Category Archives: Perspective

motherhood, Perspective

Full Circle

My big kid is home from college.

While her younger sisters have all returned to previously scheduled programming (albeit sleepy and missing vacation), she is still home for a few more weeks.

Most of her days are filled with making back money spent on tuition and checking in with friends from home, but she found herself with an open weekday yesterday. I had already scurried off to an oil change appointment when she awoke, receiving a text as I packed up the work I’d brought with me.

“When will you be home?”

“15 min. Why?”

“I’m bored.”

Having her home, even as a grown woman child, has brought me back to the younger days: of mine as a mother and her as a kid. When home was truly home base. Where we spent a majority of our time. Possibly in pjs – or maybe princess dresses. Where the living room became ball pit, blanket fort, vet clinic.

When it was all on me to occupy and entertain them – and fight to find time for myself.

We ended up clearing the living room floor to lay out yoga mats, her muscles tense and tight from standing all day at work (and yes, I realize the irony as I type that about a 20 year-old, but I will not one up her discomfort with my old ailments. My tongue is clamped between the teeth of my allowing her own experience in her own body. With age comes at least the attempt at maturity. And it is important to maintain our musculature at any age. I digress . . . ). She doesn’t usually do yoga on her own and I have a Pinterest board full of yin yoga routines, but I wasn’t sure she’d want to do the slow reflective yoga of middle age. I knew I was not all in for an energetic round of sun salutations. (God, this says so much about our stages of life). We popped on YouTube and I selected a Flow for Beginners video. Figured we could meet somewhere in the middle.

I was amused to find that both of us grunted and groaned as we assumed different poses.

“I got your Ujjayi breath,” I thought as I exclaimed.

Bones popped in their sockets and muscles shredded tension as they screamed.

“I didn’t realize how tense I actually was,” she said.

“Looks like you could’ve used yin yoga,” I said.

Ironically, I had a scheduled free online drawing class immediately after our session. Always my sketcher/doodler, I figured she could do that with me like we’d done yoga together.

And here is where it really became like the good old days.

While I collected my materials, set up the laptop, and grabbed a cup of tea, she took up residence on the couch with her phone (instead of a tablet of old) and watched videos at full volume. First, I entreated her to come draw. Next, I told her to turn down the volume. Finally, I fended her off as she bugged me.

Here’s how that went . . .

It wasn’t as bad as doing yoga with toddlers (yes, I’ve done that, too), but it certainly brought back memories. And while she certainly got my goat, as she’s wont to do and you can tell by the look in my eyes, the whole evolution told me a lot about where I’m at.

That I’m still learning how to make time for myself. That I’m better at it than I was. That it’s a continual process, not a height to be achieved. That kids can be annoying at any age (yours or theirs). That kids will still need you at any age. That I can look back at that time I found incredibly tough and realize I did things right, we had fun, and they felt love.

All because my twenty year-old first born got bored.

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Perspective

A New Day

I sent this horrible photo to a friend yesterday morning. 

The lighting, composition, and subject were not the point. 

The fact that the yellow-bathed counter was empty was the point. Devoid of dirty dishes.

And no, I was not bragging at my housekeeping skills; much the opposite! 

I wanted visual evidence of this most foreign occurrence. 

Time-stamped proof that at one point in time, however brief it may be, the dishes are done, man.*

A short time later, I also lit the wood stove from the previous night’s embers without a match. 

It did occur to me that it may be my last day on earth. 

Me being productive, successfully, consistently just doesn’t happen. 

If I do the things, it’s usually the wrong things, done in avoidance of the things that should be getting done. Which as a mom is actually pretty easy to do without being caught out because they are so many feckin’ things to do. 

But as this uber-meta book I just read pointed out, Hamlet says the mind is where no one gets away with anything – least of all on anal-retentive-perfectionist-with-a-penchant-for-people-pleasing-that-pushes-productivity planet. 

And so, on days like this, when I do a lot of the things that should get done on the daily, plus things that were actually on my list, the warm feeling it engenders somewhere between my sternum and Adam’s apple is certainly foreign. 

