Becoming Real

I bought a couch (a pink couch, it was maroon) for $200.00. I was 19 years old. It was my first real purchase (besides beer, gas and mini market food stuffs). My Dad carried it up four flights of stairs into my first apartment (he had some help, I think). He set it down inside the four walls, let out a big sigh and then promptly sat down upon it. I yelled some expletive. He looked puzzled. I finally got him to get up. He was too dirty of course to sit on my brand new couch. He had been helping me move all morning and of course was not in any shape to sit down.

The same feelings crossed my mind when the furnace guy began writing up an estimate for a new furnace (now 27 years old you would have thought I had learned something). He asked for a pen and then sat at my expensive dining room table and began to write. The hardness in which he wrote out his numbers caused me great alarm and I quickly jumped to hand him a magazine so that the indentation would not make a permanent mark on my glossy table. He looked puzzled.

Now 30 years old, my kitchen was being remodeled. The newly finished hardwood floors in our kitchen had yet to be fully installed when the cabinet man came to hang the brand new cabinets and hook up the refrigerator. My Love told the man that if he scratched the floor a divorce would probably follow shortly. The man looked puzzled.

A few weeks later I attempted to reach too far up to remove a silver platter from atop the refrigerator and it fell. It crashed into the newly finished wood floor and made a huge indentation. I was sick. This was only the beginning.

Six years later I watched as my oh-so-not-little bundle of joy (who by the way is going to be 3 next month!) sat at the dining room table and scribbled with a pen (that I had given her) onto a piece of paper. This of course made an indentation into my dining room table. I didn't hand her a magazine to put under her drawing. I was indifferent to the harm she was causing.

Over the last couple of years there have been many, upon many mishaps. Things that I have treasured have been ruined or simply redecorated. Items that I hold close and even my relationships with friends (for that matter my relationship with my Love) have been rearranged. They have taken a beating.

Tonight my almost three year old wanted to read the Velveteen Rabbit before going to bed. I hadn't read it in years. As I finished the book tears came to my eyes. Is this how it feels to be real, I wondered? Bruised, battered, flattened, scribbled upon, scratched, dirtied, emptied, used, loved? No one had ever sat down upon that pink couch before my Dad (with his dirty jeans) sat on it. Yes, it was beautiful, but it was stiff and too clean. My wood floors were perfect, my table immaculate. Me, I was put together neatly. But none of these things were truly cared for, truly loved. Couches should be sat upon. Wood floors should be walked upon. Tables should be eaten upon and used for any type of requirement. Relationships should have depth. The wear and tear of everyday life should show. I am not a perfectly put together person. I am loved. I, in turn love others. Bumps and bruises are bound to happen.

Stopping Time.

I sat in my car at a gas station today. Both kids off to school. Both kids tucked neatly away. I blanked out. I quickly gazed up at the price of gas, cheerful that it was under $4.00. I remembered reading something that the price had been falling lately...I heard two men chatting casually regarding building big things...And then I saw her. The Mom.

From across the street I spotted her.

Her long brown hair cascading around her. In one arm she held an almost 3 year old. Her four year old had already bolted down the porch steps and into the yard collecting leaves and throwing them up into the air, everywhere. She walked with purpose. In her other arm she held two (no three) bags full of blankets, toys, food, a wallet, medicine and anything else she might have thought prudent to stick in, in those last moments of goodbye. She walked down her porch stairs to her white SUV, walked into the street and around the car and tried to open the backseat. It was locked. My gaze settled. I was no longer sitting in a gas station. I was a part of her life.

She looked immediately around for her almost four year old and spotted him too close to the street (following her of course).She yelled something at him. He smiled and ran off. She tried the driver's door, locked too. Where were her keys? I wanted to find them for her. Run to her with them. Scoop up her kids. Give her a smile. She backed off the street. Put her two year old down and started digging through her numerous bags. Her two year old ran off. Picked up a stick. Started swinging at the older one. She look furiously up at them.Warning them with her body language, unable to budge from her bags. Needing keys to move forward. I wanted to go to her. Stroke her hair. Magically find the keys. Buckle her kids into her car. Bring her a latte. Sit with her. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Now she looked mad. Keys had been found. Two year old was being picked up. The four year old though would not listen to her. I saw her count. He starred her down. She finally turned away. Walked back into the street. Buckled the two year old into his carseat and then ran after her four year old. Finally he was in the car. She was in the car. I hoped (more than ANYTHING) during this ordeal that she had kept her keys in her pocket. And then she drove away, gone. I was mesmerized. I couldn't move. There was something so real about what I had just witnessed. I felt embarrassed for watching her. I felt ashamed. I felt as if I had just observed something wrong, a crime.

No crime had been committed. It was just a mother doing her job to the best of her ability at the time in which life decided to throw her a curve ball. How many times had this happened to me? Stressed to the max. Unable to see through my own lenses. Unable to enjoy the humor. Needing to get somewhere. Weighted down. Tired. Sore. Tense. Angry. Wronged. And then the keys go missing.

I sat at the gas station and cried. I cried for her, I cried for her boys, I cried for me, I cried for my own children. So easy to give advice from across the street. "Give up!" I thought.  "Who cares about the keys. Run with your boys. Throw leaves into the air. Enlist their help. Play a game. Or go back inside and turn on the TV, " I had wanted to scream all of this to her. At the same time I knew there was a clock ticking, numbers counting down, kids to deploy, people to impress, another day to fullfill. I knew it. I felt her. I felt the clock. I felt the time.

I wanted to tuck her kids safely away for her. Pull her into my car. Smile at her. Enjoy the quiet with her. Then she was gone. The gas meter clicked at me and I was on my way. Off to figure out my day. There was a time to keep. Kids to pick up. Groceries to be bought. A house to be cleaned. A dinner to be made. Homework to be had. Teeth to be brushed.

The next time I spotted my kids I tried not to hurry. I tried to forget about time. I tried to enjoy the little pleasures. I tried being a friend, instead of a Mom. It felt good. I smiled. I drank some coffee and sat back to watch my little spirits flirting this way and that. Stopping time felt nice. I was relaxed. I cried a bit. I wished for the company of that other Mom.

My only tip to all mothers out there - ALWAYS know where your keys are...Or....decide to give up, and join your kids in a joyous moment of laughter and movement. No matter what though, just remember we are building big things and the foundation is by far the most important.

Footprints

The other day, I was struck by a photograph, taken by a friend of mine. It was an immaculate photo. Immediately I had to write something. This is what came out....Thank you to my talented friend for inspiring me to write this.

Where is the true beauty in the moment of life? Is it found in perfection? Can it be found in the mimicry of life through art? Can it be bottled up? Stored away for another day, another time? Does it offend us? Make us laugh? Make us cry? Where does true beauty come from, where does it go?

