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Active Recovery

10/28/2015

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We’ve both been doing it lately—Daniel and I— saying things like, “it’s been a challenging few weeks,” but then I look at a calendar and do the math and, sure enough, it’s been longer than that. Taken alone, most of the issues register as nothing more than an inconvenience. Four weeks of care taking followed by the death of a grandparent, six weeks of living in a partially demolished construction zone, coupled with the loss of a close family friend, two weeks of company, failing appliances, disrupted sleep, and ongoing, nagging illness for all of us.

​They are all benign. We are all fine, but disgruntled. Frustrated. Worn thin.
 
My initial coping strategy—to keep my head down and push through it—worked for a while. It worked when I thought it would all be wrapped up within a couple weeks. But when the contractor’s schedule started slipping, problems compounded, additional expenses stacked high, when our “tough weeks” stretched into “tough months,” my resolve started to wobble. Daniel and I couldn’t see each other through the frustration of just one more thing going wrong. Small annoyances would set either of us off—not at each other, not yet—but in each other’s general direction.  “Can anything just be easy?” One of us might have (dramatically) said, when faced with another unexpected setback.
 
When I keep my head down, things get done, yes. But other things get missed. Things like opportunities to learn, moments of rest with my children, marveling over my son discovering so much so quickly, friends in the fringes, trying to lend a sympathetic ear—and, most of all—joy and gratitude. If, as we always say, “comparison is the thief of joy,” that must not only refer to comparison to what others have, but also comparison to how I think things should be going. We’ve been comparing our circumstances lately, not to those of others around us, but to those we think we’re entitled to. It’s been useless at best and potentially dangerous at worst.

On the phone with my dad, a month into this stretch, I said, “I’m just waiting for things to get back to normal,” which he met with a hearty laugh.

“Oh, honey,” he said, “there is no normal.” I flushed with annoyance.
"Sure there is," I argued. "It’s usually more settled than this."​

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One night, during my mother-in-law’s visit, our dear neighbor, who is mourning the recent loss of his wife, stopped by. I greeted him with wet hair, tripping over our overzealous puggle. “Come on in,” I smiled wearily, “if you can pretend you don’t see all this,” I gestured at the toys strewn all over the floor in our living room, where Veggie Tales Sunday School songs blared. We stepped into the dusty subfloor of the kitchen, where the girls cut and glued and crafted with their Nonna while Daniel attempted to give our wiggly toddler a haircut and I finished a dinner I wouldn’t even eat. I needed to finish getting ready; I had reservations for dinner with some girlfriends for which I would probably now be late. He chatted with Daniel for a few minutes; I loaded him up with some more food, and he followed me back through the chaos.

He paused at the door. “Don’t worry about all this,” he said, gesturing and struggling to find the words. “It’s just…life. All of it. And it’s a really good life.”

My cheeks stung like he had slapped me in the face. Of course he was right. I watched him walk through the fog back to his house, where everything is tidy and quiet, where he would be alone—all things I think I long for—while he wishes to God it were not so.

How dare I complain about this beautiful, messy, awkward, exhausting, frustrating, exhilarating life I’ve been given? How dare I be frustrated with these gorgeous, complicated, imperfect people I get to walk alongside?

So what’s the better strategy? I want to make space for friends and phone calls, coffee dates and playing in the park and the kind of steady joy that hovers somewhere above the noise. I’ve been trying to remember the practices that usually feel restorative to me: reading, writing, lighting candles and drinking hot tea, music, prayer, yoga, cooking, eating well and serving others.

I’m starting unsteadily; it’s like active recovery. Weary from this stretch of difficulty, I’m going slow, trying to get my heart going again.  I’m cooking for new moms and reaching out. I’m singing at a funeral with a lump in my throat.  I’m hosting a big party before my house is ready. I’m choosing to show up even when I’d rather not. I’m letting myself feel the sting of a gracious slap in the face.

This is just life, all of it. And it’s a really good life. Don’t miss it.

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Or over And

10/22/2015

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I stood at the bus stop with my neighbor, whose two kids are each at least a year older than my eldest two. I was probably gulping an iced coffee, pushing a stroller and staring down the hardest part of my day. She talked about 5:00 dinner and the piano lessons, girl scouts and swim lessons coming up for her daughter that day.
 
“We are not there yet,” I might have said, when what I probably meant was, “I hope we never get there.”

For my first four years of motherhood, I commuted and worked full time. A solid 10-12 hours of my every day was spent working, preparing for work or recovering from it, while my husband worked longer hours, finished school, worked six days a week and, eventually, traveled half the time. Life was chaotic, and I felt like I never saw my kids. When I came home I vowed it would be different, and mostly it has been. We are intentional about what we do and don’t do. I say no sometimes, even when I’d rather say yes, but I rarely say yes when I mean no. It’s been a major change.
 
