Living

Fa La La LaLa

We’re on our fourth consecutive day of merriment. Surprisingly, I haven’t crashed yet. I just stare in a sort of middle-distance coma. My oldest puked last night due to an overdose of chocolate. My middle child hid in her room for most of the party last night because, first, too many people were looking at her, and, then, because she wasn’t getting enough attention. My youngest wandered around petting babies and regaling adults with party conversation. I got strong hugs from family I don’t see nearly enough. I got to speak on the phone to another I didn’t get to see, but warmed to hear his voice. For all the stress and worry in anticipation of the holiday, it left me with a warm and fuzzy feeling in addition to the exhaustion. So my family found me in the woods and sat by the hearth for a while. May you all be warmed by the fire of family with none of the third-degree burns.

Identity, Living, Recovery, Spirituality

Really Hearing the Sound of Music

Everybody’s talking about The Sound of Music lately.

Julie vs. Carrie. Film vs. live performance. Old vs. new.

Initially I was appalled at the news of a SOM revamp with Carrie Underwood. Who could mess with Julie Andrews’ dulcet tones? I pushed it out of my head and got too busy to set the DVR. After putting the kids to bed the night it first broadcast, I wandered downstairs to my husband’s channel surfing. The remote lighted upon Carrie’s rendition of “The Lonely Goatherd”, yodels and all. Woo Hee. Bouncing and dancing and yodelling. Can’t fault a chick for that. I was thoroughly impressed. She has a lovely voice. But that’s all I watched. I wandered off in another direction.

A few days later, my oldest daughter had some friends over for a mini-birthday celebration. The movie this newly-minted nine year-old chose to watch? The Sound of Music. (original on VHS, baby!) And the four other girls who attended sat in rapt attention and sang along! My husband turned to me and said, “There is hope [for the next generation]!”

We found the televised version on-demand this past snowy weekend and that same daughter begged to watch it. The five of us squished on the couch and did. I don’t know whether it was that this new cast did such a bang-up job or if it was the sheer magic of the story itself that bore me along in its spell. I couldn’t keep from singing. I teared up when the Mother Abbess implored Maria to “Climb Ev’ry Mountain”. I finished with a hope in humanity, the enduring strength and support of family, that standing for one’s ideals will pay off in the end. My middle daughter requested to watch it again two days later when she returned from school. All three girls sang and danced around the living room as if on alpine mountains.

What is it about this story that captures our imagination?

The music has become part of the cultural canon. The refrains are easily learned and easily lodged in one’s head. Their topics and the theme of the story itself is familiar in some way or another to us all. We’ve all struggled with our life’s calling, finding a true mate, the personal vs political, facing up to or hiding from our problems. Perhaps the most enduring theme of all is that love does indeed conquer all – even amidst dire struggle and imperfect circumstances.

For me, personally, the part that really struck a chord – that point in the movie when you could’ve knocked me over with a wisp of Edelweiss – was the conversation between the Mother Abbess and Maria when she balks at returning to the von Trapp home. Maria asks, “How will I know which life is mine to live?” or some approximation of that (a line I don’t think was even in the 1965 film). The abbess (portrayed by Audra McDonald) tells her emphatically that she must go out and look for it, at which point she breaks into a soul-stirring rendition of “Climb Ev’ry Mountain”. Are you supposed to have life epiphanies watching network-television rip-offs of classic cinema? I had a moment.

This conversation, these words, the Mother Abbess’ exhortation, the orchestral arrangment – they spoke to me of things I’d forgotten. Things I’d known, but forgotten to pursue. Things, necessities that have been dulled by constant use or made commonplace by their very existence. Things I learned as a child – most notably when I was presented with a cross inscribed with its own exhortation: “Christ is counting on you to search.”

I may have been like Maria, sulking behind the abbey’s walls because life hasn’t turned out the way I’d expected. Maybe I’d forgotten how to climb those mountains – or even how to try. I’d gotten lazy in my search for a dream that will make me want to live and love it everyday of my life. And I’d forgotten to listen for the sound of music in the hills all around me.

The Sound of Music (1965) was playing on the hospital TV as I labored with my third daughter. I vetoed my husband’s choice of some flavor of Law and Order, saying I’d be witnessing enough blood and gore that night. Somewhere in my subconscious, I hoped it would soothe and inspire me. I can’t say that it necessarily did, but I can’t help but think that, now, it’s brought me full circle. That labor signalled the beginning of ~~one of~~ the roughest times of my life. Perhaps the Mother Abbess’ exhortation has been sent to me again to snap out of it and get out and climb.

anxiety, Identity, Living

Lowest Common Denominator

We’re taught to see the big picture. The interrelationship of all things. This keeps us all on the same page, united in our humanity, celebrating our differences in their similarities. It helps us make meaning and induces awe. I get it. I value it.