I know productivity does not equal worth and is not a requirement of rest, but whether it’s success that feels foreign or the new parameters I’ve finally adopted and embodied for myself after logically knowing them for awhile now, it feels like a new day. 

I even did all.the.dishes last night. 

And, yes, as I type that, I’m fighting the urge to duck under the table to hide from the obviously imminent lightning bolt about to zap me in half.

Foreign feelings take a while to feel familiar. 

Hopefully it’ll take awhile for the dishes to pile up again, too.  

* bonus points if you know from which 80s teen movie that line comes
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motherhood, Perspective, Spirituality

Preparing – in Patience

The Advent Wreath.

A holiday symbol already rife with metaphor.

  • Evergreen boughs = God’s ever-present love and care
  • A circular shape = love unbound and never-ending
  • Four candles representing the four Sundays – and weeks – leading up to Christ’s birth
  • The flames of the candles representing the light that Christ brings into the world
  • Three purple candles representing the majesty of the most high, our Lord
  • One pink candle, for the second to last Sunday – Gaudete Sunday, meaning we’ve almost made it! Our savior is nearly here; the darkness is nearly over!

All amazing, meaningful symbolism.

And then I took my children to an Advent wreath making workshop – or forced, if you asked my teens.

I had the golden ring to use as a base; my husband had gathered the wire cutters, I’d grabbed my pruning shears; our church was supplying the greens – we were good to go!

The six year old was quickly out. She spied a friend from class and joined in on a raucous game of hide n’ seek.

The sixteen year old picked out a few shell decorations and then retreated to her phone.

The fourteen year old stuck with me, which was a bit of a surprise given some snide comments. But even as we stuck ourselves and fought over holding the ring, we began to form the green wreath.

Ironically, though I’d strong-armed everyone into attending the ‘family fun’ event, I had to turn off some of my independent tendencies. I love to create and often have an idea of the finished product in my head. When one kid threw seashells into the mix and another wanted to affix the greens her way, I found myself fighting. Fighting against my fleeting vision, against my tendency to control, against dreaded yet pined for perfection.

And whether it was the soft flame of Jesus kindling in my heart or mom muscles that slowly, still strengthen a bit at a time, I felt myself pull back. I felt the slow wash of knowing it was more important to be close to my prickly teen than push the prickly needles into submission. I appreciated seeing the two sisters working together to adhere the decorations they’d picked out to our wreath (especially when the shell-picker-outer put down her phone). It was fun seeing my husband and the girls untangle and trim floral wire.

In the darkest depths of teen snark is the young person who just wants to connect. In the asymmetrical and untamed shapes of nature comes order and beauty. In the confusion of sorting out the useful from wasteful comes clarity.

Every Advent – every day – I have to work at preparing myself to receive Jesus into my heart. This year, on its eve, I received an unexpected new metaphor in its most familiar symbol.

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Perspective

How’s Your Gratitude Practice Going?

Every year I aim for the perfect pumpkin purchasing day.

Sufficient time to carve for the school pumpkin glow; close enough that it won’t look too creepy on the front step for Halloween. Getting one to last till Thanksgiving, forget it.

This year, the pumpkins disappeared the day after Halloween. From the commercial calendar, that is.

When the huge cardboard pallets full of robust harvest orbs were rolled out for Christmas decor, I knew I’d have to go local and go seasonal to buy a pumpkin for Thanksgiving.

I actually needed one for my Girl Scout to carve at her meeting on November 1, but for several years now I’ve harbored the desire to plunk a big ol’ pumpkin at the center of the Thanksgiving table and ask everyone to record that for which she is thankful. While I did find one at a roadside stand where the proprietor asked me if I wanted it for my chickens while he fashioned memorial greenery baskets for the holidays, my daughter’s leader scored the last of the windfall at a local farm – and let me have one while the girls carved.