Friends and family insist I will not always get to control our load the way I have so far. “Once your kids get older and into activities, you’ll understand,” they might say. I’m a recovering know-it-all who really doesn’t like being told what to do, so I’ve always prickled at that kind of thing. What if the way you’re doing it isn’t the only way? What if my priorities for our family can survive their getting older?
 
Our daughters are  7 and 5, our son is 1, and this is the first year we have committed to long-standing activities. We have done it without reservation. We explained each child got to choose one activity per season. So far, this hasn't been difficult to enforce, though I recognize we may be forced to reconsider as they get older. Mirabella thoughtfully decided on dance; Emerie has found that “kwae tron do” is exactly as much fun as she thought it would be. Both represent a lengthy commitment, and one is quite expensive. Now, two days a week they rush home from the bus stop, snack in the car and I shuttle from a dojang to a studio, then back again to try to catch the board breaking, home to stir dinner, and back to the studio. I know some friends would probably laugh that that sounds like a light day, but here’s the thing: I am not interested in winning the contest of who is busier. I don’t want to play that game at all, and if I have to, I’d just as soon lose.

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We are okay with our current activity level; watching our children’s passions play out is thrilling, just like  friends told me it would be. Both girls are exactly where they should be, and we are fortunate we can afford them these opportunities. But, the owners of both studios have asked me why the other daughter doesn’t do both activities, and it’s left me wondering.

What are we missing when we assume and is always better than or? What are our 
kids missing when we forget to teach them about opportunity cost, about choices and boredom and down time and rest? What are we saying when we forget to model setting and honoring priorities in our lives? When we decide not to fight for margin? When we neglect to show them their activities do not trump family time?

To my friends whose kids are in a bunch of activities, I do not mean this as an assault on your choices. They are just that, your choices. I assume, of course, that you have thoughtfully considered them and that they work well for your family. I am not suggesting your way is wrong.  But I find myself often defending our margin against good activities that would take it away. It’s not that I am selfish or naïve, and that soon I will understand the way it just is. There is no right way to do any of this. These are choices— none of us need to tacitly accept these demands on our time—and sometimes I think we forget that. Sometimes I think we forget we don’t always have to say yes. It’s okay for our kids to miss out, okay for them to be disappointed; it's okay for others to be disappointed. It’s our job to take the longer view to weigh the potential benefit of taking on another commitment versus the potential larger risk.   

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I know life is fluid and that our children are outgrowing our ability to control their schedules. I know once my third is older everything will change. But if we do not fight for space for down time and family time, if we are not careful, they will be the first to go. Forgive my defensiveness, but it feels like I’m bound to lose what is most precious of all to the hustle if I don’t show up for the fight.
 

I don't pretend to know what the right choices are for your family. We will continue to say no to that Saturday cheer clinic, to basketball, to t-ball and maybe to soccer, to continuous swim lesson sessions and birthday parties of people we don’t really know so that we can joyfully say yes to dance and martial arts and science club and quality time with the people we love in this season.  And I reserve the right to change all of that when it doesn’t work anymore.
 
We all want to give our children the best of everything, to give them choices, for them to be well-rounded. Some of us work to give our children every opportunity we didn’t have growing up; some of us to expose our kids to everything we loved from our own childhoods. I participated in ten types of activities when I was a kid, which doesn’t take into account youth group or other church commitments, babysitting, or the jobs I had starting at 14. I had lots of options. And it’s not that I didn’t enjoy them, but in retrospect, I wish I’d had more time at home with my family. More time to myself. I wish I’d known it was okay to say no to good things if it meant saying yes to what was best for me.

These kids are only under our roof for a short time. I don't want to sacrifice time around the table or the pool, secrets whispered between sisters in blanket forts or lazy nights together on the altar of all the things.  I feel the weight of responsibility to structure our time as a family wisely, to make good choices, and to teach my children the value of or over and.
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How do you weigh choices and demands on your family's time? How do you know when you're getting it right? ​

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Practice & Prayer

10/15/2015

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“Trust the Earth to support you,” he says, “notice any sensations that arise in the body, acknowledge them without judgment, and let them go.” I exhale deeply, settling into Savasana, our final resting pose. I am not laughing.

A decade ago, when I first started practicing yoga and Pilates, I could be heard telling people while rolling my eyes, “I like yoga, but I’m not into all that meditation stuff. All that ‘check in with your hamstrings,’ and zen business. I just want a workout.”

It took me years to muster the courage to attend a fitness class of any kind. But Daniel had found a fitness routine that worked for him, his diligence rewarded with results, while my “squeeze it in when I can” approach wasn’t working. I started feeling resentful, and I knew that was trouble. So I began attending a yoga class that has childcare. Hallelujah, amen.

