One Hundred (and one) Uses for Duct Tape

Plastic ties and duct tape are literally holding my 2002 Honda Odyssey van together.  In the last year, I have had a string of fender benders, making my van look like a grown up bumper car!  Today I had a run in with a light post, backing out of a parking lot.  Completely preventable right?  Fully my fault.  Ugh!  Thankfully each ‘accident’ has involved only me, my vehicle and an inanimate object.

I have been driving for over thirty years and had not experienced the grating and tearing sound of metal being crushed, pulled and torn against a solid object; it is somewhat jarring.  And today, since I was backing out of a community centre, I had an audience.  They stared at me, I said a few expletives in my head and then waved to them and smiled, as if to say, “It’s okay, I totally meant to do that – I am undergoing vehicle durability tests for Honda.”  I backed out again, briefly stopped to look at the light post, and then sped off, as if I had an important date with another pole just down the street. 

We make preventable mistakes all the time.  But some cost more than others.  As a soccer coach and long-time player, I am constantly aware of the times and places on the field where mistakes are either costly or forgivable.  For example, if you duff the ball in front of the net you are attacking, it is no big deal.  You have the luxury of putting your hands on your head and crumpling into a heap on the ground in disbelief.  Conversely, if you do exactly the same thing in front of the net you are defending, the potential cost is greater, and there is no time for a woe-is-me moment.  You have to attempt to right the wrong – and NOW. 

And so it is with Faven, I make preventable mistakes quite regularly.  I put tomato on her sandwich, I speak sternly to get her attention, I make demands that may not be reasonable, I use sarcasm and idioms to insult her, knowing that she won’t get it, and there are times when I discount her irrational emotions and feelings without inquiry.  I could do better, or at least do (it) differently.  Not all of these mistakes are costly – although with Faven you never know.

God blessed me with this particular child, by matching us with a soccer player.  Faven and I share our love of the field, our passion for the game.  The very first time I watched her play, less than two weeks after she arrived in Calgary, I was shaken by the fact that she played soccer like me – fiery, determined and strong.  It made the fine hairs on my arms stand up, and brought tears to my eyes.  Now, twenty months later, our mutual love of the game is like a moving sea between us.  When we are moving up the field together, supporting one another, the mistakes are forgivable – they even go unnoticed.  And though I may at times feel bad for an infraction, I can easily ‘fix it up’ with a clean pass the next time. 

However, Faven and I, in our weekly living often face off as opponents.  So, eventually and exceedingly often these days, the ball comes between us and we each strike toward it with a determination that is hard to quell.  There is a fire in our eyes and strength in our bodies propelling us blindly towards the other, knowing that only one can win the ball.  Neither of us realizes in that moment that there are other options.  And we each address the ball with a heart full of past hurts and a brain cheering us on loudly with thoughts and ideas created out of past experiences.  The desire to win the moment outstrips our greater desire for a healthy long-term relationship, one with dignity intact.

It is interesting to me that some of what Faven struggles with is the same thing I struggle with (no coincidence, I am sure).  My belief in love was dimmed when my mom and dad separated and then when my dad made the choice to separate from parenting too.  My inner dialogue often goes something like this, How could a father not love his daughter? How is that even possible?  Of course there was so much more going on and we could argue the question (of love) until we are breathless, the fact remains, he left.  I have memories, thoughts and feelings about that critical event in my life that lead me to question whether I am loveable.  Faven too, with her history of adults leaving and disappointing her has questions about love.  She strides toward it like a player on a break-away, and then when it bears down on her, she recoils as if the pain of a loving being is too much to bear.  Love has hurt her and even though she is a team player, she often strikes out on her own, weaving through people and events as if she is being chased.

This past year has been tough.  My van is the embodiment of how I have been beaten and bruised through my many run-ins with Faven.  If I were to be turned inside out, so that my heart and soul were showing, there would be many seeping and weeping wounds; I would be covered in duct tape.  The van is constructed so that the parts essential for continued operation are protected by the hard outer shell, and even though the exterior is beaten up, it is still capable of getting from here to there.  And though no one can see the external shell that protects me, I too am cushioned during turmoil, judgment is suspended and I am forgiven my shameful acts, so that I can steer back into the day, following a course not known, yet guided by an inner strength that leaves me in awe at times.

