother, but they won't always need mothering in the same way. I find I miss, truly, the huggy, clingy times; the frantic, too much to do in one day times. Not enough to depress me, but enough to be able to identify some of what is missing, diminishing in my life--the nurturing, the one on one, the deep gratitude for a few minutes alone. We have wonderful discussions, our laughter is on another level. Somehow, I'm feeling a need to share that some more.
I'm getting the idea that all of this will tie together somehow. But it may not. It could just be that a number of pieces kind of look like they belong in this part of the puzzle, but in reality, they don't fit together at all. That's okay. Just looking at them, admiring them, and trying them out in different combinations is fulfilling in and of itself. I've come a long way.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
over the river
Once upon a time, my husband asked what I wanted for Mother's Day. As long as I could remember, the only thing I ever wanted to be (after a brief time when I wanted to be a nurse) was a momma, but my response was swift: A weekend home alone. Being at home with babies and a dog, in a place where I knew few people, and even fewer places to go could make for some rough days. I loved being the mom, and I even enjoyed the chores around the house that go along with being a stay at home mom. The idea of being the only one in the house, with no schedule whatsoever, for two days sounded so luxurious! For years, that was my one and only present from Guy and the boys. On Friday after work, they would head off to my parents' house to celebrate Mother's Day with my mom. (A wonderful byproduct of these excursions: Guy and Dad became the best of friends, sharing time, house and yard work, and heart to heart conversations that I never even knew about until recently. They shared a deep and special connection.) Back home, I would eat what I liked, when I liked; stay up late reading, sew or putter all day (no chores!!); soak in the tub....anything at all. I didn't even need to walk the dog, because he would go with the menfolk.
Mother's Day was two days ago. We took Mom to breakfast, and then took the scenic route to Church (not the cynic route--that's another story!), where we mothers were encouraged to "demand respect" for the rest of the day. I'd already decided that what I really wanted to do was finish my reading for Faith Matters, do some research for book club, and do some writing, but every time I sat down to read, someone needed some important answer. At first, I patiently closed my book, and tried to offer my attention to whichever mancub needed me. Before long, I gave up on trying to feign patience, packed up my stuff, and moved upstairs to our bedroom. Next thing I knew, I was annoyed that I frequently feel as though I'm driven away from the common areas of our home. I found myself praying for some peace in my swirling mind.
Suddenly, I realized what was happening. Clearly I was not meant to be reading at that moment, not meant to be by myself, or in my own world. I'd missed the chance to play a game with our youngest, but there was still time to make it to a movie. So my Mother's Day this year was not what I had planned, but in the end, I did get my reading done, we enjoyed a film together, and our oldest told us how proud he is of us. And two of their friends surprised me and touched my heart with an unexpected text, and even more unexpected flowers.
I am blessed to be able to live my dream, and that the boys all know what a blessing each of them is to me. And I'm especially blessed to have an angel by my side to balance me. Long before we knew each other, we each chose as Confirmation saints parents: Anne and Joseph. Long before we met each other, we each knew that right here is where we wanted and needed to be. And these boys are the light of our lives.
Mother's Day was two days ago. We took Mom to breakfast, and then took the scenic route to Church (not the cynic route--that's another story!), where we mothers were encouraged to "demand respect" for the rest of the day. I'd already decided that what I really wanted to do was finish my reading for Faith Matters, do some research for book club, and do some writing, but every time I sat down to read, someone needed some important answer. At first, I patiently closed my book, and tried to offer my attention to whichever mancub needed me. Before long, I gave up on trying to feign patience, packed up my stuff, and moved upstairs to our bedroom. Next thing I knew, I was annoyed that I frequently feel as though I'm driven away from the common areas of our home. I found myself praying for some peace in my swirling mind.
Suddenly, I realized what was happening. Clearly I was not meant to be reading at that moment, not meant to be by myself, or in my own world. I'd missed the chance to play a game with our youngest, but there was still time to make it to a movie. So my Mother's Day this year was not what I had planned, but in the end, I did get my reading done, we enjoyed a film together, and our oldest told us how proud he is of us. And two of their friends surprised me and touched my heart with an unexpected text, and even more unexpected flowers.
I am blessed to be able to live my dream, and that the boys all know what a blessing each of them is to me. And I'm especially blessed to have an angel by my side to balance me. Long before we knew each other, we each chose as Confirmation saints parents: Anne and Joseph. Long before we met each other, we each knew that right here is where we wanted and needed to be. And these boys are the light of our lives.
Monday, April 8, 2013
wild blue yonder
My husband drops me off at work every morning, and picks me up at the end of the day. These little five-minute trips have become treasured time for us, and sometimes the face of everything can change in that span.
Roughly nine months out of the year, he is coaching 5-7 days a week, in addition to a full-time job and a couple of special volunteer positions that are dear to him. The three months he's off (not all in a row!) are also golden time that we have come to cherish. (It hasn't always been that way--we've known our share of crankiness and resentment, but we're grownng, learning, evolving. We've started to appreciate the blessing of the time we share.) Added to this juggling act is the time we need to nurture our own friendships and needs. It's not easy. (My Minute Meditation for today: Faith is not a cushion to rest easy upon. Faith takes work and dedication. Another one of those not so coincidental things!)
Anyway, yesterday, a friend and I made plans to have some girl time tonight. While I have been looking forward to it, I also know that Guy is off tonight. That wasn't going to stop me from going (he wouldn't have let me cancel, anyway!), but a small part of me felt bad for making plans on a night he's home. This morning, he asked what I thought of his asking a friend of his about going out tonight, too. I thought it a marvelous idea! Both of us need to work harder at cultivating our friendships in order to enrich our relationship with each other, and with our family. When he picked me up today, he said he'd asked his friend.
"Just read my messages!" Instead of going out later, while I would be out with the girls, he had an invitation to go flying. "When?" I asked.
In a flash, he was saying, "Be careful, you're on speaker!" They would meet after dropping me off at home. I mentioned that I was trying not to be jealous.
By the time we got home, conversing about the appointment he'd taken Mom to today, I realized there was not a bit of jealousy in me. I am ecstatic for him! He gets to spend some time with a good friend, doing something I don't think he's ever done before, and it's a gorgeous day. What more could I ask for my husband? Later, I will get to see the excitement in his eyes as he tells me all about it, and he'll get to relive my girls night with me, too.
As he pulled out of the driveway, I said a prayer of thanksgiving, and laughed with joy.
Roughly nine months out of the year, he is coaching 5-7 days a week, in addition to a full-time job and a couple of special volunteer positions that are dear to him. The three months he's off (not all in a row!) are also golden time that we have come to cherish. (It hasn't always been that way--we've known our share of crankiness and resentment, but we're grownng, learning, evolving. We've started to appreciate the blessing of the time we share.) Added to this juggling act is the time we need to nurture our own friendships and needs. It's not easy. (My Minute Meditation for today: Faith is not a cushion to rest easy upon. Faith takes work and dedication. Another one of those not so coincidental things!)
Anyway, yesterday, a friend and I made plans to have some girl time tonight. While I have been looking forward to it, I also know that Guy is off tonight. That wasn't going to stop me from going (he wouldn't have let me cancel, anyway!), but a small part of me felt bad for making plans on a night he's home. This morning, he asked what I thought of his asking a friend of his about going out tonight, too. I thought it a marvelous idea! Both of us need to work harder at cultivating our friendships in order to enrich our relationship with each other, and with our family. When he picked me up today, he said he'd asked his friend.
"Just read my messages!" Instead of going out later, while I would be out with the girls, he had an invitation to go flying. "When?" I asked.
In a flash, he was saying, "Be careful, you're on speaker!" They would meet after dropping me off at home. I mentioned that I was trying not to be jealous.
By the time we got home, conversing about the appointment he'd taken Mom to today, I realized there was not a bit of jealousy in me. I am ecstatic for him! He gets to spend some time with a good friend, doing something I don't think he's ever done before, and it's a gorgeous day. What more could I ask for my husband? Later, I will get to see the excitement in his eyes as he tells me all about it, and he'll get to relive my girls night with me, too.
As he pulled out of the driveway, I said a prayer of thanksgiving, and laughed with joy.