The footprints lead to nowhere and to somewhere all at the same time. The prints left are soon washed by the salt water, washed clean away. The sun beams down making slits through the clouds, lighting up the water with diamonds. Our earth is warmed by its presence. There is a moment where the earth meets the sky and they meld together to form another kingdom. The stillness of the world crashes against the laughter of the people...The force of the water breaks the sand. Then the camera clicks. The story has been preserved, safely tucked away, unable to be harmed. Stopped. My dreams live in this world. There is a never ending supply of allurement.

My true (unaltered) story carries on. I am not able to tuck my life safely away. It ticks by second, by second. Each moment, washing over the next. I have strata. Pre-marriage, showing up at my Love's his coffee shop randomly just to sit and watch him work, sunsets on Alki Beach, furniture shopping, a sleeping infant in my arms, my son's nasty (thankfully gone) habit of waking at 4:30am each morning, my daughter's near death experience in the delivery room, fighting over vegetables, pulled teeth, fighting over discipline, laughing at the newly discovered words of a toddler, walking to the park, races and birthday cakes are a few of my moments. I do not mimic the perfection of the still life. My moments cannot be photoshopped. My moments are sometimes ugly, sometimes fleeting and sometimes too complicated.

There is famine, war, unpredictable natural disasters, debt and homelessness. There are moments, and lifetimes, of hopelessness. In my own life there is doubt, anger and selfishness.

The footprints lead to nowhere and to somewhere all at the same time. The prints left are soon washed by the blood of the innocent. The sun beams down making slits through the clouds, it lights up the metal machinery with diamonds. Our earth is hot with anguish. There is a moment where the earth meets the sky and they meld together to form another kingdom, but no one is paying attention. The stillness of the world crashes against the cries of the people...The force of a bomb explodes a neighborhood...The water keeps rising...children scour a garbage dump in hopes of finding their next meal...Then the camera clicks. The story has been exposed. The suffering has been cataloged. My dreams sometimes live in this world too. There is a never ending supply of offensiveness.

Beauty does not come from perfection. It comes from living in each moment and taking care to do and be the best in each moment. Beauty comes out of forgiveness and sacrifice. Beauty comes from attending to the suffering. Beauty is in the rebuilding. Beauty can be discovered between each moment, when no one is paying attention. Beauty is the story of me. Beauty is the story of you. Our history. Our future. Melded together. Mixed up footprints.

Rain, rain go away.

Make sure you take a deep, deep breath.
We are going under water folks and won't resurface for a very long time.

The Puget Sound rain can drive us all to put our PJs on early. It has a cozy feel when the fire is lit and a book has been opened. The foggy skies envelop us. It is our blanket. I long for a sweater with just the right amount of warmth and softness. There is peace.

I come to grips with the Puget Sound rain every February. The cherry blossoms start to bud and there is a touch of warmth behind the nastiness. The grass is lush and green and the sunsets can take you by surprise. There is a brief opening prior to the plunge back into the wetness. Sometimes this interlude lasts several hours or it can last several weeks. The crispness has faded. My hands are no longer cold. I am able to fast forward through the windy storms of March, right on to July.

There is a time however, between October and January that the Puget Sound is brutish, nasty and downright wet. It rips our summer from us. We long to hang on. Our grip loosens a bit more every day through the last week of September.

We glimpse a bit of sun and we adorn our short-sleeve t-shirts with scarves and wear boots with our shorts.  It is a cold time. Our children unceasingly ask us if it is still raining. Our parks are deserted. The walk from our car to the grocery store is a desolate one. Our neighbors hibernate. Our dogs refuse to go outside. The furnace roars to life again.  We eat fatty foods. Gone are our salads. Our cars take on a musty smell. Everyone hurries to get out of the wet.

Our lazy, just got started, Summer of beach walks, too hot bedrooms, birds chirping at 4:00am, BBQs, sandals, water fights and camp outs comes crashing to a halt. And all we are left with is a closet full of the wrong type of clothes and fleeting memories, almost dream like, of the way it used to be.

Break out the sweaters. Break out the PJs.  Hold on (to a book, a hobby, your lover, your house or your work) until February. Make sure you take a deep, deep breath. We are going under water folks and won't resurface for a very long time.

After time you learn to spot the Februarys. They are our life preservers, our saviors. As your lift the July page in your calendar this all will be a fleeting memory.

My Love

I don't want my journey to be forgettable. I want it to be meaningful, exciting, fresh and lovely. Being comfortable on a journey is always a good thing, but laziness on the journey should never be tolerated, especially when I am so lucky to be with such a great man.

The stillness of a nap hour is a magical gift. Not to be taken advantage of. The possibilities are endless. For me, today, the magic is the quiet lull. Tomorrow the magic may be a clean house. The next day the magic might come in the form of a work out. Right now, though I am fully content to sit and ponder what means most to me; the journey I am on with my Love.. Sometimes this life long journey feels like a car accident that never (thankfully) happened. Sometimes the journey feels like a joyous jubilant party. There are times that it feels like an exciting, daring adventure! Other times it feels wildly tragic. Most of the time though it feels comfortable. During these comfortable times I seem forget that the journey moves us still, through life. I sometimes fail to be a witness to all that our lives have to offer.

My Love is extremely loyal, patient, self sacrificing, scientific, hopeful, confident, passionate, cultured, intelligent, and faithful. What an awesome life partner! During theses comfortable times however I tend to forget to look for these qualities. My comfortableness tends to slide into laziness and my laziness tends to lead us into dark and stormy areas that I would prefer not to be. I forget to be a witness to all the greatness that is passing me (us) by.

I dont want my journey to be forgettable. I want it to be meaningful, exciting, fresh and lovely. Being comfortable on a journey is always a good thing, but laziness on the journey should never be tolerated, especially when I am so lucky to be with such a great man! ...And that is where the magic can be found. It can be found when we take enough time to meditate upon our circumstances, to course correct when needed and to pay a compliment when it is long overdue.

My fight.

I have never been punched in the face by a human fist. My nose has never bled, my body has never been thrown down to the ground by another. There was one time however that I woke up, dust in my eyes, facing second base, on my stomach, with the taste of blood in my mouth. I have always wanted to know if I got up right away. Did I lay there for some time? How long was it before I decided to find my spirit again? Did my team run to me? Was I alone?

It was the second pitch of the game. I was the allstar fastpitch pitcher. I had it all figured out. Fastball, curveball, slowball, riseball, you get the gist. Most importantly I had it all figured out in my head. I could stare down anyone. Play mind games. The funny thing about this story is that I was only sixteen years old. ----Where is my gumption now----

Tournament weekend. I had just been moved from the  reliefer to the starter. I was pumped. and then it happened. I was on my belly, staring at second base. I try to meditate on the exact moment. The moment when I was hit. I cannot feel or see anything. My ears only work. As the ball rolled off the bat all I can hear is an earsplitting crack, not from the bat, it happened inside my head and then I wake up. I can see second base. I watched the video later (much later). I pulled my glove up to catch the ball, but at only 32 feet away there is always room for error. The ball missed my glove and smashed into my jaw with such force that it knocked me down and around. The video cut out. All I want to know now is how long did I lay there? Who helped me up? Did I stand on my own? How do we find the strength to get back up when we have been beaten?

