Woven

I found out shortly after writing my post yesterday that a death has touched our Fellowship. I don't feel comfortable giving details, but I think everyone - even those who don't know the family really well - are heartsick.

It's amazing, in ways that can be both joyous and sorrowful, how becoming a member of a church or fellowship can expand and change your experience, because it extends your "family." Suddenly, you are interconnected to hundreds more lives, and their happinesses and sadnesses weave with your own.

Sometimes I think it's helpful to formally extend prayers or blessings to others. A way of moving thought, to word, to action. And so... this is my chance to pray for their peace and comfort. If you feel comfortable doing such things for strangers, then perhaps you can too.

Divinely Guided?

An email arrived today from a friend, Rachel Claff, who created a project for The Neo-Futurists one year that now runs every summer: the Neo-Futurist Film Fest. It's become a long-standing, much-anticipated, and much-loved tradition. Staged readings of the worst film scripts ever - or more accurately, from the 20th century. Brilliant.

This year marks the 7th annual Film Fest, and the final film of the festival is Coyote Ugly. Yes. Coyote Ugly.

So Rachel wrote to see if I would a) want to be in the cast for the film and/or b) choreograph the dancing for it. And here comes my dilemma... I'm in class over the summer, am taking two tests I need for certification in IL, and will be preparing for two tests I have to take in the fall (one national certification exam and one university exam required for graduation from the program). Not to mention that one of my courses may completely prevent me from doing any more than going up and choreographing a few numbers over the weekend. We shall see.

BUT MAN OH MAN DO I WANT TO DO IT!!!!!!!!!!!! Not just to go up for a weekend and choreograph it, but also to go up and perform too. Which made me wonder:

Is there divine purpose or guidance to our career paths? Are we meant to do something in this world... and if we are not doing it, are we somehow not fulfilling our purpose in life?

I left the arts to pursue a degree in an area I had long considered as a possibility... namely, counseling. I ended up choosing the school specialization (though I have vacilated GREATLY throughout my program), and I know that I want to find a way to balance working with children to make a positive change in their lives with completing some artistic projects that have long been in my head and may accomplish the first goal as well (at least a few of them).

So how do you do it? How do you balance your life when you feel you have multiple callings? Not even adding in the calling to the UU ministry... I've already got plenty: author, choreographer, counselor, performing artist, writer, etc.

I often feel envious of my brother, Brent Roman. He has always known he wanted to be a musician. And, more specifically, a percussionist. And... even more specifically than that - a percussionist working for Cirque du Soleil. And so that's what he's doing. He finishes up the Alegria tour in South America and will then switch over to Dralion in Australia. Crazy.

My respect and admiration for my brother are very high. I find him immensely talented, and I am very, very proud of him. But I also envy the way in which he knows exactly what he wants to do - and he doesn't have to split his focus or juggle multiple balls or constantly second guess himself in order to get there.

I often wish I could attain the same singularity of focus. But 35 years into my existence, I'm pretty sure it's not going to happen. I'm built a bit differently... and so my lesson seems to be much more about prioritization and balance. With an emphasis on balance.

So here I am... walking my metaphorical tightrope, checking my summer schedule and creating bartop dance numbers in my head while finishing up a large research project and looking for school counseling jobs in several states.

Most days I trust a larger pattern to the chaos... but sometimes, I can't help but wonder.

LackLustre

Andy came across a news story last night about a man who had kept his daughter prisoner in his basement for 24 years. She, nor any of her 7 children (he was the father), had not seen daylight of any kind since her kidnapping at the age of 18.

I was trying to find a link for the story today and came across another story about a man who had killed his infant child. Blunt trauma and suffocation.

These things make me not only question my belief in God, but also my belief in humankind. Now... to be a UU you don't necessarily have to believe in God - you can be agnostic, atheist, or any other kind of yea/nay God-sayer out there. And, I suppose, you don't even have to believe in the goodness of human beings. Believing in the possibilty of reason surely helps, but I don't know that it's a firm requirement.

The idea is to live with the seven UU principles in mind. To promise to live with certain things in mind (these are taken from the UUA website):

We affirm and promote...

• The inherent worth and dignity of every person;
• Justice, equity and compassion in human relations;
• Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations;
• A free and responsible search for truth and meaning;
• The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregations and in society at large;
• The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all;
• Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.

Which I suppose is the point. Despite the lack of some of these elements within the world... my goal - my purpose - as a UU is to faithfully affirm and promote these principles myself. To respond to hatred, fear, violence, etc. with compassion, respect, acceptance, etc.

One of my instructors talked about using approach statements with group work; in essence, the point is to respond to any conflict with openness and moving in, rather than moving away or shutting down. Not always the easiest thing to do... but it's such a wonderful way to conceptualize response to any negative response or behavior one might encounter.

And to me, it does connect back to God, or my concept of God (albeit somewhat shaken at times). To me, all seven principles relate to an inherent belief that all people are divine. A piece of a larger, interconnected whole that - on a very basic level - must be accepted with openness and an attempt at honest connection or communication.

It connects to counseling too: everyone has a story; everyone comes from a unique past that is unlike any other... and paradoxically, on that insane level of multiplicity and diversity, we are universally linked in ways that make us one.

And some days that is more joyful than others.

What starts with "p" and rhymes with fledjudice? - a short story

A White family consisting of two adults and one small child enters a local breakfast spot in Southern Illinois. Ahead of them is a group of four White patrons who arrived at the same time, but made it to the restaurant ahead of the family due to the slower pace of the family's child. Sitting down in two small wicker chairs are two young Black men. It is unclear how long they have been waiting.

