Successfully Being

I must admit, being a mother is exhausting.  Like really tiring.  I'm not sure if all moms feel this way, but I have a hunch most do.  I have spent innumerable hours examining and re-examining the art of parenting, trying to reflect on my approach, and improve day after day after day.  I've read books, attended classes, spent hours talking to counselors and therapists and educators.  

Years ago when I had three boys under four years old running around (or laying there and screaming, as the case may be) I developed an obsession with puzzle books.  Every night before I went to sleep, I could be found figuring out logic problems or finishing crossword puzzles.  It was relief to me -- in a whole day where there was no 'atta girl' or definitive right or wrong, but just me just trying all day long to not wreck the potential of these small people too much -- well, to find something at the end of the day that had a right answer -- black and white -- it was like answered prayers to me.  I also remember compulsively reconciling the checking account at this time.  I needed, at some point in my life, a tether to hang on to...add it all up so it all checked out. 

So fast forward 17 years and we find ourselves on the verge of adulthood with some of these boys.  The oldest, by far, has been the most challenging to parent because he does not now, nor has he ever, fit nicely and neatly into a socially acceptable box.  He's a brilliant thinker, a social awkward (I've just now made that word a noun), a kind, gentle soul in a nearing giant man's body.  It's been suggested to me throughout his life that he's mentally handicapped, autistic, or in need of medication.  He's easily distracted, not likely to do or turn in homework, never going to move at the speed I think he should.  

He loves being outdoors.  He loves the night.  He loves thoughts and ideas and contemplation and quiet and repetition and disorder.  He's forgetful and comical and sometimes at the center of what looks to be near disaster.  He often doesn't do what I want or what I think he should.  

And I'm reminded of a class I took once.  Yes, on parenting.  Where the instructor started off (I've taken this class more than once, so I remember) with this thought:  If you're a parent and you're successful, it's a recipe for disaster.  You want your kids to do well, be successful, and you know how....so it's logic...you'll want to do it (it = life, school, social interactions, etc.) for them or micromanage the way they do it.  When, in reality, the art of parenting is letting the kids experience their own it (their own consequences of action and inaction in life, school, social interactions, etc.).  And then, consequently, they get to experience their own successes, too. 

So with this oldest boy...that's a hard task most days...letting him be to do 'it' his own way.  I'm efficient.  I'm a taskmaster.  I'm fairly organized.  And so I spend some time of each week questioning WHY he can't be like me.  Right?

And it's recently occurred to me...his successful life is not going to look anything like I think a successful life should look like.  Except it will look exactly like what I think a successful life should look like.

He hasn't let this world warp him.  He's stayed true to himself through my criticisms or his failures in our society.  He has kept his quiet gentleness even though everything in boy and man culture says not to.  He's practiced in the art of being.  He's spent time defining his ideals and has tried to move in a direction to support those ideals.  

So a few things happened after I had this realization...that his successful life won't be defined by ME (gasp)...

First, I heard the story of Johnny Appleseed read aloud in a first grade classroom.  And I realized we, as a people, DO celebrate the Johnny Appleseeds of this world.  There is a place for the introspective wanderers among us.  

Second, I went on vacation.  And while on vacation, I spent some time running in the great outdoors...here....

...one morning happening upon a coyote in pursuit of its morning meal.  

As I was crouched down on the side of the trail...

...a man came up next to me.  We got to chatting.  He told me about himself as we both sat transfixed on the sight before us.  He told me he'd just packed it all in.  Finished grad school.  Quit his full-time job, bought a car, sold everything else he owned, and decided to take to the road.  Travel 'til he found what he was looking for.  Be outside.  Sleep amongst the stars.  Wander and think.  I felt like I was talking to a future version of my oldest son.  Or Johnny Appleseed.  Albeit, with a larger carbon footprint.

Of course, this is what I asked, "What does your mother think?"  She didn't approve, he told me.  Then he told me he was happier than he'd ever been.  Sleeping out there amongst the stars.  On the side of the trail right then.  There watching that coyote.  

I told him I didn't understand.  I told him about my oldest.  I told him I sympathized with his mother.  