But this mindset is antithetical to a ‘one day at a time’ mentality; a live in the moment attitude; that ever-present push for mindfulness.

Especially for an anxiety-ridden person such as myself.

How can I not ‘sweat the small stuff’, when it adds up to a whole mess of stuff? Each tiny bit of tedium I must attend to throughout the day fills up the entire day. I cannot shut off the mechanism in my mind that fits each peg into its hole in the mosaic of my life.

X leads to Y then to Z and every consonant clamors in dissonance. I can’t hear the letter for the alphabet.

I’ll always be an English major, though I graduated a number of years ago. I’ll always be a book reviewer. An English/Language Arts teacher. A writer. A critical reader. A literary theorist. All this is type-set into my skin. I eat, sleep, and breathe words, letters; their combinations, their phraseology.

I am forever searching for ways to form patterns, find themes, stack layer upon layer of meaning.

But what about when I need to reduce? To distill an idea down to its purest form? Base. Primitive. The smallest atom of an idea. I need to reverse operations. How do I learn to do that?

“The proper, wise balancing
of one’s whole life may depend upon the
feasibility of a cup of tea at an unusual hour.”
― Arnold Bennett, How to Live on 24 Hours a Day

anxiety, Living, parenting

Allergic Christmas-itis

I’m allergic to Christmas trees.

I may have inherited my father’s nasal repulsion to the pine pinnacle of the holiday season. There is, in fact, a very high likelihood of that, as I start sneezing as soon as I sit near it.

But that’s not the only form of allergic reaction there is.

The other kind begins round about the time the plastic totes of Christmas decorations pile up in the living room. Upon their appearance, the kids descend in a maelstrom of grabby fingers and fists like the clutching, covetous old sinner himself. But it’s me that’s more like Scrooge in my demeanor. I can’t handle the tissue paper strewn, the fragile ornaments bounced, the stockings splayed when they are not to be hung by the chimney at all right now – never mind with care. They wanted to trim the tree three days ago; their father and I have to attach tiny twinkle lights to the end of each tree branch with a slight gap in tiny twisted wires before even one ornament can be hung.

If we manage to fend them off long enough to get the lights on, once the first ornament is lifted, all bets are off. Look at this one, Mommy. When did I get this one? Is this yours? Daddy’s? Can I put this one up? Do you have a hook? Is this one okay here? Ooh, pretty.

Half of these comments are in response to a family heirloom made of blown glass teetering on the brink of extinction. It’s like they tag-team you: one grabbing the fuzzy, innocent lamb so the other can grab the cut-glass crystal pendant while your back is turned. Wait, what. No, not that one. Don’t do that. Mommy will do that one. Stop. Don’t touch. Daaaaaaaaadddyyyyyy!

My husband actually got me on video last year mid-rant as I tried to control the chaos. It didn’t work and it didn’t make for fun family movies. This year was slightly better. We put the tree in its stand one day (after smearing the ceiling with pine sap and chopping the perfectly tapered spire from the top so it would fit); did the lights and ornaments the next. The plan was to light a fire, put on Christmas carols, and take our time. The kids ended up nagging us for the better part of the day while we attended to family business and I still ended up twitching.

At one point, as I stared down into my four-story ornament organizer, I actually contemplated dropping small squares of paper into each compartment so I would remember where each ornament belonged upon dismantling of the tree. That’s when I figured I was probably taking things too far.

a. I am way too concerned about the level of organization for my out-of-season decorations.
b. That means I probably have too many decorations.
c. That also ~~means~~ proves that I’m a control freak.
d. And anal-retentive, type A . . . .
e. By fitting things, stuff, multiple objects into compact little boxes to contain them, I’m trying to establish some sort of order on a time/situation/season when I apparently feel overwhelmed.
f. My head is so full of stuff nowadays (several years now) that it can’t hold it anymore/together.

Instead of singing along to the soothing sounds of Bing Crosby’s crooning, I want to stab an ice pick in my eye. Instead of reliving the memories of each ornament and the story it tells, I’m making horrible memories for my children as I snap at them. It’s too much all at once. And there’s that expectation of being so flippin’ merry. There’s the pressure to recreate Currier and Ives. Instead of taking it slow and easy, everything needs to be a production with the stage set and the characters in play.

Do you ever feel like this during the holidays!?