A hostess comes up and asks the eldest man in the large party how many they have. "Four," he says, and the party follows the hostess to a spot in the second dining room.

The father in the party of three is confused, and asks the two young Black men if they are waiting for a table. The taller of the two says, "Yeah... she probably just didn't see us."

The White man and woman exchange looks as the taller of the two young Black men stands up. He and his friend are clearly ahead of the White family, and he stands, patiently, waiting for the hostess to return.

As the hostess returns to the doorway, she very pointedly does not look at the young man standing at the head of the line, but instead looks directly at the father with the 2-year old and asks, "How many?"

No longer confused, but instead somewhat sickened and disappointed, the man says, "I believe they were ahead of us," gesturing to the two young men to his right (who are so pointedly being ignored).

The hostess reluctantly turns her gaze to the two young Black men and asks, "How many?"

"Two," says the taller of the two.

"This way."

They walk to small table in the back of the room, near the kitchen, and the two young men sit down to eat, slightly cramped and all but hidden from sight.

The young family sits down shortly thereafter, discussing how strange it was that the party ahead of them said nothing to help the two young men and noting the absence of any other Black diners in their vicinity.

The child, who is 2 and excited to play with jelly, has no sense of what has happened... but the parents are frustrated, saddened, and disturbed not only be the behavior of the waitress but also the party ahead of them who said nothing - cooperating in the conscious discrimination taking place.

14

A 14-year old Palestinian girl was killed Saturday morning near Gaza. Israeli military were trying to capture a Hamas leader. The girl was struck by shrapnel, according to reports, which killed her.

Of course, I cannot find her name or anything about her. But I've been thinking about her all day. (And her mother, who was injured but not killed). Also, I imagine she must have been very scared. The whole family must have been.

Andy commented on how the news seemed filled today with stories about the death of innocents:

Sean Bell
2 men in Alexandria
2 women in Chicago (one of whom was only 18)

And just now, as I was searching for links, I came across another: a 17 year-old girl in Iraq who was killed by her father for allegedly being in love with a British soldier (though it seems the relationship was just a friendship). It was considered an "honor killing" - and the details are quite brutal. According to the article I found, 47 honor killings took place last year, and generally, authorities do nothing about them because it's a Muslim society and therefore the killing of women for religious reasons is accepted.

There are a lot of myths about being a parent out there. Particularly about being a mother. One thing I have found to be quite true, however, is that you would do anything to save your child. Some kind of maternal, biological, inherent instinct kicks in and all you can think about (eat, breathe, sleep, live) is keeping your child safe. My life for hers. That's how it works. Without even a second of hesitation, I would easily make that trade.

With so many young people among this morning's statistics, the mother in me mourns for their mothers. I don't mean to suggest that in most - if not all - of these cases, the father is not grieving as well. But there is something to the whole your-body-from-my-body thing that registers and reverberates on a deep and primal level. Maybe all parents feel that way; maybe not.

It was a sad day though; too much death and too many much too young.

My own bit of prognostication:

We happened upon a show about Edgar Cayce, the psychic, on the History channel tonight. I knew a bit about him already because my father and husband are both fans of his. But the special is very interesting and as I realized I had not yet written my blog for the night (I was working very late on a paper due next week), my husband suggested I write about a play I created and performed back in 2003 in Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind. The play was later turned into a beautiful peice of art by my friend Noelle Krimm, who comissioned John Randall (a board member and resident set designer who had been an art teacher earlier in his life). She gave it to me at my baby shower.

My husband did not see the connection between the TV show we were watching and the suggestion he had made, but I thought it interesting enough to merit an entry, along with finding it oddly syncronistic.

The play (which reads better as a poem) kind of speaks for itself, but it's based on an event that took place while I was studying abroad in London back in 1994. Essentially, I was sitting in the living room of our flat, smoking a cigarette and drinking tea... and I spoke the name "Ariana" - immediately aware that this was my daughter-to-be. I sort of felt a ripple threw the room and got some goosebumps, along with a sharp, powerful sense of who she was, which led to this:

You are blond.
You have blue-green eyes, like your mother.
You are tiny and fast... my little elf-child.
A little Buddha with ancient knowing.
You get dirty when you play outside, your hands and face covered with

smudges of the outside world when you come home for dinner.
You don’t like peas, or cooked carrots.
Or maybe you love peas and cooked carrots and hate corn.
You eat Cheerios from the box when you watch tv.
You love fresh fruit and orange soda and being sung little songs.
You ask questions and point to the sky.
You make friends quickly.
You don’t understand why you can’t talk to strangers.
You adore your father.
You dance around the house to music only you can hear.
You give little bunny kisses before bed.
You assert your independence.
You demand to be heard.
You pet the dog gently, and ask if you can feed him.
You tell me you love me, and my heart feels

too small to contain the joy of loving you back.

(In case you are wondering about my accuracy - those of you who have never met Ari - she likes peas, cooked carrots, and corn; she tends to eat Cheerios in a bowl - even when watching TV; she's never had orange soda, so I have no idea about that; she doesn't yet ask why she can't talk to strangers, but that may yet come; and she has a tendency to be less than gentle with our dog, Simon, who we got in 2004. Otherwise, the rest of it is pretty darn accurate.)

invisible

I have been struggling with something this week which easily connects to several religious concepts: feeling invisible and unnoticed.