Living in the mess

Recently, in a rare moment alone with Ward I discouragingly admitted, “[My] life feels like such a mess right now.”  He looked at me knowingly. With the right crowd, I wear my discouragement openly, like a Beverly Hills mom might wear Prada to the playground.  I continued, “I feel like a gerbil on an exercise wheel.  I can’t get off the wheel and even if I stop moving, I have to hang on for dear life because the damn wheel keeps spinning! I have lost control.  I know what to do, I just don’t know how to do it.” 

Yesterday I drove my neighbors two daughters to karate.  For reasons I have not yet explored, their young mom is usually disinclined to accept my offers to drive.  We live two houses away from each other and drive the two kilometers to and from karate twice a week, often in our own cars.  It does not make sense.  Yesterday was in fact the younger daughters’ first time in our van.

The six and seven year old girls, in their crisp white karate ghee, climbed in and buckled up.  I hadn’t even backed out of the driveway when the older girl commented, “Is your car ever dirty!”  I sighed deeply; both the uncensored honesty and sickening truth rendered my lips speechless.  But Yohannes who was sitting right beside her answered, “Yeah, I don’t think my mom has very much time to clean it.”  And then, bless his little heart, he proceeded to point out all the messes and how they happened. “The chocolate milk here was Lauren’s friend, I don’t know how she spilled it so badly,” after each admission the younger daughter “tsk, tsked” in her middle row seat.  Yohannes carried on and pointed out the squished jellybeans from Easter, the single muddy mitt, the pencil crayons, the schoolbooks, someone’s shoe, the crushed french fry container and the water bottles lolling around under the seats. 

The younger daughter, who has the same zest for detail told us about all the rules in their new vehicle. 

“We are not allowed to have food in our car” she boldly stated (as if that was a good thing).

“No food?!” Yohannes queried.

“Nope.  Only water,” she answered.

“Only water,” he repeated emphatically.

“Yup. And no toys,” she continued.

“Huh? Toys are not messy.” Yohannes informed her.

“According to my dad they are” she said.

Yohannes breathed in sharply, shook his head, and let out a “Wow”.

I suspect it will be their last ride in my vermin van!

What I really wanted to say was, “You think this is bad, you should come into our house!”  But alas, she was only seven years old, what did it matter?  Truthfully my workplace often reflects back exactly how I feel on the inside.  When I am facing messy emotions, my house spews debris like a steam locomotive emits steam; it is periodic yet never ending, and I don’t always have what it takes to keep up.  (Right now, it looks like we are preparing for a flea market – or a prospective estate sale).

I have been to other mothers’ houses and been shocked and somewhat appalled that they could ‘live like that’!  Those were my pre-parenting years.  I came home feeling no empathy whatsoever; I had ‘mightier-than-though’ thoughts and wondered, truly, if they were blind.  I shook my head and wandered through my orderly and alphabetized house with a sense of superiority.  The day of reckoning has arrived!

This week, I told my husband that this disorder was driving me crazy and I simply needed to clear the house of its occupants. 

He mused, “Where will we send the kids?” 

I bellowed, like a fog horn on a dark night, “Pack your bags, you’re going with them!”  Nobody picks up his or her stuff.  One culprit printed a picture for a school project, cut it out and let the paper fall to the floor – where it rested for two days, until she-who-shall-not-be-named barked out an order to pick it up followed by a tirade on the common impractical topics, “What were you thinking?’ and “Whose job do you think it is to pick up after you?”

In my idealistic fantasy of my own childhood, this kind of thing did not happen; we were a different breed of child - weren’t we?  (Mom, any words of support here?)

Relationships often fall into the ‘what have you done for me’ and ‘I deserve more than this’ categories – both destined for disappointment and disharmony.   Human relationships are messy (let’s be clear, humans are messy!)  Messes cannot be avoided. And yet there are days when I would walk until my feet were bruised and raw in search of easy street, a place where daisies grew in abundance, the sun shone every day and the mouths of the occupants dripped with gratitude. Every so often I become overwhelmed and I yearn for simple; I crave easy with such ferocity that I truly believe having it would change my whole existence.

In family life simple and easy come and go so quickly we don’t even recognize them.  On the other hand, complicated creates emotion, and some emotions suck the energy out of you faster than a mosquito sucks blood at sundown.  How does one move gracefully from complicated and messy to easy and simple?  I don’t know, but when in doubt – clean.