So, yes, I’m allergic to my Christmas tree. Yes, I hate trimming the tree. Don’t send the spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future to my door; I’d probably just yell at them for pawing the ornaments anyway.

Identity, Living, motherhood, parenting

Pop IS a Weasel

Whatever our proclivities in music, whether we like it or not, pop music is infectious. It’s catchy, has a funky beat to it, and makes us want to move our bodies – most of the time. Pop is, after all, an abbreviated form of popular.

I, however, shunned this mainstream music sometime around tenth grade, when Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder burst on the scene with their unapologetically noisy and angsty music. Bubble gum and lip gloss and boyfriends? Ugh. Gritty guitar and grunge and pissed-off people? Yes!

I scoffed at the perfectly polished, canned rhythms and the lifestyle it seemed to eschew. I slapped a bumper sticker for the local ‘modern rock’ radio station on my car and changed the channel for, oh, about 25 years.

And then my children discovered how the controls on the radio worked. They discovered the bouncy, syncopated beats. They called out from their belted backseat bastions for the bastions of popular culture.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Who me?

It was only a matter of time, really. I remember belting out every single word to Laura Branigan’s “Gloria” as a kindergartener. They only want what feels good and sounds good, with none of the prejudicies of high art vs. low, sophistication vs. simplicity.

However, it is in ~~being forced to~~ listening to these songs and music that I’ve made an important cultural discovery. There’s a whole lot of people walking around completely clueless of their personal worth.

Listen to One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful” (I’d post the link but that totally crosses the line of my personal philosophy. Sorry – you’ll have to find it on your own). “You’re insecure” is the first line of the song. You don’t know you’re beautiful? Looking at the ground when someone looks at her? The entire song is these young men pointing out to the female subject that everything about her is what makes her beautiful.

Bruno Mars’ “Treasure”: a song worth it just for his Jackson 5/Early Michael Jackson-esque singing, but that also has a theme of not knowing one’s worth. Despite being wonderful and flawless, the subject “walk[s] around here like you wanna be someone else”. He tells her, “you should be smiling. A girl like you should never look so blue.”

So what is it about our society that we need pop artists to tell us we should be content with who we are; that we should be happy? What is so lacking that even the airwaves rush in to fill the void?

To me, it’s a disturbing trend. Someone, something has failed in our current system of being if there is a trend like this among music. I’m not saying it’s bad to build people up; I’m wondering why there are so many walking around already beaten down.

Were we not loved as children? Were we not told of our innate worth through hugs and hand-holding and ‘I love you’s? Have we suffered a spiritual crisis that has let us forget that we are ‘fearfully and wonderfully made’? As a special deacon used to tell me, “God made me and He don’t make no junk.” We all have our worth. We are all someone’s treasure – even if no one else’s on earth, at least our own, and certainly to God. Our very existence is enough to make us beautiful.

Looking closely at these songs has also tipped me off to one other disturbing nuance: the fact that, in both songs, males are telling females their worth. As a woman and mother of three girls, it scares me that the lyrics could be construed as a lesson to value oneself through the lens of male approval. There is something very special about finding a partner who will value you and point out beneficial qualities you may have missed in yourself. But to look solely to an outside – especially sexual – source for self-worth is dangerous. The fact that pop music is so infectious and seemingly feel-good could slide such messages right under the radar without young people even realizing their transmission.

And here I was scared that my kids liked pop over some other style of music. It runs much deeper than that. Now I really have a reason to go listen to angsty music. But, if I haven’t ruined the carefree nature of pop music, I could go listen to that for a pick-me-up. Whatever it is, we all have to move our feet in time to the rhythm and pick each other up if we fall.

* Disclaimer: I must acknowledge that my grunge/alternative music is not so uplifting and self-affirming either. It was born, in fact, of a self-loathing and misery. And among its measures are certainly misogynistic ideas and mistreatment. But pop certainly presents its off-color ideas in a much more appealing package. Plus, ‘modern rock’ is not in heavy rotation like Top 40.

** Weasel image from nursery-rhymes.org

Living, Spirituality

The Secret to Happiness

I ordered a gift subscription to an inspirational magazine for my great aunt last year. I signed myself up for their email newsletter as well. Free spiritual advice and inspiration? Why not?

Over the year, I’ve amassed quite a collection of unread inspirational emails. Their subject lines lure me enough to prevent deleting them, but not to click and read. Usually, I save them to read at another time when I can devote my undivided attention to them. We know how that usually goes. It would be better to do a cursory review, pausing on a point that piqued my interest, rather than not at all. Plus, most times, the title is the most appealing part of the missive, much like a short story that does not live up to the promises its title made to its readers, which I would find out if I took two seconds to glance at it.