Now... some might say this has to do with pride, some might say with attachment and expectation... still others might suggest it has to do with my higher self or higher purpose or level of dis-ease and disconnect with my authentic self. (And if you went into counseling theory and took a look from different frameworks, you'd get even more variations).

Whatever the source or the meaning... here is what I know: I feel invisible lately which leaves me feeling empty and depressed. My guess is, it has to do with my own lack of internal validation or strong sense of self-worth, and so I've created this conundrum wherein I seek recognition and approval from those around me in order to feel full, worthwhile, talented, intelligent, etc. (ad naseum).

So, what to do? Andy is a big fan of Zen meditation. I lean toward counseling but seriously do not have the time for it right now given how hectic being a parent, a wife, a grad student, and a part-time worker on campus becomes.

I seek to let go of the expectation that others will notice me. That someone will say "good job" or "thank you." I also seek to not be a bottomless pit and to really take in positive feedback when it comes my way.

[As a sidenote with a purpose: We had a dog when I was a kid, Bandit, who could never get enough love. No matter how much attention you gave him... he acted like he had been abandoned for days and desperately needed some lovin' before he exploded with loneliness and doggy frustration.

I don't want to be like that.]

I shouldn't have to seek praise constantly, and I do think that sometimes I make less of the good and more of the bad. Something to be mindful of, certainly.

I hate feeling envious of others. I hate feeling hurt when something I've done has gone unnoticed. And I don't like feeilng angry when something I've done gets attributed to someone else and they get all the affection/accolades/LOVIN' (it's all about lovin' isn't it? At it's core?). But it happens all the time. As much as I might want to be above and beyond it.

Granted, I appreciate and accept human frailty and can even find beauty in it at times (another religiously-affiliated concept), but I also seek and strive to continually evolve and become a more enlightened person... someone who lives with, through, and for compassion, empathy, integrity, and authenticity.

Today I am left allegorically scratching my head though. Unable to see how to get from one spot to the next, though I have such a strong sense of the destination I seek. I think the starting point is feeling more love and acceptance for (and confidence in) myself.

Anybody know how to do that?

(not just the stone, but also the ripples...)

I heard a story this morning about a phenomenal response to school violence in Finland that made my school counselor-in-training ears perk up. The program has been developed by a nonprofit group in the city in response to a November 2007 shooting during which 8 students were killed.

Basically, those who developed the program created a walking tour wherein students retrace the shooter's steps, processing how he felt, what actions he took, and the effects his violence had on those around him.

What stands out to me is not only the direct and very honest way in which the event is being discussed and processed (a very necessary step after any crisis and especially after something like a school shooting), but also what a compassionate and potentially therapeutic approach this offers survivors. Not only does it humanize the perpetrator (something we sometimes miss when seeking to resolve a life-changing act of violence), but it also allows students to discuss their own feelings of sadness, anger, frustration and to give and receive feedback with peers and adults about steps one can take to prevent such reactions to internal conflict (or how to identify and help someone around you who is similarly troubled).

To me, the program is amazingly proactive, intensely brave, and highly innovative. The creators of the program suggested something similar might be beneficial for schools in the U.S. - and I think it would be great if we could find some way for school counselors, community counselors, and other mental health professionals to work together to create something equally empathetic and cathartic. As violence increases in our schools and fear and PTSD become more fixed within our national consciousness, seeking a solution that expands and encourages genuine discourse and greater understanding of others becomes ever-more essential to the academic and personal success of all our students.

A Bit of Success!

I think I mentioned it before, but my office is doing a sort of "Biggest Loser" thing here at work that sort of follows the format of the hit TV show (which I have yet to see).

We've been doing it for several weeks now, and today we did our weekly weigh-in and I was the big loser!! Total surprise as I had kind of eaten way too much twice this week (Don Taco does me in every time - I just need to start ordering something different because I have no - and I mean NO - willpower). I looked at the scale over the weekend and felt really sad because I had gained weight... felt all those old feelings and self-defeating inner thoughts swell back up... and tried very hard to replace it all with positive self-talk, an attitude of acceptance and patience, and some self-love.

(I'm not sure how your attempts at self-love work out, but mine are not always immediately, smoothly successful. Doesn't mean I stop trying... just means it doesn't always take right away. Incidently, this is something I've been thinking about quite a lot lately: resilience, self-esteem, self-efficacy, emotional stability - but that's a topic for another blog.)

So - back to my story - imagine my surprise when I stepped on the scale today (Jaime keeps a digital one in her office) and found I had lost 2.8 pounds! Mind you, our process is not entirely scientific and there is certainly room for error... but it was still a very happy thing to see.

A Pavlovian Response to Temperature-Related Nostalgia Serving as Anticipatory Catalyst

There is nothing so beautiful as a sunny, breezy day in the high 70s after weeks of rain and cold weather.

Not the first taste of spring... more like the first taste of summer. A happy precursor to the days of water-sprinklers, festivals, open-windowed car rides, peaches, ice cream, traveling, and sandals to come.

Riches: A Reconceptualization

My cousin Wendell has been in the hospital this week. Actually, he's my mother's cousin... so I always forget what that makes me... first cousin once removed or second cousin or what?

Whatever our relation, I am very, very fond of him. He's an amazing man who taught me two very important lessons (just through the simple act of being himself).

