Bella-bration

I delivered this speech nearly a year ago, at the celebration of marriage, home, and family given for our Bella and her new husband.  Baby bear was only about ten days away from making his entrance into the world.  It's hard to believe he will celebrate a birthday soon, and welcome a new sister or brother in the spring. (Photo credit to our dear friend Allyson Willson.)

 

In recent years, people would sometimes say to me, "I give you so much credit for adopting Shani."  I always laugh and assure them that Shani is my easiest child, and to make my case I point out that she's always just where I left her, she never gets into my stuff, she never gives me any back talk, and she is ALWAYS happy to see me, no matter what time of the day or night.  Somewhere deep inside my head, this thought always comes to me.  "If you want to give me any credit, give me credit for Bella."

Beautiful, beautiful Bella.  This girl is the whole package with a bow.  Smart, driven, and beautiful.  And impulsive, fiery, and sassy as the day is long.  And so you can see the contrast here, between my oldest and youngest brown girls.  Bella was never where I left her and rarely where she was supposed to be.  She was always into everybody's stuff and business.  She gave me back talk as often as she disagreed with me, and that was a LOT.  And she was often not very happy to see me anywhere in her line of vision.

But these days things have changed a bit, and so I will finally take a shot at throwing Bella a party of celebration, and sending her off into the big wide world with a word of blessing from her father and me...something she would not allowed us to do even one year ago.  Of course it helps that she's learned a lot from Shani regarding being a good child.  These days she is pretty much always where I left her...and that's beached in a comfortable chair, trying to coax baby Grey into making an appearance.  She doesn't move all that fast, so I can chase her down pretty easily.  And she almost never gives me any back talk, and seems happy to see me coming, though I wonder if there might be food involved in that equation.  Regardless, Bella and Shani have become fixtures in my days, always close at hand, sometimes a little fretful when they are uncomfortable, but usually cheerful and smiling.

A week or two ago, Bella asked me this question.  "Mom?  Do you think I can be a good mother?"  It was a sweet time of just talking openly about parenting children.  How the bitter is mixed with the sweet.  How very hard it is.  How perfection is an impossible goal.  I said some things then, and I hope they were an encouragement to Bella, both in our ongoing relationship, and in her relationship with her children in the future.  Given time to gather my thoughts, this is what I would say today:  The most valuable lessons about parenting and perhaps life, I have learned from Shani. 

Shani does not speak, so she cannot lie to me or back talk, it's true.  But she cannot say sweet words like "I love you mama."  Shani cannot use her feet, so she cannot go where I tell her not to, but she cannot run and fetch for me, or dance on a stage and delight my mother's heart.  Shani cannot use her hands, so she cannot get into my things or make messes for me to clean up, but she cannot write, or draw, or hug me.  If you measure worth and love by what a person can do for you, then Shani is pretty worthless.  She is messy and smelly, and a huge drain on our time and resources.

And yet we know this could not be further from the truth.  Shani teaches me every day, how to be a better mother and a better person.  Her needs are simple, and her complaints are few.  If she is awake, she is watching the world around her, always looking for something or someone she loves, and registering delight when she finds that.  Her life is fragile, and it reminds me that all life is fragile, and the time we have with all of our loved ones is fleeting.  And if I get it wrong...if I am snappish and impatient, or demanding and unkind, Shani always forgives and forgets.  Shani always gives me a do over.

Remember these things as you move into adulthood, marriage, motherhood.  Keep it simple.  Look for love, and be delighted whenever you find it.  Love fiercely, the time is short. And say you are sorry and keep showing up.  Ask for do overs.

And by the way, just so you know, today you are my favorite.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Letter to a Friend

Dear One,

I confess, I am a poor friend.  I have not been honest with you.  I am not who you think you see.  I have worked very hard through the years, to create an impressive facade.  For this I am sorry.  By creating this facade, I have unintentionally placed undue pressure on you to focus on performance and measurable results.  For this I am also sorry.  But more than anything else, I am sorry for looking down on you, because my facade was better than yours.

I have spent years building up the image of a woman who can do anything, and who does all things well.  I sewed and crafted, cooked and baked.  I read books, and gardened, and renovated, and decorated.  I homeschooled my children and raised small livestock.  I volunteered my time and efforts in the church and in my community.  I was well spoken, and I always tried to look the part.

And then one day my house of cards came crashing down, and I realized that none of the things I could do with my hands mattered, if I was not able to hold love in my heart.  And my heart was a sieve.  I was so full of holes, that I was bleeding out.  

This realization immobilized me.  Even if I had wanted to somehow reconstruct the shattered facade, I could not have done so.  I laid in the rubble, and thought I would never sew another quilt, or frost another cupcake, or lead another Bible study for as long as I lived.  I did not care if I did.  

I cried at the strangest times.  I withheld myself from my loved ones for months, even years at a time.  Yet I would find huge tracts of sadness and bitterness flowing out of me unchecked, brought forth by the glance or word of a person that did not mean to unloose the deluge.  It was a horrible feeling to not be able to trust myself to open or close at appropriate times.

And thank God, by the grace of God, I have not come through.  Instead I have learned to live in this shattered place.  The house of cards still lays scattered about me, and that is where is belongs.  

The work of my hands, is just the work of my hands.  I love to work, and I love to love on people by working for them.  But my work is not the measure of my worth.  Neither is the reputation I gain by the quality and quantity of my work.  And that reputation was very important to me, if I was to be totally honest with myself.

In truth, I recognize that my reputation isn't worth much of anything at all, unless I am known for loving people.  Me, the broken down house-of-cards girl, loving other broken down house-of-cards people.  The only kind of people there are.

But I realized this horrible thing about myself today...this little section of stacked cards still standing.  I realized that I am looking down my nose at you, because once upon a time my card house was bigger than yours.  I still take pride that my cooking was tastier and my baking prettier.  That my quilts were more intricate and my stitches tinier.  That my home was tidier, and my children could all write an excellent persuasive essay.  That at my most proud and my most broken, I still did it better than you do.

I admit to you dear one, that I am astounded and ashamed of myself, to discover this mean little tower of cards still standing.  So that when you approach me with your cards slipping through your fingers, your heart like a sieve, feeling like you're bleeding out...we are separated.  Kept apart by that delicate little structure that makes me feel more and you feel less.

I can knock it down, and I can tell you so.  But I am so sorry I let it be there in the first place.  Please do not mistake me for anything but what I am.  A broken down house-of-cards girl, living in a shattered place.  Feel free to join me.  Don't mind the mess.

It's Complicated but I'm Easy

I was thinking today, about that great phenomenon called F*ceb**k, in which we employ all sorts of little devices to sort out the intricacies of our lives.  Like how we describe the relationships we are "in".  My most favorite descriptor is "complicated".  Not in real life of course.  I don't really enjoy complicated, because the implication is often that things are hard in a complex way.  That we fight a lot.  That we often miss the mark in this relationship, though we are not yet willing to give it up and declare ourselves single.  Not yet alone.

I was thinking of the opposite descriptor, which interestingly enough, FB does not offer as an option.  That option would be "easy".  No, stay with me here.  Really it would.

If I am sitting at the piano with a new piece before me, the teacher may warn me that it is complicated.  Tricky.  Or they may reassure me.  Don't worry, it's easy.

