Moments

Someone I know casually through work leads hikes with local meet-up groups, and and today I acquiesced to his well-meaning pestering to join the outing at Radnor Lake. We covered somewhere around 3 miles, though as luck would have it I forgot to take my FitBit off the charger this morning so I am not only not certain of how far we went, but was also denied the satisfaction of watching the little flashing numbers increase with my effort. I am pleased to say that really did not matter. The hike was rated easy/moderate, just easy enough for me, a regular but lapsed walker and occasional hiker, but challenging enough that my muscles will definitely ask me tomorrow what we did today! The sights were lovely: fall leaves in all their glory covered the path, with the trees' branches bare enough to allow for glimpses at a beautifully expansive sky, when I could take my eyes off my feet. One tree had grown particularly bulbous at a point about 5 feet from the ground, before thinning out and resuming growth. It made me wonder what had injured it, what it had been protecting it from, at that point in its growth. It made me think about how we do the same: grow bulbous and ungainly protecting our own injured areas. Also, there were deer, and best of all, a varied group of humans generally eager for a little chit-chat during the easier stretches of the trail.

On my drive there and home, I listened to Anne Lamott's book Small Victories, which I love. Actually I love everything of hers that I've encountered. I think she could write a grocery list and I would enjoy it. For those who are already fans, you know what I mean. For those who may still be new to her, I could not encourage you more to become acquainted. She writes of the real stuff of life: depression, anger, loss, grief, hope, encouragement, accompaniment, addiction, despair, and the eventual triumph of goodness. She is a wonderfully left-wing Christian, with a Jesus far more interested in feeding the poor, abolishing systemic oppression, and accompanying you to A.A. meetings than in the fine details of correct doctrine. She believes, as I do, that where truth and love are, God is too. In any case, listening to her (literally, as she is the reader in this recording), puts me in a peaceful, pensive state, at once soaking in her artfully penned words and eager to pour forth my own.

I recently took a peek at Joanna Gaines's book Homebody, from which I gleaned that to be comfortable, our spaces should reflect us, with all our quirks. Do mine? I wondered at the time. Looking about now, I see backpacks, piles of purchases, boxes of now-outgrown sentimental things waiting to be sorted all scattered about my living room. Joy and pain, busyness and productivity. Carved pumpkins sit sentry, still smiling but collapsing in on themselves, perhaps not unlike me sometimes. The Happy Birthday banner still hangs where we put it 3 months ago, because putting things away is SO much more difficult than getting them out, and because after all, it's always Someone's birthday anyway.

Last night I watched the last couple of episodes of The Haunting of Hill House, a genre out of character for me, but it does such a beautiful job of weaving together familial mental illness and the paranormal that I was soon drawn in. One character's spirit appeared to some of the others, reminding them that despite her death, she was not truly gone but just scattered, that time is not a line, but rather that "moments fall around us like confetti." I mused on this. It is an appropriate expression of this stage of my life; maybe it always will be. For now I sit, seated comfortably in my moments, content with a second cup of coffee.

I just dropped my son off at Gay Pride...

I just dropped my son off at our city's Gay Pride parade.  Some in my faith communities may judge and question me for this, believing as I do that the LGBT way of life is not a viable path to long-term happiness. I will try to pretend that this does not hurt, though truly I understand the paradoxical nature of my position.  How is it possible for me to believe as I do, and yet experience a surge of motherly pride among the rush of emotions I feel driving away from my son and his friends?

It comes to this:  It is not my job to choose my son's path; it is his; my job is to support him in the process. He is the one that will have to walk to the end of this road, perhaps to find out it is the dead end I am afraid it is, or perhaps to find joy and fulfillment via a pathway I do not yet see.  It is not my place to limit his choices.  He is an emerging young man, and if he is ever to find the freedom to be fully alive, he needs to be able to explore all the places that journey may take him. I have not abdicated my responsibility as his mother to share my guidance; he understands well my concerns with an LGBT lifestyle.  However, as I seek to love like Jesus loves I have to remember that, as we often say in our little Christian circles, "Jesus is a gentleman."  That is, He does not force his way upon us. I actually think it is more poignant to say, as I did to my friend yesterday, "Jesus is not an a**hole." He extends arms of love, not words of shame. The rest comes out in the wash.

You Are What You Think

Ok, so the brave start made by my first post sort of exhausted me....and as it turns out, I am still afraid. Afraid of not being perfect, mostly. So, at least for today, I am trying to relax my idea that each post has to be a masterwork and am settling for the mere sharing of thoughts...

Recently I found myself driving on a nice stretch of open road, complete with blue sky and interesting-looking cloud formations, enjoying some alone time with one of my sons.   The clouds overhead were practically begging us to name them, so of course we obliged. As I had to keep at least one of my eyes in the general vicinity of the road, my son got to do most of the identification. Primarily he found animals, many of them prehistoric, and after a time, he began to suppose out loud that the sky in fact might be the final resting place for animals. His logical mind and its scientific bent usually keep him at odds with such non-tangible conventions as an afterlife, so I was intrigued. (Whereas Mass for me is something to look forward to and God someone to grow in love with, sadly, church, for him, is something to tolerate, and divinity merely a human construct.) I wanted so badly for him to come to a place where maybe, just maybe, his hungry little mind could get a glimpse of its creator, so I encouraged him to postulate. What about us, I asked. Do we go to the sky as well? He continued to put forth theories of how it all works, testing one idea, then another. The conversation twisted and turned as he sorted through things, and whether any of the ideas of that day will remain with him is yet to be seen. I still hope, so intensely it hurts, that one day all my children will find peace, that they will feel the relief that comes from not having to be The One in Charge, that they will be comforted by Someone much bigger than I am.  