1. Go for substance, not shine.

I had spent a lot of time chasing after pretty men who talked a good game and had everyone charmed but accomplished little in the way of true passion or character. Wendell opened my eyes to a new type of partner - his marriage with Pru to a new type of partnership. I wanted someone intelligent, interesting, sincere, and gentle. Which meant going for the unusual rather than the usual... or at least, what was my usual.

2. There is great beauty and dignity in a simple life.

Wendell helped to shape my own understanding of myself and what I wanted out of life. Hearing his stories of working in wildlife management, his tales of his and Pru's first several years together, remembrances of his time in the navy, and his overwhelming passion for (and knowledge of) history, antiques, and music changed the way I understood the concept of success. I began to realize creativity does not have to be on a public scale in order to be fulfilling... it's possible to balance a job you love with a family you commit to and still find time and energy for outlets that are equal parts rejuvenating and relaxing. Taking a genuine interest in the people and world around you can provide endless opportunities for personal growth and satisfaction... and it has nothing to do with fame or fortune.

Wendell has a surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning, and then possibly another later in the week. I am praying for success in each so that these steps may lead to several more years in which he can spend quality time with all of us.

I know none of us is ready to let him go just yet.

Hold please...

So I've decided to put my ministerial aspirations (and totally unexpected calling) on hold. At least for the time being.

There are many reasons... the first being one of my minister's pieces of advice (passed along to him by another minister when he first considered divinity school): If there's anything else you can do, do it.

I got the same piece of advice when I started to pursue theatre. And I did not listen. And ultimately, I'm glad I did not listen, but - many years later and several lessons wiser - I understand where it's coming from and I no longer take such advice lightly.

Many assessments, much conversing with others, and lots of talks with Andy later... I ended up feeling like the practicalities and logistics of pursuing the ministry and actually being a minister did not sound like a good fit... at least for right now. After all, I left theatre precisely so that I could have a more sane schedule, have most of my evenings and weekends free, and be doing something that matched better with my child's schedule so that I could be a mommy.

SO. The latest decision (and lord knows it could change again) is to continue on with my current line of study, find a job as a school counselor, and see how that feels. Maybe it will be a perfect fit. Maybe I will find other ways to fulfill my spiritual inclinations and social outreach. Maybe it will simply be something to do while Ari is young so that I have more time with her. We shall see.

I figure, it's not like it's going to disappear or be any less viable 10 years from now. In fact, I might be even more qualified and prepared to shift gears at that point and might end up better serving the folks around me. Who knows.

There are many ways to serve a larger moral and social purpose. Many avenues to take toward helping others. Many roads. Many possibilities. And many reasons to take it one step at a time.

qUaKe

We had an earthquake this morning around 4:36am. The epicenter was apparently in West Salem, IL, but we got the effects, and also experienced some aftershocks around 10:14am. Initially they gave it a 5.4, but it was downgraded to a 5.2 later in the day.

I don't know that I would have woken up had it not been for Andy repeatedly saying, "It's an earthquake..." with increasing intensity. It felt to me like the sleeper car I rode between Italy and France during my post-graduation Europe trip in 1995 with my friend, Betsy. Calming, peaceful... I was happily rocking more deeply into sleep having been awokened several times already by a restless Ariana.

Apparently, we did not do what FEMA recommends for such a disaster. We did not stay in the bed, we did not lie down on the floor and cover ourselves. We did not hold on to anything. Thinking back into the haze of my half-wakefulness, I imagine we were somewhat panicky as we tried to assess how severe it was while checking on Ariana and trying to decide if we should wake her or not... meanwhile scrambling through our rusty and tired brains for some scrap of remembered information about what to do during an earthquake.

(It is not to stand in a doorway on the 2nd floor looking at your daughter in her crib, as I did, nor to go down to the 1st floor to watch the news and then to the basement to check on the already-cracked structural beam with a temporary fix fashioned with MacGyver-like brilliance and utility, as Andy did. Just FYI.)

What does 5.2 on the Richter scale feel like? I thought it felt like a train... my friend Dean thought it felt like dogs jumping around on his bed; my friend Becky Chambers thought it felt like a tornado (shaking and very strong train sound); Andy thought it felt like me jiggling my foot really vigorously under the covers. When you are standing up, and not in bed, it feels reminiscent of a very large truck lumbering down the road, making the whole house bounce around a bit (which is exactly how my sister-in-law, Nikki, described her own experience).

Luckily, as of nearly 12 hours later, there are still no injuries or deaths. Some damage and a lot of surprised and slightly rattled Midwesterners, but it could have been much, much worse. I am very grateful it is more of an anedote than a tragedy, and I hope the predictions of impending disaster from future quakes in this area are all for naught.

(confession)

Ok... I have to admit something about a previous post... some of you would already know this because you read it when it was originally written in 2002, but the post from April 9 (To Carry Me Aloft) is something I wrote long ago after attending a summer workshop taught by the members of Goat Island through The Art Institute of Chicago.

The summer intensive focused on creative reuse, a term I have utilized and applied to my own writing/performance workshops. It's a rather brilliant concept - and one which ultimately benefits artists, actors, writers, creators, etc. It's all about taking everything around you in and making it into something new. Processing the input you get from other sources and responding to it with your own voice, thoughts, reflections, etc.

I think it applies to counseling as well, in that we often reflect content or meaning, paraphrase, summarize, focus, etc. - and to me... it's often about taking in the information and responding to the client in way that provides feedback, clarity, and focus all at the same time. You are not grabbing something totally new and feeding it into the conversation... rather, you're taking something already there and offering it back in a new way so the client can see it in a new light.