Still, I let the siren song of one entitled “The Secret to Happiness” captivate me and I clicked – not right away, but the other day I finally did. There’s a simple secret to happiness? Do tell. I must apply this magic solution as a salve to my weary soul. My cynical side did cry out, saying it’s a spiritual newsletter, you dolt. Of course, they mean to pray and worship and turn everything over to God – like you’ve been avoiding doing, but know you should. You already know the secret to happiness, but refuse to do anything about it. But, like most weak humans, I would much rather find a simple solution outside myself than do any real work inside myself. I viewed the video expectantly.

Surprisingly, there was no explicit reference to spirituality except for one man’s personal testament in which he cited Jesus Christ as his Savior. However, there were allusions to spirituality all over it; transcendent precepts such as gratitude, thoughtfulness, mindfulness, treating others as you’d like to be treated. By not directly referring to it, the filmmakers even more strongly prove that spirituality must be woven into the fabric of everything we do, every interaction. It must be innate, unconscious. It will lead us to things like gratitude, which apparently is the secret to happiness.

The day that I watched the video, I had tried three times to get a snarky post out of my system. While not full-strength, there was still some venom bubbling in my veins from residual stress and I wanted to purge it. But the fits and starts of writing and watching of this video gave me pause. Maybe what I needed to get it out of my system was to shift my mindset and get grateful! Being so gosh-darn cranky, I wasn’t feeling it and I sure as hell didn’t feel like writing a letter to the person I was most grateful for, let alone calling them to read it. But maybe just the shift in the current, the river rock blocking the stream, can divert enough to at least create the space for a change.

However, if in the meantime you should come across any quick-fix secrets to happiness, let me know 😉

anxiety, Living

Hold on Loosely

I dropped some balls.

Not all of them. In fact, there were some added ones more involved than the usual ones. I’ve been getting a lot accomplished, doing a lot. But it’s hard to see the progress when some of the more essential tasks have fallen by the wayside.

Sleep. Sinus health. Writing. Clean dishes.

It seems like the mania that accompanies summer weekends has followed me into fall and beyond. And chock full days are not conducive to sleep, when late nights are the only chance for a quiet respite. And hay fever season compounded by a deviated septum and lack of rest, forcing of fluids, and neti-pot usage is just nasty.

The treadmill I’m on seems to have unrolled and stretched to the horizon like a ribbon of roadway.

I need to say no. I need to relax. I need to prioritize.

But, aside from the mundane daily requirements, a lot of what we’ve been doing is fun.

I was bone-tired by the end of last week and the attendant bunkbed mania that ensued. And I’m still digging out of the misplaced objects and displaced duties that occurred as a result. My chi is not where it needs to be. And it snowed for the first time today and my husband is leaving for a business trip. And I’m a worry-wort who does not take things one at a time.

But I stayed in my pjs till early afternoon yesterday and wrote an exciting short story in its entirety. I’m catching up on laundry and the pile of dishes in the sink is not as high as it was. Only one half of throat hurts now and I’m not drowning in mucus. My daughters are thrilled with their three-quarters of the way done big top bedroom. And tight squeezes from beloved family members feel even better when your body is battered and broken.

After all, the object of juggling is not to hold all the balls at the same time, but to rotate and transfer them, holding each one only lightly at a time

anxiety, Depression, Living

Mired in the Meantime

In the inbetween time,
the meantime
when you wait for the pain to stop,
the congestion to clear,
something to pass.
Long periods of indecision
followed by a flurry of panicked action.
Exhaustive measures
after exhausting nothingness.
The miserable day isn’t helping –
a logy stasis trapped in time.

Meanwhile, the next generation is languishing.
The one you thought was safe.
The one you thought could pull from those before and after her.
She is trapped in her own middle space.

And you can’t pull either one of you out.

Children, Living, parenting

Bunkin’ Crazy

Two nights ago I stayed up until two in the morning searching for Ikea hacks.

Yes, that is correct. I deprived myself of precious sleep to troll the internet for the most perfectly imperfect set of bunk beds I could find.

I’m in that seasonal state of flux that rolls around every 3-4 months. This time the feelings are even more urgent because ‘winter is coming’ (at least I don’t have to deal with white walkers – thank goodness!) and everything – our minds, our activities – turns inward.

I’m starting to notice that maze of boxes I left in the basement after a summer scavenger hunt; the piles of clothes that need to be sorted into bins after leaving the drawers to be filled with sweaters and fleece that -just-won’t-fit (at least if I want the drawers closed!); the clothing, supplies, books, toys . . . that my children are starting to outgrow that don’t need to be junking up the joint.

