Changed

Something is different. Something has shifted - twisted - settled - rested.

I feel different. I feel.... better.

It happened gradually, but I've been quite mindful during the shift. After a year of heaviness and pain and cloudy grief, I've turned a corner and I feel my energy returning. It feels really, really good.

I still have my moments, have no doubt, but I'm able to navigate them with less apprehension and more acceptance, knowing they will continue to come and I'll survive them. Cherish them, even. I still have to be careful to not stamp this journey complete, but I feel it is in keeping with who my father was to carry on and live a full life and feel as much joy as I can feel.

The other day, feeling too confident in my new shift, the hospital scenes flashed before me for just a moment, just long enough to feel the bolt of pain that accompanies the visions and to be reminded that even though a wound may heal, the visceral memory is there for a long, long time - perhaps forever.

We had another visitation the other night, this time of an elderly cousin of my paternal grandmother's generation, Fran Spelman. She was an incredibly sweet person and it is hard to imagine a world with one less truly-good person in it, but she lived a healthy, long life, and is survived by a beautiful clan of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. While in the visitation line, I was watching the adorable children weaving in and out of legs, smiling at their lively spirits in spite of the sadness. And when we drove off, we saw the sweetest sight - a gaggle of Fran's great-grandchildren, all dressed in their spring finest, skipping off toward the nearby park, all smiles and pigtails and untucked shirts. I commented how kids actually enjoy these events for the opportunity to be with all their cousins in one spot for several days. And what greater legacy can one leave than a brood of children with beaming smiles for each other. Fran would smile at the thought.

Since we held my father's visitation at the local high school, the principal took the kids to the gymnasium to play. He was like the pied piper, marching down the hallway with key in hand, a trail of children of various sizes following like a row of ducklings. Occasionally, one of the older kids would come out for a check-in, flushed from play, and happy for the chance to run off the pent-up energy. It was the perfect set-up, and my father would've thought the idea just grand.

I must have cried all the tears I have, because for the first time ever, I attended two visitations without crying. Ordinarily, I cry at the sight of another person in tears, at the mere thought of people's sadness, at the very idea of attending such a sad event. But I haven't cried lately. It feels odd, yet okay. I've mourned from my very soul, cried for hours and days, and plunged into my grieving with arms open in submission. And I've come out the other side.

I'm sure the journey has only begun in some ways. My mom loaned us a CD with video footage from Panama, for us to show the kids in preparation for our trip. But she warned me that my father is on it, and so it sits, unwatched. Still photos are one thing - video of him living and breathing, well, I guess I'm not ready for that.

Today in the car, as Brady changed out of his soccer gear and into street shoes, I saw him with different eyes... he's grown so much this year, and I could just burst when I look at him and see who he's become. And it struck me what a powerful thing it is, to look upon this person who came from me, who is of me. And then I thought of myself, and how I'm from my father and mother, I'm of them. And I smile. I honor the circle.

So I'm back to things that, for the past year, were either done on auto-pilot or set aside altogether - running the kids to and fro, volunteering for all sorts of events and groups, complaining about trivial things, and making plans. I am grateful to my friends for their patience, to my husband for his calm and healing presence, to my kids for honoring my need to put things on hold for a while, and to my mom and siblings for sharing their own healing journey with me.

And in the true spirit of my father, that's enough laying around... let's get a move on. Or as he might've said, "Let's hit 'er in the shitter." (Such a lovely sentiment, eh?) :-)

~Namaste~

Reserved Seating

Photo: Reserved seating

I just love happening upon adorable things like the reserved seats in this photo. We were attending a high school play to see our super-cool-fun-special-amazing-talented friend Maria perform in Annie Get Your Gun, and we arrived early to get good seats. As we waited, and chatted, and goofed around with the camera, and laughed with some of our favorite friends, someone spied these notes two rows ahead. (Those are Brady's feet, too. :-)

Kids Online

Photos: A fun find - a snow teepee at Chestnut Mountain, where we skiied a few weeks ago

I almost forgot, and time is almost up! Pictures of the boys are published on an unschooling e-zine called *Connections*! It's for subscribers only, but as special friends of mine (*grin*) you can access the site for free during the month of March. So scurry on over and check it out! To log in, use the username fflaura and password endres. And once you get into the site, go to "Snapshots" on the top right. You should also grab a cuppa tea and spend some time perusing the entire site. It'll give you an idea of what unschooling looks like. Who knows? Maybe you'll be inspired enough to join us! That would be WAY cool.

One Year

On Sunday, my father will have been gone one year. Look at all he's missing.