I spent a full day sorting and cleaning just the main floor of our house.  It was a hands and knees kind of clean.  It felt good.  Order begets order – for a moment or two.  It felt so good to me that I was utterly shocked that not one of my housemates even noticed.  Not one!  Six hours of labor and no gold star!  

My husband arrived home and I asked with exuberance, “Do you notice anything different?” 

“Well. . . I just walked in,” he said, “but, no.” 

The very fact that he could walk from the garage to the kitchen without wounding himself was a dead giveaway.  “Look around again…… please,” I beseeched. 

“Wow, it really looks good,” he said.  It was too late.

Why am I so bent on sticking labels on my experiences, my living – and trusting that those labels hold truth. 

Why messy? Why not lived-in, over-abundant, well-used, home-sweet-home? 

Why inadequate?  Why not, still learning, trying my best, not-yet skilled, imperceptibly imperfect? 

Why, struggling?  Why not simply, in need of TLC?

Who would we invite into our messy lives? We women are inclined to clean up before inviting over a friend or family member.  It is no different when the mess exists out of view, inside our head, heart and body.  We want to clean it up on our own before inviting anyone in.  Because of some illogical fear, we stay stuck in our own mess, when what we really need is companionship, community and support.  It is a difficult journey, but one worth risking. 

I did drive the girls to karate again, and still my van was not clean.  They commented on it again, and I simply smiled.  This is where we live, and we are living fully right now.  Halleluiah!

In Pursuit of Magic

Laurèn made chocolate covered carrots with sprinkles for the Easter Bunny and placed them on a plate in the kitchen, the night before Easter.  Earlier that day she had told me that three of her favorite people were Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy; she liked getting candy, presents and money.  All week long Faven had been challenging the younger kids; “Do you think there is an Easter Bunny - really?” or “Who do you think the Easter bunny is?” They simply stared at her, while I instant messaged her with my eyes!  She seemed to be enjoying the fact that she finally knew something that they didn’t.  Or did she?  In private she pleaded with me to tell her the truth – who was the Easter Bunny?

Late that night when Laurèn couldn’t wind down for sleep, as her mind reeled and her mouth spilled out the contents of her day, in a round about way she told me her thoughts about the Easter bunny.

            “Mom, you know what?” she said.

            “What?” I answered.

“According to Hatching Pete the magic is in the mystery, and I still want the magic of Easter, so I don’t want to find out the mystery.”

“That is interesting honey” I offered, relieved that I didn’t yet have to confess.

The magic is in the mystery.

Years ago, in the waiting stages of our first adoption, our minister was speaking one Sunday about callings. Some people truly feel moved by a calling but it isn’t necessarily clear why.  Embedded in the uncertainty, there is mystery.  Take Jonah, God called him to go to Ninevah to cry out against that city’s wickedness.  He was afraid.  Jonah, as a prophet was called to do the work of God, and yet he refused and fled.  We all live the mystery, but the question is, can we overcome the uncertainty or fear and answer the call in order to find the magic.

Our family is a mystery to many. I am regularly asked why we adopted children from Ethiopia. The question comes in one of two forms: with a quizzical expression, hands gesturing in the air and a skeptical tone, or with a soft voice, hand on my shoulder and a look of gentle curiosity and sincere attention. I willingly admit that it is not ‘textbook’ family-planning. Each time I am given an opportunity to answer this question, I pause, not sure what to say.  For me, living a life that is authentic means answering the call, to live, to give, and to be in a certain way – this is a difficult concept to share with another and it is a vulnerable piece of my journey.  Creating our family through adoption was and is a calling, pure and simple.  It was a plan outside of our making.  It was a journey of faith.  (Which in the aftermath has felt more like a leap of faith, across a vast valley somewhat miscalculated, crashing into the side of the gorge and slowly sliding down, then gathering speed, while debris and dust lodge into every orifice, rendering me unbalanced with clouded vision as I tumble into the pit – only to pick myself up, dust myself off and climb up and try again.)

On the days that I am exhausted and exasperated and I bellow out in anguish, from that pit, “Why me God?” there is only a dull echo in response, followed by complete nothingness.  In that gentle space is where the mystery lies – in the still and quietness between God and I, where there are no clear answers, just a map without a route, and a path without footprints, which I am urged forward onto.