If I am looking at a knitting pattern, a cursory glance reveals if the pattern is complicated or easy.

Dance steps can be complicated and intricate...or basic and easy. No worries, I can't do either.

As I age, I realize that I aspire to being easy.  For so many years I have fallen into the trap of believing that easy was worthless, and complicated was more to be desired.  The harder a thing was to attain, the more worthwhile it was to fight for it.  And there are times when this is true.

But sometimes it's just selfish and stupid.  Why in the world would I ever try and make it hard for people to love me?  Why would I set up a series of obstacles, and expect them to fight their way through in order to prove something to me?  Why do I refuse help until I am bleeding out, and can't fight it any longer?

And on the flip side...why don't I just offer myself and my love freely?  Lavishly?  Expecting nothing in return?  Do I secretly fear it will be rejected as worthless, simply because it is freely given?  Why would I not fear that?  Is it not the model I have made for myself?

So many of the horribly unhealthy patterns and habits I have cultivated and clung to for a lifetime, are rooted in this lie; that the simple truth is not quite truth enough for my complicated situations.  And so I construct intricate addictions and the complex justifications they require.

But now I want to be done.  I want to be an easy old lady when I grow up, and I want to advertise it in places more public than F*ceb**k.  Because I want to be "in a relationship" with folks who are easy, and folks who are complicated.  I don't want to make them fight for anything or prove anything, but I will fight and prove for them every single day, if they need that.  And I will believe the simple truth enough for myself, and for the people who cannot believe it for themselves.  In myself, left to myself, I will never ever become that, but the God who created me to not ever be "single", alone, an island unto myself...maybe that God will help me become an easy woman.  I can only hope and pray it's possible.

Fellowship of the Broken

"Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it. As busy, active, relevant ministers, we want to earn our bread by making a real contribution. This means first and foremost doing something to show that our presence makes a difference. And so we ignore our greatest gift, which is our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer. Those who can sit in silence with their fellowman, not knowing what to say but knowing that they should be there, can bring new life in a dying heart. Those who are not afraid to hold a hand in gratitude, to shed tears in grief and to let a sigh of distress arise straight from the heart can break through paralyzing boundaries and witness the birth of a new fellowship, the fellowship of the broken." ~Henri Nouwen

I recently encountered this quote.  I freely admit I have not read it in context.  The book that it is reported to be taken from is called The Way of the Heart, and because it is not available for Kindle, I can't get it instantly.  Poor me and my first world problems.  There it is in my shopping cart, along with a CD by Pink, and I wonder what in the world that says about the state of my mind these days.

I have been thinking about these things lately, so when I read the quote, it resonated deeply.  It said what I had already been thinking and feeling deep within myself.  It said what I have experienced to be true, on both sides of the suffering fence.  Oh no, that is so very wrong, and my language betrays it.  There is no suffering fence, and we do not find ourselves on the one side or the other.

And still I want to think of it this way.  I want to divide up neatly, those who suffer, and those who comfort.  I want clear delineation of where I sit.  And of course I would prefer not to be the one suffering.  Sign me up as the comforter.  I will earn my bread with kind wise words.  I will brainstorm possible solutions.  I will roll up my sleeves and work for change.  And by doing so, I do the very thing I hate.  I flee from suffering.  I turn my face away from it.  

In all my busy, active, relevance I throw away the greatest gift...to "enter into solidarity with those who suffer".  Because I hate it.  Solidarity with those that suffer is me.  It is knowing that suffering is the human condition; that the paralyzing boundaries of pain that cannot be smoothed away, are the lot of every man.  There is grief, and distress, and death itself, and it cannot be eradicated by the right word or the right action.

There is absolute terror in the realization that there is no quick cure...that there is no cure at all, and so we flee.  I want to learn to sit in silence, and hold hands, and shed tears.  And I so deeply crave that someone will come and do that together with me.  Because we are not sufferer and comforter, we are the fellowship of the broken.

The Weight of Words

After a long long time of quiet and seclusion, I have begun to talk to my friends again.  I have begun to have conversations with my children and my husband, about things that matter to me, and things that matter to them.  We are all telling our stories, and figuring out how they intersect and overlay one another.

It has struck me recently, how our words have such weight.  When a loved one sits across from us at a table in a coffee shop, or beside us on a long drive, perhaps in that place they will know that it is right to unburden themselves.  I never forget these sacred moments, as other souls invite me to stand inside their worlds, their skins, just for that brief time.

What I often do forget, is how I responded.  What words I said in response to the sharing of a heart.  But those words that trickle out of my brain like water through a strainer, stay in the minds and hearts of the person opposite me.  In the last several weeks I have heard this phrase a number of times, "Do you remember what you said to me?"  Five, ten, twenty years ago.  And I have to confess that no, I do not.  I remember you.  I remember your face, your voice as you told your story, the cups on the table between us, but I do not remember what I said to you.  

Please, please let it have been gentle and kind.  If nothing else, let it have been kind.

And then the person will recite back to me what I said to them in that moment, and I recognize the familiar cadence of my own words and thought patterns.  And I realize this.  Our words have such weight, that people will carry them for years.  They will take them out and turn them over in their hands, and feel their shape.

Please, please let me be gentle and kind.  If nothing else, let me be kind.

Coffee's On

Lately I have been thinking quite a bit about generosity, and gifts, and hospitality.  They are all tied together I believe, and you would be hard pressed to find a hospitable person that didn't love to give gifts, or a generous person who wasn't thrilled to share their home and life with others.

There are things we do at certain seasons of our lives, and perhaps the ways we carry through, change and evolve as we do.  There are pastimes and relationships in my life, that have faded and disappeared over time.  Other people and passions have filled their spaces, and it has been right and natural.

But when kindness, and generosity, and gift-giving, and hospitality leave, I suppose it is right to take a hard look, and not just assume that a season has passed.

Years ago, I was gift giver.  I loved to plot, and plan, and create the perfect special gift.  And I was an impulsive gift giver as well.  I saw that someone loved something, or needed something, and I wanted to give it to them.

Our home was a hub of activity.  It was the place where the best parties were thrown, and long dinners were shared.  It was a place where the coffee pot was always on, and the door was always open.  At times we would arrive home after a day out, and find folks waiting on the porch or in the kitchen.  I have  awakened in the morning, to find the closest of friends already in my kitchen, starting the coffee or cooking breakfast.  There was nothing strange about it.  It was how we lived.

And then something changed along the way, and I have never been able to put my finger on why that was.  We moved away from close friends and family, so maybe that was the reason.  Yet that reason didn't seem to hold true, because we had always made new friends as easily as keeping up with the old ones.  We moved to camp, where our job was hospitality, so perhaps we just wanted time off the clock.  But even that didn't seem to ring true either.

Recently I realized that I had begun to give gifts again.  Small gifts, something of my own that I thought a friend would enjoy.  A book, or a movie, or a piece of jewelry.  Small gifts of time, and energy, and emotion.  

It has been in the giving, once again, that I began to sense the reason for the lack.  There are seasons of life that knock the stuffing out of you.  They leave you bereft of confidence that you have anything to give, anything any other soul would want to have.  When you are asked very specifically to give, you do.  Cheerfully and willingly, but tentatively as well.  But unless you are specifically asked, you assume that you are not wanted.  Not needed.

