The Real Monster in October

October is national breast cancer awareness month. All month long stores are flooded with shelves of pink. With the swipe of a credit card, consumers can feel a small sense of contribution. Purchase a pink DVD cover and join a movement. Marketing execs across the country have struck a cord in the hearts of the American people. We increase the billion dollar industry of breast cancer research and awareness in addition to the $872 million in federal funding every year. 1 in 8 women are personally affected by this cancer and thousands more know someone who is. (Fewer accurate statistics exist on men given the stigma of it).

But this story isn't about breast cancer. I'm here to speak of a different tragic killer that effects 1 in 3 women. Research isn't well funded so that number is conservative.  It's a silent killer that slowly takes it's victim in a friendly, quiet and deceptive way. Sadly, we don't purchase water bottles for it's public awareness at the Kohl's store checkout counter.

She said it was the first time he hit her. She was in shock covered over with shame. Unknowingly she had gone into survivor mode, immediately canceling appointments and finding alternative ways to get things accomplished without leaving the house. Didn't want to expose her bruised face. There goes fresh groceries for the week. He'll probably get mad at her for that.

I asked if she felt he had abused her verbally or mentally before this and she laughed at the question. Of course... I knew it was a ridiculous question. He started to beat up her brain long before he beat up her face. "Yeah he always talks down to me...guess I never thought of it as abuse" she said. Then the tears came, and she had to go.

Five minutes of him and she's re-arranging the next three weeks of her life.  Five minutes of his selfishness and she's lost her sense of self. "Swelling has to go down" she told me.  But I knew that recovering from swelling was simple compared to what else she's left to repair. Now she questions where safety is and if love will be there too.

She's misunderstood. We politely go about our day with a smile, biting back the questions we want to ask her when we see her at the bank. We're busy people you know and have errands to run. Besides it's rude to intrude on someone. We don't want to assume...right? Don't want to say anything in front of her children (as if they're immune to the abuse).  Or we talk about her over lunch where we're quick to bite the back of her neck with angry blame that's fueled by our ignorance. "What happened? How do you think she upset him?"

She thinks:
I can't tell anyone because they'll say they told me to leave him.

I can't tell anyone because my partner is a woman and they hate me already for being gay.

I can't tell anyone because he's a Pastor.

I can't tell anyone because I'm scared if police get involved my kids will stay with him. I'm undocumented.

I can't tell anyone because we're grandparents and no one thinks this happens.

I can't tell anyone because he said if I do he'll hurt my daughter. Then he'll kill me.

I can't tell anyone because she's respected in the military. She says it's hard enough being female and a colonel.

I can't tell anybody because they're all so happy that I'm a breast cancer survivor. That's what they want to celebrate and I've gotten too much attention already. Everyone thinks my life was saved but they don't know I'm already dead. So you'll pat his back for being brave and I'll embrace you as you hug me, flood my research, run for me and smile. Because no one wants to talk about domestic violence and abuse. It would ruin the atmosphere.

After all, pink is such a pretty color. Purple looks too much like my bruises. . .


October is National Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

To donate to national Domestic Violence awareness and services click here: http://www.thehotline.org/support-the-national-domestic-violence-hotline/make-a-donation/

To donate to Domestic Violence services in Colorado click here:
https://co.clickandpledge.com/sp/d1/default.aspx?wid=38533

To find out how to tell your congressperson or representative that you want to see change concerning Domestic Violence in your area, click here:
 http://www.nnedv.org/docs/Policy/In-District_Lobbying_Guide_-_General_2011.pdf

Speaking of which. . .

http://www.fallenprincesses.com/

"I not pretty" Well! What did you expect?

I was reminded that when we pay someone a complement on appearance, we may often be directing it to a store or a designer who made the item. Instead of saying “That blouse really makes you’re eyes sparkle, it’s beautiful” we say: “I love that blouse”. Or “I just wanted to tell you that I love your style, you have great taste” instead we say : “I love that purse”. Which complement would you rather be paid?

Note: The following are my personal thoughts and convictions. I’ve encountered some-what hostility when sharing my perspective in this area. While it is inevitable to feel a sense of threat or disapproval, I hope that you may walk away from this blog with questions and reflection vs. judgement.