Dad, where did you go?

Half-Crazed Mom seeks Single White (or any color, for that matter) Germ-Zapper

photo: My and Brady's trouncing by Jonathan, future real estate tycoon

On the blog section of MySpace (yep, I have a page) there is an option to list your "current mood," with the choices ranging from accomplished to recumbent to worried. (Recumbent? Maybe if I had a laptop?!) If I were to select one right now, it'd have to be "half-crazed" after five weeks - yes, five weeks - of tending sick kids and a trying-really-hard-not-to-get-more-sick self. We're having one of "those" winters - where as soon as one gets better, another gets sick, and once it's run through all the options it starts back at the beginning again.

Brady's second doc visit in less than a week, due to getting a fever *after* meds, resulted in bad, worse, and much worse news. Possibly bronchitis he can't kick, or mono, but he wheezes "at the bottom of each breath" which means he needs to get checked for asthma. Hold on a minute - this is my child whose last fever was so long ago we can't recall him ever having one, my child who eats extremely well and never overeats, my child who has such a mindfulness and self-aware relationship with food and health it puts me and my constant striving to eat healthier to shame. So, it's to the internet I go, to figure out what our options are before a pile of meds are shoved at us, and before we go the route of "difficult to insure" diagnoses and haggling with insurance companies.

Jonathan is the one who started the downturn, with a week-long bout of strep and high fevers, followed by a short break and then a foray into bronchitis with high fever, forcing us to cancel our Super Bowl Party festivites - an extra slap in the face for good measure. As if that wasn't enough, he's sick again, perhaps having never fully recuperated, perhaps having re-caught something, perhaps trying on a new bug just for kicks - I don't know. All I know is I had to buy 15 boxes of tissues at the grocer's yesterday, and am making pots of food heavy on the garlic, onions, veggies, and cayenne, and preparing herbal tea remedies that are "nasty," according to two snuffly boys.

When I started to get sick, I ignored it and kept going... through the intense and tiring homeschooling conference, through two days of running the kids, through a day of skiing... and then I woke up the next day at noon, feeling like I'd been run over by a truck. Ok, I give.

So here we are, for the fourth time in five weeks, hunkered down, a kid to each couch, movie player at the ready, library books scattered 'round, carefully measured mega-water allotments nearby, and me fetching snacks, laundering everything but the stapled-down carpet, tucking in cold bodies, rubbing aching heads, and cleaning up piles of used tissues.

I've gotta say, I'm going a little batty.

Poor Brady - he got it last and when my mama-nurturing vibes are running close to empty. Yesterday, I had to choke down my rising anger at the craziness of it all. Sometimes, I almost relish a small fever or sore throat that forces us to slow down and cancel commitments and spend a day cozied up by the fire. But enough already!

The thing that almost broke me was when Jonathan unknowingly slept with his silly putty on the new couch and the entire egg of the stuff got smashed into the cushion. Really, I had to go into the other room and shut the door and take deep breaths and rub my eyes to keep from crying or screaming or driving away into the sunset. I wasn't angry with him so much as just pissed off about the situation of being cooped up and tired of sickness. (Oh, and I'm starting a campaign to ban silly putty. Sign my petition at www.motherovertheedge.com. LOL)

So today, after Jonathan's insistence that I "never play" with him, we dragged out the Scrabble game and gave it a whirl. Jonathan queued up a whole mess of songs on iTunes, and we turned them up and sang really loud and danced around the kitchen in between scrabble turns. It was so fun!

And it was the turning point. At least for today. We might be home-bound until the gunk passes out of our systems, but I don't have to spend the days being grouchy. We can still be silly with chest colds. We can still sing with clogged heads. It doesn't sound so well, but we're germy and you're not invited over anyhow. (You really don't want this!)

Perspective

Photo: Snowy morning in January, view from our deck

During quiet moments, even as a child, I've known I am one of the lucky ones. I've often wondered why others struggled in so many ways while I lived in relative ease and calm and comfort. Who decides who among us get born into a life of poverty, abuse, illness or tragedy? And is there, contained within my privilege, an obligation to those less fortunate? A responsibility to do something larger?

When kids in high school ranted on about how much they hated their parents or about how their lives were so miserable (and some were), I remained supportive yet silent. It's no easy task to refrain from chiming in with an, "I hate my parents too!" when acceptance and conformity were the social lifelines of the day, but it simply wasn't true. I found other ways to act in solidarity with those struggling friends without selling out my family (or my own dignity) by lying. Fact is, I had it pretty damn good and I knew it. And knowing how emotionally high-maintenance I've always been, it was even more clear that I should appreciate those who suffered me through my growing pains.