Monday, March 25, 2013
the little things
Peace and happiness, from what I can tell, is found in the subtleties of life, rather than in the extremes. Yes, our trip to Hawaii was amazing, our wedding day was unforgettable, the births of each of our children are indelibly printed on my heart--but the common denominator, the part that gave me the most happiness in each of those things, is the simple fact that I was sharing them, and feeling the little things that made them special. Like seeing my husband and my brother play in the waves like little kids. Shopping with a fellow un-shopper. Dancing the polka with my little brother. Knowing that when we directed the kissing stuff to our attendants, they would be more than happy to oblige. The look of wonder on my husband's face as he first gazed at each of our boys.
While these events were momentous, I find these feelings in my average, everyday interactions. Just now, I hear the voices of my husband and two of the boys, coming home from practice. They are laughing and sharing stories, and my heart warms with the reality of the beautiful relationship they have. Even the times when I get into heated discussions with our rather vociferous son, I can see the beauty in resisting frustration (and failing, frequently! But we are getting better at it!) and maintaining a level head to have a rational discussion. The feeling of accomplishment when the menu for the week is made; the groceries bought and put away.
At one time, I believed that the high points of life were what makes the low points bearable. Yes, they help, but in all honesty, what gets me through the rough times is the knowledge, and the trust, that tomorrow, or maybe the next day, will be fairly normal, with little joys, minor grumblings, lots of love, and a houseful of noise (for now). Having four boys makes for some wide differentials. Without this discovery of peace within, I'm pretty sure we'd be looking at some pretty empty-feeling days later on, when they all move on, as they should. Instead, I'm confident we will have the tools we need to build our "regular days" into the special days that begin with each sunrise.
While these events were momentous, I find these feelings in my average, everyday interactions. Just now, I hear the voices of my husband and two of the boys, coming home from practice. They are laughing and sharing stories, and my heart warms with the reality of the beautiful relationship they have. Even the times when I get into heated discussions with our rather vociferous son, I can see the beauty in resisting frustration (and failing, frequently! But we are getting better at it!) and maintaining a level head to have a rational discussion. The feeling of accomplishment when the menu for the week is made; the groceries bought and put away.
At one time, I believed that the high points of life were what makes the low points bearable. Yes, they help, but in all honesty, what gets me through the rough times is the knowledge, and the trust, that tomorrow, or maybe the next day, will be fairly normal, with little joys, minor grumblings, lots of love, and a houseful of noise (for now). Having four boys makes for some wide differentials. Without this discovery of peace within, I'm pretty sure we'd be looking at some pretty empty-feeling days later on, when they all move on, as they should. Instead, I'm confident we will have the tools we need to build our "regular days" into the special days that begin with each sunrise.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
as old as you feel
Gramma Katie drove herself to the hospital 25 years ago, probably with no intention of ever going home. She grew up in an era when going to the hospital was at least as dangerous as staying home; an act of desperation. The last time I saw her, over Christmas break, she'd been coming down with a cold. I remember talking to Dad in January sometime, and in an offhand comment, he told me that she still had the cough, it was just hanging on, making her drag a bit. I sent my love. I probably even sent her a get well card. I was a freshman in college, and she'd been a part of my life forever.
When we were really little, my sister and I would spend weekends with our other grandparents. We also stayed with them for a week or more while the rest of the family drove out west. We had no idea, really, where "out west" was, or why they went, or even why they left us at home. (Now, after travelling all over the country with my own brood, I've begun to understand why they would have left us home! Still, we all jokingly bring it up every time we can when we are all together!) We were told to be on our best behavior, and we certainly tried, but with no one else to play with, and with only the toys and games Grammy and Grampy had around, after a while, we started to act more like ourselves. Which wasn't particularly "well behaved." Close in age, we fought, disagreed, and pouted often. I don't know how many times we stayed there, together after that. I do know that my parents never went on a long vacation like that again until we were very much older!
In between, we spent many weekends at Gramma Katie's. It was easier to behave there because she made it very clear that if we didn't, there would be no Pepsi with lunch, and there was no way we would be able to stay up to watch Love Boat and Fantasy Island. (I remember once I was sent to bed before Fantasy Island started because I had said something mean to my sister. I have no idea what it was, why I said it, but I clearly remember that she had made a rule, and stuck to it. I sat on the steps and cried before going up to bed, hoping she would relent. I'm proud to say she did not; instead, she ignored me completely. She was stronger than many women I know--including myself.) Lunch meant lively conversation and America's Top 40 on the radio, or Bandstand, I'm not sure which incarnation it was, but it was on, and part of our lives there.
Growing up, we called her "Grammy with the white hair" to distinguish her from our other Grammy, who was "Grammy and Grampy Grammy." It was quite a relief, actually, when in junior high or high school, when interviewing her on the porch for some kind of school project, that she told us about growing up on a farm with her brothers. About being chased and tackled by a goose that pinned her to the ground and started pulling her hair out--her brothers didn't know what to do, and figured the goose would kill her. They finally chased it away. She said they always picked on her and gave her a hard time: about being a girl, about being a baby, about having brown eyes, or scraped knees, or anything else. She laughed, as she did about nearly everything, and said they were pretty rotten, and always called her Katie, which she hated. Then she looked down and said that she missed them terribly. All of them, and everything about them. We asked if it would help if we called her Katie, an idea that she thought brilliant. Thus, she was reborn, sometime in her 70's, as Gramma Katie. It took some getting used to, and to convince our brothers and sister, but it fit her so well.
I asked her once why she never went out to dinner with the neighbor who was always so clearly sweet on her. She said that once, she and Grampa Henry were sitting on the porch talking, and she mentioned to him that if anything ever happened to her, she expected that he would find himself a new wife, and he would have her blessing. His response: Okay. That's it. No, "I'd want the same for you," or "I'm sure you would find someone, too, eventually." Just "Okay." She took that to mean that when he said "Until death parts us," he meant both of them. She said she didn't mind, really, she enjoyed being on her own.
They met on a blind date, that she said went terribly. She was older than him, nearly a spinster, actually, and figured he could do better. At the end of the evening, she told him not to bother calling when he came back to town. He had other plans, he called again, wooed her, won her, and ultimately bought her a beautiful engagement ring from Tiffany's in New York. She loved to mention that fact, that it was from Tiffany's in New York, and sometimes she'd laugh afterwards, and other times she'd just look at it and smile, eyes shining. From her I learned the value of seeing the love enclosed in the stone, the special effort in choosing just the right one. The size, shape and price matter far less than the "why." When I gaze at my own engagement ring, I feel how she looked: special to someone.
She had a way of looking at life that made it fun to be. For another project, I asked her what her nationality was (I knew Grampa Henry was Irish), and she said, proudly, that she was a Mutt, and that I should be proud of that fact, too. I laughed, and told her that my teachers would probably not like that answer, so she went on to explain. It seems the little Eastern European town her ancestors were from had had borders change around it so many times, she had no idea what nationality they were. When some of them were born, it was Austria; others, Hungary, or Czechoslovakia. It was easier, and made more sense to her, to think of herself as an American, a Mutt. (This is, after all, a melting pot, right? And why were those people in school trying to separate us all out again?) To further complicate the national background question, she was raised Eastern Orthodox, and was taught that when a girl marries, she becomes one with her husband: his home, his family, his faith. Therefore, when she married this Irish Catholic man, she became, for all intents and purposes, a Roman Catholic, and a rather unconvincing Irish woman.
One of my personal mandatory stops before leaving for college was at Gramma Katie's house. It was one of the few times I was there by myself. It was the most beautiful late summer day, sunny, breezy, and just the right temperature. We sat on the porch, where we had watched so many thunder storms, read so many books, heard so many stories, drinking lemonade, and talking about futures. She was so proud of me going away to school, moving forward in life, meeting new people, and having new adventures. I told her I would miss her most of all, and I meant it. With her smile, her laughing eyes, her beautifully wrinkled face, her determination, she was an amazing role model--and a fantastic cheerleader, attending dance recitals, school and church events, and always asking about my friends, my classes, my life, and telling me about hers. As I hugged her goodbye, tears in my eyes, she asked me to make her a promise never to get old and boring. (probably paraphrasing George Burns, who probably would have met his match in her!) She told me she was very serious, that so many fun kids go off to college and with the learning they do there, they get old, serious and boring. I laughingly promised, and she knew that I meant it.