I have three girls. Since my eldest was born I’ve put a lot of energy into understanding what messages she’ll be receiving in the world around her. This is due in part because I first processed the same for myself. I wondered which ones might be positive and therefore aiding her in becoming the strong, confidant and kind individual that most parents hope for. And which ones may be interpreted negative and might damage her sense of self worth or personal growth. Sure, I thought about methods of discipline and trying to speak to her civilly. . . However often go unnoticed are the daily messages that we all reinforce of “you’re not enough” or “this is what beauty is”. From the Ikea stores to salaries, retail commercials to clothing sizes (which are bogus).

I’ve been accused of thinking too much about it. “Oh sweetie, you’re looking too far into things” or “I don’t think it really matters as much as you think it does.” Oh really? Read on.

I read an article by Lisa Bloom a few months back that I appreciated so much, I wrote and thanked her for it (which is something I never do). It’s posted below. She wrote of her encounter at a friend’s home where she met their five-year old daughter for the first time. She was immediately inclined to complement the child on her pink nightgown. It may sound familiar “Maya, you’re so cute! Look at you. Turn around so I can see your pretty dress – you’re gorgeous!”. She didn’t and in my opinion, she knows better.

You may be thinking “What’s so wrong with giving a little girl a complement? Doesn’t it make them feel good, boost their self esteem? God intended women to feel beautiful, it’s very important to reinforce this for little girls”  Hmm.

She explains that our social ice breakers we resort to when meeting children are usually on appearance. Politely telling them "how darn cute/ pretty/ beautiful/ well-dressed/ well-manicured/ well-coiffed they are." While this may be with good intentions, it is counter-productive. 


Children are like clay. They memorize the messages they receive and if they aren't conforming into them, they are STILL being affected by them. This is a wonderful opportunity but a very fragile one. I don't believe that they exist to be trained for our amusement or doting, but to become and well serving human to the world they entered. The same goes for boys. I default to "complementing" them on how strong they are or how fast because I don't have much interaction with them and let's be honest - I don't know what to say. Then I realized, there are boys who aren't strong or fast and will never be strong or fast. I wondered how I would feel if I had a boy who wouldn't fall into that category and if I'd appreciate him being told he has to merely by the way he's spoken to. Truth is, I have a little girl who is typically out-shined, out ran and rarely ever praised for her appearance. Her skills and creative mind go unnoticed outside of family. I suppose just to let you know how that makes me feel, I get teary thinking about it. 


Lisa then goes on to explain her uneasiness in having small talk with this little girl and how difficult it was to avoid typical complements or topics. To read how this story ended, click the link below. In summary, it turns out the child had a lot of intelligent things to say. She's even read a story book or two in her short life that she could tell you about! Imagine that.

Despite my efforts to be intentional in this area, I had a pivotal encounter with my 2 year old recently. She is obsessed with the ever-infiltrating Disney Princesses. I’ll be the first to admit that I dote on her as she sways across the room dancing and singing Aurora’s song. It’s entertaining and “cute” but the entire time I am thinking “uh oh”. She demands to be read princess stories, watch the movies and most recently much to my dismay, wear princess images and logos. I’ve shared with those in my life how this is a challenge for me and have risked being thought of as a joy-killer in order to speak out on what I felt was right. It’s always been with a purpose and never from a “I’m better than you” mentality. But we are human and when someone else raises concerns about what we easily accept, we feel threatened. Interestingly enough it’s not other people who are my most difficult opponent. It’s not even the 2 yr. old. It’s myself. 

I had put Cinderalla back in her attic for awhile (get it? Hee hee) and have offered in her place a Seasame Street video or a few sing-along CD’s. Keep in mind - it’s far easier on my sanity to flip on Her Royal Highness and her little rodents vs. singing “I’ve been working on the railroad” and thousand and twelve times. . . (sometimes I think I’m losing my mind and might actually be on the railroad). Ultimately I chose to give in and play the darn thing after she had fiercely dug the DVD out of the bottom of the pile. While it played she talked and talked, happy as a clam. “I yike Cindaella” in her 2 yr. old jargon. “You yike Cindaella Momma?” I answer, “Cinderella is very kind. Yes, I like that too”.  She confirms it and goes on. “She pretty” she says matter of factly.  “Momma, you tink Cindaella pretty?” “Well,” I say. “Cinderella is very kind to her sisters and she’s so nice to animals. She loves people and yes, I like that”. “No!” she refutes. “Cindaella pretty.” I answer “I think you’re pretty Sam”. She then seemed focused on finding out if I think Cinderella is pretty so she asks again “Momma! You tink Cindaella pretty?” She raises her voice and waits in anticipation for my answer. She’s trying to find out what pretty is. And this is exactly where it takes place. I face my enemy: that constant voice telling me to “oh come on, lighten up, who cares. . . tell the little kid that her favorite princess is pretty. . . you're being extreme." I learned this voice as a small child and it is still everywhere. Finally I say “Oh I dunno. I guess. You know who’s pretty? I think YOU’RE pretty!”