However, the real wisdom of that day comes from something he said when he was knee-deep in his hypothesis.

“Hmmph. I’m starting to believe what I’ve been saying.”  

And it occurred to me that those nine little words contain a whole lot of wisdom. I believe faith is a gift, but perhaps our words open the door to it. It occurred to me that if my son in his musings could lead himself to belief, then we all have that same power within us. We are led by our words.

I have a dear friend who belongs to a Christian denomination not known for its acceptance of Catholics. Against the odds, we enjoy sharing our common and variant beliefs, and so I was happy both that she agreed to join me for Mass, and that she enjoyed it as well. Most meaningful to her was our Profession of Faith: the recitation of the Creed, our statement of beliefs. She loved that we spelled it all out, and wished that there were an equivalent in her service. Her words reflect what religious leaders have known for centuries: the value of the spoken word. Speaking our beliefs not only declares them to others, it cements them within ourselves.  

And if this works in celestial matters, then what about the more mundane? What about the things we ‘say’ to ourselves? What lies do we allow to live within our heads?   I believe too many of us reinforce our negative self-images every time we pass a mirror, or look down. What if we, as suggested by the psychology of positive thinking, said good things to ourselves instead? What if we re-purposed all that negative self-talk and allowed it instead to lead us into a healthier state of belief? As I am a lifelong connoisseur of internal negativity, I recently decided to give this a try.  Instead of dismaying about the expanse of my rear end or the origin of the newest spot on my shirt, I now try to step back, look at the bigger--and there really is no pun intended--picture, and give myself a compliment:

“What a pretty smile you have. That body squeezed out 5 kids?! Lookin’ good, girl.”   

“You have this job for a reason. You can handle what comes your way.”

And if this works for our self-beliefs, what about the things we believe about others? How about trading ‘She drives me nuts’ for ‘She is helping me grow in patience.' Or even, ‘I am thankful for his unique way of looking at things.’ I can say from experience that the things we say to ourselves, the things we fill our minds with, become the way we see reality. I suppose it can be argued that we could lead ourselves to believing actual untruths simply by the repetition of them. But that is rather the point. What DO you lead yourself to believe? I challenge you, dear reader, to look within to the things you are saying to yourself. Root out those that are not true, and replant the ones that are!   

Hello, World: Goodbye, fear

Once as a young mom in search of an entirely-my-own “hat” to wear, I found myself in calligraphy classes with none other than Timothy Botts. For those of you that have not had the pleasure of being acquainted with Botts’ work, please google him. His work is among my favorite calligraphy, ever. More than simply creating beautiful script, he makes the meaning of the text to catapult off the page. I first experienced his work while working at a Logos bookstore during my college years, and it forever secured a place in this bibliophile artist-wannabe’s mental catalog of all that is valuable. You will love it, I promise.

In any case, in between my first and second babies, I was in need of something to call my own. Something that did not involve being either a wife or a mother. Having always loved learning, I perused our local community college’s offerings for something fun. Now please understand that I am a math and science person by upbringing. The idea of art class terrified me almost as much as the idea of gym class. Calligraphy was just something that snuck its way in during summer camp, etc., likely because it was pretty, but followed rules. Nonetheless, I was stunned and starstruck by the idea that Timothy Botts taught at MY community college--who knew?--and this seemed like an appropriate time to be brave, so I enrolled.

During my first class we were asked us to describe ways in which we exercised our creativity. The woman who had given me a ride to class, a new friend who had taken Botts’ courses before, declared that she was not at all creative. In his humble and gracious way, Tim called her out. He knew of her belief in a loving, creative God, he said, and further of her belief that she had been made in the image of said God. Therefore, logic dictated she herself must also be creative. What a moment that was for me. I shared my friend’s belief, but come on. Me, math contest champion, creative? I mean, I got it that making babies was an incredible opportunity to partake in Divine creativity, by no means to be downplayed. But artistic-creative? Me? Over the next year and a half, I took a total of three courses with Botts. I learned many valuable things about calligraphy, about art, about color, about design. And through Tim’s patient guidance and the encouragement of my classmates, I learned that my artistic expressions were unique, beautiful, and worthwhile. Eventually I would learn that they were also necessary.

I would like to tell you that I never again lost myself in the myriad details of home and family; but you are much too smart to believe that. Having now traded stay-at-home-mom-absorbed-by-little-people-status for working-full-time-mom-dealing-with-impending-young-adulthood status, my need for a hat all my own remains the same, as does my need to be creative. I still desire to bring forth life. I still yearn to be involved with beauty, whether on a canvas, at the dinner table, in an occasional organized closet, or through words on a page.

Louise Hay, who has been a wonderful source of affirmation for me, calls that yearning “divine discontent.” She maintains that “our longing is our calling” and asserts that when we have an urge to create something, we can either go with it, or remain stuck in the fear.

Today, I choose to go with it. Goodbye, fear. What am I afraid of, anyway?