Believe me, I had been beaten. 6 innings later I was rushed to the ER and I spent the next week in the ICU. There were concerns about my well being, to say the least. But in the moment, the very moment of defeat all I can remember is longing to push through, to keep going. I pitched the next 6 innings. My mouth was so bloody from my braces and my jaw so sore that my sister chewed bubble gum for me to get it soft enough for me to gnaw on.  But yes, I pitched the next 6 innings. We lost. I lost. In the sixth inning, I began to feel like I could not breath. My neck had developed a large hemotoma that was blocking some of my airway. I have been told I passed out. There was an ambulance. There are stories of my Dad wanting to perform a tracheotomy with a slurpee straw. I spent the next 24 hours throwing up while the doctors started to realize I may be allergic to morphine. 7 days later, after a few seizures, tests and more tests, I found myself at the oral surgeon's office getting my mouth wired shut. I was lucky enough to have been given wire cutters to carry around in the case that I vomitted. They didn't want me to suffocate.

I had been beaten. They say after a significant head trauma a person can experience minor personality shifts. Really? Who can differentiate this syndrome with a 16 year old turning 17 or even 18. Who's to say?

I don't relate this story so that you can feel bad for me. No, not today. I simply want to know where my kickass self has hid herself....I do not give up easy. Lately however, I have felt my world tumble and groan. How long did I lay in the dirt? Why did I decide to get up? These are questions that I am pondering tonight. It's okay to be hit. It's okay to be hurt. That's part of the game. It's what you decide to do after that hit that really matters. Tonight I am facing another second base. My lovely kids are proofing my undoing. I need to get up. I WILL  get up. I am looking up for a hand up.  The bigger question though, once I find my way up, will I fight?

Within the love of the game we find the strength. The strength to stand back up and the strength to keep fighting. I will stand up tomorrow and I will fight tomorrow because I love my kids. I love them more than what I think love stands for. So it goes, my fight. For me, it is only the fight that matters. I have lost before. I have won before. Pushing through to the other side, now that is truly what it is all about.  Scorekeepers, please put down your pencils. I play for the love of the game. This is what I now must remember.

My Mountain

When the grit, the determination, and the fortitude that is takes to climb my mountain hide themselves away from me I sit and ponder whether I have picked the right mountain. As I sit I feel my body relax. At what point do I give up and start the decent? If I sit long enough will my determination find me again? Or will I forget my journey and live half way up never fully able to commit?

Three options. My soul always says, "carry on." My body shouts, "go down." My personality thinks it might be fun (quirky) to try living half way up. Living half way up does have its advantages I think. I feel my body melt further into the ground. Seconds may go by, days, years before I discover the unhappiness that comes from living half way up. My aversion to progress, up or down the mountain, starts to affect my thoughts, behaviour, feelings and physical well-being. It is no longer fun to live half way up. Decision time.

What will it be? Some times I choose to descend. My past chose the wrong mountain for my future. On October 8, 2010 I sat in front of my computer ready to pen my resignation notice to MultiCare Health System. My working family for the past 15 years. MultiCare had given me a job at 18 years of age as a records clerk, had always supported my decision to transfer within the company (many times), and had thought it a good idea to decrease my hours so that I could go back to college. It allowed me to meet hundreds of people that eventually became close friends. It gave me direction, taught be to be a team player and leader and how to find the determination it costs to get the job done (the right way). MultiCare watched me date, get married, buy a house and eventually have kids. Everyday I put in the grit at work and put in just as much bravery at home.

My love and I struggled and scrambled up our mountain; having two incomes, a house and children to support. It was not easy. Fifteen years later I decided to sit down and ponder my mountain. There were two sets of meetings to juggle, two sets of working hours to adjust for, two separate kid's schedules with very specific needs to haggle over, my Love's overseas travel schedule (which could leave me single for 10 - 14 days at a time), there was sickness, time off work, miscommunication, money, food to prepare, tired children, work to do at home, further education for both my Love and me, a nanny to employ, daycare to pay for, work-out schedules to keep -- not to mention the laundry, dishes and house maintenance that had to be accomplished.  Did I want to carry on? I lived half way up for about three months.

On October 8, 2010 this is what I wrote:

"As you know, my husband and I have been re-examining our financial situation over the last couple of months. Also, this last month _______ began kindergarten and we put ______ in daycare. Both of these transitions have been hard on our family. Eric's non-profit has been doing fantastic. In his Executive Director role he has been and will be taking on much more responsibility, will be increasing his daytime work hours, and traveling out of country much more. This has already been a hardship for us with our present situation of sharing the child/home duties. As you recall I came to you a few months ago and asked if there was any way I could work part time so that I could be more of a support for my family. At that time there was not an opportunity to decrease my FTE. I have spent this last couple of  months thinking over my options and weighing all aspects of my life. I finally came to the conclusion that being responsible and supportive to and for my family is one of the most important values in my life. My children and my husband deserve this."

On November 5, 2010 I started my journey down. On November 6, 2010 I started my journey up a new mountain. I have to be honest, this new mountain has many more pitfalls, unexpected terrain and crazy hurricanes. I am a long way off from half way up. I find though that sitting down more often to contemplate my upward movement is a gift worth giving myself. Don't wait until you are half way up your mountain to sit and relax. Take time every day to evaluate your mountain climb and ask yourself if it is worth it. Take time to map out your quest so that you don't find yourself at an impass. And don't forget that descending is just as prestigious as making the ascent. It is the living half way up that will kill you.

Exercise

This is an exercise. Writing. Forming sentences. Thinking about grammar (I don't do this very well). Structuring paragraphs. Creating the end before the beginning. Tonight I wanted to write. But, alas, I have no strong emotions, no unanswered business (at least I am not so inclined to want to scratch beneath the surface on this evening) So, this is my exercise. My discipline.

If you could see my unfinished blog entries you would undoubtedly be impressed. I get half way through. I'm interrupted. I never finish. Once interrupted I never go back. What is written was meant to be. For me. No more. But there was one entry that impressed even me. I started writing it the day after my last blog entry (Lady at the Top of the Tower). I have copied it below for anyone interested in my conflicted soul. I have left it unfinished - as it should be.

~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!
 It IS the Mountain.

As humans, we have to somehow scramble, struggle and inch our way to the top of the mountain if we are to transform (change would be a good word, less religious) ourselves. It cannot be every mountain, and it cannot be any mountain. It has to be a mountain worth dying for. The mountain climb may take one whole life or it may take seconds. We should not fool ourselves, this mountain climb is for ourselves only. It is a purely selfish experience but something that is vital for personhood. There is no giving up. There is only forward movement. The grit and determination should be palpable. We should long for the goal. Our dreams should be consumed by it. And when the top is reached we should congratulate ourselves and begin the journey back down as quickly as possible so as not to get caught up in the moment. For it is in the climb that we find what we are looking for. At the point of summiting the view should not be taken into account; it should not mesmerize us. It should only serve as a marker.