She answers:

“I not pretty.” “I Sam.”   “Cindaella pretty”.

Lisa Bloom’s How to Talk To Little Girls:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-bloom/how-to-talk-to-little-gir_b_882510.html

The Sweeper & other scary things.

I watched my daughter play her first sports game this past Saturday. In doing this I realized that my children aren’t going to have a bigger fan than their Momma! If she had chosen ping pong, you can bet that I’d be suited up, extra paddle in tow and her name written on my cheek. . . thankfully, she chose soccer. It’s a much more traditional game for cheering.

I watched as she tried to get a bearing of the field. Between the rambunctious  parents cheering on the side lines and the coach’s directions she struggled with what exactly it was she was supposed to be doing. As the hoard of girls came towards her, kicking and running, she hesitated. “Do I run in towards them? Do I risk getting trampled? Am I going to die?” I can imagine these were some of her thoughts. . . she wrote them all over her face.

It’s not natural for some people to see chaos in front of them and run head on into it. Particularly while the unknown is awaiting you on the other side. I’ve met people throughout my life who face adversity with a smirk. As if they’re delighted for the challenge.

I’m finding that it depends on the situation. This week I found myself shrinking down with each passing day. I’m tired. I’m drained. I’m unsure. I feel like my life is taking from me more than it's giving and while I’m usually up to the task. . . I’m running on empty. Consequently, as I was walking up the basement stairs, laundry in tow, my mind ran through the coming week and I was overcome with dread mixed with a little uncertainty, and maybe even a little defeat. It’s as if the appointments, the kids, the giving and simply the norm was all coming at me like a hoard of fierce little soccer players. I slumped down on the top stair and started to cry. Fearful. I’m not ready for tomorrow . . . I’m not even ready for my kid’s naptime to be over in 10 minutes. But this morning I was reminded of the most basic lesson that we teach children at church. We’re here in this life to do our best, to be kind and to do what is right. Problem: we can’t do this by ourselves. God offers to help us everyday. Good thing too because I asked God to help me right there between the neatly folded pants and missing pair of socks. I couldn't articulate what exactly I needed help in but He knew and I just breathed it up towards Him and sat there for a moment.

Some days you just hang on. Breathe. Get through the day and get it over with. Because looking ahead doesn't always give you the warm fuzzies. When I thought about the entire game . . or in my case the coming week, I shrank back and froze.

Instead I told myself to just think about what the next play was, not the whole game. . . so I got up off the stairs and started dinner. It’ll work out.

Work vs. Labor

When I think of Labor Day, I can’t help but think of Mom and Dad. They come to the forefront of images. . before Barbecues and picnics, American pride or Labor Day sales. They embody the reason the day is set aside.

Of course there are many people who punch the clock everyday. Fewer that enjoy their jobs and fewer still who have integrity performing them.  For a few decades my Dad rose before the sun with a thermos lunchbox and steel toed boots. He punched the clock and endeavored into a margin of the workforce where ethics and care to detail were still fundamental. There was no room for negotiation, no excuses of fatigue but instead he was the kind of man who took his faith with him and preformed for his family and I would venture to say, for God. His paychecks provided us a home, education, fun and full bellies. It was more than we needed and often deserved. Looking back at our few vacations, they lacked grandiose travel and shiny souvenirs. Instead they were trips to the lake where we’d camp and fish. Our family made memories that are my most precious treasures today and the best vacations a child could have! More importantly we were together. My Dad would tell you today “it was all we could afford then”. But even with the thickest of wallets, some fathers don’t compare to giving their children all that we were given. He loved me, believed in me, but more importantly – told me about it.  And he did this often on days when he punched the clock. Some people work. But not him, he labored.

Same can be said for my Mom. You see, any one can be a “mother”. A woman can give a kid some breakfast and ship ‘em off to school. She can make sure the child has decent clothes and an activity or two, throw some toys or vacations at them, maybe a day out together. But there’s few who might really talk to their child and then take a turn and listen. Fewer still that will assume the position as more than a title. . . but as a job to be done with intention. With integrity. There isn’t a clock-in and out time,  or uninterrupted lunch breaks or even a quiet drive to work. Well, maybe not a drive. . .