On my way home, I stopped and bought a bottle of bubbles. Those bubbles sat on my desk in front of the window in my dorm room, and I would often have to explain them to visitors and roommates. Occasionally, I'd take them outside and blow bubbles sitting on the wall, looking at the Bay (usually meaning that I was thinking through some problem that was threatening to make me feel older), or in the halls just to crack people up. In February of that year, when the phone call came that the doctors and nurses were pretty sure she'd had a stroke because she'd asked how the pain killers know where the pain is (a ridiculous reason to "know" she'd had a stroke--it was a perfectly normal question coming from her! Clearly they did not know her well enough to be treating her!), my roommate and I blew bubbles in Gramma Katie's honor. And again, a few days later, on February 15, we blew bubbles again after another phone call, although my dear, sweet roommate blew more than I did, because I was crying too much to blow well.
We worried while planning Dad's funeral 20 years later that it would change Valentine's Day forever having the funeral that day. Then we remembered that Dad managed to celebrate his birthday, and enjoy it for many years, despite the fact that his mother's funeral was on his birthday. In Gramma Katie style, he told me he looked at that day as an opportunity to visit with his sisters, and spend his birthday with them and their husbands. Through the darkness, he saw light--a faint glimmer, flickering and sputtering at times, I'm sure, but a light nonetheless. I strive to follow their example in my own life: being positive, devoted, faithful, and young at heart. Sometimes I falter, and some of those times are longer than others, but all in all, I think I've been doing well at keeping my promise.
I love you, Gramma Katie!
When we were really little, my sister and I would spend weekends with our other grandparents. We also stayed with them for a week or more while the rest of the family drove out west. We had no idea, really, where "out west" was, or why they went, or even why they left us at home. (Now, after travelling all over the country with my own brood, I've begun to understand why they would have left us home! Still, we all jokingly bring it up every time we can when we are all together!) We were told to be on our best behavior, and we certainly tried, but with no one else to play with, and with only the toys and games Grammy and Grampy had around, after a while, we started to act more like ourselves. Which wasn't particularly "well behaved." Close in age, we fought, disagreed, and pouted often. I don't know how many times we stayed there, together after that. I do know that my parents never went on a long vacation like that again until we were very much older!
In between, we spent many weekends at Gramma Katie's. It was easier to behave there because she made it very clear that if we didn't, there would be no Pepsi with lunch, and there was no way we would be able to stay up to watch Love Boat and Fantasy Island. (I remember once I was sent to bed before Fantasy Island started because I had said something mean to my sister. I have no idea what it was, why I said it, but I clearly remember that she had made a rule, and stuck to it. I sat on the steps and cried before going up to bed, hoping she would relent. I'm proud to say she did not; instead, she ignored me completely. She was stronger than many women I know--including myself.) Lunch meant lively conversation and America's Top 40 on the radio, or Bandstand, I'm not sure which incarnation it was, but it was on, and part of our lives there.
Growing up, we called her "Grammy with the white hair" to distinguish her from our other Grammy, who was "Grammy and Grampy Grammy." It was quite a relief, actually, when in junior high or high school, when interviewing her on the porch for some kind of school project, that she told us about growing up on a farm with her brothers. About being chased and tackled by a goose that pinned her to the ground and started pulling her hair out--her brothers didn't know what to do, and figured the goose would kill her. They finally chased it away. She said they always picked on her and gave her a hard time: about being a girl, about being a baby, about having brown eyes, or scraped knees, or anything else. She laughed, as she did about nearly everything, and said they were pretty rotten, and always called her Katie, which she hated. Then she looked down and said that she missed them terribly. All of them, and everything about them. We asked if it would help if we called her Katie, an idea that she thought brilliant. Thus, she was reborn, sometime in her 70's, as Gramma Katie. It took some getting used to, and to convince our brothers and sister, but it fit her so well.
I asked her once why she never went out to dinner with the neighbor who was always so clearly sweet on her. She said that once, she and Grampa Henry were sitting on the porch talking, and she mentioned to him that if anything ever happened to her, she expected that he would find himself a new wife, and he would have her blessing. His response: Okay. That's it. No, "I'd want the same for you," or "I'm sure you would find someone, too, eventually." Just "Okay." She took that to mean that when he said "Until death parts us," he meant both of them. She said she didn't mind, really, she enjoyed being on her own.
They met on a blind date, that she said went terribly. She was older than him, nearly a spinster, actually, and figured he could do better. At the end of the evening, she told him not to bother calling when he came back to town. He had other plans, he called again, wooed her, won her, and ultimately bought her a beautiful engagement ring from Tiffany's in New York. She loved to mention that fact, that it was from Tiffany's in New York, and sometimes she'd laugh afterwards, and other times she'd just look at it and smile, eyes shining. From her I learned the value of seeing the love enclosed in the stone, the special effort in choosing just the right one. The size, shape and price matter far less than the "why." When I gaze at my own engagement ring, I feel how she looked: special to someone.
She had a way of looking at life that made it fun to be. For another project, I asked her what her nationality was (I knew Grampa Henry was Irish), and she said, proudly, that she was a Mutt, and that I should be proud of that fact, too. I laughed, and told her that my teachers would probably not like that answer, so she went on to explain. It seems the little Eastern European town her ancestors were from had had borders change around it so many times, she had no idea what nationality they were. When some of them were born, it was Austria; others, Hungary, or Czechoslovakia. It was easier, and made more sense to her, to think of herself as an American, a Mutt. (This is, after all, a melting pot, right? And why were those people in school trying to separate us all out again?) To further complicate the national background question, she was raised Eastern Orthodox, and was taught that when a girl marries, she becomes one with her husband: his home, his family, his faith. Therefore, when she married this Irish Catholic man, she became, for all intents and purposes, a Roman Catholic, and a rather unconvincing Irish woman.
One of my personal mandatory stops before leaving for college was at Gramma Katie's house. It was one of the few times I was there by myself. It was the most beautiful late summer day, sunny, breezy, and just the right temperature. We sat on the porch, where we had watched so many thunder storms, read so many books, heard so many stories, drinking lemonade, and talking about futures. She was so proud of me going away to school, moving forward in life, meeting new people, and having new adventures. I told her I would miss her most of all, and I meant it. With her smile, her laughing eyes, her beautifully wrinkled face, her determination, she was an amazing role model--and a fantastic cheerleader, attending dance recitals, school and church events, and always asking about my friends, my classes, my life, and telling me about hers. As I hugged her goodbye, tears in my eyes, she asked me to make her a promise never to get old and boring. (probably paraphrasing George Burns, who probably would have met his match in her!) She told me she was very serious, that so many fun kids go off to college and with the learning they do there, they get old, serious and boring. I laughingly promised, and she knew that I meant it.
On my way home, I stopped and bought a bottle of bubbles. Those bubbles sat on my desk in front of the window in my dorm room, and I would often have to explain them to visitors and roommates. Occasionally, I'd take them outside and blow bubbles sitting on the wall, looking at the Bay (usually meaning that I was thinking through some problem that was threatening to make me feel older), or in the halls just to crack people up. In February of that year, when the phone call came that the doctors and nurses were pretty sure she'd had a stroke because she'd asked how the pain killers know where the pain is (a ridiculous reason to "know" she'd had a stroke--it was a perfectly normal question coming from her! Clearly they did not know her well enough to be treating her!), my roommate and I blew bubbles in Gramma Katie's honor. And again, a few days later, on February 15, we blew bubbles again after another phone call, although my dear, sweet roommate blew more than I did, because I was crying too much to blow well.
We worried while planning Dad's funeral 20 years later that it would change Valentine's Day forever having the funeral that day. Then we remembered that Dad managed to celebrate his birthday, and enjoy it for many years, despite the fact that his mother's funeral was on his birthday. In Gramma Katie style, he told me he looked at that day as an opportunity to visit with his sisters, and spend his birthday with them and their husbands. Through the darkness, he saw light--a faint glimmer, flickering and sputtering at times, I'm sure, but a light nonetheless. I strive to follow their example in my own life: being positive, devoted, faithful, and young at heart. Sometimes I falter, and some of those times are longer than others, but all in all, I think I've been doing well at keeping my promise.
I love you, Gramma Katie!
Saturday, February 9, 2013
mystery, militia, love
Usually by this time I have done my morning reading (it's 7:23am), but it's Saturday, for one thing, and, the far bigger reason, I have so many thoughts from yesterday's pondering that I want to put "on paper" so I don't lose them, ever. This final week of the retreat, we have three key words that are meant to sum up the reading (and lessons, and prayers) of a week.Yesterday, one of the words was "Love."