Anyway... I digress. The point of the confession is merely to let you know I was very busy that week and took the easy road out by using something old instead of writing something new; but, at the same time, it was a story that still has no home. Something I have written and love very much. Something that (to my mind) wants a larger life but is not sure where to find it.

I don't know if that's a joy or a sorrow, but it seemed important to share nonetheless.

The Messenger

Yesterday I saw a cardinal fly past our back door and land on the little peaked roof above the entrance to the basement. He was perhaps 3 feet away from me, and so I got to see his bright red body very clearly.

He was quick and alert. Sharply sweeping his head side to side to check out the yard, note the location of the various cardinals and other birds nearby, and determine which spot he'd like to fly to next.

And within only a few seconds he was off - zipping over to our neighbor's yard... on with his day with lightening celerity and a seemingly clear agenda.

Confident and staccato, charismatic and proud, keenly aware of his handsomeness as he brashly announced the arrival of Spring - without even knowing he was doing so.

Are the white lies really that little?

So I hurt my husband today. Not intentionally... though with hindsight I can see how my actions were pretty ill-conceived and, one might even say, stupid.

We had this long-standing argument about Ari's bangs... to cut or not to cut. I wanted to trim them so she would stop pushing them out of her eyes. I feared she was developing some sort of physical tic. Conversely, Andy felt very opposed to bangs... believing they would not look good and insisting she be able to grow her hair out so that it's all the same length.

Now... if Ari were not the little tornado she is, we could simply solve this by putting barrettes or elastics in her hair and all be happy. But she tends to remove any such implements within five minutes of placement upon her moppish little head... so no luck there.

Long story short: I let my mother cut Ari's bangs. I didn't stop her. And I didn't tell Andy.

He didn't seem to notice and so I figured I'd just keep quiet about it, happy Ari was no longer feverishly and constantly pushing hair out of her face and that we seemed to have found a length that worked for both of us. However, Andy did notice and I had to come clean and the aftermath of my not saying anything and basically going behind his back to shorten her hair left him feeling very hurt and somewhat betrayed.

The point he made, which I think was what hit me the hardest, was that my behavior was unlike anything I had ever done in our whole friendship, dating, or marriage. Essentially, I chose to behave like the type of married couple we always promised we would not be – rationalizing my actions by thinking it was for Ari’s own good and was such a small, little thing it should not matter.

Granted, his reaction is affected by some of his own things (which I will not go into here), and I totally understand where he’s coming from and why it bothered/bothers him so much. But the bottom line was that instead of dealing with him directly, I chose to do something behind his back. And instead of telling him immediately, I chose to keep quiet about it.

That’s not behavior I would trust or appreciate either.

Colombia

I heard a story today about Colombian soldiers who are killing civilians and dressing them up in guerrilla clothing to increase quota numbers for the government. It was on NPR, and I can't seem to find any other articles online to support the story.

Instead, I found information about displaced civilians, civilian casualities due to guerrilla landmines, and civilians who collaborate or sympathize with the "enemy." Given that it's a civil war that has lasted decades, my guess is the definition of enemy has become harder and harder to nail down.

I think it's easy to forget about all the displaced citizens affected by war in so many parts of the world. We are keenly aware of our own sacrifices and losses (and I don't mean to imply at all that we shouldn't be), but sometimes it's perhaps too difficult or too overwhelming or too distant to hold in one's head/heart all the suffering experienced by those locked in different conflicts across the globe.

I often wish there was a way to make every human being known to every other human being on the planet. I'm not sure what that would be - something more than a picture, or an email address. Some kind of information that would reveal each person's frailty... each person's uniqueness and unversality at the same time. Because even if we couldn't agree we all are, in fact, divine... maybe we could at least all realize on a level deeper than rational understanding we are all human... all linked by the same DNA in a very basic, scientific and potentially miraculous way.

Millions of us just breathed.
Just blinked.
Waited.
Coughed.
Bled.
Laughed.
Sighed.
Looked quizzical.
Touched someone.
Prayed.
Listened.
Changed.

Lemons into Lemonade

My parents were here for a week, and they left today. Which has been a bit hard. I think it's always tricky when family or friends come to visit and then must inevitably head out, back to their own lives in their own parts of the world... leaving us feeling a bit sad in the wake of their departures.

But this is our own doing. The result of our choices. So there's that.

Nana (now Num Num) and Papa helped us do many things in the house: a new laminate kitchen floor (sitting for at least a year in our garage and now wonderfully installed inside the house!!), a beautiful copper-colored backsplash for the stove area, lots of food in the fridge, new mats for the floor, a new computer and desk for me (which will also be a "family" computer), and lots of fun new toys and clothes for Ari (who really got some amazing gifts for her bday thanks to the generosity and thoughtfulness of our friends and family).

One thing that sticks with me from the week is our new "button" lamp in the living room. It all began with my wanting to rearrange the furniture so it felt less cramped and better defined. About two hours later, with all of us tired and sore from moving, shifting, etc. - the room was back to its original state... there being no good alternative to the arrangement already created by Andy.

BUT... we did move one lamp, which left us in need of a light source next to the couch. We decided to go for a table lamp, and my mother kindly went out and bought one during the week. Not a beauty at all... kind of a cheap find, but functional. Unfortunately, when she attempted to remove the ugly ribbon snaking around the shade, she created two tears in the lamp... and so it was even uglier!