That was the thing I chose to tell Rob during our recommitment ceremony, when our church offered a quiet and private opportunity to renew our vows. We were asked to think on one thing that stood out for us that we so loved about our spouses, and then share them privately with each other. Ever the rule-breaker, I of course had a couple things to say (how can you choose just one?), but most important was my deep appreciation that Rob unfailingly stands by me through my tidal waves of emotions, and is always there on the other side waiting for me, without judgment, when I crash from the ride. And as with my parents, I know that while I can think of a zillion petty things to complain about (and do) I cannot ever claim to be alone or unsupported. Because I'm not.

I think now, those moments of quiet, when I pondered my lucky fate in life, those moments were building a foundation for future struggles. Now that life has dealt me a bit of perspective, I can work to place this pain and sadness on the continuum and see that while this past year has had its share of darkness, there has been far more light in my life. I'm not only glad I know it now, as I tentatively emerge from this dark hole of grief and dip a toe back into living again, but I'm so-so-so glad I knew it then, even before I had the opposing dark to expose the light. Because I took those moments to thank the universe for its blessings, and I accepted the responsibility contained within that grace, to feel deep feelings of empathy and love for those less fortunate and to hopefully, on occasion, express my gratitude to those who made it so.

I told my mom the other day, now I know why adults are no fun. I recall whining at my parents on occasion, when I was a teen, that they were no fun. Why didn't they go out with friends more? Why the seriousness all the time? Why not let loose and laugh until your sides hurt and act spontaneously? They just smiled.

I now understand that once that innocence is stolen, it marks a new phase. And now things that should and can be happy and joyful are tempered with worry and caution and "please don't let anything bad happen" kinds of neuroses. And while we say "Oh, you can't live like that," we know that we can, and we do. As parents, we see visions of our toddlers having tragic accidents because we turn our heads for just a second. We imagine all manner of horrid possibilities when our teens hitch a ride with a friend. We get a little nutty about knee pads and bike helmets and looking both ways a thousand times before crossing the street and not being able to look when they swing from the top of the jungle gym or an uncle tosses them into the air. Things that occur millions of times without incident, though we know it only takes that one time....

When I agitate on tragic moments, I lament that could we retrieve just five seconds, would that have made a difference...

Rob wisely pointed out that it probably makes a difference every single time. When we had this conversation, he'd just run back into our friends' house after realizing we'd left something behind, and he commented... did leaving 30 seconds later than planned save us from a tragic fate? Or put us closer to harm's way? Is there some sort of divine predetermination about these things? Are some of us destined to live only short lives while others trudge through a century of mostly-healthy years like my still-living almost-95 year old grandmother?

And so it is that another tragedy has occurred... 16 year old Kaitlin Miller, family friend, was killed in a skiing accident last Saturday. She was skiing fast, she fell down, she hit her head, and she died. When I heard the news from a friend, I had to call back a few minutes later and ask.... are you sure.... because I just couldn't wrap my head around it.

I won't attempt to memorialize Kaitlin here, to lay claim to something that is not my right. But when one of us loses a child, we all lose a child. And the pain we all feel for the Miller family goes as deep as any pain has ever gone. There are no words to say, no deeds to lessen their sorrow. We can only grieve with them and for them and let them know they are not alone through this.

Life can be so incredibly cruel. And while this tragedy doesn't lessen my pain for my father, it adds another layer of perspective to it. That was the "proper" order of things - my father was supposed to go before me. Just not yet. But this... the loss of a child shakes every foundation and shows just how little control we actually have.

But Kaitlin knew what she had, too. Her parents found notebooks she'd kept, containing all the little inspirational notes her father had written and left for her at various times ("She was my project," he told us), but also notes of affirmation she'd written for herself, acknowledging her weaknesses to be worked on and her strengths to be celebrated. What amazing insight for so few years.

So, while it's difficult to see in the looming darkness, the examples are still before us. Be grateful for what we have. Acknowledge the goodness that is our fortune. File it away for when the time comes to draw upon the strength of it. Seek light and bask in its warmth.

And to Kaitlin and my father and all those who travel on ahead of us.....

May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face; the rains fall soft upon your fields.... and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

~Namaste~

Masquerading Sadness

Photo: Jonathan with his regular order - a bacon cheeseburger

When we're tender from tragedy, grief wears many disguises. One can attend a function on auto-pilot and have concerned friends misinterpret it as "handling this so well." We can get annoyed with one another for not intuiting our needs. And anger can crack like a whip over seemingly trivial things.