The Lady at the Top of the Tower

It has taken me eleven years to write this entry (this doesnt mean it is written well, just written). A friend unknowingly inspired me last week and I have been trying ever since to find the appropriate words. Thank you friend, for the title of this blog entry.

----

My story begins eleven years ago at the bottom of Moon Hill in Guilin, China. My Love and I are traveling together for the second time and I am having the time of my life. Our wonderful guide, Christina had told us about this hill (at a time when I was in the worst shape of my life it appeared to me like a mountain). Over millions of years the environment had worn away most of the limestone, creating a natural acrch in the hill. I couldn't wait to get to the top. Nearing the top (800 steps later) and nearly out of breath I was so relived to finally arrive. At the top there was another couple who wanted to see if they could get higher still. My Love looked at me and I simply said, "go ahead, I will wait here. I cannot go another step." He went ahead and I waited.

Sitting down I surveyed the view. It was majestic. The small villiage at the bottom of the hill looked so quaint. The skyline was marked with huge rock karsts covered in dark green lush shrubs. The mist was enchanting. The blue sky so blue. I absorbed the view utterly alone. I pulled out my journal and this is what I wrote, "September 8th, 2000 - Mountain top experiences are weird. Sitting waiting for _____ I am struck by how far away and out of touch I feel. My whole life I have been told that the goal should be the "mountain top experience" and it should be sought after if in a personal relationship with God and Jesus. Since it has only been a bit over 12 months since my parting with Christianity I still have these old mantras and I am tyring to dissect them. Unfortunately all I can think about while looking down on Moon Hill village is how condescending it would be to always be up on the mountain and never have to experience what the people are truly going through." Over the course of the next few years I remembered my thoughts on mountain top experiences. I wasn't sure. It was a hard feeling to unpack.

On August 20, 2004 I traveled with my Mom, Dad and brother to Mount St. Helens. My Love and I had been trying to conceive for almost a year without luck. I remember the date so vividly because it was the date within the month that is so discouraging for women when trying hard to have babies. The full two hour car trip was taken up with our fantasies of summiting. Looking down into a volcano. Looking out onto the Cascade mountain range. Could there be a better view? We were pumped.  Fifty yards from the summit the ground turned into loose sandy volcanic ash. I was in the best shape of my life. I could taste the top. I was well ahead of my family and stopped momentarily to take a breath. As my parents caught up with me I asked why my brother had stopped. They said he didn't want to go on. It was too hard. He was content. They passed me up and proceeded to the top.

I gazed down at my brother and in a split second decided I hadn't really come for the mountain top experience. I had come to spend time with my family. I gazed up one last time. My parents had reached the top. How amazing. I started my journey down to my brother. We sat there in silence for a long time. The beauty was awesome. Mountains piled up upon mountains. At that moment I decided that mountain top experiences were overrated. I finally had unpacked my feelings. It is the beauty within the moment that should be meditated upon. We had a great view. One of the best that I had ever seen. I didn't need to go to the top. The icing on the cake for me is that I shared my experience with someone. We created a memory. I was not alone up on the top, basking in the glory - - I was somewhere in the middle enjoying the company of my brother and enjoying our extremely fortunate vantage point.

The next month I found out that I was pregnant. Over the next six years my life has overflowed with these "almost mountain top" experiences. I have had to sacrifice these glorious experiences for the sake of my children. Each time this happens I am content. Content to be making a memory and to be sharing it with my two precious children. The beauty has been amazing. Flash forward to last week. I find myself in Pioneer Square up on the roof of my friend's apartment building. I watched the sun tease the clouds and I watched the clouds holler back at the sun. It made for a fabulous sunset. We were right above the ferry launch and I was so pleased to see the ferrys slowing making their way across the water and back again. I was with good friends. It wasn't raining. If you turned around and looked up you could see Smith Tower peering down at you. At the end of the evening my friend enchanted me with a story of a lady who lives at the top of Smith Tower. One of the other persons at our event had actually been in the condominium. Wow, to live at the top of a tower. What an amazing experience. It heavily discounted the views that I had been enjoying all evening long. It took me several moments to realize that I wouldn't have traded spots with her. Not ever. I am enjoying the beauty in the middle. It is enough.

Listening I Am

I don't have much to say today. I am listening. I listened to my not so little bundle of joy cry out every hour on the hour last night. I listened and wondered. Two year molars? Tummy ache? Hunger pains? Starting at around 5:30am this morning I listened over the monitor as my 6 year old rummaged through his legos. At 6:30am my perky kitty started to meow. The birds that had started around 4:45am had since gone back to sleep. At 7:00am I listened to my coffee pot steaming and thought that I should probably get out of bed. The kids started chattering, fighting, laughing. Breakfast was munched very loudly. The rain began to pelt my front windows. Dishes clanging into the dishwasher. Water running. Music playing.

I listened today and I discovered sounds I had never heard. While playing outside there was a moment when all was still and it was magic listening to the neighborhood wind chimes. At another time my ears where accosted by small kindergartners experiencing their first school BBQ, not quite sure but oh so excited. The giggles were oh so enchanting.

Later in the day as my not so little bundle of joy laid down for a rest I listened to my house. My stove top begged to be cleaned and my bathtub argued with it for my attention.

After dinner we walked up to our grocery store and I listened to the stories of the day. I listened to the clouds teasing me with their rain. I listened to the dogs bark and listened to the buses go by.

I didn't have much to say today. Probably beyond tired. But I forget that these days are the premium days. I soak up so much about my world. I am hoping for a better night's rest. But if I happen to hear the birds at dawn I will turn over, close my eyes, wish for sleep and listen to their rhythmic tunes. 

Weeds

It has been one of my only constants. Weeds always grow back. There is always work to be done. Long grass around the gardens, dandelions, prickles, dirty clothes, dishes, toys, dusty floors, jackets in need of hanging, shoes collected by the front door, an overgrown junk drawer. You get the idea. My life seems to be bursting at the seams with weeds.

While working full time it was easier to make excuses for the weeds in my home life. When my 6 year old was only 6 months old I talked my husband into hiring a cleaning service and a yard service. This went on for a couple of years. I would breathe a sigh of relief on yard days. My yard sparkled with tidiness. On house cleaning days I would come home from work and breathe in the fresh smell of furniture polish and bleach. It was lovely. All rooms clean at the same time. Hanging jackets and putting away shoes was a fun sport. I had nothing else to weed out. While working full time my Love would always take some early morning time and empty and load our dishwasher. More often than not, he would also cook dinner. We took turns with the laundry. The junk drawers didn't bother me. I was never at home with time to watch them morph into a deep dark abyss.

Don't get me wrong, I wasn't lazy. I had plenty of weeds at the office that needed tending too. Everyday the same weeds would grow back. A nasty physician interaction, a database that didn't want to work, an explanation given time and time again, filing, meetings to attend. This work though was somehow more enjoyable. It didn't seem tedious. Plus I got paid every two weeks for my spectacular gardening skills.