And then he told me something that I had never considered.  He said, "Really?  You don't understand? You, out here in the middle of nowhere, by yourself, watching a coyote stalk its morning meal, talking to a perfect stranger?  You don't understand?  It sounds like whoever your son is, he's just like you."

And this is why I run.  And occasionally stop to watch wild animals.  And always talk to strangers.  

And why I'm thankful for this path I get to walk with these people...perfect strangers and oldest sons alike...

Showdown At the Okay Corral (Oh, The People You'll Meet Pt. II)

Yes, yes...I know it's 'O.K. Corral' but I'm a typist by trade.  And more importantly, it's REALLY the 'Okay Corral' here.  Trust me. 

There are some times in this life when if feels like the Universe has LEFT THE BUILDING.  The earth is spinning off its axis.  The inane is normal and the normal is clearly in hiding with Witness Protection.  

And at certain rare times the usual outlets for process, reflection, quietude are just as absent as the normal and all that's left to do is this: 

1) Put on loud music

2) I mean REALLY loud music

3) Put on running shoes

4) Abandon all the undoneness present 

5) Hair in pigtails

6) Open the front door

7) Run away from home

At these certain inexplicable moments, I've found prayers full of expletives to be particularly effective at eliciting a response from the Universe.  Mine usually sound like this:

(WARNING:  If you are faint of heart or opposed to swear words, don't bother reading on.)

"What the fuck?  You have got to be fucking kidding me.  Now if all this ridiculousness is REALLY the way this is supposed to be the way it is, then send a fucking sign."

And voila: 

I'm sure some just take this as a quarter.  They're free to.  I get a certain relief from believing that I'm getting reassurance -- everything is just fine.  

So today, I'm driving all around hell and gone.  And I see this bumper sticker:  Try Wait...  I don't wait for much.  I'm impatient.  I'm fidgety.  I'm efficient and I want the Universe to be efficient, too, goddammit.  

But it stuck with me.  And I thought to myself, today -- just today, I'm going to TRY WAIT.  

So time passes.  Miles pass.  Headed home.  I see, on the side of the road a few miles from my house, a person on a horse with two pack horses behind him.  I think a million thoughts all at once.  Who is that?  Where are they coming from?  Where are they headed?  How do they know they can pass on that property?  What the fuck?  Who does that?  I WILL NEVER KNOW.  

So time passes.  I -- having another day, like the few preceding it, that seems particularly Universe Left The Building-esque, so I do #1-#7 above and resolve to have a few more choice words with whatever or whoever listens.  

I'm in a state of NON-acceptance.  I'd prefer things to be a bit different.  And they're not.  There's a divide between the way things are and how I think they should be.  And so I'm in unrest.  And I let it all out in my run.  Whenever I got to the What the fucks? or the You've got to be fucking kidding mes...well, money appeared in my way.  

I rounded the corner to come home and who should I run into but Man On Horse With Two Pack Horses Trailing.  I WILL KNOW.  

I didn't find out this name.  But he comes from Montana.  Going to Big Sur, a few hours north of here.  Via Mexico, which I guess you can safely say is the scenic route.  I was intrigued.  A Johnny Appleseed among us?  Adventurer?  I got to ask all my questions and saved the best for last.  How long has it taken you to get here from Montana?  

He replied, 'Since 1993.'

Try Wait embodied.  

Be patient.  The Universe whispered it to me today.  The answers will come.  And furthermore, it will all be Okay (even outside the Corral).

And of course, it was clear, my magic money finds of the day -- well, they belonged to him.  

Half-Life

I love the idea of half-life.  Partly because math isn't my strong suit, and so the idea that something is half diminished, but not really half gone is intriguing and a bit mysterious.  The reality that half-life time isn't half of the life of something, because right around the corner there will be another half-life, then another, and another -- well, as I said, I'm not a mathematician nor a physicist nor a chemist, so don't rain on my parade if my notion is slightly (or a lot) off -- but half-life seems hopeful.  Like what's on the other side of half-life can be whole-life.  Times infinity.

Except in my house, because if you said that in my house, you'd hear a common refrain:  "Infinity's not a number!  It's a concept." 