The early days of grieving were marked with much confusion and little activity, and so it may have been an act of insanity to attempt anything so bold as an outing with the kids. But in a misguided move toward normalcy, Mom and I struck out one day, only two weeks after my dad's death, to take the grandkids to see a movie.

I didn't have the mindfulness thing quite down yet at that point, it was much too early. With time, I've become more discerning in discovering the triggers we all have, and therefore can back up and mend fences before the cows run amok. Most times. On the movie day, though, I let a simple thing turn into something big and ugly.

Hungry but not in the mood to cook, we stopped for sub sandwiches after the movie. A video gaming shop was next door, so Jonathan gave a quick order and the older kids left to browse gaming shelves while we picked up the food. My mother and I made our executive ordering decisions (we had five more at home to feed, in addition to our movie-going group) and ordered four big sandwiches, one of which was similar to what Jonathan asked for.

The dinner time was a loud affair, with mom cutting fruit, me cutting sandwiches, and the kids tossing all the couch pillows on the floor for some jumping. I served Jonathan his sandwich slice and even picked off the tomato since I knew he'd frown at it. Well, the sandwich had some kind of sauce spread on it and he complained it wasn't what he'd asked for. So I began offering all sorts of remedies. I'll scrape the sauce off. I'll get different bread. I have ham in the fridge and will make a new sandwich. But he continued to explain, tearfully and red-faced, that this wasn't what he'd asked for.

I wasn't angry or frustrated, and I was lovingly "fixing" the problem. Well, he refused to eat the sandwich, refused my offers for something different, and decided not to eat anything at all.

Jonathan's grandpa had died, unexpectedly, three weeks before. We were all extraordinarily fragile right then. Jonathan hadn't eaten any food before dinnertime on one single day since my father had died. And this movie-sub sandwich outing was our first venture back into life outside our dark grief. And I ordered the wrong damn sub.

When I told an acquaintance about it, who had, incidentally, just lost her daughter to cancer, she said, "I've been taking many, many deep breaths and reminding myself ***DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY!*** and soon it's really not about the sandwich anymore, it's just sadness leaking out disguised as anger and frustration."

I went to Jonathan and I held him and told him I was sorry I didn't order the sandwich he'd asked for. I'd made a mistake. I should have ordered the right one. He said, "Ok" and we were better. Not fixed, but better.

It might sound crazy, but if it wasn't for the amazing insights I glean from people further down the path than I, people who help me see how even - or especially - the slightest change in perspective can improve our lives, that scenario would've ended much differently. That night, Jonathan had one of his worst nights yet, coming to bed with me, choking back tears, saying he couldn't sleep, didn't feel well, and fidgeting late into the night. Everything makes a difference. And that day's lesson woke me up.

Dear Watcher

Today, as I was working on a column to submit to a magazine, I needed to find an old column I'd written. So I went to Brady's computer (my old computer) to find them. This activity, of course, led me WAY off-course, as I read through old documents and got lost in the memories. One delightful little tidbit I came upon was a letter I wrote to my "Watcher" - that nasty naysayer who lives inside my head. You know the one... The Voice who tells me I'm not good enough to be a writer. The well-disguised 'distractor' who pulls me away from my focus.

I find the letter to be still relevant, though thankfully less so. I believe it was a writing assignment from "The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity " - a book by Julia Cameron. I highly recommend it if you have any sort of creative block. (Or even if you don't.)

I had something similar hung above my computer for a while, a reminder to stop worrying and fretting and to just do it. Finding this letter was an interesting opportunity to think about my watcher, see if it has the same hold on me. I'm happy to say it doesn't. It's still there, but I'm more apt to knock that shameless naysayer smack upside the head. Who is your watcher? What would you say to it?


Dear Watcher,

I’m not even sure what to say to you, because I’m not sure yet that I write often enough for you to get a good hold of me. Or maybe it’s you I’m grappling with, who tightens the feeling around my neck when I can’t write about something, who keeps me away from the computer and busy doing laundry and floor sweeping and other tasks that seem more important but are really just an excuse.

Perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving me alone for awhile. I mean, you just made me go back and delete that extra space in the word awhile, between the ‘a’ and the ‘w’, even though I’m supposed to be writing stream of consciousness and not worrying about editing. I know it’s because I’m on a computer and it’s easier to go back quickly. But I think that during these exercises I’m supposed to just go on, and not edit. So if you would, please, settle down – we can edit later.