Now home full time I wonder what made me such a fabulous gardener outside the these four walls. Was it simply the pay? Why have I not been able to find my stride here in this new job? It has been 7 months and I am still struggling with the weeds, and for that matter, the plants.

I have come to the conclusion that I love an audience. I do my best work when I am on stage (at the office). The compliments rush over me and I find myself weeding entire days worth in a couple of hours. There is no audience at home and I have found myself moving slower, putting off and giving in. I also discovered that I had a great deal of pride in my work at the office. It was a reflection of myself. I wanted it done nicely, correctly, expeditiously and systematically. My pride came from the continuous confirmation from others that I was doing an awesome job. It didn't matter to me that the weeds grew back. I enjoyed cleaning it all up again and again.

I am looking for that same pride now. As I wash down my kitchen counter tops for the 5th time today I try to  muster pride. As I vacuum and dust, clean out the toaster oven, discipline kids, pick up toys, do the laundry, and clean out the junk drawers I try to summon pride. As I clean out the garden beds, prune back overgrown plants and learn how to mow the grass I rally my pride. Without an audience to give wittiness to this work I find that my pride has sometimes hidden itself very well. It discourages me when the weeds grow back. I feel like a gardener with no garden tools, no gloves and no boots.

Today I decided that it was okay that my pride refused to shine. Today I decided it was okay that nobody noticed my work. Today I decided to JUST DO IT. And to keep on doing again and again for the sake of doing. I realized that there are going to be times in my life when pride in my work does not come easily. This is okay. I will continue to work hard for the sake of working hard. I discovered today that my work ethic, my sheer grit to get the job done, runs deeper than my sense of pride or my want of an audience.

Knowing that I am a hard worker no matter the job causes my pride to peek out from under the bed (just a little bit). Give me some time. I will get there.

Motherhood.

My life was adequate, interesting, ordered and spontaneous before the plunge. In the very early moments after the plunge, life didnt seem to change. My infant carseat went with me eveywhere. My Love and I once went out on Valentine's with one of my infants in tow. She behaved perfectly. Almost like she wasnt even there.

As time went on though, things got a bit jumbled. My little ones started to take notice of me (love me?) and I became a human target. I have been spit up on, peed on, pooped on, barfed on, yell at, kicked, hit and cried on (sometimes all in the same day!). The love shown to me by my children has ended almost all my telephone conversations with a nagging, "pay attention to me" whine, it has kept me up at night as I watch and listen to their breathing (the coughing, the sniffling, the moaning) and it has jumbled my words as I try to punish one kid but use their sibling's name instead. The love shown to me by my kids has ruined perfectly good evenings with my Love, it has dictated meal plans, it has messied and cluttered my house, and it has pushed me to the brink of desperation.

As well as being their human target, I am their life preserver. On some days I am the only thing they have left. My children cling to me; dont let me out of their sight. The desperation shown takes away my privacy, my time, my ability to get anything accomplished. This desperation cries out to be heard at all the wrong times.

On very rare days I am their superhero (the stars usually have to align for this one to happen). I can take away bumps and bruises with a kiss, I can laugh at all the right moments, I can prolong a nap, I can catch (with lighting speed) a full dinner plate as it cascades off the table, I can rid closets of monsters and I can make homework seem fun.  This rare display of heroics takes away my confidence on days when the superwoman costume refuses to be found and it crushes my spirit when my children refuse to be rescued.

I have bled for my children. I will continue to bleed for my children. I am their Mom. So while I'm at it, I should probably give a shout out to my Mom (my human target, my life preserver and my superhero). Thank you for bringing me to life and for giving me your heart.

Happy Mom's Day.

My Hair

I am looking forward to growing my hair out again and living until I decide I have
 lived long enough to want to do it again.

For those of you who have known me for a while, you know that my hair is my life line. When I was 18 years old I took a file clerk job with Tacoma General Hospital. I was relegated to the basement for 8 hours a day and filed back thousands of medical charts over my two year term. 6 months prior I had decided to cut my locks of beautiful blonde hair.

It was my first such adventure and it was thrilling. Staring at myself now however in the basement restroom of the hospital, I wondered if it would ever grow out again. My mortality was on the line. I honestly did not believe I would live long enough to see my beautiful hair again.

It has been 16 years since then and I count myself lucky to have witnessed my hair grow out again (at least on 7 separate occasions). Once I decide that my hair (and me) have lived long enough, I cut it and decide that I want to live until I can grow it out again.

Strange, I know. A small idiosyncrasy. Don't read too much into it.

This last episode was different though. I had been growing my hair since my not-so-little bundle of joy had been born. 2 years later it was down the middle of my back. I loved it. I curled it. I ponied it. I colored it dark. I was proud of it.  I would of course cut it in small amounts; keep it healthy, sometimes up to my shoulders but then fast back down my back it would grow. I never wanted it short again.

I wondered about this the other night. I wondered why I doubted my life line.

Did I seriously think I would not make it through again? Silly thoughts. I became too comfortable, too prideful with my hair (and my life). The next day while my baby was sleeping I picked up a pair of scissors and cut it off. I did it quick, without allowing myself to think.

I am looking forward to growing my hair out again and living until I decide I have lived long enough to want to do it again.

Time in Space

My one regret with my 13 year relationship with my Love is that I never wanted to fully live within the quiet periods. I have had my fair share of quietness during the last 13 years. Two years into my relationship with my Love we started living together. About that same time he accepted an internship to study at Stanford University for the Summer. I planted flower pots, smoked on the back deck, tried working out and read alot of books. It was quiet. Ultimately, I was anxious to move forward.

A couple years later, (now married) my Love graduated with his BA and we moved up to Seattle so that he could start and finish his Masters degree. Again my Love accepted an internship in Washington D.C. for the Summer. I worked out (running became my passion), sat on the beach, watched the Alki summer sunsets every night, read alot of books, and went to the office early in the mornings (commuted all the way down to T-town). It was quiet. Subsequently, I was lonely.

Shortly after graduation we moved back to Tacoma and my Love took at job with an international adoption agency. All of the sudden he was taken away from me again, traveling with families, uniting with their children. These trips were shorter (14 - 16 days) but pretty frequent. I stayed at the office late, worked out and obsessed over having a baby. Many of my evenings were quiet. I imagined myself as a mother.

A year later we bought a house (still childless) and filled it with stuff. I now had a fancy dinning room table. During my Love's frequent trips I would sit down to eat at this dinning room table and would imagine how amazing and enjoyable it would be to have a full table (complete with a husband and kids). A couple months later, the night before one of my Love's trips, I discovered I was pregnant. The next day it was quiet again. During thenext few months I read alot of books and learned alot about my body. Four months into my pregnancy I was laid off from my job. My Love was traveling at the time. I listened to alot of loud music, but it was still quiet. Appropriately, I was depressed.

At six months of age my son and I found ourselves alone again in the evenings. It was less quiet, but sometimes even more quiet. I had every Wednesday off from the office (new job) and I was perplexed as to what to do with myself during his epic 3 hour naps. At the end of my Love's travels he came home and told me that he intended to start his own non-profit, bringing clean water to children all over the world. It required more time away. By December his dream had come true.