It becomes a way of life, an ingrained habit, of turning away and into oneself.  Just the same as there was once a habit of turning outward and toward others.  The old ways will never come back exactly the same as they were.  The same friends will never gather in those houses again.  Children who used to run and play, are now grown, some with children of their own.  We have learned new recipes, for long meals and life itself.  Still, I hope that as each day passes, all of my friends, both old and new, know that the coffee pot is on and the door is always open.

Not One Word

A couple of days ago, a friend wrote this post, and it made me tear up a little when I read it, because so much of what she was saying is so close to the surface for me these days.  Go.  Read it.  You won't be sorry you did, and this post won't make sense if you don't.

It seems like all  the cool kids who blog, have been picking words for themselves, for the new year.  Words like "brave" and "fearless" and "light".  I thought about that, and I realize that I would be more able to choose a word to describe my old year in review, than pick a word to describe what I hope my new year will be.

The thing is this.  I don't know what this year will bring, and I don't even want to pick one little word to try and steer it.  And that's not a criticism at all.  I understand being purposeful and intentional, and if having a word becomes a touchstone to spur a person on, I'm all for that.

It's just not for me, for this year.

I feel as though this blog is changing, because I am changing.  The things that used to be important to me, don't always take center stage anymore.  Things like being right, and having answers, and being able to fix things.

Where I come from, this is a spiritual issue.  Being right is the most important thing.  Having the right answers is a sacred responsibility.  Being the bearer of truth allows you to fix anything...anyone.

But what if I just said, "I don't know anymore. I used to think I had the answer to that question, but now I'm just not sure."  Does that mean I have abandoned my responsibility?

I used to think I could weaken or shake a person's faith with an answer like that.  Like their faith was dependent on something I could do or say.

I used to feel like the things I did and said were so important.  Like people were watching and taking their cues from me.  And if I missed an opportunity to speak up, and insert truth and wisdom into their lives, it would all fall back onto me.

But now I just think of how foolish that was.  How foolish is was to think that I was that important, and how foolish to feel that somehow I would be held responsible for the choices others made.

The thing is this.  All I have left now, is this sense of my heart being outside of myself, in the hands of a trusted few.  And so, when a person comes and places their heart in my hands, I am no longer struck with a sense of self-importance.  I don't want to answer their questions, or show them where they've been going at it all wrong, or fix their problems.  

I'm actually pretty certain, that a good deal of the time, I know absolutely nothing about those things.  But I do know how to listen, and love, and hope, and pray.  And I am terribly aware of what a sacred space I am standing in.

Isn't There Anyone Who Knows What Christmas is All About?

A Christmas meditation for our friends at camp, at our annual Christmas party.  

"...the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And behold, you will conceive in your womb and bring forth a Son, and shall call His name Jesus." Luke 1:30-31

“Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and bear a Son, and they shall call His name Immanuel, which is translated, 'God with us.' "  Matthew 1:23

Christmas is the celebration of God with us.
We celebrate the birth of God's Son,
of God himself.
But God was with us before that night.

An angel came to Mary,
and told her she would conceive
and give birth to a baby,
and He would be God Himself.
God came into the world,
not on a celebrated night in Bethlehem,
but roughly nine months before,
when He slipped into the womb of an insignificant young girl from Nazareth.

God was with us,
in flesh,
on the earth,
growing quietly in a dark and secret place.
The world may not have known,
but Mary knew.
And those who were closest to Mary knew.
Angels came to Joseph,
and her cousin Elizabeth,
and Elizabeth's husband Zacharias,
and even the unborn baby who was John the Baptist
knew that God was with us.

Fear not, God is with us.
The days passed.
Fear not, God is with us.
The weeks passed.
Fear not, God is with us.
The months passed.

"Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed wife, who was with child. So it was, that while they were there, the days were completed for her to be delivered."  Luke 2:4-6

God did not come unexpectedly.
Mary's days were completed for her to be delivered.
When a woman has carried a baby until that day of completion,
she is not surprised by his arrival.
She may be frightened and weary and excited....
but she is not surprised.
Mary was young and healthy,
but she was also enormously, painfully pregnant,
traveling far from the safety and comfort of her home.
It is likely that she and Joseph hoped beyond hope,
that this baby would see fit to stay put
until they had completed their errand and returned home.
But of course He did not.
The day was upon them,
and nothing would hold it back.

"And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn."  Luke 2:7

God came into the wide, wide world,
and found there was no room for Him.
A young woman labored and birthed Him
in a tiny cave devoted to sheltering livestock.
She had awaited His arrival,
anticipated the possibility that He would come
somewhere along their journey.
She had carried the swaddling cloths
with her,
just in case.
But there was no room in the inn.
Every bed was filled,
and so the infant was wrapped carefully,
and placed in a feeding trough for safekeeping.

And it was enough.
He was small,
and vulnerable,
and in His humanity,
unaware.
Like any baby,
He cried,
and nursed,
and slept.
God is with us,
it was enough.

 "Now there were in the same country shepherds living out in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were greatly afraid.  Then the angel said to them, 'Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.  For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.  And this will be the sign to you: You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.'

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying:

 'Glory to God in the highest,
And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!' "  Luke 2:8-14

I had joked to a few of you ahead of time,
that I would read this passage aloud and say,
"That's what Christmas is all about Charlie Brown."
Then we could all sing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing"
with our heads tilted upward,
and shout "Merry Christmas Charlie Brown",
and we'd be done.

And I was of course joking.
It couldn't possibly be that simple.
Or short.

I was thinking of all of you,
as I read through these verses.
I've heard them read and taught so many times
I can't guess the number.
Ideas jump out at me.
I've heard it taught
that God came amidst the busyness of a Roman census,
and how I should be careful not to be too busy
to notice that God has come.
I've heard it taught that God came,
and there was no room for him in the inn,
and how I should be careful
to make room for God in my life.
I have heard it taught
that angels came,
and told their message of great joy to the shepherds,
because the rich important people of the world
weren't listening for their news,
and how I should be careful not to get too rich or important,
lest I miss that good news too.

And the thing is this.
I think that's all hogwash,
and it takes the punch out of a message that is supposed to be good tidings of great joy. 

God is with us.
He chose to come when people were too busy to take much notice,
mainly because that's how people are.
There would never be a time or a place
in all of human history
when people were not wrapped up in their own cares and concerns.
He came at the most inconvenient of times and places,
because that's what our times and places are.
He comes during finals week.
He comes when we have a big move,
or a job deadline.
He comes when the car breaks down.
And He comes when we are at the bedside of a sick loved one.
God is with us.

God is with us.
He chose to come when there was no room for Him.
Because there is never room for Him.
We don't know how to make room,
and so He comes,
and fills whatever space He is given,
even if that space is very small and very dirty.
God is with us.

God is with us.
He chose to split the night sky,
in a certain place,
at a certain time.
Just beneath that split between heaven and earth,
were shepherds keeping watch.
But it could have just as easily been city folks on a rooftop,
or nomads with their camels in the desert.
It could have been men or women,
rich or poor,
young or old,
because the angels' news was for ALL people.
God is with us.
A glorious God that wants to give us peace,
and love for one another.
By being with us.