We spent nearly a whole week with that ugly lamp, trying to find an alternate shade, or debating how to fix it... when Mom came up with a brilliant suggestion: buttons. I just happened to have a canister of antique buttons that my grandmother had kept. And so we set about selecting the most interesting ones in multiple shapes, colors, and sizes. We decided to do a random design and just zen our way through it.

Luckily, it turned out quite well, and the lamp has become a thing of beauty and happiness that we all agree is just about the cutest thing we've ever seen:

The Child Within

A story hit the online news cycle recently about several Florida teenagers who beat up another, younger girl so they could post it to YouTube. The attackers were 14 years old, the victim 12.

This story reminded me sharply of a Dateline or Frontline or some kind of line special report Andy and I had watched several months ago about teens' activity on the internet. Chat rooms, video cams, pornographic material, cyber bullying, etc. These two things together scare the dickens out of me when it comes to raising Ari and wanting to ensure nothing bad ever happens to her (which I know is a fruitless and perhaps silly worry when taken holistically).

But I am left wondering how in the world you instill self-respect and self-worth in a young girl while also teaching her to defend herself and to know when others around her do not have her best interests in mind. And beyond all of that - what to do if she finds herself seriously in danger... how to get away, how to ask for help, how to keep going.

My own childhood contained intense bullying through much of elementary school and unwanted physical attention from a male teacher all through 5th grade. These two events are one of the many reasons I am now pursing school counseling - why I was drawn to counseling in general... mine is not such an unusual story.

Does resillience develop over time, is it instilled during childhood, or are you just born with it? Is strength of character learned or innate? Are we all bullies or victims... or is there something in between? Is it naive to think children can live/work/play together without enacting Lord of the Flies in some fashion?

I realize I am more full of questions than answer lately... and that I am terribly focused on my daughter. Perhaps it is spring... perhaps it is the milestone of a second birthday... or maybe it's connected to my own feelings of vulnerability and tension lately in the midst of my own schooling... 20+ years later but still attached to the little girl who spent several years feeling frightened, scared, and alone.

Lullaby from year one: a coda of sorts

Little pumpkin, pumpkin pie
You're the apple of my eye
Don't deny it or even try
Pumpkin pumpkin pumpkin pie

Mi bambina, mi amor
Little one that I adore
Mommy couldn't love you more
Mi bambina, mi amor

Little Ari, Ari-bean
Prettiest girl I've ever seen
Always sweet and never mean
Little Ari, Ari-bean

Mommy loves you, loves you so
More than you will ever know
What you change and watch you grow
Mommy loves you, loves you so

Two Years Old

Ariana is officially two today. Not that she knows it, necessarily. We keep trying to emphasize this is a special today and oh how we love you and happy birthday bunny... but I think she doesn't quite grasp the magnitude of the day nor understand why everyone seems to be extra smiley and overly bubbly around her. She might even be finding it kind of annoying. Or maybe she's just sick. (She's a wee bit grumpy today.)

It's been a whirlwind. I don't think any amount of advice, information, horror stories, anecdotes, gushings, etc. from other parents could have adequately prepared me for the actuality that is my daughter: powerful, spirited, willful, observant, insightful, empathetic, bubbly, infectiously happy at times, insanely chaotic at others. She is equal parts empowered and dependent.

I've always been stunned by how many things changed during the pregnancy and first few months of being a new mother... heightened hearing and smell, softer bones and joints, increased sensitivity to potentially dangerous situations, and an uncanny ability to worry about everything (perhaps that was mine to begin with).

What's funny is that I still have a superhuman sense of smell... I still worry about her constantly and fret over her safety, her happiness, her comfort, etc. It's funny how my world view and perspective shifted to reorient around her so completely. I didn't really expect that to happen as fully as it has.

Two years down and countless ones to go if all goes well. It's been an insane, blessed, difficult, and rewarding ride so far. Kind of like Mr. Toad meets Indiana Jones meets skydiving meets swimming with hungry, man-eating sharks wrapped in crazed monkeys. Something like that.

When I celebrate my daughter's birth tonight, here is what I will silently toast in her honor:

• her laugh and the way her smile bursts upon her face
• the little dances she makes up (the infamous butt wiggle among our faves)
• how her feet sound as she runs down the hallway... her little legs blurred with speed
• the excitement she feels when we understand something she's said
• how she likes to make Andy or me jealous by kissing the other parent... or a chair... or the dog... or her toes
• the way she runs to show Andy what she's wearing and how her hair looks as soon as her bath is done
• the exploding joy inside of me when she wraps her little arms around my neck and squeezes as hard as she can... her happy "Mama" sounding like greeting an old friend or finding something precious long-forgotten in the flurry of life

To Carry Me Aloft

A story in four parts

I.
“And what is the translation?” the small boy asks.

“Love,” replies the old man.

“But I don’t understand,” the boy whispers.

“You will,” the old man replies. “Trust me. You must trust someone, no?”

They walk hand in hand toward home, picking up apples along the way as a flock of birds passes overhead – squawking to one another in a foreign language, speaking of truth and direction.

II.
The next day the boy wakes up to find he has grown wings. Not large ones like an angel or bird… not wings that replace his own, small hands, still sticky with dried apple guts from his walk home the night before. No… he has two small wings – grey and blue with downy, soft feathers – growing from his shoulder blades.