How appropriate that in this season Laurèn reminds me of the magic hiding within the mystery.  Every parent knows that there is magic in our children. Heck, we have some pretty magical parenting moments too. I don’t mean the moments that take our breath away.  No, I am referring to the moments when all seems lost; the train of our living is skidding out of control towards an imminent and ugly crash and somehow, as if by magic, we right the train, calm the fire and a crash is averted (this time!).  We are left with the words hanging in the air, “What the….?”

Truth is, every day is a mystery; we only think we know what is going to happen.  Our calendars are filled with work, appointments and ‘to-do’ lists.  In the book “the Seven Whispers”, there is a section about Surrendering to Surprise.  Christina Baldwin writes, “Life’s surprises introduce unexpected elements and experiences we might not have the courage to choose”.  Remember Jonah, he ran away because he was afraid, he neither had the courage to ask questions nor step into the unknown.  Also, Baldwin says,  “surprise is […] the practice of leaving enough space in the day for something to happen that isn’t on the list.”  Whenever I am on holidays I leave space for sunsets, the call of the loon, sticky messes and breathing in nature; but at home, there simply is no space in my day-timer.  In my day-to-day life, I can’t hear the calling because there is so much noise and clutter.

Now we have a running joke in our house.  When the phone rings, my husband quips, Check who is calling…….. if is God, don’t answer!  Yes, there are many days when we feel that this particular calling has been too much to bear, and the sacrifices have been great.  But the magic of being audience to a child who cooks corn on the cob directly over the flame on the gas stove, or widens their eyes in wonder when their curly hair get pressed straight, or makes their first joke, in English, or blossoms before your eyes in ways you never imagined, for reasons you can’t articulate, is worthy.

So I wish for you some magic in this season of your life.  Just as my kids continue to suppress their suspicions about Easter for another year, so they can run with pure excitement from clue to clue on their egg hunt delighting in the palpable magic of possibility, may you explore the events of your life with cautious curiosity while marveling at the magical moments.

Beyond Breakfast

This morning the kids wanted to help me make breakfast.  Uh-huh, that would be great.  We got some tunes going, and broke into stations.  Yohannes was making the fruit salad, Faven was keen to run the espresso machine and Lauren and I were in charge of the pancakes.  Simple.

Yohannes cut up the pear into perfect bite-size pieces, complete with the seeds and stickers.  I stopped to admire his handi-work and thought it best to demonstrate what I wanted him to do with the orange.  Meanwhile Faven exuded the confidence of a Barista, so I let her at it – just until she called out “Oh no!”  I stepped in just as the froth was oozing over the side of the pitcher and down Faven’s fingers; the hot lava caused her to let go of the pitcher, which I caught just as it was about to hit the counter top.  As I eased the hot container onto the counter, I glanced over at Lauren, and she was alternately licking the spoon and then mixing the pancake batter.  “Lauren”, I called, she paused, oblivious and with the spoon in her mouth, “What?” she questioned.  My chin hit my chest as I let out an exasperated sigh.

I scurried back over to help Lauren, which Faven took as a green light to carry on. 

Lauren questioned, “ Is it okay to lick the spoon and then keep using it?”

“Well, not really”, I responded.

“But Mom, the heat will kill the germs, right?” she pressed.

“Hmm….. I don’t know.  But let’s just say, if you did that in a restaurant you would be fired.”

“Well, I’m not in a restaurant am I?” she finished.

I gave up, gently taking the spoon and replacing it with another to give the batter a fierce stirring.

My gaze took in Yohannes’ technique with the mango; there are no words to adequately describe it.  Imagine the skinning and gutting process after catching a prize fish, only the ‘meat’ was smooshed between keen and clumsy fingers and then scraped into the bowl.  Okay, moving on.

Lauren actually managed to get some batter onto the grill, and I felt like we were on our way!  Just at that moment, I heard the espresso machine sputtering and wheezing as if it was about to explode.  I am not sure what Faven had been doing, but there was a fine layer of coffee grounds covering the counter, floor and machine.  I looked at her, with the utter love of a mother who is amazed by their child’s deeds.  Then I calmly, but with an edge, informed her that it would be great if she stopped and waited for me to guide her through – she (haughtily) reported that she knows what to do!  Then I merely grunted and turned off the machine; I am not sure who was ‘steaming’ more, the machine or me.  Faven stood off in the background, quietly observing, just out of my reach (smart kid!).  I disassembled it to see what the problem was, cleaned out everything and started over. 