So I can't have my half-life turn into whole-life times infinity, but I think as I sit perched on what feels like my half-life, what lies before me feels and looks like whole-life.  If not whole-life plus one.

A friend asked me what I was going to do for my birthday.  I said write a blog post.  She said, "No, I mean, what fun thing are you going to do?"  And such is life.  Whole-life.

I had another friend ask me how I felt about turning 40.  I told him plainly, "It's a timestamp moment.  One of those times in life when you take a look around and appraise the situation.  What have I done and accomplished?  What did I set out to do and accomplish?  Have I become the person I was thinking I'd become?  What more do I have to do?  What more do I want to be?"

He asked about my four kids, where they fit in to what I wanted to do and be.  And I've had to put that in my pipe, so to speak, and think on that.  It's a tricky question.  For me.  

Taking stock is something I do daily.  I've been trained in it over the last many years.  I've had masters show me the way of self-less and thorough inventorying of character assets and character liabilities.  I've been required -- for happy living -- to take note of what's gone well and what went bust in my days.  I've had to -- as I've mentioned before -- course correct, sometimes like fine-tuning, sometimes like changing trains mid-trip -- a full rearrangement of self.

Here's what I see on a look back:  I haven't traveled as much as I thought I would, should or wanted to. I always imagined I'd end up traveling for a living, and that hasn't happened.  In fact, I haven't ever been to Canada or fully into Mexico or even Hawaii for that matter.  I've only been to Europe twice and those were brief stays.  Visited East Africa for a while, which is probably, to date, one of my life's best traveling highlights.  However, the countless road trips I've taken with my boys...well, those are priceless.  I am a SUCKER for a road trip, especially one with good company, oddities, and country roads.  Life with few expectations and the only known is what is unknown.  I can really get into it.  I've loved the parts of the US we've seen together.  I love that we've visited some twice...places we like so much we wanted to go back.  I'm blessed to have quality traveling partners in this life.

Career -- I don't have a retirement account.  I barely have enough quarters for Social Security.  I've given much of me and my life's energy into the growing of a family, not a bank account.  But the growing of that family gave me the best calling....midwife.  And so my job isn't really a job, but a blessing.  And I'm thankful to have found a place where my life falls together.  Going to work, for me, often feels like going to church...and I wouldn't trade that for all the tea in China or a retirement account (but ask me again when I'm of retirement age).

Friends...my life overflows with lifelong and newfound friends.  If there is any aspect of my life that's in deficit, it's because my friend life is in surplus.  Except not really a surplus, because each one plays such a unique and valued role in my days -- each one is vital and just right, right where and how they are.  I feel fortunate to the point of tears for the intense and gratifying exchanges I have with my friends.  And if you're reading this, and you are one, I hope you know the impact you have on my days, my heart, and my psyche.  One of my life's greatest gifts...good friends.

I've been blessed with good health and the ability to see and hear amazing natural wonders.  I do not take this for granted.  I'm acutely aware that there are people who will never climb Half Dome or even Bishop's Peak.  I can't pack into my cells enough gratitude for the time I've spent outside in the dirt seeing, smelling, hearing all Nature's Grandeur.  It is really out there that I feel at peace.  Out in the green and blue.

Likely, I haven't really been 'lucky in love' as they say...but even this is a blessing.  It's given me space in my life to love people wholly -- with my whole self.  Not a romantic kind of love, but the giving kind of love.  It's one of the parts of me I like the best -- this ability to see the lovable in people, especially in people who appear unlovable.

Family...I come from a wacky and large one.  But one of the best ones I've encountered.  We circle our wagons when needed and we shove baby birds out of the nest when needed and howl at the moon together around campfires singing loudly and proudly choruses of "Hey, Jude" or "Rocky Raccoon."

I am probably not as good of a mother as I could be.  I don't like board games much -- mostly because I hate the agony of defeat and someone always seems to lose in board games.  I don't like PTA either.  Sorry.  I'm much more a behind the scenes helper mother, so running for some office, coordinating meetings for school, or being a Booster isn't anything I'm going to do.  I have to draw some lines, and that's one or some.  I'm also not going to kill myself with extracurricular activities for kids, either.  Again, sorry.  I'm sure they could've done more chess club or I should've signed them up for hip hop dance class or we could've done more language immersion or self-defense or organized sports or...or...or swim lessons.  I'm sure I could've done more.  And I didn't.  But I won't lose sleep over it.  Much.