Even while the spirits pushed against the veil, I didn’t want to fashion a jack-o-lantern. I decided to go simple, not even cut through the flesh, and maybe, just maybe, have a gratitude-themed pumpkin come Thanksgiving.

I should’ve taken a before picture.

It was glorious. Perfectly etched letters, a simple graphic theme writ large.

It didn’t look quite this bad on the actual holiday, but bad enough that I didn’t dare set it on the dining table. I didn’t even introduce the idea of carving our thanks

When I stepped out the afternoon of Small Business Saturday and saw it slumped there, I thought, whoa, that’s a sad metaphor for gratitude.

Are our ‘thanks’ muscles shriveling up and dying? Molding over and shrinking at the edges? Attracting bugs and starting to smell?

I never even got the candle set up inside before my ‘thanks’ started rotting.

There may be a deeper metaphor of keeping it sealed up (not cutting the pumpkin) and therefore looking better, longer – but, then, aren’t we meant to lay our insides out – in vulnerability, in service to others, in authenticity . . . ?

What’s the sweet spot between plump and crisp and putrid and crushed?

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Perspective

O’s Wide Open

There are cheerios in various states of being scattered all over the floor. 

Ground into the rug, skidded across the tile, tucked underneath the sofa. 

No, I’m not describing my own home floors, though we do still find errant Cheerios from time to time.

The mini oat rounds I spy today are surface-decorating the service area of my local car dealership. 

A little toddler, whose peals of laughter were as prolific as his breakfast cereal distribution, has covered nearly every square inch of this place.  He has brought employees out of their offices, joy to the face of an elderly woman sitting solo, a smile to the gruff service advisor. 

He has also brought his mother continual and constant cardio.

She laughingly accused him of throwing the Os as a distraction so he could run the other way while she stooped to collect it.  She was laughing, but she wasn’t kidding.  He was a cunning little cutie. 

There is nothing quite so invigorating to a space and/or group of people as a small child.  

Except perhaps a puppy – which we also had at one point when a neighboring businessman brought one in.  I’m surprised emoji hearts and stars didn’t start exploding everywhere when the two met. 

What is it about young life that inspires camaraderie and conversation? 

Is it the lack of pretension?  Motive? 

Or are we the ones with motive? 

Eager to feed off that pure joy and enthusiasm for life.  In simple pleasures.  Living in the present moment. 

To ‘borrow’ that parent’s precious one for just one moment, one brief interaction, since we are so far removed from the sweet innocence they possess.

I’m sure the mom doesn’t feel the innocence every day.  She does not soak in the wonder. 

And I don’t say this as a criticism.  I say this as a lived-in fact. 

The relentless running after, keeping out of harm’s way, perpetual picking up after – floods our senses when caring for a young one is our reality. 

And I’m not becoming one of those old grocery store ladies who say, ‘savor it, it’ll be gone before you know it’. 

As I said, I’m still picking up the occasional Cheerio.  But I’m picking my little one up a lot less. 

I’m one of the ones who want to soak in the wonder and the up-turned eyes. 

And there’s nothing wrong with that. 

The service areas of our car dealerships – and our world in general – could use more of that. 

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Living, Perspective

A Voice Rises Above the Din

This past weekend, I stepped out onto my porch and heard the most glorious sound.  The delicate yet undulating and overlapping squeaking of spring peepers. 

Officially known as pseudacris crucifer, spring peepers are also defined as chorus frogs.  And that is exactly what they were doing at my Saturday evening concert. 

In this neck of the woods, we haven’t really had any sort of winter to speak of.  The low spot in the sky the sun has hung from has affected me, of course, but it hasn’t been incredibly cold and we had but one (and a half?) snow event(s) all season. 

Still, this harbinger of spring sets the wings of my soul aflutter. 

Just as the little sparrows flitting from porch railing to the bush branches just below my dining room window do.  Coming down the stairs in the early glow of dawn, their chirps sound almost as if they’ve entered the house to say hello.