My Mom always got up at the crack of dawn. While thinking this rather foolish on her part, as a child it annoyed me. I’d think “it isn’t fair for someone who wasn’t a morning person, to have some happy, smiling face opening the blinds and coaxing you out of bed. All the while singing some stupid little tune she made up” which stuck in your head until recess that day! Sometimes I wondered if I was living inside Cinderella’s bedroom, just around the corner would be a pair of chirpy birds and merrily singing mice. Mothers. Misunderstood. Unappreciated. I understand now that she was the wheels that moved this machine….this family, this workplace called home. Combined with my Dad, they operated in sync. He provided the home and she worked hard to protect it. She made the breakfasts, packed the lunches, and prayed him off to work. She prepared the home for the morning that us kids would unknowingly partake in. Complete with daily notes of care and encouragement in our lunchboxes (yes, it’s true and they were embarrassing at the time). There’s a passage in Proverbs that describes a woman of noble character. As I’ve explored this over the years I admit I’ve struggled with bits and pieces but I’ve come a distance in my journey of understanding it.  One scripture in particular: “She gets up before dawn and provides food for her family. . .” (Prvb 31:15) Believe it or not – there IS some wisdom in this! My Mom didn’t sleep until she was ready to get up or haphazardly drag herself out of bed because she “just isn’t a morning person”. If she had, she'd be giving us her left overs . . . not her best. Of course, I don’t recall every morning as a child but in all my memories, I can’t remember when she told me that she was tired, or to go away so she could wake up. She could have easily turned on the ever-ready-babysitting TV, or had my brother entertain me with Nintendo and army men. But instead, she approached her days in the home with intention. Like other women who got dressed and went off to work, so did she. With prayer and integrity. It’s not an easy task. In a job your ethics are proven when no one is looking, when no one is around to jot down a potential bonus or praise in a quarterly newsletter. She read and colored and sang and talked and dressed up and decorated, was silly and talked some more – when she didn’t have to. She still does.  She did more than worked. She labored.

So here I am this Labor Day morning. I admit, I’m a bit hard on others at times thanks to my upbringing. I don’t have much pity for those who don’t work hard and I don’t respect those who complain about it when they do.  I try not to take my role as a mother passively.  Because in all reality what we create today either in the workplace or in people, is usually what we can expect to reap tomorrow.

When it’s my turn to pack my child’s lunch (because after all, this is a new day and age when the hubby gets to do some work around the home too) I try to slip a note in. It’s not everyday, but it’s often. I'll admit, I’m unsure on how to send notes to a first grader who is still learning to read but I’ll draw pictures or jot down something simple and then I'll wonder. . . how did my Mom do it?

Happy Labor Day.

Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

Every summer I have a garden. Now I have a dog....who eats gardens. Thus begins my project how-to's:

1) Have a dog.

2) Have a handy-man-rock-star-too-good-to-be-true-DAD. Ask lots of questions and listen to his advice.

3) Till out a portion of the yard to expand the garden.

4) Dig 14" deep post holes (or at least pretend that they are once you're exhausted)

5) Purchase 550lbs of concrete. Carry to backyard.

6) Pour concrete into post holes. Inscribe a sentimental message - "Me and Dad".

7) Purchase 4x4' posts. Cut themand place in the holes.

8) REMINDER: Wear a back brace because you have to haul left-over concrete back to the store since you didn't dig deep enough holes.

9) Prepare to put picket fence up. With help.

10) Cut 2x4's, assemble a gate, nail chicken wire to it and be sure to hammer your thumb in the process.

11) Go get about 400 lbs of cobblestone rock (the dog WILL dig under your new fence). Place at the foot of the fence.

12) Dig trenches. Also place landscaping edging throughout the garden hill to prevent water "wash-out" (that's my technical term I made up).

13) Recruit newly toothless laborers to write out garden labels. This is extremely important, since it's been known that a gardener can plant lettuce in her flower bed and Lupines next to her pumpkins. Lesson learned: use labels.

14) Pretend to plant seeds but really just collect worms.

15) Plant.

16) Wait. Meanwhile, plant a flower garden.

To be continued. . .

our song.