One year later we decided to have another baby. It took 12 months of trying (I am convinced this was because of the hectic ill-timed travels). At the same time my now two year old decided that it was fun to wake up at 4:00am every day and scream until we relented and went to him. During my Love's travels my space became less and less quiet.

Flash forward two years...My Love is out of town. I am desperately trying to get dinner on my (not so fancy anymore) dinner table. My baby is screaming because she has dropped her pacifier and, being strapped to my back, she cannot get down to get it. My four year old is talking incessantly to me about superheros, obviously unaware that there is a crazy screaming wild child in our midst. My pasta has just boiled over and in the back of my brains somewhere I remember that I am out of baby formula and diapers (trip to grocery store after dinner?), my telephone is ringing and my four year old has now moved on and decides that he does not like pasta and is throwing a fit. To top it off my Love decides that this would be a very good time to skype us for a fun, friendly, family chat (I sometimes add another "F" word to this). My life is nowhere near quiet. At this very moment I want to shoot myself for wishing for a full dinning room table. At this very moment all I want is one milli-second of quiet. I yearn for flower pots, a smoke on the back deck, a sunset, a workout, a book (anything fiction), a late evening at the office, an epic 3 hour nap...It took me almost two more years to finally realize that it was too loud. Quiet, please.

I went on a search for the quietness that had all too often permeated my life. I wanted it back. I needed it back. I meditated upon those quiet periods and wished with every part of me that I had taken advantage of that time in space. Instead I had tried to rush through the quietness or I had tried to distract myself from it. I never fully realized the gravity of my quietness and for this I am sorry.

My search has finally led me to some quiet waters (although noise is all around). I am so very thankful and am determined not to rush or distract myself through this time. My soul is content to be quiet.

To Be, continued.

After reading my last post I thought that I should probably add my own paragraph regarding my fall into full time motherhood. I am not sure I can put it into any sort of  verse as I am still living within the fall, and have yet to come together again. But here are a few of my emotions that I am exploring (using all the time I need; looking under all the rocks). ...Learning to relax into the chaos of transition.

Energy, under appreciated, learning curve, lack of routine, happy, hurt, peaceful (quiet?), flashes of brilliancy, at home in my skin, slow, angry, spirited, relaxed, free, overwhelmed, jovial, loved.

To Be.

Lately I have been trying something new with my kids. Whenever we (they) are in a transition (walking out the door, leaving the park, heading off to nap time, putting dinner on the table, etc.) I speak in a soft whisper. This is not for my kid's sake, but for mine. As tensions rise in my house, I can feel myself wanting to fix things; somehow make the transition easier, take away the problem, or just get angry enough to cause my kids to silence themselves. Whispering helps me to remember that it is not my job to fix anything. Whispering also allows my kids the room to feel their own emotions and to live within their moment.

After 15 years of full time work, starting right out of highschool, during which I graduated with a BA, got married, moved four times and had kids, I decided to quit. A better word, transition. I'll spare you the details regarding what led up to my decision (for another post perhaps). Ultimately, I had to give five weeks notice. During that five weeks I pumped out more work than I thought possible. At the same time, I recognized the huge U-turn I was about to enter into and spoke softly to myself. I read, When Things Fall Apart, by Pema Chodron. My husband wondered about my choice but I knew that my life was "falling apart" and I needed some wisdom. This is what I found.

"When things fall apart and we're on the verge of we know not what, the test for each of us is to stay on the brink and not concretize...From this point of view, the only time we ever know what's really going on is when the rug's been pulled out and we can't find anywhere to land....Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and fall apart again. It's just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen; room for grief, for relief, for misery for joy."

I meditated upon this for five weeks. I told myself that it was okay to fall apart and in turn, it was okay for my kids to fall apart. I shouldn't try to fix the problem. I shouldn't try to stop the falling. Relaxing into the falling, allowing room for all the different emotions helps with the coming together again (the healing).

During my U-turn I took my 5 year old up to Seattle to see Santa on the top of the Space Needle. I had great expectations. My son fell apart half way through the day. He was miserable (tired, cranky, who knows). The day didn't go like either of us had planned. I was hurt. Driving home in silence my 5 year old handed me the stuffed flower that he had won at one of the arcade (the claw) games. "You can have this, Mom. I won this for you," he said. I smiled at him. I have kept this flower by my computer. It reminds me that I should live within the moment and experience the emotions of the moment for what they are. I shouldn't try to stop the falling. Eventually things come together again (and then they fall apart again). The healing (the teaching) comes from within the moment when there is room to explore.

I had to carry my not-so-little bundle of joy out of the park tonight kicking and screaming. My first inclination was to try to appease her with anything. I wanted the screaming to stop. My whispering tone helped me remember to live within the falling; allow her to scream, allow her to feel mad; allow her to feel hurt. She came together again and we had a nice snuggle before bedtime during which she told me that she, "wanted to stay at the park forever." I told her we could go again tomorrow. She replied, "that's fun."

Our lives, (even as adults) are constantly falling apart and coming back together again. During my five week transition leading up to staying at home full time, I understood that I was on the brink of falling but that it was okay to fall. I am learning to live withing my falling and in my coming back together again.

Dad

I vividly remember receiving a HUGE bouquet of balloons from my Dad for my 6th birthday. It was right in the middle of my kindergarten day, all the five year old eyes were on me. I felt awesome. That same year, my Dad watched me fall off our swing set (so it did travel with us) and hurdle backwards into space breaking my arm. He was the first one to my side. I am not sure which memory came first.

What I do know, is that my Dad loves me. He has attended to me in my happiest times and in my scariest times.  The catalog of events that he has saved on me must be overwhelming. Tonight, while jabbering on the phone with him he reminded me that he has, in total, over 90 years of parenting under his belt (adding up all the siblings, etc.). He also, through a fun spirited conversation about my son, reminded me to have a sense of humor and to recognize the good in people, even when only the bad decides to show up.

Thank you Dad for deciding to recognize my good (my Mom during the same telephone encounter decided that this was grace) and for the humor surrounding "my goodness".  Thank you for being with me through my life; through the tough and the fun.  Congrats on 90 years!

It's the View!

On my way to the office, almost every day during my 15 years at MultiCare, I would walk by the same picture. I probably didn't notice it at first (isn't this like everything in life?). I am not sure when it became a part of me. But then, all of the sudden it was a ritual, something I yearned for every morning (right along with my coffee).

I cannot tell you who the artist was/is. I am sorry. This is obviously a downfall of mine. In every aspect of my life, details get swept under the rug. It is a watercolor. It is a painting of a treacherous mountain road turning a corner. One side of the corner is hillside, the other side has a spectacular view of the ocean. No vehicles are in sight.

For years, when I would come upon this painting, I would always wonder where the road was taking its passenger. What was around the corner? I wanted to know so badly that, daily, as I passed the painting, I would imagine what might be in store for its passenger. A car wreck? A home? Another corner? A vacation? Another mountain to climb? A valley to coast down into? A never ending road? Every day I imagined some different destination for this passenger. It became a ritual. Part of my routine.

