albatross or sparrow

Sometimes there are things that just don't matter. And sometimes there are things that really matter a great deal. And sometimes it's hard to tell where the line is. And then there are the times when one wonders how to tell when crossing that line, or even traveling close to it, is more important than any promises made.
What's particularly difficult is when the persons who might normally have been the obvious choices for hashing out the answers are integral parts of the question.
And then there's the unfortunate fact of 'timing.'
Here I am, working at balancing responsibilities, growing in faith and love, and changing the way I look at myself (all quite related), and suddenly finding myself trying to decide if this is an albatross or a sparrow on my shoulder. Frankly, I'm a little afraid to look, and as a result, in not knowing, the albatross wins. The question is, what to do? The subsequent question (and at least as important) is, does it really need to be recognized? Part of me figures that for my own peace of mind, yes, and look it in the eye. Another part of me says that it'll fly the coop on its own if I just let it go. But my heart wonders if I can count on that - or if facing it is worth whatever the price may be.
Lord, how I need you.

reaching out

We all need reminders from time to time. Lists for the grocery store, courtesy calls from the doctor's office, alarms set on our phones or email. Sometimes they come in comments made by our children about our own expectations, making us remember what it was like to be their age, needing attention, love, correction, love, guidance, or love. Other times the reminders come in scents or sounds, the feeling of the wind or the sun on your shoulders, or a song. Some reminders are expected, and some come as a surprise. And some come as answers to prayers unsaid.

I've had a particularly stressful time lately. Activities that have brought me peace, have brought frustration. Relationships that should be comforting have been painful. There has been a battle raging in my heart and in my mind, and around me, over my head, invisible to me, but quite nearby.

Last night, I didn't want anything to do with any of it. I didn't want to pray or talk or be anywhere. I wanted to cry, to scream, to play loud music and drive, drive, drive. But I was already tired from a week of late nights, a slight frustration on my own part escalated unnecessarily to anger, hurt and general angst deep in my heart. I sat outside, alone, in the dark, and realized I wanted nothing more than to turn into myself; to tighten my protective shields and hide from the world, my painful memories, and everything I know. So I reached.

Almost immediately, I felt more peace. It was only a text I sent, but in sending it, I admitted to myself that I do need others. I need community--especially when I'm hurting. I told God I did not want to talk to Him; that I did not want to listen. That I just wanted to be. Shortly thereafter, a dear friend showed up in my driveway. We talked and cried some; we hugged a lot. Another dear friend prayed from half a country away. Once again, I was humbled by the comfort of being among others.

This morning, I found flowers in my driveway: a comfort and a reminder. Later, something wonderful happened. God winked at me. A friend I haven't seen in a while, who I had been trying to connect with over the winter, with so many obstacles getting in the way, pulled me aside in a crowded room. Our little talk was made up of very few words, but enough for God to remind me that He is always with me. That each of the people in my life is there for a reason. A reminder that I am--always--His daughter. Even when I want to be alone inside myself.

Thank you all for being in my life, in small ways and in big ways. I am blessed to have this particular community as my help, my net, my family of the heart.

the to do list

There are times when I feel alone on this journey, simply by virtue of the fact that I am the one who is at home. The morning was peaceful, lovely, mild--for a couple of hours. Then all hell broke loose. (I exaggerate, but there is no phrase that I know of that means that Purgatory was invoked!)

I reminded our youngest, who was hoping for a friend to visit, that he would need to clean his room first, and reiterated (an exaggerated understatement, but parenting advice has told me that saying that I've said it a hundred times will scar them for life) that if he and his brothers, all of us, really, would just put things away when we are done with them, cleaning up would be so much simpler. (In reality, it would have a different meaning, but it would also garner fewer frustrated outbursts from me.) I remained very calm in this explanation (I've grown!!), and told him that I need to clean my own room, too. His response: "Then Padre needs to, too."

I paused.

I could have just agreed with him, but that didn't seem honest enough. Instead, I told him that the reality is, I make more of a mess of our room than his fatehr does. "Padre's better at putting his clothes away than I am." "That doesn't make sense. Then why is it that he isn't the one that's always telling us to clean up?"

There's the rub. There are so many reasons for that--some of which are so complex I am only just beginning to understand them--but the simple answer is, "He's not home as much as I am." Ironically, it matters more to him than it does to me, and the reasons for that are probably as complex. Our frustration thresholds are pretty similar, and getting higher (thankfully!) as we explore what's in our singular pasts. Yet I am the one who tends to take the mess more personally. It's not that I think the house should be spotless because the menfolk had the day off yesterday, and I did not. And it's not that I'm jealous at how they spent the day. On the contrary, I wish I had the capacity to put it out of my mind, the cleaning and tidying that needs to be done.

The trouble is, it gets in my way. I just had to arbitrate between two sons who cannot work in the same room at that same time, even though they both live in the same space. One is neater than the other in some ways, but the problem is that one is far more emotional than the other. The arguement at the beginning of the project they chose to undertake at the same time was not a surprise. The results of the ensuing temper tantrum, however, tested a new limit of my patience. Although I handled it as best I could, without having a tantrum of my own (a not-so-small victory), I found myself saddened that I had to deal with it at all. That's not entirely true--I was saddened that I had to deal with it alone.

The job is still not done. And I decided to write so I would not continue to build upon the situation in my mind. [This is, after all, my therapy. Mine, and you can take from it what you will, as long as you keep in mind that it is my mind I am cleansing.] The untidy (another understatement!) dormitory then became related to the bathroom door that has been broken for a few years now, and the replacement door that is still standing in the dining room, waiting to be stained or painted so it can be installed. To the living room that was painted even more years ago, but has not yet been finished. To the travel items from Christmas that are still on the porch......The list was growing, and I could feel my loneliness and frustration growing in proportion.

Truthfully, more would not be accomplished if he was at home this morning instead of working. That's only because there is always something, and because we enjoy each other's company, and because the priorities are always a little different when we are both home. The building of pressure to do (for want of a better phrase) is completely internal--it is pressure I put on myself. I'm learning to accept it with grace and serenity, but not as quickly as I am learning patience.

"...Although I must have Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind...." (Klara Munkres)