By now, there were some pancakes ready to come off the griddle, so Lauren held them out to me with the patience of an elite runner at the starting gate, ‘Mawm” she beseeched.  Kinda busy here, I thought, but scooped a plate from the drawer and got there just as she dropped them.  I didn’t quite make the catch.  I stared at the pancakes on the floor and with only a moment hesitation picked them up and put them on the plate with six eyes staring at me.  Into the warming drawer they went. 

Yohannes, inclined to interrupt at the least appropriate times – asked me, “How many strawberries should I cut up?”  I told him eight; he counted all eight, out loud.  I slid back over to Faven and asked her if she was ready to try again.  It took everything in me not to banish her to the back forty and just do it myself. “Okay mom” she quietly said, she took one reticent step towards me, waiting to see how I would handle her in my space.  I welcomed her in.  This time the espresso went into the shot glasses; she pulled the glass out (with the coffee/water still flowing) and quickly dumped it into the coffee mug before sliding it back underneath for more.  I asked her what she was doing?  She responded, “making coffee”.  After some dialogue I found out that she was going to continue running the water through the espresso until she got enough shots to fill the whole mug.  Hmmm…….I was completely surprised by this and stumped at how to re-direct her. 

Meanwhile, from the pancake maker, I heard another insistent cry for the pancake plate.  With a surge of speed, I retrieved the plate and she piled more onto it.  Then she queried, “When can I learn to make the coffee like Faven?”  I paused, “I don’t think we are quite ready for that, but I can show you how to make hot chocolate if you want.”  “You can make hot chocolate with that?” she asked with surprise.  “Uh-huh.  Finish up the pancakes and we’ll get to it.”

I got the milk and chocolate sauce ready, set the table and said a silent prayer.  I showed Lauren how to steam the milk and what temperature she was aiming for.  She finished that, and I directed her to pour the hot chocolate into her waiting mug.  I had made her wear oven mitts while preparing her drink, as I didn’t want her to get burned.  Now, as she poured the hot chocolate, it so happened that our foster cat Carlton was sauntering by.  Lauren completely missed the cup; the hot liquid hit the counter top and sprayed all over Lauren, the counter, the cabinets and the cat.  Thankfully I was there to grab it and save just enough for her to have a taste.  I looked at the mess and said, “Let’s eat!”  Just after that the dog walked through the chocolate milk and spread her milky paw prints throughout the kitchen.  Laugh or cry?  I decided to laugh.

It had been almost two hours since we had started.  On my own, I think I could have had breakfast on the table inside a half an hour.  The kids were a mess, the kitchen was a disaster (it took me another two hours to clean up), but we had made it together and we enjoyed it together.  Now, I think I’ll take a nap – so I have the energy to handle lunch.

Playing the Field

I played in a soccer tournament all weekend.  It was fun.  It was good soccer.  I played well and hard.  And now, I suffer.  But really, it is not like the suffering is that great, I only seemed to have strained one muscle group.  It is the muscle that allows me to stand erect, the muscle that allows me to bend and tie my shoes, the muscle that allows me to put one leg in front of the other (aka: walk) and the muscle that supports me as I reach my arms out to pick something up.  Other than that simple little muscle strain in my back, I feel great.  Well, besides the fatigue, dizziness and headaches from exertion, dehydration and electrolyte imbalance.  I don’t seem to have any trouble sitting or lying down, which is great news because my husband, who has a herniated disc right now can’t sit or lie down so together we make one functioning adult!

I am forty-five, but on the field, I play younger (we all do!).  Before each game, I coach myself (brain before brawn) “play smart, slow down, stay in control”; but truth is, I love the feel of side-by-side sprinting, and gaining just an edge over the other player and meeting the ball first.  It is truly exhilarating.  Furthermore, a game with no physical contact would be boring indeed.  I am not seeking it, but when it finds me, I am ready to engage, mass-to-mass, sweat upon sweat, legs entangled and then free.