There was one particular day however that I stopped short and refused to participate in my routine. I think I had finally run out of options for the passenger. All of the sudden, I felt a surge in my body. It was the view! I had missed it completely. The destination or what may happen didn't matter. It was the view of the ocean in all its greatness that was being missed.

The next day I couldn't wait to see the painting again; to soak up the view that had been missed for years. Too often in my own life I get caught up in the getting somewhere that I forget that its the going and the enjoying that really matter.

.

Happenstance

It is a funny thing, happenstance. An accident, a coincidence, a fluke. My life is filled full of happenstance (that's how I met my husband). What am I to do with these chaotic happenings? How do I put them in order so that I may live a more purposeful life?

My not-so-little bundle of joy and I attend a YMCA class every week. Toddler Gym. A bunch of screaming banshees running around, tackling all sorts of play equipment. Flitting from one activity to the next. Singing, circle time, and we are done. I am exhausted.

Last week there happened to be a new teacher. Not all the right toys had been placed in the right areas. Of course my bundle of joy took notice. I told her she should, "go ask the teacher." She went running up to him screaming at the top of her voice, "slide, slide, slide, slide..."

He took one look at her and calmly said, "now lady, you seem old enough to make a sentence, let's try this. May."
She replied, "May."
Teacher said, "I."
She replied, "I."
Teacher said, "have."
She replied, "have."
Teacher said, "the slide please?"
She replied, "the slide please?"
I was mortified. Way too strict. I hoped he wasn't the permanent replacement. They walked to the closet and took out the slide.

A couple days later I found my home under attack; crazy kids were invading. Yelling, chanting, dancing, the decibel level was off the charts.
My not-so-little bundle of joy came running into the kitchen screaming, "drink, drink, drink, drink...."
I took a knee, held her by the shoulders and calmly said, "May."
She replied, "May."
I said, "I."
She replied, "I."
I said, "have."
She replied, "have."
I said, "a drink please?"
She replied, "a drink please?"
Wow. The screaming was gone. In its place was a toddler asking politely for a drink of water. ...Perfection. A fluke interaction had helped me save my home from the crazy invasion.

Six years ago, having just moved into the neighborhood, I started a friendship with a gal down the street. She had a baby about the same age as mine. One day she was gone. Disappeared. Divorced. Moved out of state. I was concerned, I didn't know the whole story. Late that night I rang up who I thought was her best friend. We talked. Six years later this woman has become one of my best friends.

A couple of months ago I was nursing my sick kid, a really sick kid. I had shipped my baby off to my mother-in-law's so as not to infect her. My kid was miserable. No fluids for hours. He refused. My husband was traveling. I called my best friend. I needed a shoulder to cry on.

No more than ten minutes later there was a care package on my doorstep. It was filled full of apple juice, soup, saltine crackers and beer (for me of course). I walked into my kid's room and told him that I had some "_____ (insert name of friend) juice" ready for him. He gulped it down. Anything from _______ (name of friend) is met by my kid as an awesome item (invention). At a very early age she was known by him as the "snack lady" and would feed him wonderful snacks on our walking routes.

She had saved me. She had saved my kid. She had possibly saved me a trip to the hospital. He kept on drinking. A happenchance telephone conversation six years ago. A self sacrificing friend.

A little while later my sister's kids were all sick with a flu virus that just wouldn't give up. I called her everyday to see if I could help. I would have done anything. I had fully learned how it felt to have a self sacrificing friend, and I wanted to be that friend to my friends. Excellent.

To live with my eyes wide open, to meditate upon all chance encounters, to absorb the lessons taught, to act upon all the teachings, this is the only way I can bring order to my life and begin to live more purposely. Life may be filled with chaotic, random, fluke moments that seem to have no order or purpose but by simply allowing myself to be shaped by these encounters I can begin to live a more commanding life.

Beauty

Oh, how I behold the beauty of my walking route. It takes me on hills overlooking Puget Sound and Mount Rainier. It drops me down to the waterfront only to be showered with shady trees and views of the Vashon Island ferry. It picks me up as I travel up more hills overlooking ravines and beautiful homes. The clouds whisper my name and the sun shines on my face. I am free. ...Except for the occasion when I find myself pushing a 30 pound girl plus a 10 pound stroller up one of these massive hills. At these times I find the only thing I can muster is a laugh.

Near the end of my pregnancy with my first child (6 years ago) I began fantasizing. My fantasies were of running. I wanted to be free. I wanted to run up North 30th Street hill as fast as my little (well big at the time) legs could take me. I wanted to feel the wind on my face. I longed for a drink of beauty that did not come at the cost of contractions or knee pain. I didn't know at the time what it would take to be free again. My child wrapped his heart around mine like morning glory. After pregnancy I did indeed run my hills again. I also walked these hills many times with a baby in tow. Slowly, however, as the morning glory wrapped its thicker and stronger vines around me, as my baby turned into a toddler with needs and wants of his own, I found myself forgetting the feeling of being free. I found myself pregnant again. Near the end of this pregnancy all I wanted was a Dairy Queen blizzard. I had no fantasies of running.  I was happy to be having another wonderful bundle of joy. I never (rarely) ran again.

I am trying to free myself. My walks lately have helped. The rowing machine in our basement helps (when I remember to use it). My next door neighbor inspires me when I hear her gate close at 5:30am and I know she is off on a run. When I do on occasion bring my not-so-little bundle of joy on one of my workouts I am amazed to find myself again fantasizing about running the hills. This causes me to laugh, I am on the road to recovery.

City Services

Trash Day is a fun event in our house. Every Monday one of my kids exclaims, "trash day" and peers out the window at the notoriously green stinky trash truck. We wave at the trash man, he waves back and then we go about our business until the next trash day. But what if our trash man decided not to come? What if Trash Day did not exist? Every year my husband and I clean out our garage and basement, getting rid of the accumulation of junk. Cardboard boxes, old broken toys, clothes too small for our growing babies, books, worn out furniture, these are all items that find their way into our basement. How is it possible to accumulate so much junk when Trash Day comes every seven days? How about doing without trash day, or for that matter, no electricity, no running water, no buses, no firefighters (I could go on, but you get the point)?

As my husband is readying himself for upcoming travels in Nepal I have begun to wonder if I could survive in this country where garbage is left on streets to rot (creating an epic environmental crisis), solid waste disposal is not being properly managed, electricity is inadequate and parcelled out haphazardly, bus services are frequently and without warning shut down, and where in Kathmandu (population 2 million give or take) alone, I found (via a few internet searches) that there are only about 7-10 firetrucks. Coupled with this lack of services, is a staggering chronic water shortage.

http://thehimalayantimes.com/fullTodays.php?headline=Garbage+worries+valley+dwellers&NewsID=254521


http://www.thehimalayantimes.com/fullNews.php?headline=No+alternative+in+sight+for+Aletar+landfill+site+&NewsID=283345

http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20110410/wl_asia_afp/nepalenergyeconomy

http://www.thehimalayantimes.com/fullNews.php?headline=Insufficient+fire+engines+render+city+vulnerable&NewsID=282529


http://myrepublica.com/portal/index.php?action=news_details&news_id=30257

Every Monday, as I watch our trash truck rumble down our street I am grateful (even  if it comes late and wakes my two year old from her nap). Yes, I pay a hefty price for my city services but all too often I forget what it would be like to live in a place without.