But I have loved them madly.  Intently.  With purpose and devotion.  How could I not?  Have you met them?  They are lovable.  And my role as mother is the best place I've found for thorough self-assessment and reflection -- always room to grow.  And so much of who I have become and how I have developed over the course of the (almost) last two decades is because of their presence.  As a friend recently pointed, I may have birthed my boys, but they, in turn, have birthed me as mother.

Which brings us back to my friend's question about my boys and how being their mother fits in my 40 years.  I am sure if they hadn't been -- for whatever reason -- I would have survived and thrived.  But their existence has enriched my life in ways I could never have imagined.  And today, when I see that family photo of the five of us, I have a deep and abiding sense that this -- this here -- this is whole-life.  

"You gotta live for the one that you love, you know.

You gotta love for the life that you live, you know."

Genesis

I started running consistently four years ago.  There was a lot going on in my world four years ago, but of all the things that went on in that time period, the one event that changed me more than any other event or factor was the death of my cousin, Amber Kathleen Cremeens.  I am sure there are many people in my world and just adjacent to it who would say the same thing.  It was re-defining, that moment in time.  It caused an entire shift and recalibration in my focus and my intentions on the planet.  

It was 2009.  

I didn't know really what to do with the confusion, the grief, the unnameable emotions that were circulating inside, so I ran out the door.  Literally.  I opened the door and started running.  Running away from home at first.  Running away from the realities of life.  Running to exhaustion and rearrangement, so I could just be different, feel different, see different than when I started.  

I signed up for my first race that year -- a half marathon.  I remember registering -- late registration, the night before the race -- sobbing.  Poor registration guy probably still has PTSD from dealing with me.  I was pretty convinced I couldn't do it, but desperately needed to try.  I'd never even run 13.1 miles before.  I went straight from sobbing registration to uncontrollable digestive disorder all night long.  Who was I kidding?  There was NO WAY I could run 13.1. 

The next day, though, still with horrible stomach upset and still crying, I started running.  And almost 2.5 hours later, I was done.  And crying.  

Within four weeks, I'd signed up for a full marathon.  But this time, I knew I'd need some help.  So I called for some.  What came to me was this: 

  
It was a little charm of my cousin Amber's that had been worn by a friend of hers in the Boston Marathon and then sent on to me for me to wear in the LA Marathon.  I wore it like a vestment -- it seemed sacred, powerful, energized.  And as I cried -- again (really sobbed, I have to tell the truth) before the start of the marathon, its presence around my neck gave me comfort and strength, like a sacrament.  And it carried me through all 26.2.

But it wasn't mine to keep and I knew that and there were more people who needed it for their running odysseys.  I wore it for a while after that race and one day when I did, a friend (APH, I'm talking to you) approached and told me she owned a machine that made those exact charms.  She was kind enough to come let me make (a few) look-alike(s).  Then I finally felt free to let the original go...I had one or two made in its image.  I would be okay.  

So I sent the original on.  I've seen it in pictures around other people's necks as it has carried them along their running ventures.  I'm so happy to know it lives on.

Cut to 2013.  This year, for my 40th birthday present to myself, I signed up for a 50K.  And again, I knew I'd need some help to carry me through.  So the day before I left for the race, I dismantled a few perfectly good necklaces to make a new necklace for my look-alike charm.  It was great!  The perfect length.  Great materials.  Good clasp in the back.  I wore it from the minute I finished it until....

...well, I'm not quite sure.  All I know is it started the race with me, and it may have finished the race with me, but I have no recollection.  I can't remember taking it off or putting it in my bags.  I can't remember seeing it or feeling it except for once along my way.  

And so me, the penny finding runner...the girl who cries before races and sometimes after...who's lucky enough to find angels on the trails or at the race starts...well, I seem to have lost an angel out there, too, among the beauty of the foothills.  I'm not sure how to feel about it.  I do keep searching.  I don't feel done with that charm yet, but maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe she carried me as far as she could, and the rest is up to me.  Maybe it was time for her to be free.  Maybe it was time for me to let her go.  Or as my friend said, maybe, just maybe, it was an appropriate resting place.  Finally.