I would also appreciate it if you would not be so hard on me when I read the work of another. You immediately start telling me that I’m not nearly as good as that writer, that I don’t have a grasp on any subject like those others writers do, that I have no expertise in any area that would give me permission to write about it. I know all those things and it makes it worse that you confirm them. Why don’t you kindly nudge me to try anyway? Why don’t you tell me that perhaps I can tackle a subject in a different way, a way that might grab different people from the ones who are reading the "competitor’s" work? And why did you just use the word competitor? That’s crazy. We don’t need to see it like that any more.

Please don’t expect me to grasp the ‘wow’ of a passage and get to it on the first attempt. Writers have gone raving mad while trying to write, get their deepest thoughts out, make their best story gel together. Why should I have any less of a time with it? Of course I’m going to screw it up more often than not. Do you think painters or potters are any different? Do you think they pump out perfection each time they work? Isn’t it a constant journey toward betterment, but never achieving perfection?

You need to allow me to write more often, and you need to stop telling me that laundry and dishes are more important, because they’re not. They’ll still be there later, but my spark of an idea for a column or story may not. You need to remind me to carry my notebook with me so I can jot down those ideas that came to me all week but didn’t write down because I was thinking like a writer but not acting like one yet. You need to support me in the attempt and not be so hard on me when I write nothing but drivel. And you need to focus on me, not on others. I am having trouble justifying my need to write and I need someone in my corner, not adding to my fears.

If you could try a little harder, well, that would be lovely.

Warm regards,
Laura

Word Cloud

Here's my word cloud from snapshirts.com, where they search my blog for the most oft-used words.... Fun!

Expressions

Photo: Lone Tree that caught Brady's eye

As I sat down to write this morning, I found my time taken up instead by perusing old writings. I have several book beginnings (but no books), many journal entries, and columns written for newsletters, magazine submissions, and this blog. Reading through my writings on grief, I was taken back to the earliest days and the heaviness of that time. I'm grateful I penned much of it, because already I'd forgotten some things. I only wish I'd written more, and more often. It is good to remember.

Somehow, that's a difficult thing for me. I can recall emotions and feelings and senses about things, but not necessarily the particulars. Those are better kept by journaling - if only I'd stick with it more regularly. One particular journal entry I titled, "Expressions." I share some of it now for the beauty it contains, a small memory of the kids and some ways they processed their own grief during the intense, early days.

"My life is a topsy-turvy inner struggle right now, as I shut out the world and wrestle with the demons death has rained upon me. I'm having incredible dreams, and so many thoughts are visiting, so many things to ponder, memories to revisit, new feelings and experiences and perspectives to absorb and sit with... I feel like I've shed my old skin, and it will be amusing to see what my new skin looks like in time. For now, I am home - tending my mother, making muffins, barely getting dressed, and screening my calls. I feel like I'm visiting every ounce of sadness I've ever known, and taking the long rest that I've needed for a long, long time.

The kids' expressions of grief have been incredibly moving and powerful, even when they seem simple. My niece Ana (7) wrote a letter to my mom asking if she should sleep with her, and she drew a picture of grandma alone in bed and wrote "Lonely Grandma" above it. Niece Maddie (4) drew a picture of her and Papa John, with hundreds of tears streaming down their cheeks and onto the ground, even though she had declared, "Everyone is crying for Papa so I'm not going to cry." My son Brady (13) says he has conversations with his grandpa, and feels comfort in hearing his voice. He also decided to play basketball because Papa John had just taught him how to shoot baskets, 4 days before he died, and told Brady he is a natural. And my son Jonathan (9), true to his quirkiness, picked all the hard-boiled egg pieces out of his tuna sandwich, formed them into a sad face on his plate, and said, "This is my face ever since Papa John died."

I worry about my mother, and that gives me reason to rise in the morning and something to tend to. She is so scared and lost. There is no place where Dad's absence isn't deeply felt - he was everywhere, very very present. Funny, we used to complain about it.

Dad was quite the busy-butt, and he was *everywhere*. So his absence is so great and obvious and painful. There were 2,000 people at his visitation! I met people whose names I'd heard my entire life, since Dad was quite the storyteller. I only wish I'd met them under different circumstances, of course. Oh how Dad would've loved all his favorite people in one spot. He was a tried and true extrovert, who loved everyone he met. So many people said to me that Dad was the only person who ever treated them like they were human beings. The outpouring of love and sentiments and stories has been very healing, and very surprising. I knew Dad knew many people, but really.... "

The days have grown a bit easier, finally... the highs get a little higher each time, while the lows catch me more and more by surprise when they strike. The other day I attended a conflict resolution session, sure to be rife with emotion. I was fine up until the moment I walked in, when I suddenly felt very weepy. It seems I can operate if things are on an even keel, but if I have to dig into anything, it slices me wide open. This fragility is difficult.