Dear ones,
I know your lives are busy, and crowded, and complicated.
You are waiting for God to come,
when the dust settles,
when you get things in order.
You are feeling guilty because you want God to come
but you feel as though you haven't made room for Him.
God is with us.
In all of our tight filthy spaces,
God is with us.
And wherever we find ourselves,
He never stops wanting to be with us.
That's what Christmas is all about.

Trust Fall

A very long time ago, I used to work as a facilitator at our camp challenge course.  Where we used to zip through the trees, and balance on wires.  Sometimes we did trust falls, but mostly I stayed away from those platforms, unless I had a seriously focused group on board.  In the beginning, I used to think trust falls were simple...almost too easy and cliche.  But then I took a challenge course training, and I never looked at them the same again.

The first thing the training did, was make me become the faller.  Before that, falling was purely hypothetical to me.  But before we were allowed to fall, we had to understand several things about falling.  We needed to know that fallers varied in their levels of trust.  Some fallers were anxious from the moment they stepped onto the platform, and no amount of coaxing from the catchers would change that.  Some fallers were completely trusting until the moment they launched themselves backward into space.  But all fallers had a moment of panic as they hovered in midair.  

It was an actual phenomenon, that the brain would signal the body in that moment, "I should have been caught by now!"  In that millisecond, the brain would scream to the faller's body that the catchers had failed, and they were headed straight for the ground.  

In this moment it was critical that the faller know this, and be prepared for this.  If they were not, they would pull their hands from the carefully configured and knitted position, and give a catcher a black eye or a bloody nose.  Or they would jackknife in an attempt to save themselves, and cut through the mesh of waiting arms with a rocketing posterior.  Knowing wasn't a guarantee, but it helped.

We also had to learn to be catchers.  On the ground, behind the platform, we would stand in two lines, facing one another.  Our arms were outstretched in front of us, alternating with the arms of the catchers opposite us.  From the platform the faller would see two lines of upturned, encouraging faces, and one line of woven arms.  We would not fail the faller.  One person was not strong enough to catch them, but all of us woven together, could cushion their fall, and set them softly on their feet once again.

In a perfect trust falling world, that is true.  Most of the time that is true.  But not always.  As facilitators, we were always instructed to position ourselves at the place where the faller's head would land.  And then we were told the truth.  The catchers don't always catch.  They mean to catch, but somehow they don't.  No one really knows why, but if one person pulls a hand away suddenly to slap a biting mosquito, instinctively the whole group may also withdraw their hands.  One moment there, and the next moment gone.

As a facilitator, it was our job to watch for this, and to literally throw ourselves under the faller if this were to happen.  At all cost, save their head.

Life is a lot like a trust fall.  Relationships are a lot like a trust fall.  That's why we do them.  They give us a tangible, discussable adrenaline rush.  People always have a lot to talk about during the debriefing time after trust falls.

In life I have been both the catcher and the faller.  

In life I have been one set of hands in a woven line, catching and setting down gently.  I have been the catcher who took a hit to the face when the faller panicked.  I have been the catcher who became distracted in an instant, and pulled my hands away, I know not why.  In life I have taken a dive to protect a head or two.  Not often, but it has happened.  

In life I have fallen and felt many arms bear me up.  In life I always, always panic, certain that I will not be caught.  I have flung my arms up to protect myself, and taken out more than a few catchers.  I have tucked my body in self protection, and made myself into a dangerous missile.  Very rarely in life, I have fallen and hit the dirt.  But always there has been someone who saved my head.  They ended up on the ground with me, bruised and dirty, but we were saved.

To this day, my blood begins to rise loudly in my ears, whether I am squaring the backs of my heels with the edge of the platform, or standing on the ground with my arms outstretched.  To fall or to catch, either one is filled with exhilaration and risk, unpredictable enough to never become easy or cliche.

Jumpstart Your Ministry

I was reading a brochure the other day.  It was an informational brochure for a ministry that provided helps of various kinds, in a voluntary capacity.  Cool.  Except the brochure talked more about who they didn't serve, than who they did.  I loved the sorts of things they do.  I loved the idea that an organization or group could contact them and say, "Hey!  We could use some help."  And they would go there and help.  Well, kind of.  But only if you were a certain sort of group or organization.  A very specific sort.  They had a list of prerequisites that the group had to agree to.  They had a list of demands.  In exchange, the group or organization could expect to receive a very specific number of skilled and unskilled hours of labor.  

I'm not entirely sure why, but it made me kind of mad.  Because I still wanted to picture people saying, "Hey!  We could really use some help here."  I wanted to picture these other people pulling up and saying, "We can do that."  And at the end of a long, sweaty day, they would all sit around and eat together.  And after many days like this, they would have had many chances to learn to know one another as they worked side by side.  They would know each others' strengths and weaknesses, and kind of like each other anyhow.  Then, and only then, would anyone care very much what the other one had to say, or thought, or believed.  And after many long, sweaty days, they would talk about that stuff while they ate together.  

They would probably disagree about a great deal, as people are prone to do, but it wouldn't matter because they would be friends anyhow.  And even if they disagreed about a great deal, as people are prone to do, they would enjoy talking about it, and thinking about it, and even arguing about it.  They would marvel that such radically different strangers could become such dear friends.  

I know that people will read this and think, well, that just isn't how things work.  That sort of ministry would never get off the ground.

That's another thing that has been bugging me lately.  I've been watching, and reading, and listening.  It seems as though there are all these ministries trying to get off the ground...trying to pick up steam somehow.  They want to be relevant.  They want to reach people where they are.  They want to be like Jesus, and go eat with the sinners.  Kind of.

Jesus was very cutting edge.  He ate with sinners and tax collectors.  He hung out with lepers and women of ill repute.  He got rebuked for it.  But the thing is this, every time he sat down and ate with another person, every time he touched someone, he was hanging with sinners.  It didn't matter if they were rich young rulers, or devout Jews, or whatever.  They were all sinners.  When I sit down and eat with anyone, I am eating with a sinner, and when I sit down to eat all alone, I am eating with a sinner.

I'm not Jesus.  I am not lowering myself when I eat with sinners.  I am not coming down from some place on high, to bring sinners a gift, or special message (that I have and they don't).  I am sitting with my family.  If I'm lucky we have shared a long day of work together, and we are sweaty and hungry.  It's likely that we'll disagree about a great deal as we sit around the table, as sinners are prone to do.  As families are prone to do.  But we would also marvel that such a rag-tag family could ever be assembled, much less stay together for any length of time.

We'd probably be so tired from our work, and so engrossed in the food and conversation, that we would scarcely have time to think about whether the ministry was getting off the ground.  We probably wouldn't need brochures much either.

Looking In from the Inside

Today I would like to shout it from the housetop, that I am so very grateful for the gift of friendship.  I am grateful for intimacy with a small handful of women that share life with me.  If all I had were F*ceB**k friends, I'd be in big trouble.  This is not a rant against the big FB.  Some of my dearest friends and I communicate almost exclusively through FB.  

FB is not a new concept.  Being that I am old, I do actually remember life before social networking.  I actually remember life before we all had computers in our homes.  Back in those days we talked about how everyone watched too much TV, and spent too much time talking on the phone.  Whatever happened to sitting down and playing a game...or talking to people face to face?

But back to the FB thing.  The part that isn't new, is the superficiality of so many relationships.  We might spend lots of time with a person, because we work with them or go to school with them.  We might feel like we really know them and are woven into each others' lives.  Then we change jobs or schools, and we never hear from them anymore, and we wonder about this.  