They are perhaps a hand’s width across (an adult’s hand, he notices calmly) and feel slightly heavy on his back. He realizes that by flexing and unflexing certain muscles (muscles that, only yesterday, he didn’t even realize he had), he can furl and unfurl the tiny wings … like a birthday party horn, or like a butterfly unwrapping itself from a cocoon and then reversing its curl back up until it is again coiled tight and small.

He cannot decide what to do next. His fingertips can barely touch the floating soft tips of his own feathers. He reaches behind his back with his right hand and stretches toward his left wing cautiously. The feathertips tickle the pads of his fingers and he notices a slight tingle on his back. His brother is still asleep in the bed next to his – legs tangled in cartoon sheets, mouth slightly open, eyelashes lightly twitching with dreams of trains and candies and dolphins.

III.
He finds he can fly for short distances in the hallway… jumping just high enough to catch and ride the air down the narrow corridor to the tiny pink and blue bathroom on the first floor.

He practices for hours when alone in the house – his parents out in the yard or at the neighbor’s, his brother watching television or playing in the treehouse out back. The boy steals away from them all to stand, shirtless and solitary, at the end of the hall… the bedroom doors all carefully closed as he flexes and unflexes – stretching and relaxing his wings with each breath of the dormant, stale air that occupies the quietly expectant passage to the bathroom of fish and seashells.

He closes his eyes and runs across the hardwood floor, leaping at exactly the right moment so as to rest on the air… his wings anchoring on some invisible current, carrying the boy aloft for nearly three or four feet – an eternity of flight in this tiny stolen moment of afternoon.

IV.
“But where will you go?” asks the boy.

“I’m not sure,” the old man answers.

They look to the sky, silence settling through them, and watch the slow progress of geese across the clouds and setting sun. They pause, each breathing softly, surrounded by the gentle scent of clover and freshly cut grass, the distant buzz of lawn sprinklers, and the waning sense of one more summer day falling to sleep between them, exiting into the night.

“I trust you.” The boy is still looking up, his breath now held, his eyes straining in the settling light, staring beyond the sky… past the birds.

The old man says nothing. Merely nods and absent-mindedly brushes his pant leg with his left thumb – gently, as if erasing words written in chalk.

“I know,” he says, patting the boy on the back and gingerly leaning forward to kiss the boy’s head… his brown hair still warm from the sun and smelling like childhood.

“I know,” he repeats softly.

Gratitude

What does it mean when we receive "thanks" from others? How does it impact you to know you have made a difference in someone else's life... even if it's just a tiny glimmer of hope or a brief moment of emotional calm? What does it mean to feel valued? To feel your efforts are worthwhile and carry a greater purpose beyond your own limited imaginings?

I think sometimes we choose to do things that feel as if they are in vain. Or they are selfishly motivated. Or that - even if we have an inkling they may impact other people on some higher level - we don't truly believe it will be that big of a deal. It's just me. Doing what I do. Or doing what I think I'm supposed to be doing. Even though I have absolutely no idea what to do and am just totally making it up as I go along.

My guess is, we all share that boat sometimes... sailing out in unsheltered, uncharted waters. Trying to find our way with a wonky compass and a vessel that feels too small and too untested for the task ahead.

But you do matter. That's my belief, at least. You impact hundreds of thousands of lives in the course of your one lifetime... and you touch people every day. Now, maybe sometimes you spread ripples of frustration, or fear, or anxiety, or anger. But - I'm guessing - you also send out ripples of kindness, caring, generosity, creativity, and beauty.

We all want to feel like we matter. Not only to ourselves, but to others as well. And the funny thing... the very humanly paradoxical thing is: We all do. Without even trying. We're all spun together in this chaotic, quixotic, chimeric, and often silly event called life... and so our actions (be they small or large) inevitably shift the world around us.

So what will you do with all that power? What is the balance between personal and social responsibility? Between selfishness and selflessness? What is the path you choose to tread if you know it is not all in vain?

You do matter. You are making a difference.

Thank you.

Five Things from Today (in no particular order)

1. I do not like being threatened. I especially do not like veiled threats.
2. Never assume the surprises are over. Likewise, don't assume you know the outcome of said surprises.
3. Watching an elephant paint it a pretty humbling and awe-inspiring thing. Not something I would have necessarily chosen to do left to my own devices... but a welcome moment of perspective nonetheless.
4. I must remember to practice gratitude.
5. The currently daily mantra: This too shall pass.

A parallel process in April:

The little peach tree in our front yard has burst into bloom. A flurry of soft pinky-white petals gently sprinkled across spindly toddler branches rising to reach at the sky.

If the tree were capable of singing, I imagine it would hum little jaunty tunes; spritely and quick like a playful and bouncing minuet.

If the tree could dance, it would stretch it's thin fingers to the heavens, twirling like a dizzy two-year old in the happy, springtime sun... making sloppy circles across the front yard as all the stately oaks and elms shook their limbs and tsk'ed their trunks.

Our tree does not care, does not see. Our tree is two.

And two is magicalroyalspinninghappy.

Past Post

Our internet was down last night, which meant my daily post for the blog was not going to happen. I briefly considered writing something in Word to transfer over later, but I must admit that laziness and the presence of LOTR: The Two Towers on TNT sufficiently dissuaded me from being appropriately productive.

It would have been one of those nights where I stared at the screen for an hour or two, waiting for inspiration to thump me in the gut. Or at least spit in my face. I think I would have ended up writing a haiku or something short.