Wrangling my children to get them to yoga—or, honestly, anywhere—can be a challenge. So by the time I bust my empty stroller through the doors into the fellowship hall at the church around the corner, I am usually a few minutes late. Our instructor anticipates this, and he waits. Soon we’re settling in and finding our seats, closing our eyes and breathing deeply. “Finally, take the biggest breath you’ve taken all day, maybe all week,” he says, and I always think, i​t’s like he knows me.

It has only recently occurred to me that, in some Christian circles, yoga is maligned, due to its Hindu roots.  I have read the reasoning, and I try to get the case against yoga, but I just can’t. I see some suggest  “just do the stretching,” like younger me tried to do.

Older me, who manages a home, and work from home, and three children and three meals a day says, “honey, don’t miss out!” My muscle tone has benefited from yoga, for sure, but now that is only maybe half the reason I fight to get there each week.

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I find now that practicing yoga is like worship, like prayer. What it is to me doesn't have to be what it is to you, but here is what I mean. My life is often chaotic and noisy, happily crowded, but in my practice, it is still; it moves slowly. When I focus my energy on this moment, I am unable to worry or fear. When I push my body past limits I had previously imposed on it, I celebrate its maker and the ways he is evident in me. When I fall short, I am reminded that we use the word “practice” for a reason. What a beautiful symbol for life: we are never mastering, never failing or succeeding, always practicing. When I say “Namaste,” a word with no English counterpart, I acknowledge the beauty of the spirit within me and that which is in you.  

Like so many things I had once thought were separate, maybe body and spirit aren’t meant to be so disengaged. Maybe spiritual practice and our physical selves are natural partners, just as I’m finding ministry and loving others to be. 

As we lie in that final posture, he talks us through our muscle groups, encouraging us to release tension where we find it. When he arrives at our hands, he says, “check for any clenching or grasping, notice it, and let it go.”

​I lie with mind at peace, grateful heart and open hands, breathing in the gift of this moment, hopeful I can take it with me off the mat.

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Beauty in Tangled Branches

10/7/2015

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​For two seasons, and into three, I tended her garden. Or maybe it was longer than that. When she arrived at my front door, sending the dog into a ruckus and waking my tiny baby, she introduced herself and wanted to know if we would replace the fence that leaned into her yard. “We can split the cost," she offered.

I wish I could tell you I liked her immediately.

“You’ll have to talk to my husband,” I sniped, “we have ten years of projects in this house, and I’m not sure where that falls on the list.”

We got to know her and her likable husband. When, on top of the sleep deprivation, I fell ill with a high fever, she insisted I bring the kids over. I shuffled next door on an 80-degree day in my pajama pants and a hoodie. She kept my girls all day and fed them dinner. “It’s organic,” she assured me, and told me to rest.

The girls asked often to play on the swing set they had installed for their grandson. They invited us to a dinner party. We traded food and stories. We embraced being neighbors.

“We need a neighbor gate,” Mirabella said one day, as she walked down the street to their house, “so we can go right over to play.” We all agreed.

While the kids played, we would talk. She wasn’t easy to get to know. She was salt of the earth and generous of spirit, but she was hard to read, unlike her effusive husband. I wondered if that was how people perceived me.

One day, as I unloaded groceries, she met me at the garage door and asked us to watch her house while she was away for the weekend. She didn’t look well. She spoke quickly, flatly. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I have cancer. And…it doesn’t look good.” Tears rolled off her stoic face and splashed onto my driveway. I rushed to hug her, awkwardly. She brushed the tears off, thanked me for watching the house, and was gone.

Right before Halloween, she told our girls “I will be dressed as a vampire, wandering out in the yard. Don’t be scared, it’s just me.” But on Halloween, she found herself in the hospital. Just for the weekend, they said, until the platelets stabilized. On her second favorite holiday, her house stood dark. The next morning, our little monarch butterfly and green fairy showed up in her hospital room. “For your favorite holiday!” Emerie said.

She smiled and corrected her; “My favorite holiday is Easter. But I like Halloween too.”

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Staying “over the weekend” continued for months. I packed Thanksgiving dinner in to-go containers, and added a carafe of apple cider as I held the bag out to her husband. “Life is too hard to eat hospital food. Especially on Thanksgiving,” I insisted when he shook his head.

We bought  a Christmas tree and lights for her hospital room. We packed food for her, or sometimes just for him, a couple times per week. He ate dinner at our noisy table, drank a beer with Daniel and talked about football, just to talk about something different. Finally, in February, she came home.  