Sometimes we have friends that share some common ground with us.  Maybe we enjoy the same activities, or our kids are the same age and play together.  Then things shift, the commonality disappears, and so do our friends.

All the while we watch.  We see how people live.  We observe their relationships.  We know what kinds of stuff they have, what they do for fun, what they do for work.  We mentally construct cardboard people, living in cardboard houses, living cardboard lives, and we prop them up all over our brains.  These are our friends.

Now we do it electronically.  We watch people live their lives on the internet.  We see their funny conversations with their friends.  We look at the pictures.  We read the status updates.  Then we prop up these virtual people all over our brains.

I don't know about you, but I am not naturally a contented person.  I would often look at these images that I had constructed inside my own head, and I would be convinced that other people had it easier than I did.  I would somehow suspect that other people had more of everything, and that it came to them without the struggle that I experienced.  I believed that other people had more of everything, and that their holidays were more shiny, and their food tasted better than mine.

And as long as my relationships were superficial, I could believe this, and nurse my resentment.  Of course it all blew apart the minute I began to be intimate with anyone.  The minute I began to shred my cardboard cutout, and replace it with a flesh and blood person, was the minute I knew that they struggled just as hard as I did.

Then our family changed, and I did it all over again.  I felt isolated and alone.  I looked at the way "normal people" lived, and I longed for the days when I was "normal" too.  I resented other people because they didn't struggle with the things I did, and they didn't even know it.  They didn't know how good they had it.  I railed against God, and wondered why I had to work so hard, when other people had it so easy.

As long as I saw myself as isolated, alone, misunderstood...I felt justified in my bitterness.  Then I got me a new batch of friends.  We got down to the business of being intimate with one another, and guess what?  My life isn't so abnormal after all.  There they were.  Beautiful, smart, articulate women.  They all have lovely family photos, and more visible success than you could shake a stick at.  Looking in from the outside, I'm sure I would resent them all.  But looking in from the inside, I knew they were all fighting the same fight, nursing the same wounds, crying the same tears.  Also they're funny.  Really, really funny.

So when I am really struggling, when I feel like I can't take anymore, when I want to lay down and give up, I can remind myself of the truth.  That I am in very, very good company.  It changes everything.

Pets...the Bitter and the Sweet

I have always felt sorry for folks who don't love animals.  And secretly I have suspected something might be wrong with them.  I am a true, dyed in the wool, not entirely rational animal lover.  I will labor over whether I should spend an extra twenty cents on a higher fat content gallon of milk, yet a plunk down the insane amount of cash required to buy a bottle of insulin for my cat.  My animals make me happy in a completely uncomplicated, albeit expensive way that humans have yet to aspire to.  This doesn't mean I don't complain and grouse when the poodle steals half a pound of fudge, vomits it all over my entire house, and requires emergency vet care on a holiday.  I do, and loudly.  When the elderly cat slowly claws her way up onto my bed, shredding both my quilt and my leg, I yelp.  But over all, my pets make me smile more often than anything else on this earth.  This may be directly related to the fact that I have a poodle.

Along with the sweetness comes the bitterness of losing them.  Unless you get yourself a parrot or an elephant, you will likely outlive your beloved pet.  This week was a bitter week, losing my sweet mama goat after twelve long years.  She was at least four years old when I got her, so she had achieved elderly status in goat years.  More than four years ago when our girls came to us, life was thrown into the maelstrom, and the pets were neglected in the chaos.  It was a very mild early winter, and most of December that year was more like October or early November.  The problem with livestock and mild weather is this, that when it is warm they choose to sleep outdoors on the ground.  Unfortunately, if it turns suddenly cold, they can actually freeze their limbs.  One morning Baby Boy came indoors, frantic because my mama goat had let out a horrible cry upon rising, and was struggling about her pen.  I ran outdoors in my PJs to check on her, and the girls took the opportunity to begin swinging from the chandeliers.  I was so angry at them, that I made them come outside and buckle up in the truck, and I told them I didn't care if they ate each other, but they were to stay put while I took care of the goats.

I was quickly flooded with guilt, knowing I had not been keeping a close eye on much of anything but the girls, and all of the pets (and humans) were suffering for it.  Thus began a regimen of geriatric goat pampering, that involved thawing out in a crate in my kitchen, warm bottles of water with a twist of molasses, and a blanketed crate in the barn on any night that dipped below twenty degrees.  I was acutely aware that she could have died because of my inattention.  I was also aware that every one of our animals was stressed by the chaos reigning in the house, and that I had ceased to take joy in  the pets, seeing them only as another taxing chore.  Nursing my goat back to health, and pampering her for another four and a half years was the gift of that stressful, remorse filled morning.  I was suddenly, instantly aware of how heartbroken it made me to discard my pets each day, in order to feed the endless needs of my children.  Pet care became my self care.

A few days ago, Baby Boy again alerted me to trouble, and again I ran to the goat pen in my PJs.  The news was not good.  Somehow in the space of one rainy day she had failed to the point of not being able to rise.  We gave her some warm water and vitamins, and tried to entice her to eat.  She sniffed at grain, and strawberries, and soft green hay.  She was fat from winter, and her black coat was glossy and thick with winter fleece.  She looked the picture of health, but I could tell something was very wrong, and that her old lady frame would not survive it.  She laid in her house all day, baaing quietly whenever the other goats would make noise.  She sounded fussy.  I checked on her at bedtime and she was quiet.  She died during the night.

Yesterday I cried on and off all day, and went out in the thin spring sunshine to finish mucking her pen and clean out her little house.  Beloved husband and Baby Boy took her body to the vet for disposal, and Hippie Boy helped me muck the pen.  Mark that down in history.  As we worked, he asked me what appeal all of this held for me, that it did not hold for him.  I shrugged.  I don't know why I love to clean up rotting hay and manure, or stand listening to the movements of these funny little animals.  In my mind's eye, I can see back through a dozen Springtimes, see other barns and goat pens.  I can hear those same soothing sounds, smell the same rotting hay, and see my children playing with the kids.  I can feel the hours spent sitting on a crate, brushing the raggedy fleece out of spring coats, a black head leaning in with eyes closed.  "Please brush my neck and scratch my knobby head."   The lawn is littered with giant gray balls of wool, and I tell the children that the birds will line their nests with them. With my mama goat passes the image of a petite little girl struggling to "herd" her to her pen in the morning, or sitting at the homemade milking stand, racing to finish the milking.  Long gone is that little girl, grown to a woman, and the little boys that sat in the hay to hold the wriggling kids are disappearing as well.  Even the crazed little girls buckled into the backseat of the truck are gone, replaced by quiet, composed teens.

Our pets help us mark time and places, and at no time more than when we lose them.  We remember the day we brought them home, how old were the children, what house did we live in.  Almost every day of their lives, they do the very same things.  They are, after all, beasts.  It is easy to let them blend into the background of our lives in a way that our human housemates will not tolerate.  It is easy to take for granted all the quiet delight they can add to our lives.  Then in an instant they are gone, leaving a hole we did not anticipate. 