There’s a routine…mastered over the years with the kids, with myself. We dance in the melody of our home. The sound of a cereal box in the morning, a slamming sliding glass door. . . pattering feet. It’s in the air. It’s in every moment. A cry over a scratched knee, the she-saids and the he-won’ts, the ping from a text message and the hum from the microwave.

It’s possible that someone else’s life is more exciting. Someone else’s kids eat all their veggies and someone else’s home doesn’t have piles of laundry or cluttered dresser drawers. I have my neatly maintained list of dreams but I'll have to pick them up at the grocery store while I'm there.

It’s easy to wonder what my life “should” be or “could” be….what melody might be next on the playlist….but those questions get drowned out. I hear the giggles while the dog’s barking and I see the books on the shelf I plan to read. . . the mountains I plan to climb. My walls are filled with snapshot memories and my days are full of song. I hear it and am glad to sing along.

Sensationally Six.

She's silly and addicted to laughter. . .like when she steals my phone to take pictures of herself while I'm driving. She's smart and curious, watching my every move or gesture in a public setting. She can hold a conversation at the dinner table, she runs around in the backyard screaming. She loves sequins and pink and horses and family. She is the oldest sister, who holds her own and is a meticulous caretaker. She makes her bed, cleans her room and then comes to wake me telling me I should do the same. She's going to be a doctor, a nurse, a "horse rider", a famous dancer, a beautiful friend, a rock star, a rodeo princess. . . but today, she's going to be six.

Happy Birthday to my baby girl.

Forcasted Fog on Memory Lane

I went on an unexpected walk this morning. Unexpected because thick grey fog covered the foothills and I was delighted for it. I don’t encounter much fog where I live now but growing up in a small harbor town in California, fog was like a family member. It was always a part of an event or it was a reliable partner in the mornings as you walked to school. I miss it and admittedly get rather excited when it comes around.

The previous night’s cold air turned from frost to snow and although I should have felt cold, I didn’t. I was happily enjoying my hours alone. I walked a pathway near a lake which I had seen before but never in the present glory of that moment. The lake was engulfed with morning mist and I was awed as I heard the geese, watching them take flight one after another. It was a scene straight out of an English novel. All it was missing was a hunting dog and someone wearing plaid. . . it was peacefully romantic and time stood still.

I was taken back to a point in time when I could smell the ocean air or hear the harbor seals barking at the morning. When you grow up near a waterfront, you never forget the cool mist on your face or the familiar taste of salt on your lips.

There are just those moments in time, a vista, a view that impacted your memory forever. When the entirety of the moment is perfect . . . the smells, the sounds and ultimately, the feel. I’ve had a few in my life. Mostly they are memories of home when I was a little girl, or vacations. . . hikes.
If you’re reading this and you can understand what I’m describing – please comment below and share a memorable view you’ve witnessed . . . perhaps from your childhood or today. This was mine.

A woman's work is . . .

I recently attended a get together with some women. The room was filled with perfume, bling and fine clothing. Throughout the evening one person jokingly said that they had been wearing sweats all day with their kids and just showered and dressed prior to attending the meeting. Following her confession another spoke up and said the same thing and then two more women agreed. Laughter filled the air like some sort of de-pressurizer. That’s exactly what it was all about – PRESSURE! I had half-heartedly attended in jeans and a sweater because frankly, I could give a care less to put on those heels and make-up simply so I could gather a few smiles of approval from the guests. This conversation immediately made me sad. I felt like a sell-out and all the women there were sell-outs as well. “Why do we do this to ourselves?” I wondered. I quietly asked the neatly seated women around the room “Why in the world did I have to change out of my comfy clothes just to get all dolled up for you all?”. I thought that given the conversation, they would agree with my honest question but just as their confession hour was a de-pressurizer, my question filled the room with a thick uncomfortable cloud that even I couldn’t stand. I came home and later looked up a paper I wrote a few years ago concerning how I identify myself. In honor of Women’s History Month, here is an excerpt. Regardless of how you identify – societal pressure applies to us all.