In the spring, we tackled the fence. Our dog sprinted from end to end of the combined yard. “It’s the best of both worlds!” she had said, “I don’t care if you never put the new fence up.”

Our kids relished their unfettered access to their surrogate grandparents and the swings. Working side-by-side in the yard brought ease to conversations that might otherwise have been difficult. She waited for a bone marrow match. Her Hail Mary, she’d said grimly.

“You and the girls can plant my garden. Since I don’t know if I’ll…be here,” she said, as she planted bulbs she might never see bloom. Hesitantly, I considered it. I am often careless and short on time. I’m not sure yet whether it’s just the stage of life I’m in or it’s a character flaw. Or both.

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But on a brilliant April Saturday our husbands tilled organic compost in and I planted peppers and pole beans, carrots and onions, and six tomato plants surrounded by basil. Under her guidance, I transplanted marigolds, to keep the bugs away.  We chatted through the chicken wire while I worked; mostly, I asked questions and she tried to answer them in a way that seemed like she didn’t know (she always did).

Slowly, the fence went up, but too quickly for her. She asked Daniel to add a bunny hole to the corner. “He lives in your yard,” she said, “but he visits mine. I don’t want him to get stuck.” I don’t know what Daniel would have done if I’d asked him the same thing, but he cut a hole in that fence without thinking.

He got to work on the neighbor gate, and she traced out a path to it in the dirt on her side. “We’ll need some stepping stones,” she had said, “for the girls.” With her help, they built a fairy garden by the gate.
Spring melted into summer, and our garden thrived. We harvested more tomatoes and basil than we could use. She was thrilled. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said, to my relief.

I've heard that St. Francis of Assisi was hoeing his garden when asked what he would do if he knew he would die by sunset that day. He reportedly said, "I would finish hoeing my garden."  She was this way. Throughout the summer, knowing it may be her last, she weeded and watered, tended and tilled. It was what she wanted. They found a match and moved toward the transplant date, but it wasn’t that simple. I wish I could tell you this story ended the way we planned, the way it was supposed to.

Last week when I opened the front door, he stood on my porch, a food container in his outstretched hand. For the first time in this terrible year, he said, “I don’t think she’s going to make it.” I rushed to hug him as he cried. “It’s okay,” he said. I assured him it was not.

He rushed away making hand gestures that he couldn’t speak. “I’m so sorry.” I said.

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Yesterday, surrounded by family, she passed away. He wanted Daniel to tell me at the right time, when I wasn’t with the girls, so I wouldn’t find out some other way. “I think they had a special bond,” he told him. We did, though I can’t explain it now.

Daniel told me while I blended soup for dinner in the kitchen. I cried a little. I swore a little. I hugged him and kept blending the soup.

After dinner, I announced abruptly that I needed to harvest tomatoes. We had endured a huge storm over the weekend, and I hadn’t yet seen the toll it had taken on the garden. Inappropriately dressed in sparkly flats, I walked through the neighbor gate.

Scores of fallen tomatoes greeted me, along with two plants that had finally lurched free of their cages. They were mostly dead, the season nearly over.I rushed back through the gate for shears, trying to beat the fading light. He would be returning home, alone. I couldn’t let him return to death in the garden.
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Maniacally, I tried to free the tomato plant from the structure that supported it, but it was enmeshed.
I wish I could tell you I beat the coming dark, that I removed the dead plants before night fall, before he could see evidence of my ineptitude in her garden, evidence of decay. But I could not.

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The plant I tried to remove had entangled itself with its neighbor, its branches sometimes indistinguishable from the one beside it. I grunted and kicked and braced myself, cutting indiscriminately, trying to free it. I lost my shears in the darkness and gathered all the pieces into the bag, as I felt the sadness rise.

I obeyed the sign she had hung on her beautiful garden and closed the gate, rested my forearms against it, and cried. I cried for the beauty of forty years of marriage feeling too short. I cried for the sadness of her grandchildren growing up without her. I cried for the hole that is left in our neighborhood, in our family. I cried for my children’s first loss, for how the hell we would tell them. I sobbed and gasped and rubbed tears and mascara away with my dirty hands. I lugged the bag through the neighbor gate, my feeble attempt at protecting him from something I couldn’t, from something that didn’t matter anyway.

There’s so much we learned from all this, so much good tangled with the bad and the hard. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about telling the girls. About how devastating and beautiful and sacred it was. Maybe one day I’ll explain what their friendship has meant to us.

​But today, I want to encourage you to know your neighbors. To love them. Not to insulate yourself when you don’t know what to say. I wish I could tell you it will be neat and clean and no one will get dirty or hurt. I can’t. But I can promise you there is beauty in tangled branches.

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    About Me

    Christina | Virginia Beach
    Psuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.

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