And on we press.

~Namaste~

Pondering Patterns

Photo: Walking the labyrinth at Sinsinawa Mound, Women's Retreat

I've always needed help discovering my own rhythms, patterns, and needs. Countless times my mother has wisely interpreted my situation, pointing out the simplest things before they registered on my own radar. Usually, it's when I get sick or "hit a wall," as I call it. I will wonder why I've suddenly crashed and Mom will gently point out how busy I've been, how many things I've been juggling, how it's no wonder my body said "no more." And then when I think on it, I see she's right. Funny how someone else can see the inevitable crash coming, and I haven't yet learned to always sense it myself.

That's probably because I've got a lot of my father in me. I can go and go and go... and then things get all a'jumble. I start forgetting things, I get weepy or easily angered, and bam - I crash. But Dad rarely crashed. I don't think he ever crashed in the early days. He just kept on. That man had more energy than the rest of us put together, and it made for some unreasonable expectations. I once told him, after he'd complained about the lack of work ethic in someone else, that his comparison was unfair since his work ethic was not only off the charts, but so far off into the ozone as to never be seen with the naked eye. That man could work.

Not just physical work, though that was his forte (my Dad is probably one of few who'd regularly utter things like, "Why use a bulldozer to take down that silo when I can do it with my bare hands?" - and damn if he didn't actually do it), but cognitive 'work' as well. My father was a "man with a plan." No, not 'a' plan, several plans. He was always planning, and if the physical labor under his heavy hand didn't wear us out, his "I've been thinking...." did. If he wasn't making plans for the upkeep of the family farm, or my brother Matt's future, or the extra acreage I've let grown wild, or for the school district funding, or his insurance business, or Rob's career in insurance - and so on - he wasn't awake. He couldn't stop himself, we know now. It was a compulsion for him, as thrill-seeking is for others.

But he slowed down in the later years. Finally. It'd been a long time coming, and perhaps, too late. He drove himself too hard. For too long. He looked tired. He was tired.

And now without his intense energy and constant oversight, we struggle to get our bearings. We create new patterns, though for most of us, at a much less frenetic pace without Dad hovering over us. Not so with sister Jackie. She has taken over Dad's role as farm manager, and as if that wasn't enough to learn by immersion, she also took a part-time job with the Natural Land Institute. This, from my introverted, content-with-the-simple-things-in-life, mother-of-three sister. And I, the one who thrives on busy-ness like my father (though still out of his league), have grown more and more quiet, seeking solitude in the quiet spaces that I didn't notice before in my mad rush of living.

And Mom, well, now I'm the one to notice her patterns as they unfold. One particularly striking one is that at the moment when we notice, "Wow, she's doing really well today," we now follow it with, "Too well," as we've learned it's the high before the plummeting low. And we struggle on with our own unreasonable expectations and compulsions. Jackie, to fill the spaces with farm work, farm business, and her new job, and Mom, to "be fine" when she's really not.

My new patterns have brought some good from the bad, though, and I can't deny it. In my quietness, I've learned that in all my seeking and searching "out there," I have what I need right in front of me. It's made me not only appreciate but finally understand that I can easily miss what's right here when I'm so focused on other things and other places. It's brought a sense of calm I've never known. When I'm not pulled in a million different directions, I can more easily attend to the tasks at hand, put more of myself into them, give more than just a fleeting, scheduled, allotted-amount-of-time sort of attention, but rather the full me.

Everything takes on a new depth and meaning with this sort of acuity. Cooking has become less harried and more nurturing - both the ingredients chosen with greater care, and the actual meditative and therapeutic act of preparing itself - as I engage with more mindfulness. Tending to daily tasks can remind me to be appreciative that I actually have the time and I'm not doing them in a mad rush or with rising resentment, as was often the case. And answering a child's request for attention with actual undivided attention is a gift of presence, and serves to give on many levels.

At my last women's retreat, a friend led us in meditation. Many of us were rather new to it, and wondered if we could actually accomplish the 20-minute goal set for us. I was more able to settle than I expected. Before, and not so long ago, I'd have fought to contain my fidgeting, struggled to focus on something other than those around me, and spent most of the time trying to get relaxed so I could begin. But this new awareness, this new mindfulness, allows me to have a sort of tunnel vision that is freshly satisfying. It's not even something I asked for - it's something I needed and didn't know it.