Maximilian Kolbe tells us, "If you have the will to love, you already have given proof that you love. What counts is the will to love. External feeling is also a fruit of grace, but it does not always follow the will." (p. 96) Just the night before, I had caught up on a blog that someone I know has started. As many bloggers do, he had written a post about what his blogs will be about. Part of it struck me as profoundly true, so that when I read the above from Kolbe, I thought of connections in my own life.
I pondered both of these passages. In fact, I was still pondering Mike's words when I started to read Kolbe's, so they kind of melted together in my mind. (Interestingly, this is not like anything I got out of the week we shared with Kolbe. The other two words to contemplate yesterday, Mystery and Militia, were the ones I "got." For me, they must have overshadowed his teachings on Love. I even just went back and skimmed the week, and I had marked nothing of the sort.)
What I have learned about Love in these weeks of soul-searching, and in the months of undirected soul searching I've been doing, is wrapped up neatly in these lines. And yet, without the discoveries I've made in my own self, about me, about my life, about my past and future, they would be just words, I think. They touched me so deeply precisely because I have been looking at the essence of Love myself. I've given Love a chance to heal me, and my broken world. At one time--for a long time, actually--I did think of love as an emotion, a feeling, something I possessed or expressed. It was not until I thought of Love as something solely to give that I began to understand its power, its sheer magnitude.
This is not to say that I was stingy with my love before. I was loving and giving, and wore my heart on my sleeve, and, because I can't help it, I always will, I'm sure. But I used to pay more attention to how that made me feel than I should have. Yes, I carefully noted how our boys were shaping up, thanks, in good part, to the love we showered them with (and expressed not only with hugs, kisses and kind words, but with curfews, limits, rules and groundings!), but, as Mike pointed out, a part of me was looking far into the future: how would this love come back to me when I am old and they are the caregivers?
If you follow me at all, you know that I have been striving to live in the moment. That does not mean that I run around like my son and his friends, doing silly things and shouting, "YOLO!" [YOLO -- You Only Live Once] It does mean that I try to do what's right for the sake of doing what's right, whether it's related to health, exercise, food, our kids, money, work, whatever. The future does not loom so frighteningly at my door now; I see it on the horizon in each sunrise, in the beauty of each new beginning.
How does this all relate to our retreat? I'm more open, more available, to the Love of Mary, her Son, and our Father than I have ever been before. Even with my frequent doubts and questions, I can move forward. Shoot, for me, the moving forward is probably because of my doubts and questions, since they drive me to learn, to grow, to be. As I typed these last words for this morning, the sun peeked over my shoulder, warming the back of my neck. I feel it is a symbol of agreement; a one-armed hug from above.
Maximilian Kolbe tells us, "If you have the will to love, you already have given proof that you love. What counts is the will to love. External feeling is also a fruit of grace, but it does not always follow the will." (p. 96) Just the night before, I had caught up on a blog that someone I know has started. As many bloggers do, he had written a post about what his blogs will be about. Part of it struck me as profoundly true, so that when I read the above from Kolbe, I thought of connections in my own life.
Love can heal the broken world, but love is not a feeling. Love is an act of the will - choosing to "will the good" of everyone we encounter not because of what we can get out of it, or because it feels good or because we want them to treat us well. That is not, primarily, love at all. That's a form of selfishness... it is pride. (Mike Creavey, Willing the Good)
I pondered both of these passages. In fact, I was still pondering Mike's words when I started to read Kolbe's, so they kind of melted together in my mind. (Interestingly, this is not like anything I got out of the week we shared with Kolbe. The other two words to contemplate yesterday, Mystery and Militia, were the ones I "got." For me, they must have overshadowed his teachings on Love. I even just went back and skimmed the week, and I had marked nothing of the sort.)
What I have learned about Love in these weeks of soul-searching, and in the months of undirected soul searching I've been doing, is wrapped up neatly in these lines. And yet, without the discoveries I've made in my own self, about me, about my life, about my past and future, they would be just words, I think. They touched me so deeply precisely because I have been looking at the essence of Love myself. I've given Love a chance to heal me, and my broken world. At one time--for a long time, actually--I did think of love as an emotion, a feeling, something I possessed or expressed. It was not until I thought of Love as something solely to give that I began to understand its power, its sheer magnitude.
This is not to say that I was stingy with my love before. I was loving and giving, and wore my heart on my sleeve, and, because I can't help it, I always will, I'm sure. But I used to pay more attention to how that made me feel than I should have. Yes, I carefully noted how our boys were shaping up, thanks, in good part, to the love we showered them with (and expressed not only with hugs, kisses and kind words, but with curfews, limits, rules and groundings!), but, as Mike pointed out, a part of me was looking far into the future: how would this love come back to me when I am old and they are the caregivers?
If you follow me at all, you know that I have been striving to live in the moment. That does not mean that I run around like my son and his friends, doing silly things and shouting, "YOLO!" [YOLO -- You Only Live Once] It does mean that I try to do what's right for the sake of doing what's right, whether it's related to health, exercise, food, our kids, money, work, whatever. The future does not loom so frighteningly at my door now; I see it on the horizon in each sunrise, in the beauty of each new beginning.
How does this all relate to our retreat? I'm more open, more available, to the Love of Mary, her Son, and our Father than I have ever been before. Even with my frequent doubts and questions, I can move forward. Shoot, for me, the moving forward is probably because of my doubts and questions, since they drive me to learn, to grow, to be. As I typed these last words for this morning, the sun peeked over my shoulder, warming the back of my neck. I feel it is a symbol of agreement; a one-armed hug from above.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
lessons along the way
Sitting at a swim meet today, on my birthday, halfway between wishing I was somewhere else, and unable to imagine any other plans for the day. Texting with our oldest, away at college, he joked that he didn't know what I meant in reference to the flow of the meet. I told him that someday I hoped to be able to forget just how long they can feel, these days in the bleachers at a natatorium. I don't mean it, of course; if we are not by a pool on a winter (or summer!) Saturday morning, listening to the rhythmic splash of various strokes, and the whistle and "boop!" of the start, then something strange and awful must have transpired in our lives. My husband gives of himself for this sport that saved his life, and I truly am grateful that the pool and a swim team brought us together, too (though I have, from time to time, forgotten that amazing detail).
Watching him work is a treat: he loves what he is doing, and is so very good at it. Today, I rejoiced to be able to see him cheering for our youngest, wishing I could have been on deck to cheer like that when he was a kid swimming. I see him now, talking to a swimmer about her race, and I see how he is able to apply all that he has learned in a lifetime of pool time. We've worked with so many coaches in all this time, most of them good, some pretty bad, and a few, truly great. The good and great ones will always be a part of our lives, the rest will continue to haunt us, I'm sure.
Try as I might, I have not developed a passion for the sport. A love and an appreciation, most definitely, but for too long, I tried too hard. It brought a hardness to my spirit, and derision to our lives. Neither of us really wanted to accept that loving my family was enough to love being here on a day like today. Learning that lesson has made such a huge difference. Once again, I feel like I did at those early meets, when I was falling in love with more than just a man; I was falling in love with his life, as well. Sharing this aspect of his life brings me joy, and when that's what's going on, it is enough.
"I wish you enough" is the blessing I pass along. When life and love are enough, the heart is at peace, joy can thrive, and laughter fills the soul. I have enough, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Monday, January 28, 2013
little words
I had plans for this evening. I was going to paint my fingernails and then write while they dried. Then I was going to consider dusting this room, or one of the other ones that so desperately needs it (depending on your point of view. Isn't dust an art medium?). Those were my plans for my Monday, made on Sunday night, as I fell asleep, snuggled between my husband and a dog-furnace.
Plans change, though, and oftentimes, we have little to do with the outcome. School was closed, both the school our kids go to, and the school where swim practice takes place. That meant another evening all together--which has been wonderful all weekend, but really puts a damper on my writing time! With practice cancelled, it was decided that the Y was the next best choice. The menfolk packed up their swimming gear, and I packed my sneakers, and off we went. I ran, they swam, my nails are still naked....