Our final two games we played the same team.  They were lithe, fit and young; we are robust, able-bodied and mature.  If the audience were at a horse race, and placing their bets based solely on appearance, they would have picked the fountain of youth over the well of experience – hands down.  They all would have lost their money, and incidentally, so would have I! The winning was really a testament to our teams’ defensive tenacity.  We stuck to them, like a teenage boy dancing his first slow dance.  When we successfully defended, we were just that close – but the response was completely different, our opposition wasn’t interested in a slow dance; we got under their skin.  They fought to shed us like a cobweb on a nature walk. 

We were there to play soccer, have fun and to win, if it was in the cards.  They were not only there to win, I think they expected to win; and on the second game, possibly even to teach us a lesson.  It wasn’t to be.  They left both games congratulating us, and shaking their heads wondering what had just happened.  I know their dressing room chatter was not likely reflecting their complete awe at our prowess, but in complete dismay over how they could have let that happen.  Our dressing room was simply celebratory, complete with Jello shooters!  We knew they were a good team, and we had beat them (twice)– not because we are a better team, simply because we had played well in both ends of the field, for the majority of the game.  That’s all.  It was minute-by-minute, game-by-game. 

The differences between them and us may not be so obvious on the field, appearance aside; but after the game, as they were peeling off their sweaty sports bras and matching shorts and climbing into their lace undergarments and 'skinny' jeans, we were peeling off our ‘protective undergarments’ and cursing the intricacies of aging, while slipping into sandals and sweatpants.  We were already icing and lubricating our muscles and joints – and popping Advil, just to get ahead of the aches and pains. 

It is after my fourth game in 48 hours that the difference in our age becomes apparent.  All the players had to be over 35, but when it comes to sport, each year difference is not simply additive, it becomes more like ‘dog years’ (7 years for every year).  Regardless of how much physical fitness I do regularly: running, biking, weights, core and walking – I pretty much come out beaten and depleted.  It is in the recovery; my ability to rebound is sluggish to the point of not being able to ‘come off the wall’ at all.  Everyone around me has to adjust.  My full time job, taking care of home and family, is hampered; I let down those that I love and I feel so ‘out of body’ for the next day….or two.  Is it worth it?

I feel like I have played soccer my whole life, despite only recently returning to it after taking a ten to twelve year parenting break.  In the same moment I simultaneously think, ‘I can’t do it anymore’ and ‘I don’t want to quit’.  It is why I stayed away for so long when my kids were small, I knew it would take something from me that I wasn’t ready to give.  There is great benefit for me to play soccer, and there is also a cost.  After a tournament it sure feels like the cost is higher, even with the lingering high of winning the tournament.  But when I am on the field, it is the only place where I am truly in the moment; I neither think about nor care what is for dinner, who has homework, whose fault it was, or when I am going to find time to do all that I do; I am simply playing soccer with a team of ageless and beautifully spirited women with the aim of giving our best in that moment, that game.  Can I really give that up?

The Grass is Greener . . . On the Beach

Something inside gave out.  I think it was the carburetor.  I simply no longer had the capacity to get the mixture of fuel and air right, and was ‘running rich’ day after day; that is, flooding, letting off too much smoke, bogging down and wasting a lot of fuel.  Eventually, I ran out of fuel completely, depleted and without capacity for revival.

I called my Mom - yes, she would come.  I booked my retreat.  If you were to look up the word retreat in the dictionary, you would be both encouraged by your decision to vacate, and afraid by the connotation.  (Retreat: the act of withdrawing, as into safety or privacy; retirement; seclusion; OR an asylum, as for the insane)  Thankfully, with an empty tank, I didn’t look up the meaning, and simply withdrew. But it does beg the question why, as mothers, we often relinquish our due vacation time, and simply carry on – is it to ‘save face’ lest we be perceived as weak, or (gulp) insane?

For me, I felt a strong pull to get away.  Even my children had been trying to tell me something.  After losing my patience and yelling at Faven one day, I heard Laurèn go over to her and whisper, “Don’t worry Faven, Mom just needs a vacation.”  Not a week later, when I once again lost my temper with Faven, I came storming out of her bedroom and Yohannes gently took my hand and said, “Come on Mom, I think meditation will help calm you.” 

The emotional intensity of parenting a grief stricken, pre-pubescent, adopted, ‘transplanted’ child simply produced in me, an over-reactive, unkind, frustrated and emotional (peri-menopausal) being.  Day after day, I attempted to armor myself in kindness and love, and day after day, I crumbled into battle – feeling remorse, shame and sadness.  I needed to get back to the trenches, and so I left, providing only the promise that the Reserves were coming; Grama would turn up in a few days to help out.