Ode to the Queen Bee

I was suffering through enjoying a snow day with my children, when my phone chanced to ring.  It was a dear friend, who lives far enough away, that she was surprised to hear about my snow.  They were having rain.  Later I hung up the phone, and Baby Boy remarked that I had been on the phone for A LONG TIME.  Yeah so.  And it was a long time, but not nearly as long as we've talked before.  I couldn't begin to number the hours we have whiled away typing emails, chatting on the phone, talking in person, deep into the night.  We haven't known one another since we were girls, but it seems as though we should have.  Memories of childhood birthdays and slumber parties seem built in.  The fact that we grew up in different states and graduated ten years apart makes no difference.

Last year, when I went to Orlando, I wasn't sure why I was going.  Of course now I know how incredibly important my Orlando gals are to me, and how they enrich my life.  I guess I could say, I didn't know what I was missing.  But so many of them (both last year, and this year too) were doing this thing solo.  They felt so alone, isolated, craving one other person to reach out to that would understand their unconventional life.  Part of going to Orlando for me I realized, was to understand how good I had it.  I already had that one person, and they had me.  And even more amazing, we had a history that went back farther than adoption.  We had begun our adoption journeys at roughly the same time, taking different yet similar paths.  Still we knew one another before, and now in the midst, and someday we plan to be old ladies together...no children allowed.

For many years we had been friends turned to sisters.  Our children were born, one after the other, and grew together like cousins.  Our husbands were friends, often brother-like, snoozing on opposite ends of a couch, like mirror images.  We moved, they moved, we moved again.  Sometimes we have lived close together, now spread apart.  Nine or ten years ago we began our adoption journey.  Had they not begun theirs as well, no doubt ours would be a tale of yet another close friendship lost, as lives diverged and drifted apart.  I have always been grateful for this, not fully comprehending the miraculousness of it.  My Orlando girls helped me to see it for the treasure it is.  Such is true friendship.  C.S. Lewis describes this in his book "The Four Loves", and I would not presume to try and say it better.

One knows nobody so well as one's "fellow."  Every step of the common journey tests his metal; and the tests are tests we fully understand because we are undergoing them ourselves.  Hence, as he rings true time after time, our reliance, our respect, and our admiration blossom into an Appreciative love of a singularly robust and well-informed kind.  If, at the outset, we had attended more to him and less to the thing which our Friendship is "about," we should not have come to know or love him so well. You will not find the warrior, the poet, the philosopher or the Christian by staring in his eyes as if he were your mistress: better fight beside him, read with him, argue with him, pray with him. 

In a perfect friendship this Appreciative love is, I think, often so great and so firmly based that each member feels, in his secret heart, humbled before all the rest.  Sometimes he wonders what he is doing there among his betters.  He is lucky beyond desert to be in such company.  Especially when the whole group is together, each bringing out that is best, wisest, or funniest in all the others....Life, natural life, has no better gift to give.  Who could have deserved it?

How I Loc Up My Kids

Megan at Millions of Miles, who I only know in the cyber world, but who I will soon know in person, asked nicely if I could share what we do to maintain locs at our house. I am happy to do so. Sounds like a good reason for a list.

1. We started our locs with microbraids. We partitioned off the head(s) into little squares, making sure lines were in the right places for parts for some of our favorite classic hairstyles. For one daughter, the grid has stayed pretty tidy. For another, her locs have sort of migrated to where they want to be. For one girl the blocks are pretty tiny as her hair is thick, coarse, and tightly curled...in short, the BEST hair for locs. For one girl, the blocks are bigger as her hair is finer and looser curled. Not the best hair for quick locs, but with time they are shaping up nicely. Some people prefer to start with twists. The braids tend to take awhile to disappear, but they do eventually.
2. We tighten our locs with a latch hook. We bought it at the craft store for a few bucks, and it has served us well for years. It's hard to explain this process in words, but you can find videos to walk you through it. Basically, as the hair grows, there becomes this looseness at the scalp...kind of like if you left braids in long enough to let your hair grow out. Most of the time it takes 3-4 pulls through with the latch hook to tighten a loc that has been left alone for a month to six weeks. Thicker ones tighten with less, and thinner ones need more. You MUST NOT overtighten, though it can be tempting. It pulls uncomfortably, and chronic overtightening can thin and weaken locs. I always do each "pull" from a different direction, doing the last pull in the direction I want the loc to hang. Many people twist instead of latch hooking. I also take any loose growth and twist it around the appropriate loc before tightening. This keeps the fuzzies down, and lets new growth train itself into the right loc.
3. My girls only shampoo about once a month to every six weeks. They use shampoo for ladies of color, and this is our method. Locs are hard to get shampoo worked into. If you take a dab and try to work it in, it will remain in one spot only. We take the squirt of shampoo and put it into an old shampoo bottle. Then we fill it up to about the 1/3 level with hot water, and shake it up. The girls gently squirt this over their whole heads, and work the lather down the whole length of the locs. Then they rinse and rinse and rinse and rinse. Rinse until you're sure you have all the shampoo out, and then rinse that much more. Those babies really like to hang onto the suds.
4. In between, my girls rinse well in the shower, using as warm water as they can stand. This varies depending on what they are doing. In the summer their hair gets a lot of dirt in it because we live in a dusty place. Also the pool water can do a number on their hair. In the winter, it's not so bad. If you don't get locs clean, you can tell. First of all, they can stink. Think wet dog. Also, when you pinch a wet dirty loc between layers of white towel, it will leave a muddy mark. So really, they can't get away with saying they washed their locs when they didn't. Not for long anyhow.
5. The girls moisturize daily with a homemade spritz. I make it with 5 ounces of warm water, 1 tablespoon of olive oil, and 2 tablespoons of conditioner for ladies of color. They tend to spray close to their scalp most, because scalp dryness plagues them far more than dry hair.
6. They are careful not to wear their hair in the same style all the time, in order to not stress their locks. They also use soft elastics and head bands...nothing that would "bite" into their locs.
7. They sleep at night with a silky granny cap. And they wear nylon swim caps under their ski caps.
8. They enjoy hair that gets longer and longer, is all their own, can be styled in hundreds of styles, and can wash and go. Plus it gets compliments wherever they go, from folks of every color.
   

I Need a Shower...Among Other things

When you have children, no matter how you "have" them, you have ideas about how it will go. Your body has ideas about how it will go. For instance, babies start sleeping more and fussing less, just as you think you are at your breaking point. Nursing hurts so, so bad...and then it hurts a little bit less, and then you can do it in your sleep. Really. Preschoolers cry about everything. Some preschoolers lose their bones when they cry (about everything), and they drop to the ground in a great boneless pile. And then one day, you realize that no one has cried for days. Weird.

When my homegrown children were small, I had a hard time taking showers. I often ate bowls of cold cereal instead of meals. When children napped, I scrambled around the house just trying to get caught up, bracing myself for when that sleepy, fussy voice would alert me to baby's wakefulness.

It wasn't that I didn't like to be clean. It wasn't that I didn't like to eat hot food. It was just that I was always on high alert, watching and listening for my child's need. If I went into the shower, I could not easily stop what I was doing for a moment, to soothe a child or avert a disaster. In fact, I might not hear that a child needed soothing, or that disaster needed averting. Similarly, a bowl or cereal can be put down and taken up again, over and over. Yes, it gets soggy, but no mommy ever died from soggy cereal.