But I feel great! Tomorrow, I will likely be a bit sore, as I haven't run quite that far, or with as much intensity, in quite a while. True, running alone felt odd--I haven't been out without dogs and my man in who knows how long!--but then again, running inside, over a climate controlled gym felt odd, too, so what the heck. I got sweaty, isn't that what matters? Oh! And I liked it (again) which makes me shake my head every time. Me, sweaty and happy. Who'd'a thunk it? Certainly not anyone who knew me 20 or 30 years ago! Yes, I got sweaty dancing, but that was different. (How? I'm really supposed to be able to answer that? Did you read the part that it was 20 or 30 years ago? There was an awful lot I didn't know 30 years ago. Hell, there's an awful lot I don't know now!)
Squeezing in words while I stink feels a little like cheating, but the keyboard was calling me; the screen sad in its darkness. These are not the words I intended to put down today. Those will wait until tomorrow, I think: they are about my experience this week with our retreat; or what I mean by 'mindwebs'. Maybe even about the discussion we had after Saturday's sermon, and the quote I liked so much: "No one lays down their life for a known lie."* There's even a chance that I'll paint my fingernails, write, then paint my toes and write some more! There's a lot in there, and I want to share it all!
In the meantime, there's a certain someone I have a standing date with each evening right around this time.
*Deacon Hall worded it slightly differently on paper, but I'm certain that this is what I heard. The meaning, I believe, is the same. And it resonated with me quite a bit.
Plans change, though, and oftentimes, we have little to do with the outcome. School was closed, both the school our kids go to, and the school where swim practice takes place. That meant another evening all together--which has been wonderful all weekend, but really puts a damper on my writing time! With practice cancelled, it was decided that the Y was the next best choice. The menfolk packed up their swimming gear, and I packed my sneakers, and off we went. I ran, they swam, my nails are still naked....
But I feel great! Tomorrow, I will likely be a bit sore, as I haven't run quite that far, or with as much intensity, in quite a while. True, running alone felt odd--I haven't been out without dogs and my man in who knows how long!--but then again, running inside, over a climate controlled gym felt odd, too, so what the heck. I got sweaty, isn't that what matters? Oh! And I liked it (again) which makes me shake my head every time. Me, sweaty and happy. Who'd'a thunk it? Certainly not anyone who knew me 20 or 30 years ago! Yes, I got sweaty dancing, but that was different. (How? I'm really supposed to be able to answer that? Did you read the part that it was 20 or 30 years ago? There was an awful lot I didn't know 30 years ago. Hell, there's an awful lot I don't know now!)
Squeezing in words while I stink feels a little like cheating, but the keyboard was calling me; the screen sad in its darkness. These are not the words I intended to put down today. Those will wait until tomorrow, I think: they are about my experience this week with our retreat; or what I mean by 'mindwebs'. Maybe even about the discussion we had after Saturday's sermon, and the quote I liked so much: "No one lays down their life for a known lie."* There's even a chance that I'll paint my fingernails, write, then paint my toes and write some more! There's a lot in there, and I want to share it all!
In the meantime, there's a certain someone I have a standing date with each evening right around this time.
*Deacon Hall worded it slightly differently on paper, but I'm certain that this is what I heard. The meaning, I believe, is the same. And it resonated with me quite a bit.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
ah-chooo
Sniffles.
Having sniffles is the worst. My current sniffles are accompanied by an infrequent, but nasty sounding cough, and I don't like them. During the day, despite the constant need to stay within arm's reach of a tissue box (and, therefore, hand sanitizer at work), I feel pretty good! As long as I take my cold medicine, I could almost forget about this cold. Except that my columella is pretty raw by now.
Then, right around 6 pm, I hit a wall. It's a nice, padded wall, but it slows me right down anyway. A cup of tea and a little bit of a volunteer project perked me up a wee tad, but I am still dragging. I can tell because I'm having a tough time understanding the words swirling in my mind. They seem backwards, inside out, slow.
Early to bed again tonight, and another attempt at a run in the morning. A cold lasts 10 days (the best medicine I ever got was this little tidbit of information!) and I'm right on schedule with this one. Yesterday was the worst day, so each day now should see fewer and fewer tissues in my little wastebasket by my desk.
In the meantime, Christmas decorations can sit out a little longer. The dogs can get a little extra attention, and the Bubba and I can play a few more games. And evening snuggle time will start earlier. It's almost enough to make me like being a bit under the weather.
Almost.
Having sniffles is the worst. My current sniffles are accompanied by an infrequent, but nasty sounding cough, and I don't like them. During the day, despite the constant need to stay within arm's reach of a tissue box (and, therefore, hand sanitizer at work), I feel pretty good! As long as I take my cold medicine, I could almost forget about this cold. Except that my columella is pretty raw by now.
Then, right around 6 pm, I hit a wall. It's a nice, padded wall, but it slows me right down anyway. A cup of tea and a little bit of a volunteer project perked me up a wee tad, but I am still dragging. I can tell because I'm having a tough time understanding the words swirling in my mind. They seem backwards, inside out, slow.
Early to bed again tonight, and another attempt at a run in the morning. A cold lasts 10 days (the best medicine I ever got was this little tidbit of information!) and I'm right on schedule with this one. Yesterday was the worst day, so each day now should see fewer and fewer tissues in my little wastebasket by my desk.
In the meantime, Christmas decorations can sit out a little longer. The dogs can get a little extra attention, and the Bubba and I can play a few more games. And evening snuggle time will start earlier. It's almost enough to make me like being a bit under the weather.
Almost.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
skin off my nose
Occasionally I am asked why I post what I do, meaning personal feelings, I suppose. Actually, I should clarify that: Occasionally, I am told by friends or my husband that someone has asked them why I post such personal feelings. I am always amused that, without any prompting from me, they response they give is that writing is therapeutic for me. The response amuses me because it is so true. More than once, probably in an effort to dig up dirt, the query then becomes "What does she need therapy for?" My friends and my husband deserve all the best kudos, because the next response is a smile, a shake of the head, and "Maybe you should ask her."
My response would be "Who doesn't need some kind of therapy?" I write because I can. Words bounce around my head, and it feels good to allow them to flow from my fingertips. I can't make them come out; when I try to write, I'm faced with disappointment. I like the way my fingers feel on the keyboard, watching the shapes that form words on the screen in front of me, and the cursor dance along the lines.
Ever since Creative Writing class in high school, I've enjoyed having a "style" of writing. No, I cannot identify or classify it, other than it is personal. My best poems and stories in the class were deeply personal, and they were the most satisfying, too. I could just put all my words in a private journal, and hide it under my mattress, but why? I like to know what others think just as much as I like to let people know that I don't care what they think of me. I am who I am; what I am; where I am. And, being organic, I am fluid and subject to change, growth and even stagnation. Writing helps me to see where I am, where I've been, and where I'd like to go.
Why do I put my feelings out there for anyone to see? Because that's where I've always expressed myself. As a dancer and choreographer, my heart and soul were on view, and subject to interpretation (right or wrong) by anyone who cared to see and pay attention. And from that experience, I came away with some very good friends--people who were on the same wavelength, or who took the time to ask me what I meant. As an introvert (mostly, with extroverted tendencies, or vice versa. Read more of my posts), the idea of expressing myself face to face with anyone (other than the closest of my personal circle) falls somewhere between intimidating and terrifying. It doesn't even matter how "personal" the feelings might be; I just clam up, shrivel, shrink, and often, in the end, chicken out. Keeping feelings and emotions bottled up is one thing; hiding them from myself so that I don't have to talk, or for fear that I might accidentally say something I don't really want to is something else entirely. Because that's what happens from time to time: I speak, and the words from my lips are not as fluent as what comes through my fingers, and can be (and have been!) easily misinterpreted.
My goal is simple: I wonder if I'm the only one with the feelings and experiences I've had, and I hope to let others know they are not alone. There's strength in numbers, especially (ironically) for introverted extroverts, or extroverted introverts. We're few and far between, but far more common than people tend to think. How's that for a paradox? And really, is this goal really so different from that of any other writer? Or any other artist? All it is, when we get right down to it, is an effort to make a connection. A human connection.
Interestingly, people who speak directly to me about my posts generally either ask me to continue, or tell me that they have always felt the same way, or that they really needed to see what I had to say, for whatever reason. The people I "connect" with, connect. I love them. If they find a connection, there must be one there. I feel bad for the people who decide to resist connections; I wonder what in their lives keeps them aloof, afraid, distant. Is there something in their world they are unwilling to face? Something they don't want others to notice? Why the discomfort of reading, seeing, possibly feeling someone else's emotions? And the big question: if it bothers them so much that I would share my personal feelings (good, bad, and things in between), then why on earth do they continue to read my words? If I make you so uncomfortable, turn the page.