In the rush of the bus stop, if I tune my ear between the hum of the engine melting the morning frost and the calls of my daughter, I can hear the scree of what must be a juvenile hawk hanging around its nest from last spring.  And in the quiet rush of afternoon wind before the bus comes back, I can pinpoint chirrups high up in the tree tops.

Spring

Nature

Rebirth

Signs

The sigh of the universe

Our own intuition,

                            desires,

                                         designs,

                  they’re all there

           

If we but step outside, still ourselves, and listen.

Images: Farmers Almanac, Wicked Local, Jonathan Eckerson respectively

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Identity, Perspective

Holy Smokes

I was going to say something along the lines of “Holy Therapy Session, Batman!” but this has nothing to do with male superheroes. This is all about the ladies.

The innate power of women.

The smoke is from the top of my head blowing off, my mind exploding. The holy vespers of the spirit swirling around the space.

When something is known with surety, a warmth spreads from your chest, across your shoulder blades, up your neck into a tingling of the scalp. Water rises and pools along the cusp of lashes, glazing the eye in a softened yet magnified lens. The heart swells and throws the arms outward, seeking the embrace – of an idea or confidant or both.

Searching all one’s life for the fiat; once found, the yes is effortless.

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Perspective, Poetry

The Word

Clerestory

comes to mind

from the white light

spilling down

onto my bed.

A canonical,

conical

shaft from above.

From its singular point of origin,

w i d e n i n g

to envelope me in its illumination.

Just sit

and

Be still.

Breathe in the light.

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Living, Perspective, Spirituality

Soaring and Grounding

As a child, I looked to the towering clouds, capped with billows, and imagined walking atop them like I’d watched the Care Bears do. I imagined that’s what heaven would be like when I got there someday. As a teen, Jonathan Livingston Seagull brought me such joy, such heights to which to aspire, the tips of his wings touched with light as he soared to such transcendent levels. As an adult, I watched birds glide on the wind, effortlessly floating above the rest of the world and its worries. I dreamed my own body could fly and always felt great disappointment when my legs started to drift back toward the ground. I gathered images and ideas for tattoos with silhouettes of birds, wings spread, to serve as a physical reminder of opening up, letting go, and ascending.

There is a line, though, where metaphysical musings turn into depression and anxiety.

I began to feel a great sadness watching birds wheel through the sky, their wide open wings and swooping motions a freedom I would never have. Watching the clouds edged with light filled me with a longing that I would never have the peace I imagined lived among their water crystals. No amount or configuration of ink etched on my skin would seep that sense of freedom into my soul.

And then as I sat on a shaded deck this morning, forcing myself to focus on a wisp of cloud and nothing else, staring into the middle distance, forcing all thoughts from my head or repeating a prayed mantra – a pair of birds streaked across, running a parallel line with the shore in front of me. Their pointed wings reminded me of the swallows with which I’ve been obsessed. They darted and swooped and disappeared behind a house a few doors down.

It occurred to me then that I can continue to stay focused on the peace and quiet in front of me while noticing the promise of freedom. I can long to be truly free, but that doesn’t stop me from embracing the joys in the here and now while I wait. I will not be free until my soul flies up to heaven, but I can open my heart now to accept what this life has to offer. I can use this time between now and then to wait and lament and be miserable or live in each moment mindfully soaking up what is there instead of not seeing it because I’m so fixated on what I don’t have.

Photo by Jennifer Butler Basile

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Identity, Perspective

Old School Soul Hole

Last week I learned via a post from Reggae Steady Ska that May 29, 2019 was dubbed (see what I did there?) The Specials Day in Los Angeles, California.  Now I was a little confused as to why LA would honor a band who hails from the UK, but then again, I am a white woman in RI who listens to reggae, rock steady, and ska.  The idea that The Specials themselves and the themes of their music exemplify and encourage diversity is what drew a Los Angeles councilwoman to hold them up for the city to see.  It drew me to my CD rack (yes, I still own those) and The Specials album I hadn’t listened to in far too long.

As the bright beats of trumpet danced above the driving guitar, the music swelling from the speakers and spilling into the corners of this room and the next, I realized the deep hole that is left inside me when music doesn’t play.