In this sorting and stowing maelstrom, the need for bunk beds in the room my middle and youngest daughters share is making itself vehemently known. As if the insistent reminders of my middle daughter would let me forget. 😉

In my dreams – that’s right I said MY dreams – I would get a bunk with a rock wall to scale the top bunk, a slide to descend, and a secret nook below. If not for the problem of maintaining a marital bed, I think that would still be my ultimate dream bed – regardless that I’m supposed to be grown up. Alas, I don’t think my husband is looking to relive his days on a tight bunk on a Coast Guard ship. Besides, I can’t afford and/or justify the exorbitant price tag.

If you can afford or justify it, get one – they’re gorgeous!

Bunk beds in the midrange are still overpriced for the level of quality the consumer receives. Wood? MDF with a veneer that looks sickly plastic? Weirdly placed slats and drawers? So I figured, since I’m not going to get what I want, I may as well make the price a little more tolerable.

Enter Ikea.

But I’m stubborn and still trying for the extra storage and whimsical details of other bunks I’ve seen and so went searching for hacks to make my own. If my bedtime that night is any indication, I did not find one. Some of them looked like hacks. Some of them would work for a college student used to precarious positions, but not for my rowdy children (especially on the top bunk). Some of them included far too much carpentry for my tastes. So I guess that makes me lazy and cheap and incredibly hard to please.

I almost broke up the marital bed even without my dream bunk because my husband was none too happy with me when I finally crawled in. Call it my seasonal nesting, I could not rest until I’d found a solution (or given up in defeat that morning). It’s driving me nuts that the current system is not working and yet I can’t find a satisfactory replacement.

Then the neon postcard from a local charity came in saying they would be making the rounds soon to collect. That’s all I needed. I went into hyperdrive, stockpiling all I could to clear it out!

If I can talk my father into going to Ikea with me while you’re at work, I can get the bunk and we can break down the crib and donate that. And the mattress. And the crib sheets and the crib set . . .

Maybe it’s reverse nesting. But that’s another post.

If you’ve learned nothing else from this post: Know that bunk beds are ridiculously overpriced and one should not shop for one during a seasonal stir-up or under the effects of extreme sleep deprivation. Happy Purging and Dreaming!

Living, Spirituality

Deep Within the Silence of Our Hearts

A woman told me the story of her mother, who found faith late in life. She had fallen away from God prior to becoming a mother and her children never saw her as a practicing person. Around the time this woman began having children of her own, her mother rediscovered her faith in a fervent way. No matter what trial befell her, she turned to God and leaned on her faith to see her through. She went from a woman intent on controlling every single factor of her life with an iron grip to someone willing to trust that God would take care of it and her as He saw fit.

I met this woman five minutes before she told me this story. I had no right to delve deeper into her personal family story – and yet I was transfixed by this last detail of her story: she relinquished control, fully. Like that. With a snap of the fingers, it seemed. And so, the words escaped my mouth before my mind realized what a prying question it was: What happened to enact this absolute turnaround?

The woman gave me an abbreviated, antiseptic version of her family’s history precipitating the change, which made both of us squirm a little, I think, sharing such personal details within minutes of meeting. But my burning desire to know trumped my sense of propriety because as far as I was concerned, this woman has achieved a miracle!

I’ve practiced my faith my entire life. There were times it was stronger, of course, but it’s always been there, God has always been there waiting for me. I say waiting because, increasingly, as I get older and more responsibility gets piled on or taken on, I whir into hyper-drive control mode. As much as I know slowing down and ‘letting go and letting God’ will make life a whole lot easier and enjoyable, I can’t. Can’t be done. Not gonna do it. I don’t think it’s a trust issue. I think it’s part of my perfectionism. No, I don’t think I can do things better than God; I just need to take my best crack at it or I think I’ve failed.

So, if I, as someone who considers herself a faithful lifetime follower of Christ and God, cannot relinquish control and this woman did so seemingly with the flip of a switch – what in God’s green earth is wrong with me? (Besides taking the name of the Lord in vain, of course)

How do I let the proverbial water roll off this duck’s back?

I wanted to hold this woman – or better yet, her mother – upside down and shake her till answers poured out her pockets. Alas, it wouldn’t work – never mind the lack of upper body strength and desire for assault charges – for I know the answer resides elsewhere. Somewhere deep inside the silence of my heart. That silence I haven’t been able to access in quite some time.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: Living