I'm okay with that.
My response would be "Who doesn't need some kind of therapy?" I write because I can. Words bounce around my head, and it feels good to allow them to flow from my fingertips. I can't make them come out; when I try to write, I'm faced with disappointment. I like the way my fingers feel on the keyboard, watching the shapes that form words on the screen in front of me, and the cursor dance along the lines.
Ever since Creative Writing class in high school, I've enjoyed having a "style" of writing. No, I cannot identify or classify it, other than it is personal. My best poems and stories in the class were deeply personal, and they were the most satisfying, too. I could just put all my words in a private journal, and hide it under my mattress, but why? I like to know what others think just as much as I like to let people know that I don't care what they think of me. I am who I am; what I am; where I am. And, being organic, I am fluid and subject to change, growth and even stagnation. Writing helps me to see where I am, where I've been, and where I'd like to go.
Why do I put my feelings out there for anyone to see? Because that's where I've always expressed myself. As a dancer and choreographer, my heart and soul were on view, and subject to interpretation (right or wrong) by anyone who cared to see and pay attention. And from that experience, I came away with some very good friends--people who were on the same wavelength, or who took the time to ask me what I meant. As an introvert (mostly, with extroverted tendencies, or vice versa. Read more of my posts), the idea of expressing myself face to face with anyone (other than the closest of my personal circle) falls somewhere between intimidating and terrifying. It doesn't even matter how "personal" the feelings might be; I just clam up, shrivel, shrink, and often, in the end, chicken out. Keeping feelings and emotions bottled up is one thing; hiding them from myself so that I don't have to talk, or for fear that I might accidentally say something I don't really want to is something else entirely. Because that's what happens from time to time: I speak, and the words from my lips are not as fluent as what comes through my fingers, and can be (and have been!) easily misinterpreted.
My goal is simple: I wonder if I'm the only one with the feelings and experiences I've had, and I hope to let others know they are not alone. There's strength in numbers, especially (ironically) for introverted extroverts, or extroverted introverts. We're few and far between, but far more common than people tend to think. How's that for a paradox? And really, is this goal really so different from that of any other writer? Or any other artist? All it is, when we get right down to it, is an effort to make a connection. A human connection.
Interestingly, people who speak directly to me about my posts generally either ask me to continue, or tell me that they have always felt the same way, or that they really needed to see what I had to say, for whatever reason. The people I "connect" with, connect. I love them. If they find a connection, there must be one there. I feel bad for the people who decide to resist connections; I wonder what in their lives keeps them aloof, afraid, distant. Is there something in their world they are unwilling to face? Something they don't want others to notice? Why the discomfort of reading, seeing, possibly feeling someone else's emotions? And the big question: if it bothers them so much that I would share my personal feelings (good, bad, and things in between), then why on earth do they continue to read my words? If I make you so uncomfortable, turn the page.
I'm okay with that.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
all our tomorrows, today
Although I don't remember exactly, I'm sure that somewhere in the hustle and bustle of wedding preparations and final fittings 22 years ago this week, there was a moment when I stopped and wondered how, or if, my life was going to change. I remember so little of the preparations at this point--just over a week away--but I do remember being so wildly happy about the plans we'd made, the dreams we'd shared. I vaguely remember being a tad concerned about the forecast, but no matter what, despite being very, very young, I knew we were about to have the greatest adventure of our lives.
And it has been.
We've had ups and downs, but that's exactly what we signed on for: "For richer or poorer, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live." I told Guy once that when he really is getting my goat, I think of that day, and saying, "I do" in front of all those people who managed to get to the Church (the weather definitely looked worse than it was. I swear!) and that's all I need to remind me that some promises are more than just immutable; they are resilient and impenetrable.
At a rough spot, I remember Guy asking me what I was doing to improve my attitude. (We were both in quite a cranky place. Each of us had lost a parent, and both of us were stressed about life, income, everything.) I came across a bit of advice for those who like to write, and, though it sounded morbid, I decided to give it a try: write a eulogy or obituary for the one you love. The article I was reading argued that in such pieces, there can be no negativity, so the good things will resurface, distill, and become focal points. I didn't hesitate. I wrote the following, longhand, folded it up in my planner, and proceeded to forget I had written it. You see, as I wrote, I realized I didn't need the reminder: I am in love with my husband. Pure and simple. I found this yesterday when transcribing birthdays from that old planner from a few years ago into my new planner. Guy never saw it; and I was pleased to find that my heart feels just the same today.
Guy took my breath away the first time I saw him, and continued to do so. That first time, I was struck by the confidence and bearing that he possessed -- I could hardly believe that he was only my own age. Where I was confident in myself, he was determined regarding his future: he had a plan, a dream, and knew how to achieve it. I had an instant crush.
Through him, I learned that exercise and sports can be fun. He taught me how to throw a football, catch and hit a softball, shoot a basketball. He inspired me to take tennis lessons, learn to swim (effectively), and, eventually, to dance again.
I know that I have always driven him crazy: I talk too much; I clam up when I get grumpy; I cry easily; I hate to get frustrated--so I either avoid things I'm unsure of, or I blow up--neither of which serves any purpose other than embarrassing myself. Nevertheless, despite getting irritated with me, Guy always managed to touch my hair, my hand, my back, and calm me.
Because he treated me with respect from the very first, I became, or rather, found that I was, a strong woman. Whereas many of my thoughts and ideas had previously been either ignored or humored, with Guy I had an interested audience. He would listen to the unusual connections I make, and ask questions that helped to clarify and expand my thoughts. Mostly those conversations amounted to notes on scrap paper, which I can see may also have frustrated him to no end, but for me, they were always extremely enlightening; sometimes revealing larger truths, and sometimes resulting in pure silliness.
Guy does not make me whole. I can function well without him because of the person he has helped me to become. He is not the only person to have shaped me in some way as an adult. He is not the only person I turn to when I need something. Yet with him, I continue to become. It is because of Guy that I want to continue to evolve with a purpose. It is because of the life we've shared that I work toward improving myself. At the same time, I am fully aware that I can, and would, continue to grow even without him. I enjoy the effort all the more because Guy is a part of it. I love him. -- I have since I first saw him, and cannot imagine stopping, for any reason.
Why do I love him? Because "I do."
And it has been.
We've had ups and downs, but that's exactly what we signed on for: "For richer or poorer, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live." I told Guy once that when he really is getting my goat, I think of that day, and saying, "I do" in front of all those people who managed to get to the Church (the weather definitely looked worse than it was. I swear!) and that's all I need to remind me that some promises are more than just immutable; they are resilient and impenetrable.
At a rough spot, I remember Guy asking me what I was doing to improve my attitude. (We were both in quite a cranky place. Each of us had lost a parent, and both of us were stressed about life, income, everything.) I came across a bit of advice for those who like to write, and, though it sounded morbid, I decided to give it a try: write a eulogy or obituary for the one you love. The article I was reading argued that in such pieces, there can be no negativity, so the good things will resurface, distill, and become focal points. I didn't hesitate. I wrote the following, longhand, folded it up in my planner, and proceeded to forget I had written it. You see, as I wrote, I realized I didn't need the reminder: I am in love with my husband. Pure and simple. I found this yesterday when transcribing birthdays from that old planner from a few years ago into my new planner. Guy never saw it; and I was pleased to find that my heart feels just the same today.
Guy took my breath away the first time I saw him, and continued to do so. That first time, I was struck by the confidence and bearing that he possessed -- I could hardly believe that he was only my own age. Where I was confident in myself, he was determined regarding his future: he had a plan, a dream, and knew how to achieve it. I had an instant crush.
Through him, I learned that exercise and sports can be fun. He taught me how to throw a football, catch and hit a softball, shoot a basketball. He inspired me to take tennis lessons, learn to swim (effectively), and, eventually, to dance again.
I know that I have always driven him crazy: I talk too much; I clam up when I get grumpy; I cry easily; I hate to get frustrated--so I either avoid things I'm unsure of, or I blow up--neither of which serves any purpose other than embarrassing myself. Nevertheless, despite getting irritated with me, Guy always managed to touch my hair, my hand, my back, and calm me.