And just when I thought I would never get a shower before four in the afternoon, or sit down to eat an attractive lunch, I began to have those things happen now and then. This is because children grow, and change, and mature. My two month old was not my two year old, was not my four year old, and so it goes.

Then I adopted traumatized children. I went back on high alert. I went back to no showers, and cereal bowls, and scrambling to get housework done when the children were asleep. I was exhausted and bleary-eyed, and chronically under the weather. Nothing about this surprised me. I had planned for it and expected it. My mommy rhythm told me this is how it would be. But then some time went by, and I began to expect the shift, where things slowly got easier. My body seemed to expect it. To be quite honest, it didn't happen for a long time. Long, long past any of my expectations, and even to this day, some of the "easier" is because I have become accustomed to the strain, and not because it has disappeared.

When we have babies, we plan for the hardship...or we do if we're wise. We set our expectations in a place that is reasonable. We cut ourselves some slack. We set up good support systems. And we know that all of it is temporary. Newborns seem like they will be tiny forever, but in the blink of a tired eye...they're off and running.

When we adopt children of trauma, we do all of these things. For a time. And then we begin to despair. We are tired and worn, and we don't know what is reasonable anymore. Temporary stretches out endlessly. Maybe we thought we had supports, and then we realized they weren't supporting us anymore. What then?

We need a Plan B, or C, or D. We need to find other parents who have been stretched beyond that which is natural. We need to have people in our lives who understand the great depth and width of our struggle. We need to love one another, and hold each other accountable, and slowly go crazy together. That is why I am going to Orlando again this year. I am going to see some incredible people I love with all my heart. And I am going to say to anyone there who will listen, "You need to get a little piece of this, and take it home with you. Keep it safe, and treasure it. It will help you to be a better wife and mommy. It will help you to be a better you."

Special K

I'm going to make a departure today, from my series on getting organized, and my usual homey posts, and talk about something dear to my heart. Our three teen girls came from foster care, in another state, which I later discovered, is a rather rare occurrence. It's not that it never happens, but I guess it doesn't happen a lot. So when you begin to inquire about adopting children from other states, often you will get a bit of resistance from the professionals, because they just aren't used to doing it. Or if they have done it, they know that it's one huge pain in the hind quarters, and they would rather not discuss it with you.

My girls were so very fortunate in some ways. More than eight years bouncing around in foster care is no picnic, but they had a handful of people that were consistently involved with them. Their GAL was with them from the time they came into care as toddlers, to this very day. She keeps in touch, sends lovely boxes of fruit during the holidays, and is rather like an extra grandma that lives far away. The adoption worker assigned to their case, also had an ongoing history with the girls. It wasn't as long as that of the GAL, but it encompassed years.

When I first began to communicate with K, via email and phone calls, I had no idea how unique she really was, consequently I did not properly appreciate her. All I knew was that I liked her. We both hailed originally from the same area, so we both kind of spoke the same language. She always seemed to be shooting straight from the hip. She never seemed to be keeping information from me. She told me stuff, even stuff I didn't necessarily want to hear. When she didn't know, she always said "I don't know! Let me see if I can find out!" and she always said it with total humility and enthusiasm. She never made me feel like she was being put upon.

After the girls were placed, and we sometimes found ourselves struggling, she always made herself available. Sometimes she could offer assistance, sometimes advice, but more often than not, she just listened and made the right sort of noises. And it kept me from jumping off a bridge. When Soapy had to leave us, I know that K grieved right along with our family, and somehow that made it easier to bear. Ironic, because I am quite sure it didn't make her life any easier.

Now K has moved up to a more administrative position, and though she is supervising our next adoption, she does not handle it directly. Sometimes I forget that we have a professional relationship, because she has become such a dear, dear friend. Once in a great while, we connect by phone, and we talk and talk, about life and the price of tea in China. I always hang up the phone with a smile on my face, and never without thanking her for being such a powerful, positive force in my life. And then I think, "Oh my gosh! What am I thinking, talking about THAT (insert random inappropriate thing) with her?! She's my adoption worker...what must she think?!" And I have a little heart attack, until I remind myself that there isn't much K hasn't seen or heard about us, at one time or another since my girls came home.

She's seen me riding high, and she's heard the ugly cry, more than a few times. I am so very blessed, because I know this is a precious rarity. Foreign adoptions often end when the child is collected, and there is no one to call ever again. Even in foster adoptions, where there are allegedly helps in place, many people find themselves leaving countless messages that go unreturned. There is no human connection, and everyone suffers. Or even worse, they fear the connection, because they have been judged and undercut by the people that should be upholding them.

Yesterday I had one of those long rambling conversations with K. I had called to check on her mailing address, because I had photos to send. But we ended up talking about the girls, the boys, her life and mine. We laughed and told silly stories, and made plans to get together when I visit other friends in her area. We talked about the upcoming adoption, not like worker and adoptive parent, but friend to friend. I complained a little, but not to her, like I expected her to fix it, but as one person who knows how this goes, to another equally frustrated person who knows how it goes. As always, I hung up the phone with a smile on my face, and a lighter step...a lighter heart. Some friends just have that effect.

Out With the Old...

As the year draws to a close, I would like to continue with a few thoughts on simplifying and ordering our lives and spaces. This post is devoted to the idea that you cannot have it all... or more accurately perhaps, you cannot KEEP it all. Unless you live in a huge house, with tons of closets, an attic and basement, and maybe a barn or two, you cannot hang onto everything that makes it way through your doors. Even if you do have that place, it is remarkable how quickly you can fill up even the giant house. If you are like me, you may live in smallish homes, with less than adequate storage space, and awkward configurations of rooms. Many of you have expressed your frustration with the overflow of stuff that seems to have taken over every nook and cranny of your homes. To this I say, you must be ruthless. There is no other way but to get rid of a good deal of it.

For me, there were several issues in play. The first issue was my lack of maturity. I hadn't had the chance to try a million things and discover what I was truly passionate about. I was young, and full of energy. I wanted to be passionate about gourmet cooking, and heirloom sewing and quilting. I wanted to grow my own herbs, and raise chickens and goats, and make my own cheese. I wanted to scrapbook all my photos, and play the guitar, and learn to cane chairs. I wanted to homeschool my children, and use cloth diapers, and...and....and.....you get the idea. Now I am old and mature, and I realize that I cannot be passionate about everything. I certainly can't use my aptitude as a measuring stick for what I should be passionate about, because I can do many things well. Far too many things to have passion for all of them. Over time I have winnowed down the list to a few things I really love or need to do. All the rest have gone away, and with them, all the gear and geegaws needed to perform them. The few things I really DO, I let myself have the good stuff, like a really nice sewing machine, which has earned its bit of real estate inside my teeny bedroom closet. Or the bins of excellent quality fabric stored under my bed. Like the chocolate molds that eat up the whole cabinet over my refrigerator. Like the books that line soooo many of my walls. But so many other things have disappeared. Some things I have sold, some given away to a friend who would use it, some donated. I don't miss the things that are gone.

Maturity and experience have also taught me that I do not need many of the things I once thought I did. Neither do my children. We live with far less clothing and linens. I do laundry every single day. We do not need one of everything for every child. They can learn to share. I do not need to own things I can borrow or rent. The list goes on and on, and applies to nearly every area. But in the beginning I thought I had to have it all.