I am a female and was raised to view females and males in the conservative fashion. I dress as a female and although I take on typical societal gender roles such as mother, wife and homemaker, I feel as if my personal goals conflict with the gender roles that society has assigned me. For example, I am a graduate student and consequently plan in gaining a professional career. Here there is a conflict with my roles as a mother and my roles as a woman. . . my responsibilities assigned me vs. the responsibilities I seek to assign myself. People would think they are one in the same but I argue that there is a great conflict that takes place when a woman is faced with multiple roles. I’m challenged within the group of fellow mothers who are stay-at-home moms. Such a woman is idolized and cherished in the realm of motherhood while a working mother is seen as sacrificing an element of intimacy with their children. The religious community I’m involved in endorses stay at home mothers by offering a great deal of resources for these women while there are very few resources for working mothers who need the same support. However, the conflict is ironic. Society defines individualistic success, therefore we can assume that stay-at-home mothers are not as highly as esteemed as their “career-women” counterparts. Take note that some or most of thee career women just happen to be mothers as well! Thus, I am either first a mother and second a professional or I am first a professional and second a mother. Women are blatantly forced to choose between family or career goals simply by answering the common question “What do you do?”. This question is asked with such ease and normalcy that it fails to acknowledge the potential struggle is presents for women who survive in the margins.
Another example of conflict within my gender identity is what’s called my gender expression. Gender expression often conflicts with society’s accepted expression of gender. Personal hobbies such as outdoor sports, hiking, climbing and camping are allowed however it’s insinuated that I am expected to maintain a certain amount of “ladiness” by avoiding becoming “butch” or rough. More so, when women are enduring the “fragile” season of pregnancy we are expected to forgo any engagement in personal interests that might potentially put the pregnancy at risk.
Location is a context to consider that influences my gender expression. While rather comical to reflect on, it’s truth is evident. Living in the suburbs, I maintain the typical expected appearance of a female by wearing make up, jewelry, dressing neatly and by so doing portraying that I’m taking pride in my appearance and myself (not to mention the representations of my social-economic bracket). However, when I
lived in a rural area on a Navajo reservation, I rarely wore make up, dressed for comfort versus fashion and pursued my outdoor hobbies with greater vigilance. Differing locations expect differing expressions of gender.
Cultural Identity, 2009

Just makes me wonder. . .

Orange Julius, etc.

I took 3 little sticky fingered-question-asking-totting toddlers to the mall today. I thought I’d distract them from weaving their way through the crowds by buying them each an Orange Julius. Admittedly, I was completely bribing them to just sit down so I could hear myself think and maybe keep them in one geographic location for more than 60 seconds. It worked beautifully.

I crinkled the receipt into the bottom of my purse as we sought out a table in the intimidating food court and they plopped down on the wooden chairs.

We talked about why the cup is made out of paper, who colors it and how “the man” makes it to which I quickly interjected that I was certain both women and men make them at “the factory”. Then conversation turned towards an interrogation about where we’re going next and the endless stream of questions around how long it would take until we got there. This conversation was of course in itself pointless, because I was dealing with an abstract dimension of time. Specifically the time frame in which 24 seconds is 14 million times longer than an hour. . .Not to mention the massive confusion around the length of a days, weeks and forever’s.

Four year olds.

Finally the panel interview came to a pause and all that was heard was the shuffling of nearby shopping bags and the impolite slurp of the children’s straws as their bellies filled up with orange juice and ice cream at ten in the morning. I began to disclose my memories of going to an Orange Julius with my Dad as a little girl. I told them that he’d never ask me what I wanted because he always knew. Either that or we couldn’t afford the fancy strawberry-banana contraption that came in the large cup. Either way, I was indifferent to what drink we were having because all that mattered to me was sitting with my Dad and feeling special. I told them that when I was a little girl I lived in California and we’d go to a place called Del Amo Mall. I’d do exactly what us four were doing right then- sit at the food court and stop for a drink.

The nostalgic trip down memory lane soon came to a detour as the little boy looked at me with bewilderment and asked, “how come you didn’t come to this mall?” “Well,” I said “I guess we didn’t know about this mall back then”. He just looked at me as if he was trying to make sense of why in the world this lady was telling him this story. The other two little people sat there slurping away and I’m not entirely sure they were even in on the conversation. This came to my attention immediately after the youngest kept pointing to her head and reciting the word “nose” in her loudest vibrato. I went on to say that it was nice to have special memories with family and I thanked them for stopping for a special treat with me, the same way I did when I was their age.

The little boy, my nephew, said that I was welcome and after he finished wiping his frothy mouth with his red sweatshirt sleeve he asked “So then. . . after you had a drink with your Daddy, then you grew up?” Not quite knowing how to reply to that I just smiled and nodded. I took a big slurp from my own cup and then looked at him and enthusiastically answered “Well, I guess I pretty much did. BUT the nice thing is, I can sit here and drink this Orange Julius with you all and I’m right back where I used to be. . . all those years ago!”