I have four children.  My house, my life, my mind is very loud.  The last few years I’ve taken to not turning the radio on at all in the car because, there is enough noise in there already.  The power button on the radio is one level of sound on which I can hit the kill switch.  About a year or so ago, on a return drive from ‘the city’, about an hour away from home, I got through more than two thirds of the trip before I realized I hadn’t even turned the radio on then, when I was by myself.  The cacophony in my head was complete if I couldn’t even partake of music when I could listen uninterruptedly to what I chose.

And that’s so sad.

Most of my memory has an overlay of obsession with music.  So many genres and artists.  So many generations and styles.  I’ve imagined the soundtrack of certain parts of my life and relive other parts of my life through song.

wbru3

In August 2017, 95.5 WBRU, the local modern rock radio station I had cut my anti-establishment musical teeth on, closed up shop.  (Well, they were sold to a Christian rock outfit.)  I still had the CDs, I still had internet access, I still had the memories – if I dare be so dramatic – but I mourned the loss of that running record of new and individualistic music as if someone close to me had died.  Still, nearly two years later, I wax nostalgic if I happen to catch the low-power signal they sometimes broadcast on.  I still post from time to time about how much I miss the station when I find a song they used to play on YouTube.  I was getting to the point where even I was wondering what was wrong with me.  Why was I so attached to a freaking radio station?

The obvious answer is because its going off the air was a death of part of my youth.  BRU’s Retro Lunch was the soundtrack to the lunch we all had at my house before Junior Prom.  Their Screamer of the Week was something I talked about with the guy I’d just started dating.  Their Friday Night Countdown was what I recorded onto a cassette and mailed him when he went away to Boot Camp and we were still dating.  So many pivotal moments of my coming of age were backed up by the beats of WBRU.

And research shows that songs elicit the same emotions we experienced when we first heard or listened to them most frequently.  If I loved that part of my life and its soundtrack was now going away, it was almost as if that part of my life was dying.  A leap, yes.  And yes, I can cue up any of those songs on a streaming service or ‘go down the YouTube rabbit hole’ as I say my husband does of an evening every so often (He likes to relive the days I made him all those mixed tapes – yes, we married), but the spontaneity of what would appear next, the destiny of your song coming on at just the right moment, the discovery of something new you’ve never heard before, or hearing it at the moment of its release – that magic of the broadcasting universe is gone.

That radio station represented my teenage self thumbing my nose at the world.  It signified my independence, culling my own style, my own voice, my own philosophy.  I started listening to it when I was first heading out into the world.  Its closing reminds me that I’ve been out here some time now.  Not hearing it makes me suddenly wake up from the melodious trance and notice all the things I wanted to do, but haven’t yet.  I don’t know really any much more than I did then; I am really no happier than I was then.  The teenage angst has been switched out for that of the existential sort.  Only now I can’t blare the radio and rage.

I think the closing of BRU was also the death knell of something bigger in my life.  The joy of music I once had.  The carefree release of a rollicking rhythm.  Now I think too much about heavier things.  I have too much to do.  I don’t have time to pop in the CD or turn on the radio before I rush on to the next thing.  I really feel adrift when the only two stations that play anything remotely my style of music either are out of range or on commercial.  There’s probably a part of me that figures it’s so different, so lesser, then why bother trying to find the music at all.

It’s no secret that I hate change.  I dig my heels in and get drug along unwillingly more often than not.  I’m trying to open my heart to grace, allowing the full potential of situations, my life unfold.  I know reopening my heart and soul to music would only make the journey that much richer.  It’s just sad when you’d found your canon and reveled in it – and now it’s gone.  But I can always use signs from the universe – like FB posts read in RI of UK bands being honored in LA – to signal it’s time to break out those old albums.  And there’s always Pandora.  But if it’s not painfully apparent already – I’ll always be hopelessly old school.

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LA Councilwoman Monica Rodriguez with Horace Panter and Terry Hall of The Specials

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