I have a system for ongoing purging. Usually I purge the house deeply, twice a year. One of the best times is right before the holidays, but after the New Year will work too. Pre-holiday is ideal, because I clear space for incoming gifts, and mentally tally who has what, and make mental notes of what they may want or need. The whole rest of the year, I do constant maintenance purging. I cycle through the whole house, room by room, cupboard and drawer, closet and bureau. I always have a donation bag or box set up, and am constantly adding to it. Anything beyond repair goes into the trash immediately. Outgrown clothing, unwanted books, unused toys get dropped into the donation box. Another bag or box is set up for "things that don't live here". This is for items that belong to other people...things that got left behind, or borrowed items, or things we plan to pass on to a specific person. When I plan to pass the thrift store, I drop off the donation box. When I plan to see a person who owns something in the other box, I try to remember to give it to them.

I have other boxes too. I have a "wait and see" box. This is where I store things I am unsure about. Things I think I want to get rid of, but still have doubts. If I don't go back for it in a few weeks, it's probably safe to let it go. At times I have had "yard sale" boxes. Right now I live in the sticks, so it is not practical to have yard sales. If you really will carry through and have the yard sale, and you have the space to store the stuff until you do it, by all means, have a yard sale. We have made lots of vacation spending money this way. Currently I have E.bay boxes, because I have had success selling certain items using that forum. Another tip I would offer, is that I put my boxes out in a visible, and mildly annoying location. This inspires me to keep the stuff moving out the door, rather than sitting buried and forgotten somewhere. (Kind of like the laundry baskets in the middle of the living room floor inspiring me to fold it and put it away.)

Another sticking point to paring things down, is the children. Children and their stuff take up a lot of space. Especially if you homeschool them. In some ways you have to relax a bit about this, because everything about them is always in a state of flux...a messy state of flux. They are always growing, and so their closets and drawers need constant supervision, rotating out that which is outgrown or worn out. If you are passing clothes along to younger siblings, you must decide how much you can reasonably store. In the past, I found myself storing everything, in fear that I would "need" it. I stored ugly clothes that I did not like. I stored very specific clothing that had nothing to match it, or would hardly ever be worn. I stored clothes that suited one child's body type, but would never suit their younger sibling. In other words, I wasted a lot of precious time and space, because I was afraid I would be found lacking later on. Now I only save that which is in top condition, that I know for a fact will be used. I am also constantly sorting through their toys and books, weeding out the ones they have outgrown. I only save that which is classic and beloved. Things that they have passed over for newer pursuits go into the donation box. I used to save every homeschool book and teaching aid. Those things are crazy expensive, and what if I find myself teaching at that level again? But as that has happened again and again, I have found myself not returning to the materials I had previously used because I found something that worked better for me, or for a different learner. Now I use the materials, and if I don't have specific plans to use them again soon, I pass them on to other homeschool moms.

I have only touched on a few areas, and made a few suggestions. You must figure out what works for you. The most important thing I have learned along the way, is that it is an ongoing process. You will purge, and it will feel good. Then you will purge again, more deeply, and it will feel even better. Spaces will open up, and you will feel freer. Eventually it will become routine, and you will feel as though you are just skimming bits off the top. But you will never arrive at some place of perfect order. There will always be things you are toying with getting rid of, things you are aware will need replacement soon, things you wish you had. For me, it has been getting to a place of calm and contentment about this ebb and flow. I feel like I am controlling it to some extent, rather than being washed away by it.

The Holiday Mess

'Tis the season for many things, and from what I gather, one of those things is despairing over the chaos and mess inside one's home. I am not picking on any of my dear friends. This is a theme I hear, read, and even see commented upon in Facebook photos of Christmas carnage. I think there are several issues in play. Let me enumerate, in list form, because I loooove lists.

1. The holidays are a busy time, thus we have less time to devote to cleaning and organizing.
2. The children are everywhere, all the time.
3. We tend to have company, which also adds to the chaos.
4. There are piles of presents to and from loved ones, plus wrappings galore.
5. We also engage in other messy projects like baking, cooking, writing cards, etc. This equals projects spread about our spaces.
6. It's wintertime, which means coats and snow pants, boots and hats, mittens and scarves.
   
7. It's wintertime which means being cooped up inside four walls a lot.
8. Did I mention the kids are on vacation and are underfoot all.the.time?

This can lead to ugliness, I am here to tell you. It may mean you find yourself laying on your bed having a good cry instead of a long winter nap. It may mean you see this transformation from "carefully and lovingly chosen gifts" to "all this crap overrunning my house". It may mean you end up yelling at those children that are in the house, under your feet...did I already say this? ALL THE TIME.

Now I don't mean to gloat, because I have had my share of trials this past week (not limited to a poodle who tried to kill herself with fudge, and the resulting mess and vet bills), but I think after twenty-four years of marriage, I am finally getting the hang of this thing. My house is fairly orderly, even in the midst of the holiday hustle and bustle, and I don't feel superior. I feel relieved. The hard work and discipline is all worth it.

If you are a person who makes New Year resolutions, and sincerely means to follow through... if you are a person who chafes against the structure needed to whip your house into order, yet hates the chaos too... let me encourage you to stop rebelling against your own best interests. Button yourself down to the task of setting things in order, and discipline yourself to make new habits. Force structure upon your reluctant self. Your weary self will thank you all through the New Year.

By all means, if you are completely happy and relaxed in relative disorder, don't let me boss you around. I actually have secret envy for people who don't feel the need to alphabetize their DVDs or organize their sock drawer by style and color. I've had friends gently tell me, "They have medication for that." But when all is said and done, my sock drawer makes ME happy. I have no desire to mandate sock drawer protocol, or judge you for tossing them all in a basket, unmatched no less. It's about comfort level. And I'm hearing a lot of people saying their houses are making them very uncomfortable right now.

A lot of people look at me, and they think, "Oh well of course. You are THAT SORT of person." You know, the person who is super organized, always thinking and planning ahead, scheduling and making lists. But I wasn't always like this. It has taken years of practice, and mostly self discipline, to transform myself and my thinking. In the past I thought of myself as a creative person, thus excusing my creative "stuff" being scattered all over our living spaces. I also used this excuse to "create" during times that I should have been caring for my children, cooking meals, and generally keeping up my home. I would always, always choose a good book over my domestic duties. This was before the days of computers, with email and Facebook and blogs. Thank goodness, I might never have come up for air.

We also had young children. I homeschooled, and had school "stuff" everywhere. I crafted and sewed, and cooked and baked. We had small spaces and a small income. All of this is to say, I hear you. I hear every excuse you are spitting at the screen right now. They are all the reasons I fought getting organized myself. But in the end, it was the most gentle, kind, loving thing I have done for myself. Yes, for me. It isn't drudgery and the death of my creativity. It has been freeing, the lifting of a huge weight. I have slowly found ways to pour my creativity into the process, and I do it with my own sense of style. The careful keeping of my home and family employs all my imagination and personality. I enjoy it, and I'm not ashamed to say so... though I do get some funny looks at times.

Check back in the next few days, and I'll share a few ideas that have been extremely helpful to me. It's too big a subject to address in one post. There are great books and websites devoted to the subject. I'll be sharing the ideas that really made huge changes for me. The important thing is finding the ideas that resonate with you, and implementing them to improve the quality of your life.