Is this the sort of silver lining that comes from tragedy and great pain? I don't know. I know now that I can't control all the changes that come from such a life-altering event, and I see now that the lessons that come from pain are very different from the lessons that emerge from joy. When we experience a transition that is joyous, such as marriage, or the birth of a child, or having a new friend, the lessons come of willingness and eagerness and seeking. When our transition comes from pain, the lessons come of survival.

On an unschooling e-zine I read last night, a reader asked unschooling mother and author Rue Cream, "What’s something you keep in mind to help you be the kind of mother you want to be?" and she replied, "Memories."

She shares her fond memories of childhood with her children, but she also suggests that we know not which moments become the fondest memories of our own children, and so therefore ought to make each moment meaningful. Or put a different way, to be mindful so every moment and its choices are based in love, freedom, and respect. Put that way, how we answer our child's request for yet another drink of water provides an opportunity to deepen a pattern of mindfulness or a pattern of angst. Which shall we choose?

Finding this solitude within myself is a true gift, and it soothes that restlessness that I once saw as a 'given' part of my make-up that I must accept and obey. If the loss of my father has given me the gift of awareness, then his giving to me doesn't stop with his absence. It continues on. As we will continue on, taking up some of his patterns, like storytelling, and discarding others, like taking down silos with a sledge hammer, and ever mindful that through his example and in these days of retreat and healing, we continue to grow and become better.

~Namaste~

Tucson, AZ Trip Photos

Photo: Before our jog, to work off all that food!
Photo: dinner date
Photo: a work of art - Key Lime Pie at Wildflower restaurant
Photo: The fountain at the Westin La Paloma resort

Tucson, AZ Trip

Photo: amazing bougainvillea outside La Fuente Mexican Eatery
Photo: before final night dinner reception

Photo: rest stop on Catalina Mountain hike

Coffee Confusion

"God of the Wild, you are different from what I expected. I cannot predict you. You are too free to be captured for the sake of my understanding. I can't find you in the sentimentalism of religion. You are everywhere I least expect to find you. You are not the force that saves me from the pain of living; you are the force that brings me life even in the midst of pain." ~Adolfo Quezada

Irony is sometimes cruel.

On the day of my father's death, I was attending a homeschooling conference in Arlington Heights. It's an annual conference and we've attended every one for the past seven years. Consider us junkies. It's a family affair; workshops for adults, workshops for kids, a massive vendor hall, and a hotel teeming with homeschoolers. It's a yearly getaway for us as a family, a yearly pep talk for me.

My father and I were planning to take a trip together. We'd talked of it for years and had looked at everything from a hike through Nepal to a stay on an Idaho ranch; from a rigorous backpacking experience to a cushy inn-to-inn hop while others tote our belongings. Dad urged me to decide, to pick a date. I thought I had all the time in the world. I mean, I was busy! I'd get to it soon enough.

During this year's conference I registered for three workshops that were conducted by parents and their children. Now that Brady is a teen, I thought it would be wonderful to hear from some homeschoolers on the tail end of the journey. The workshop I attended that morning was about road trips...

The road trip workshop was given by a father and his teenage son. They take an annual road trip that spans as much as a month. Each year they select a different destination and painstakingly plan their itinerary, each choosing their "must see" attractions and also allowing for down time and off-the-path wanderings. Their enthusiasm for their yearly ritual was intoxicating... they finished each other's sentences, laughed deeply as they recalled stories of mishaps and unexpected adventures, and had the entire audience smiling and vowing to start such a tradition for ourselves and our children. Or for me, with my father.

After the workshop I spoke with the man and his son to tell them I, too, was planning a long overdue road trip with MY dad. I bought their $3 booklet on frugal travel tips. I told them I was inspired by their talk, and left with a renewed commitment to my dad and our own travel plans. Dad would be so happy....

On the way to the next workshop I grabbed a french vanilla latte. I love coffee; coffee does not love me. Coffee can sometimes set my stomach in snarls, but I can usually get away with an occasional splurge and this was such an occasion.

I was quite eager to attend the next workshop, given by the keynote speaker, Pat Farenga. But when I got there I felt unsettled. My stomach was doing loops. I'd only consumed perhaps a sip or two of the coffee, so I was quite surprised it would affect me that quickly. I fidgeted in my seat; I tossed and turned. I kept muttering, "This damn coffee," and finally, feeling more uneasy than is reasonable, I got up and marched down the hallway to throw out the cup and pace for a few moments to calm myself down. I had no idea why I was feeling so suddenly distraught. I returned to the workshop and my friend Kristin, sitting next to me, frowned in that concerned "what's up?" sort of way.