Bull Sharks

If I were to pick an emotion that could only be realized in the present it would be pain.

Falling asleep on the couch a few nights ago, letting my husband channel surf to his delight, we happened upon a program called "River Monsters".  I sat up with goosebumps. Sharks, in rivers? Unbelievable. Unlike most sharks, Bull sharks can tolerate fresh water.

Since watching this episode I have been wondering about fear. What makes me afraid? As our human instincts die out, fear still holds its powerful grip on us.

To be put in no particular order (and to only name a few), sharks, spiders, strangers, the dark and utter embarrassment are very real fears for me.   I am also afraid of unleashed dogs, raccoons, and pain.

Pain. This to me seems to be the root of my fear. I once drove a staple into my thumb with a high powered staple gun. This was quite by accident, of course. It was pretty painful. Interesting to note though, I was not afraid. The expectation, or forecast of pain is what drives my fear. To know that some experience might possibly be painful is what paralyzes me. My imagination runs wild. To be hurt. To suffer. To draw blood. While actually living with the pain I can assume the bravery of a lion.

As a fastpitch pitcher in high school, I once had ball hit back at me from 32 feet away. I missed it with my glove and it plowed into my jaw. 6 innings later (during which I summoned up the bravery of a lion and continued pitching), a neck hematoma and an inability to breathe landed me in the ICU. Later my jaw was wired shut for 30 days and I carried with me wire cutters in the case that I had to throw up.  A few months later, back on the pitchers mound I was paralyzed. My memories of the event had expanded within me and my fear had taken on epic proportions.

Living fully within the present unable to forecast my emotions of pain or unable to conjure up painful events would no doubt lessen my fear. To jump into a river with no fear of what may lie beneath. To jump into a river after having encountered a Bull Shark once prior. Unfortunately this is not possible for me. Our emotions span the timeline of our history. My story is important. My future is important. My past is important. To live only in the present, to have no fear, to be valiant would be amazing but ultimately I would have no depth. So I will continue to conquer my fears living within the present with my past and future as defining bookends.

Past and Present

Virginia Woolf once said, "I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past."

Last night while having drinks with a dear friend, I told her of my ambitions to write more and maybe start a blog. She asked if I was lonely. On the contrary, I said. I now have a small window of time during the day to reflect and to simply be present in my world. I am blessed to have been given this quiet space.

One of my very first memories is of my sister. Our family was being uprooted by the military and being transported across the country. My sister and I wanted to haul our swing set across country with us. Everything was packed. My dad, my three year old sister and  I stood up on the hill where our swing set had lived for the past three years. It was a wonderful piece of metal that held for us memories of our friends. Memories that too soon would perish in our thoughts. Here was one piece of tangible evidence that we had lived and loved. With no avail, my Dad tried to pull up the swing set poles out of the cement. No luck. My sister, bundled up in her denim blue jacket with a cute red brimmed hood came along and wrapped her arms around one of the poles. She pulled and the pole was uprooted. That is my  last memory of the swing set. I could not tell you if it traveled with us. Reflecting back on this memory my emotions are raw. I see a strong determined little girl who was brave enough to tackle  the impossible.

The emotions that connect me with my past are still present today. My sister is no longer three years old but a strong determined woman, brave enough to tackle the impossible. Her third child (all under the age of three) was just born in January and she looks terrific. I cannot remember the last time I heard her complain (even when her whole household is on week three of flu/sickness). She makes time for her friends (and dog) during the day and loves her husband fully. She takes great pictures and has a real talent for photographing babies. She has all the new photo equipment and practices daily on her kids. She makes time to catalog her life for her future and she loves me. I could go on....Fully grasping my emotions about my sister within the present is what brings ultimate beauty to the scenario.

Now I am going to go call her and tell her so.

Women's lib, continued

Could it be that our life giving power and the decision to bring forth life, modifies woman's role on earth? Could our performance be different than man's and still be equal? Our neighborhoods are empty during the day, our kids are spending more and more of their day/evening in care facilities, normal dinners are spent in the drive thru, for the sake of saving time many important kid to parent conversations are not being held, marriages are falling apart...all this so that a woman can feel equal (or at least have a sense of worth).
Here is where I tip my hat to those Moms who seem to handle both full time work outside the home and full time motherhood with ease. Kuddos. However, you and I both know that this isn't the norm.
Many would argue that the economy has given families no choice, I would agree. Many parents take on two to three jobs just to put food on their table. Shame on our nation. Ultimately, I come back to the fact that by deciding to give life, our (woman's) role on earth should include our children. They are the ones that need a voice and sometimes a hug. Until women start fighting for their children, through government legislation, a sit down dinner (or breakfast or whatever meal you have time for), a walk to the park, providing a safe haven or simple availability, I fear that our feminist movement runs the risk of becoming immobilized. This is the sacrifice, to use our well fought after political and social rights for our children and not ourselves.

1st Timer, details

So you can gather from the title that this is my first ever blog post. Don't all clap at once. My space will probably not have pictures, so if you are looking for cute babies and a wonderful husband, you can visit my Facebook wall. My space may offend some people. If this is you, please help yourself and refrain from reading any more of my posts. My space is not up for discussion. This space is simply my thoughts written down so that I may start to archive and protect my memories and my meditations, my fancy and my not so fancy feelings.

I have been wondering about the feminist movement in the United States. Anyone that needs a refresher course, you can visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feminist_movement. In the beginning is was about earning the right to vote (to have a political voice). After the vote, this movement tried to combat social and cultural issues with equality being the goal. We now are striving for further political equality, pushing and sometimes breaking the "glass ceiling". What a great story. Inspiring to say the least. Yet, what a juxtaposition. In the fight to gain a  political voice, higher education, reproductive rights, equal pay (well, almost) and legislation on domestic violence (to name only a few) women have, in many cases, had to give up on the welfare of their family.
This is where I might start to offend you. If so, please refrain from reading any more....I can't promise it will get much better.

I wonder how (if it can be) this quandary may be rectified? It is not simple. Having a daughter makes it even more difficult to rectify. I would never throw out what women have gained over the last 50 years in the U.S. But now that these rights are afforded to us, there has to be a conversation on how to utilize these rights to the best of our ability, keeping our family bonds intact. I am not speaking to the single female. I am speaking to the females that readily enter into  relationships with the thought of procreating. This one act, giving new life, being the one to bring life to fruition, should cause women to pause. Should there be personal sacrifice attached to the decision to bring a new life into the world?

And this is where I stop today. There is laundry waiting, a kitchen to clean and a workout to be had.