He just looked at me, and then slowly said “I have to go to the bathroom now”.

So, that was what we did next. It took approximately 4 -6 minutes.

Candlelight, Pity & Perspective

I sat by candlelight last night. Tired, empty and just thinking about breathing in and out. It was quiet and with three spunky kids and a puppy, that's a very rare event. I thought all afternoon about what I would do with my time that evening, I was so excited! No work, no walking the dog, no kids, nothing. I planned on finishing that book I've been reading since forever, strum a little guitar, fiddle around and simply delight in the thought that I can do anything I wanted.  By the time I went up to my room to begin my beautifully planned evening, it was going on 10:30pm. I was disappointed and began hosting my very own pity party. "The days slip by the minute I open my eyes and I fill the hours working, planning.....serving" I thought to myself. While this is a good thing and a privilege, some days it's difficult. Do others feel this way? Maybe, but tonight was about ME.

So, there I sat. Quiet and tired. After a while I wondered who else was attending my party. Who else out there might be sitting by candlelight in that very moment? Somewhere out there in the dark night, a woman is enduring. Breathing in and out as she welcomes her child into the world, by candlelight. Someplace out there, a migrant worker warms his hands by a fire. He toiled in the day's sun and now he's praying for his family before the morning sun returns. Night shift workers take their break by lantern's light, and there's people around the world lighting prayer candles.....believing that tomorrow might hold the miracle they've been waiting for.

Suddenly I didn't feel so sorry for myself. My children sleep safely and when the morning comes, our breakfast awaits us just a few steps away. I usher in the day planning what needs to be done coupled with what I want to be done.

Sure, I was disappointed that I didn't indulge in some leisure time that I was planning on and it's ok to feel that way. Everyone needs to feel some space that they can call their own during a day.  But thank God that He reminded me that the world is a whole lot bigger than my zip code. What I didnt get to do today, I have the privilege of feeling pretty confidant that I'll get around to it tomorrow.

Thus, I blew out my candle and whispered a prayer of thanks. I ended up canceling my pity party. It was a good thing too because I needed to go grocery shopping and was fresh out of hor'durves and Kleenex.

when evening falls so hard

I started throwing pottery again about a month ago. (I’m absolutely no good at it, trust me.). But I enjoy it so. The clay glides between my fingers quickly and brilliantly. Similar to the way your hand feels when you sweep it into a river. . . peaceful. I like knowing that my clothes aren’t getting dirty with paint or markers but with earth. Red dirt, grey clay, white porcelain, it’s in it’s most basic understanding - playing in mud. And just when it starts to dry out, I can swoop my hand into my trusty bucket and slap on some water to transform it into a smooth, silky form that awaits the slightest movement of my hand. It’s forgiving. . . and I can’t make a mistake. I can begin throwing a mug whose fate just wasn’t meant to be so VIOLA! It magically can become a candle pillar instead. Who would ever know the difference (unless I blog about it)? Unlike most things, if my plan doesn’t go accordingly, I can re-create it and usually feel all the better for it. I suppose it’s a do-over and do-overs don’t come easy.

I could have used one today. There are days when no matter how hard I might try, things won’t turn out as I hoped. It wasn't the  worst of days, but could have gone smoother in the areas that mattered to me. You know those days when all is well until three o’clock comes around and it all hits the fan? Then – there’s the clean up. The aftermath filled with the plan B’s, apologies or quick thinking coupled with improvising.  

But clay? There’s no apologizing! I don’t have to hand hold it, get hurt by it or fret over what to do next. . . I just do it. What ever I want to. It’s the easiest do over I’ll have all day!

Then there’s the night. Bed time. Fluff your pillow, lay your head and emerge into the day’s ultimate do-over. Like the song says “all your dreams are on their way, see how they shine”. I may not see my dreams shining their sparkly little heads in the distance, I can’t even see the stars tonight, but I trust they are both there. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy the instant-gratification of the potter’s wheel.

New Year, New you?

I've been doing a lot of thinking. Wondering what I am to accomplish these coming months. How will I improve who I am? What disciplines will I acquire?
The truth is, I know I have potential. YOU know you have potential... But do we have action? Read this excerpt from the great Nelson Mandela. May it inspire you as you approach putting feet to your goals, and ground to your words.



“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
1998, excerpt from Innagural Address