Because he treated me with respect from the very first, I became, or rather, found that I was, a strong woman. Whereas many of my thoughts and ideas had previously been either ignored or humored, with Guy I had an interested audience. He would listen to the unusual connections I make, and ask questions that helped to clarify and expand my thoughts. Mostly those conversations amounted to notes on scrap paper, which I can see may also have frustrated him to no end, but for me, they were always extremely enlightening; sometimes revealing larger truths, and sometimes resulting in pure silliness.
Guy does not make me whole. I can function well without him because of the person he has helped me to become. He is not the only person to have shaped me in some way as an adult. He is not the only person I turn to when I need something. Yet with him, I continue to become. It is because of Guy that I want to continue to evolve with a purpose. It is because of the life we've shared that I work toward improving myself. At the same time, I am fully aware that I can, and would, continue to grow even without him. I enjoy the effort all the more because Guy is a part of it. I love him. -- I have since I first saw him, and cannot imagine stopping, for any reason.
Why do I love him? Because "I do."
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
it's what's for dinner
Who would have thought that sauerkraut could cause such strong reactions in people? Honestly, I had no idea.
I grew up with no particular New Year's Day traditions, other than perhaps finishing my thank you notes before school started up again. My grandparents would come for dinner, but holiday dinners were always something different, and usually something we'd never had before (or again after, for that matter). [When I was a little older, possibly my early teens, I remember Gramma Katie meeting me at the door on New Year's Day, and telling me not to come in. When she saw the confusion on my face, she explained that it was good luck for the first visitor of the year to be male, so I would have to wait until Dad or my brother to walk through the door first. Since then, I have tried to more sneakily incorporate this tradition.] It wasn't until I met my husband that I started to experience the concept of "traditional" foods on holidays and other special occasions. Since then, we have developed our own food traditions, particularly on Christmas Eve.
The other day, while grocery shopping for the week, we modified Jonathan's menu to have steak on New Year's Day with Mom. After getting the steaks, chicken and some bacon from the butcher, I turned to Guy and asked if we should get some shrimp, too. I didn't think anything of it, other than it makes a nice appetizer when dinner's not quite ready. I found out later that when one of the boys asked why we'd gotten shrimp (it wasn't on the menu, after all, and we tend to be sticklers there), he said that it was because I'd remembered that it was traditional for his family to have shrimp on New Year's Day. When I heard the explanation, I admitted that had nothing to do with it, but I will try to remember to include it in the future, since it clearly means more to him than either of us had realized.
What does all this have to do with sauerkraut? Well, I can't stand the stuff. We live in an area of the country that is steeped in Germanic tradition, and apparently that New Resident Handbook that we seemed to have misplaced when we relocated from a totally different area of the country includes the fact that here, if you want to survive the year, you must have pork and sauerkraut on New Year's Day for good luck. For the first few years here, I would try patiently to explain that I did not have any ties to this particular tradition, and that since I didn't know it, it couldn't possibly apply to me. For most of the years since, I've just avoided talking about the menu for this particular day off. Today, however, I posted as my Facebook status: "So glad I did not grow up with that pork and sauerkraut on New Year's thing so I don't have to pass it on! Happy New Year! Bring on the surf and turf!" (Have I mentioned that I can't stand sauerkraut??)
What a response! Most people, as usual, had some variation of "if you'd only try mine, you'd like it!" And while lemon pepper or garlic and hot peppers do sound as though they would improve the stuff, I'm still not sold. The one comment about leaving out the juniper berries may have come closer to the issue, but still.
Before I go on, I should probably say that I am of Polish/Eastern European and Irish descent. Kraut is not completely foreign to me. I've known, from a very young age, that I would have starved at an even younger age had I been raised in the Old Country, based on those foods I was introduced to. Boiled food makes me hungry within an hour (except for pasta, which makes me hungry in 2 hours. Chinese food fills me for hours; sometimes days) and I just can't do kraut. Kielbasa and pierogies, on the other hand, I could eat, and is still one of my favorite meals, provided the pierogies are filled with potatoes and cheese, not kraut. We used to tell the boys that if they were not good, Santa would put a can of sauerkraut in their stockings. Seriously, that's how I feel about the stuff.
In college, the dining hall was on a 10-day schedule, and in the rotation was Reuben sandwiches and hermit cookies. The only day to get the hermits was the day with the Rubens. Those hermits were good. As a result, I decided I could like Reuben for the sake of the cookies. And they weren't bad, despite being made with pumpernickel, corned beef and kraut--none of which I liked. At all. I thought maybe it was the combination of all things together, or the hermits as a reward. Or the chocolate milk. Whatever it was, it got to where I actually looked forward to Reuben day.
Until the day I realized that Reuben night always found me feeling rather sick; wicked cramps, and a terrible grinding in my belly. My beloved lunch was turning on me, I thought, and then it occurred to me that until I started eating sauerkraut, I didn't have that problem. By Christmas, I had given them up, and didn't have the semi-weekly nausea.
You can say all you want that it was probably the bread. Or the meat. Or it could also have been the cookies. But I know, deep inside, that it was the cursed kraut. It's just icky. And how could that possibly mean good luck to me? Anyone who wants to can have it for their dinner on January 1. I'll stick with what I know will make me happy. And won't stink up my kitchen. This year, steak with buerre d'maitre, and all the fixin's. Oh, it was good!
And shrimp cocktail. It's tradition.
I grew up with no particular New Year's Day traditions, other than perhaps finishing my thank you notes before school started up again. My grandparents would come for dinner, but holiday dinners were always something different, and usually something we'd never had before (or again after, for that matter). [When I was a little older, possibly my early teens, I remember Gramma Katie meeting me at the door on New Year's Day, and telling me not to come in. When she saw the confusion on my face, she explained that it was good luck for the first visitor of the year to be male, so I would have to wait until Dad or my brother to walk through the door first. Since then, I have tried to more sneakily incorporate this tradition.] It wasn't until I met my husband that I started to experience the concept of "traditional" foods on holidays and other special occasions. Since then, we have developed our own food traditions, particularly on Christmas Eve.
The other day, while grocery shopping for the week, we modified Jonathan's menu to have steak on New Year's Day with Mom. After getting the steaks, chicken and some bacon from the butcher, I turned to Guy and asked if we should get some shrimp, too. I didn't think anything of it, other than it makes a nice appetizer when dinner's not quite ready. I found out later that when one of the boys asked why we'd gotten shrimp (it wasn't on the menu, after all, and we tend to be sticklers there), he said that it was because I'd remembered that it was traditional for his family to have shrimp on New Year's Day. When I heard the explanation, I admitted that had nothing to do with it, but I will try to remember to include it in the future, since it clearly means more to him than either of us had realized.
What does all this have to do with sauerkraut? Well, I can't stand the stuff. We live in an area of the country that is steeped in Germanic tradition, and apparently that New Resident Handbook that we seemed to have misplaced when we relocated from a totally different area of the country includes the fact that here, if you want to survive the year, you must have pork and sauerkraut on New Year's Day for good luck. For the first few years here, I would try patiently to explain that I did not have any ties to this particular tradition, and that since I didn't know it, it couldn't possibly apply to me. For most of the years since, I've just avoided talking about the menu for this particular day off. Today, however, I posted as my Facebook status: "So glad I did not grow up with that pork and sauerkraut on New Year's thing so I don't have to pass it on! Happy New Year! Bring on the surf and turf!" (Have I mentioned that I can't stand sauerkraut??)
What a response! Most people, as usual, had some variation of "if you'd only try mine, you'd like it!" And while lemon pepper or garlic and hot peppers do sound as though they would improve the stuff, I'm still not sold. The one comment about leaving out the juniper berries may have come closer to the issue, but still.
Before I go on, I should probably say that I am of Polish/Eastern European and Irish descent. Kraut is not completely foreign to me. I've known, from a very young age, that I would have starved at an even younger age had I been raised in the Old Country, based on those foods I was introduced to. Boiled food makes me hungry within an hour (except for pasta, which makes me hungry in 2 hours. Chinese food fills me for hours; sometimes days) and I just can't do kraut. Kielbasa and pierogies, on the other hand, I could eat, and is still one of my favorite meals, provided the pierogies are filled with potatoes and cheese, not kraut. We used to tell the boys that if they were not good, Santa would put a can of sauerkraut in their stockings. Seriously, that's how I feel about the stuff.