Instead, I heard a glorious singer last night while finishing up my kitchen cleaning. I was listening to World Music Cafe and heard Melody Gardot, a jazz singer who sort of fell into the business after a tragic accident led to some music therapy and the uncovering of an untapped and insanely startling talent. Her story is worth reading (and her music amply worth hearing) if you have a moment.

I am forever amazed by the resiliency and strength so many people are capable of in the wake of unexpected and difficult events. It's humbling, inspiring, and restorative... helps me keep my own complaints in perspective and to have faith I can be similarly phoenix-like within the good and bad of my pursuit of truth, contentment, and connection.

Full Circle

The morning began with a story about the most recent suicide bombing in Iraq. Diyala province... a funeral in Al-Sadiyah, north of Baghdad... at least 20 killed and 23 wounded.

Then snippets of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy... heralds from the past speaking of equality and honor for all people. And I was thinking about how now we must expand our understanding of “all people” to include a much more global conception of the world.

All people… no “other,” no “they,” no “them.” No inferior race or backward culture or subgroup of people who is somehow defined as less. Or wrong. Or without worth.

What is it that allows us – we humans – to see other human beings as something separate from ourselves? Is it culture? Ideology? Religion? Color? Geography?

We are capable of such amazing cruelty, violence, and darkness when we are able to rationalize a mindset in which another person or group of people can be seen as less valuable then ourselves and those we love. Where is that line? What is the difference between an enemy and an “other?” Is it any different to fight someone you have decided to destroy because they do not see the world as you do, versus deciding to destroy someone because they are not human enough (normal enough, right enough) to deserve to live?

I’m not sure the distinction is even important when it comes down to permanent solutions to differences of opinion/belief/value.

I attended Mrs. Hogue’s funeral today and could not help but think of the bomber in Iraq who chose to disrupt a sacred ritual of death to accomplish more killing. I thought about Martin Luther King, Jr.’s dream… his vision of life beyond hating and purposeful division. I thought about the promise of Bobby Kennedy and the simple, truthful way he spoke about the evolution of a nation eating at its own heart.

My dream: One day we will recognize ourselves in every other. We’ll blur the lines between us and them to accomplish we. We'll employ a systemic concept of our world (our entire universe) rather than a mechanistic approach that leaves too much room for categorization and rationalized withdrawal.We’ll find a way to breathe together on a planet too tiny for our grand plans and will work toward a concept of equality that embraces difference, honors separateness, and allows distance. Free to live - and die - with safety and dignity.

Sight

In trying to think of something beautiful from today to offset how I am feeling internally, this is where I am at:

I am listening to U2 on the radio - Pride (In the Name of Love) - and thinking about high school. My favorite grey sweatshirt, torn jeans, and hair waiting to be released from its most recent perm. My white VW Rabbit, the windows down, a soft spring day in CT with the roads slightly wet from afternoon rain... driving to rehearsal where I get to spend over two hours with some of my closest friends doing something that make me feel insanely happy.

I remember how unhappy that "me" was most of the time. And I look back on her fondly... an older, wiser self who has multiple years of insight (and hindsight) but understands with fondness where all the drama, confusion, and mishegoss was coming from.

I wonder if, 10 years from now, I will look back on this period of time and feel similarly. If the days of frustration, burn out, stress, worry, or sadness will look so much smaller and so much less critical with even more distance and age.

We shall see.

Give us a squeeze!

I think we don't hug enough in today's society. Or rather, I feel like the culture within which I currently live (which is defined by many things) does not allow for enough hugging. Or maybe does not welcome it, or embrace it.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I feel like I've seen more and more people in my daily moving through school, work, class, etc. who really look like they could use a hug. Faces of sadness, exhaustion, worry. Friends who look overwhelmed or worn down. Folks who look like they might explode or implode any second... leaving a sticky mass of emotional goo clinging to the stunned faces of those around them.

Hugs are intimate, which is why I think they are scary to some people. A good hug leaves no place to hide. It is vulnerable, honest, and direct. And not even because it is sexual or physically suggestive. No no. I mean vulnerable in the sense that two people are suddenly fully present - literally and metaphorically linked on multiple levels to stand - joined together - within a small space of time.

It's infinite and unyielding because, if you're doing it right, you are anchored there with another human being sharing in their emotional truth while speaking your own in a silent language understood on a deeper level... a nonexistent conversation both effortless and complete. Ideally, you leave feeling fuller, more grounded, better understood, and more deeply connected than before. Transformed by a small, simple act of kindness and comfort to set out, anew, on your inimitable journey.

Elegy

(for Mrs. Hogue, our neighbor)

It's difficult to know what to say or do
when someone leaves your life...
not quite stranger, not quite relative
but something in between.
In this case, a link to my own anchor,
a promise never spoken to someone
no longer present. An opportunity
to connect and give and love.

Here are my favorite things about you:
The answer you gave the nurse
when she asked how you were...
"Fat and sassy" with a coy smile.
The look of surprise and sheer joy
spreading across your face as Ari
wrapped her arms around your knees
and patted your side, unexpected and sweet.

How you said Arthur called you
"picky, picky" and insisted it was not so,
but made a face reminiscent of a child
when asked about brocolli for Easter dinner.
Your immediate recognition of the connection
between Ari and Andy... the way they adore
one another, and the way that seemed to
make you feel - nostalgic, tickled, knowing.

I will miss you and I'm so grateful
for the opportunity to share in your
journey - even if for a brief time in
a small way that will always feel
like it was never enough.
(Even the smallest kindnesses
create ripples. Thank you for sharing
time in the pond with us.)