I managed to wait out the rest of the workshop and next was lunch. I had plans to meet up with some women I'd met online (to chat about unschooling of course) but first I needed to check in with the family, make sure Rob and the kids found each other. The elevator area was a zoo, so I took off down a hallway to find a staircase. I finally found one, in an obscure faraway location. I opened the door to the stairwell and there was Rob - white as a ghost. He'd taken the phone call from my brother that there'd been an accident.

The rest resides in my memory in fits and starts. Dad. Snowmobile. Airlifted to a trauma center. Internal bleeding. Don't know how bad. Can't be good. We should go.

Time of the accident.... 10:30. Where I was at the time of the accident.... fidgeting in Pat Farenga's workshop, blaming coffee.

Grieving for not taking a trip with Dad... well, it's just another of those things. I saw my dad often; our lives were intertwined. I am one of the fortunate who can say there wasn't lost time. And I'm so thankful for that.

But I can't get over the amazing power of connection that allowed me to sense something was amiss. I believe we all carry within us greater powers of intuition and clairvoyance than we know; they're simply dormant from lack of use. And the sting of irony... well, such is the way of things sometimes.

~Namaste~

Evolving Mantras

Photo: Martha, Diane, Me, Dana at women's retreat

The other day I told a friend it seems there has been some sort of seismic universe shake-up this year. I am different now. Every cell of my being is changed. Nothing will ever be the same. Things are just not right.

To be expected, I suppose, given that my father died in March, six days before my birthday. (When we scrabbled together a fragmented birthday party, I opened a card that said "Love, Mom & Dad." Mom's color drained as I opened it, and that was the end of the charade.) But it's not just that - all manner of things have gone askew this year.

I won't list them, because tempting as it is, I will continue to travel the high road (new mantra #1) - those folks who've thrown obstacles in my path know who they are.

I suppose it's just as well - I mean, this year is already ruined. But these crises, coming one on top of the other, well - they offend me. I was doing quite well at grieving, if I do say so myself. My friends knew I was going to be quiet and reclusive for a while. My children understood that some days are weepy and others are dry. And I was really trying to give in to the grief.... avoiding the process would mean carrying around a sickness in my soul.

So as the other problems arose over the past few months, well, they distracted me from my grieving. Emotionally unstable, I was afraid to make decisions and unsure what to make of the additional stress. They were a rude interruption to my grieving and it was only recently, as things seemed to settle for a short while, that the anger struck like a lightning bolt. How dare they? What the hell is the matter with people?! I need to grieve for my father, I need to reinvent myself and my way of being in the world without him, and yet I've had to deal with some very unsavory things. Mantra #2 - People Suck.

Always one to 'seek the lesson', I pondered the possibility of karma. I admit I've always had a rather easy go of things... I've even felt somehow protected, grateful that the ugly side of life had not visited me, and often wondered why I was so lucky. So perhaps this is just my time? My year of reckoning? I shared this thought with my grandma Alice. She told me there doesn't have to be a lesson. She said, "Oh honey, you're just emotionally exhausted, that's all" and held me while I had a good cry.

The stress of dealing with many big things at once had me quite nervous and shaken, and so a retreat with some of my favorite women friends was a welcome refuge. As we sat in circle, someone asked me to share all that had been happening. Too tired to rehash everything, I gave the short version. As I told my stories I got more and more riled up, and I suddenly felt a new clarity. I used to be quite confident and out-spoken, but these past many years have been marked by a 'softer' me - a kinder, more empathetic, inclusive me. It served me well for those years of childrearing, homeschooling, and networking. But now... these times call for a new spark. Or an old one, rekindled.

After sharing my utter disgust with certain things and certain people, one wise and wonderful friend blurted out, "Oh, f*ck that sh*t!" The severity of the comment gave us all fits of laughter, and first I replied, "Yeah! F*ck that sh*t!" And next thing you know, she laughed, "Let's all say it together! One... two... three.... F*CK THAT SH*T!"

Definitely mantra #3.

There is freedom in accepting that some things are just ugly, and I don't have to fix them. So here I sit, acknowledging that some things can't be fixed and that's ok. If this year has taught me anything, it's that. I will take the high road for my own integrity and peace of mind, but I will walk away from darkness and seek light. When people suck, I don't have stick around and be the punching bag. F*ck that sh*t. I've got bigger things to attend to.

"Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life exists in the elimination of non-essentials." ~ Lin Yutang

~Namaste~