I landed on the beach a few days later to the warm, shining sun – and miles of barren, soft, sand willing to be explored.  When I first set foot on the beach, it was dusk and there were numerous black blobs floating out in the water.  As I attempted to figure out what (sea creature) they were, one jumped up and surfed in with a cresting wave.  It was phenomenal, breath-taking.  I had never seen surfers live before.  They wait, they watch, they listen and then they gracefully erect themselves upon their boards and glide on a track felt only by them, and with a direction meant only for them.  They are magnificent to behold.  And then they pitch backwards over the crest of the wave and simply re-join the sea, or are swallowed up by the bubbling froth as it slithers towards the shore.

I was drawn back to the beach to watch the surfing every day.  It became a growing metaphor for my daily living.  Surfing appears to be the ultimate lesson in patience - waiting for the right moment to join the swell and glide effortlessly towards shore, in contrast to catching the wave at the wrong time, and getting tossed and tumbled like clothes in a washing machine.  My life, over several months had been exactly like that.  Many times I rode the wave effortlessly, and was a mother with patience, love and words to reassure.  But I was also regularly being caught and tumbled in some of the bigger and more repetitive waves.  I realized that I was simply being battered by the waves without realization that I could step out, watch, wait and listen – and rise above.  Moreover, as I watched the surfers, there were prolonged periods at points in the day, where the waves subsided and they simply rested.  For me, at home, I wasn’t pausing to rest and reflect – I was pausing, but it was to try and figure out what I had done wrong, and how I could do better.  It was my mind, my thoughts that were creating wave after wave:  frustration, disappointment, anger, self-reproach, sadness, and judgment.  No chance to ride the wave while spending so much time and energy swimming into the crashing waves. 

The beach break created so much space in my life; I was at first restless and unsure.  Nobody asked me to do anything; the silence was deafening.  But the coming and going of the tide was cathartic; its steady, rhythmic beat gave me a focal point.  It was relaxing and peaceful while being energizing and reassuring.  It created just the right environment to do some intentional internal work: to pause and reflect, to do yoga and meditate, to sit and write, to read, to challenge (my thoughts) and shift (my gaze), and to forgive myself the parenting infractions and misdemeanors. 

I came home feeling so much lighter.  All of my relationships were improved by my absence – and the relationships between those who depend on me were strengthened without me here.  Truth be told, my husband (though supportive and understanding) was not very pleased with my decision to leave so suddenly.  It was an extremely busy time at work, and I did not even stop to check in with him – I simply planned, and fled, to preserve myself.  But, in the end, with intention, it created a bridge for open and honest communication, something that we had abandoned for the higher good, of being attentive, caring and supportive parents. 

Moving forward, I will continue to honor my need to take time to myself (maybe before the carburetor conks out).  It is a rare opportunity to sit in quiet with my thoughts, dreams, and plans and to really celebrate all that I am, with the coming and going of the waves to remind me that nothing is permanent.

A Pilgrim's Journey

To journey without being changed

is to be a nomad.

To change without journeying

is to be a chameleon.

To journey and to be transformed

by the journey

is to be a pilgrim.

Mark Nepo, “The Book of Awakening”, 2000

I am on a journey, in Southern California – without family or friend, responsibility, demand or task.  I came feeling depleted and drawn, hoping for renewal and perspective, and longing for peace and quiet.  There is a certain peace, a certain ‘way’ in this verse, by Mark Nepo, which draws me in. 

To be a pilgrim sounds so much better than to be a struggling soul fighting the current of ones’ life.  To be on a journey is to invite flow into your existence, no beginning and no end, a continuation of yesterday, a step into tomorrow.  That is how my life feels.  The journey has been within and without and I am changing because of it, so I must be a pilgrim.  I like that.  I really like it.  It’s as if it gives complete permission to simple let go, knowing that the journey – and those on it – are the teachers and every experience is okay, simply as it is.

To embrace my personal pilgrimage, I must change my relationship with mistakes. Mistakes are the inevitable path to learning, to changing, and to growing.  I am on a journey toward the sacred space within, to momentarily know grace, and then move on.

I am a pilgrim.