In college, the dining hall was on a 10-day schedule, and in the rotation was Reuben sandwiches and hermit cookies. The only day to get the hermits was the day with the Rubens. Those hermits were good. As a result, I decided I could like Reuben for the sake of the cookies. And they weren't bad, despite being made with pumpernickel, corned beef and kraut--none of which I liked. At all. I thought maybe it was the combination of all things together, or the hermits as a reward. Or the chocolate milk. Whatever it was, it got to where I actually looked forward to Reuben day.
Until the day I realized that Reuben night always found me feeling rather sick; wicked cramps, and a terrible grinding in my belly. My beloved lunch was turning on me, I thought, and then it occurred to me that until I started eating sauerkraut, I didn't have that problem. By Christmas, I had given them up, and didn't have the semi-weekly nausea.
You can say all you want that it was probably the bread. Or the meat. Or it could also have been the cookies. But I know, deep inside, that it was the cursed kraut. It's just icky. And how could that possibly mean good luck to me? Anyone who wants to can have it for their dinner on January 1. I'll stick with what I know will make me happy. And won't stink up my kitchen. This year, steak with buerre d'maitre, and all the fixin's. Oh, it was good!
And shrimp cocktail. It's tradition.
Friday, December 28, 2012
where the heart is
After a week away in the mountains, breathing crisp, fresh, cold air, we find ourselves refreshed, renewed, and ready for a new year. We're home.
Home.
Where you might find some dirt on the floor, dust on the furniture, clutter here and there; but where you will always find warm hearts, a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, and a spirit of faith, hope and charity.
Always.
We have our faults, and we have our days, but we know where our priorities are: in the heart. We argue, we fuss, we stumble, but we forgive, we make up, we learn, we move on. We grow, continuously, which isn't always easy or pretty, but it's real, and we work pretty darn hard on it, simply because it's what we do.
The house is drafty, and has a to-do list a mile long, but none of it is major or life-threatening, but it's home. It's the place where we do our best, day to day. Happily. Joyfully. We fully realize that our priorities differ from others'; ours being the people in our lives, not the things. (Crazy, isn't it?)
Home.
Home.
Where you might find some dirt on the floor, dust on the furniture, clutter here and there; but where you will always find warm hearts, a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, and a spirit of faith, hope and charity.
Always.
We have our faults, and we have our days, but we know where our priorities are: in the heart. We argue, we fuss, we stumble, but we forgive, we make up, we learn, we move on. We grow, continuously, which isn't always easy or pretty, but it's real, and we work pretty darn hard on it, simply because it's what we do.
The house is drafty, and has a to-do list a mile long, but none of it is major or life-threatening, but it's home. It's the place where we do our best, day to day. Happily. Joyfully. We fully realize that our priorities differ from others'; ours being the people in our lives, not the things. (Crazy, isn't it?)
Home.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
the man in a suit
The magic is real. Every year, getting my heart ready for Christmas, I most look forward to the magic. Christmas morning, no matter the weather, breaks beautifully; wondrous and full of blessings for the love of family. Santa magic is all part of the day, of course, but the most amazing part of all is the miracle of the Baby. And that is why my heart is filled with magic, year after year. No matter what, there is more joy in my heart than I knew possible; more happiness and faith than the day before.
Some say that Santa overtakes the meaning of Christmas, but I think that all depends on what one believes, and what one teaches the children. If gifts are bought just for the sake of buying a gift, wrapped simply for the sake of having them opened, then all meaning is lost; not simply the True Meaning of God's great Gift to his children, but any other meaning, too. Gifts chosen with the spirit of giving, with the recipient truly in mind--interests, needs, lifestyle--convey the meaning; giving without expectation.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and I do believe that is related to my introverted nature. Thanksgiving, to me, is about reflection, introspection, contemplation. Christmas, on the other hand, overwhelms me at times. With everyone watching the unwrapping and wanting to see just what was inside the packages and stockings, I start to forget the best parts; I start to feel pushed beyond my furthest limits.
That's why I admire Santa.
Santa comes in quietly, when no one is looking, and leaves just the right things. Santa knows my heart, like Jesus. He gratefully accepts the cookies left for him, and graciously and politely responds to every note. To some he leaves large packages, and to others gifts that appear to be small, but to everyone he leaves a bit of love and joy. A bit of magic. It never gets old. Afterwards, he leaves, again without fanfare, expecting nothing in return for the generosity of his heart. Gifts opened and he is not there to witness, but I know that somewhere, while he relaxes in an easy chair by the fire, snuggling up with a very patient Mrs. Claus (I know how patient she must be, considering all the overtime the Mr. puts in at Christmas and all year long!), and a cup of coffee, he is imagining the smiles, the laughter, the warmth in the hearts of children young and old.
We all help Santa, or should. Santa comes in many forms, but all his Elves are blessed gifts themselves. My cousin makes it her life's mission to help Santa, and has, so far, brought that anonymous Santa joy to at least a million children needing Santa magic in their lives. I'm both humbled and proud to know her, and to be related to one of Santa's elves--a Queen Elf, in fact! In high school, my father and I delivered gifts one Christmas morning to families in Elmira, NY, for the Arctic League; a frigid and otherworldly morning that cemented two things for me: my admiration for my father (who took me to do this simply because I asked, but couldn't drive) and my belief in the spirit--and magic--of Santa.
The Church we belonged to when we were first married had a beautiful and magical Christmas tradition. Santa, singing O Holy Night in the clearest, most dramatic tenor I've ever heard, delivered the Christ Child to the Manger set up under the altar. Not surprisingly, it moved me to tears, especially because it linked very closely all the symbols of Christmas. The Magic of the Christmas Miracle was renewed, refreshed, and "forevered" in my heart and in my mind. The magic of Santa is as real and as strong for me now as it ever was.
Happy Birthday, Jesus. Merry Christmas, Santa. Thank you both for the gifts you bestow without limit.
Some say that Santa overtakes the meaning of Christmas, but I think that all depends on what one believes, and what one teaches the children. If gifts are bought just for the sake of buying a gift, wrapped simply for the sake of having them opened, then all meaning is lost; not simply the True Meaning of God's great Gift to his children, but any other meaning, too. Gifts chosen with the spirit of giving, with the recipient truly in mind--interests, needs, lifestyle--convey the meaning; giving without expectation.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and I do believe that is related to my introverted nature. Thanksgiving, to me, is about reflection, introspection, contemplation. Christmas, on the other hand, overwhelms me at times. With everyone watching the unwrapping and wanting to see just what was inside the packages and stockings, I start to forget the best parts; I start to feel pushed beyond my furthest limits.
That's why I admire Santa.
Santa comes in quietly, when no one is looking, and leaves just the right things. Santa knows my heart, like Jesus. He gratefully accepts the cookies left for him, and graciously and politely responds to every note. To some he leaves large packages, and to others gifts that appear to be small, but to everyone he leaves a bit of love and joy. A bit of magic. It never gets old. Afterwards, he leaves, again without fanfare, expecting nothing in return for the generosity of his heart. Gifts opened and he is not there to witness, but I know that somewhere, while he relaxes in an easy chair by the fire, snuggling up with a very patient Mrs. Claus (I know how patient she must be, considering all the overtime the Mr. puts in at Christmas and all year long!), and a cup of coffee, he is imagining the smiles, the laughter, the warmth in the hearts of children young and old.
We all help Santa, or should. Santa comes in many forms, but all his Elves are blessed gifts themselves. My cousin makes it her life's mission to help Santa, and has, so far, brought that anonymous Santa joy to at least a million children needing Santa magic in their lives. I'm both humbled and proud to know her, and to be related to one of Santa's elves--a Queen Elf, in fact! In high school, my father and I delivered gifts one Christmas morning to families in Elmira, NY, for the Arctic League; a frigid and otherworldly morning that cemented two things for me: my admiration for my father (who took me to do this simply because I asked, but couldn't drive) and my belief in the spirit--and magic--of Santa.
The Church we belonged to when we were first married had a beautiful and magical Christmas tradition. Santa, singing O Holy Night in the clearest, most dramatic tenor I've ever heard, delivered the Christ Child to the Manger set up under the altar. Not surprisingly, it moved me to tears, especially because it linked very closely all the symbols of Christmas. The Magic of the Christmas Miracle was renewed, refreshed, and "forevered" in my heart and in my mind. The magic of Santa is as real and as strong for me now as it ever was.
Happy Birthday, Jesus. Merry Christmas, Santa. Thank you both for the gifts you bestow without limit.
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