Living Lessons

I'm a goal person.  Single-minded when it comes to accomplishing something I set my sights on.  Self-serving and selfish, really.  When I buckled down and decided to finish school and sit for my exam -- well, my kids only saw the back of my head for months as I poured through books, studied online, ran out the door, just one more time, to pull another  marathon 'well woman' clinic day.  I got tired of hearing myself say, "Just one second.  I'm almost done with this question."  I told all my boys we were taking time off sports and extracurriculars -- there wasn't time for their interests and mine.  I remember amid that chaos, when I decided to take a weekend off, one of my boys baked a cake in celebration.  

For what it's worth, my boys seem to have not acquired this trait of mine.  Perhaps it's best they haven't.  I can't imagine a house where everyone (or even more than one) is focused to the point of exclusion and delay.  We'd never eat dinner, I guess.  We'd all be hunched over whatever the object of the day was ignoring each other and perseverating.  
  
And so it is with this in mind that I'm happy to announce the come-full-circle, cross-the-finish-line moment of my latest running odyssey:  The 50K.   

Every run -- training or race -- is chock full of lessons for me.  I think that's why I love being out there...my body is busy enough and my mind is quiet enough that I can see, hear, experience the lesson life lays out before me.  And almost without fail, what my MIND tells me the lesson will be before I start -- well, it hardly ever ends up being the lesson.  My mind does not know all apparently.  It is not a crystal ball.  

So this run, it didn't disappoint.  Lessons were everywhere.  

I think I asked no fewer than five people if they had any interest in running part of the race with me.  I'm NOT that way.  I'm a lone runner.  I don't run with people for a reason:  I like quiet.  So for me to ask was odd.  For me to find NOT ONE PERSON available or willing?  Well, it seemed harsh.  I've always had boys at the end of a race or people I knew in the race or something to keep me tethered.  This race had none of those things.  It was far from home.  I was anonymous.  And alone.  More alone than I was thinking I'd like or could stand.  50K...that's a long time to be by oneself.  Even for me. 

I stayed with a friend the night before the race, and as I was walking out the door that morning I was expressing my fear about being alone with my thoughts all day.  Her response?  "You're going to be running 31 miles.  I'd think your only thought will be, 'Please, don't let me die.'"  I had to laugh.  

And so I left the house, traveled to the race, believing my lesson would be how to endure 50K alone.  How to endure my mind for hours and survive.  How to travel 31 miles, up hills and down, and not quit -- in spite of wanting to.  And doing it all alone.  A lesson in meditation, solitude, aloneness.  

But as luck would have it, or maybe because the Universe is Kinder than I expect, I wasn't alone.  And at times -- hey, lady in the bright orange shorts, I'm talking to you! -- there just wasn't ENOUGH quiet.  

Races can mess with my head.  I've said this before.  And I'll say it again.  It is like a high school reunion or one of those alumni magazines where people parade their accomplishments and greatness.  Running is no different.  I purposely showed up just in time to grab my number, trying to avoid those horrible conversations.  But, alas, I couldn't avoid them altogether.  I heard people all around me -- men and women -- comparing previous race results, listing races they'd run in, speaking casually in pseudo-humility about their challenging training schedules or their rugged racing line-ups.  It's enough to make you want to vomit really.  Trust me.  

But it gives me a priceless opportunity to refine and fine-tune my focus and my mindset.  You see, I'm just there for me.  To be.  To be in the minute.  To put minutes together to make hours.  To put steps together to make miles (or kilometers in this case).  I'm not there for glory or greatness or cash or prizes.  And so these minutes, enduring people's egos and grandiosity, it gives me a moment to re-group.  To remind me to be right-sized and right-minded.  

I have to pare down all the arguments in my head about my lack of...lack of training, lack of experience, lack of endurance.  I have to carve away the weight of your greatness, because I'm only strong enough to carry me, my body, my doubts, my mind across the miles (or kilometers in this case).  I don't have enough nutrition or hydration, strength training, or mental fortitude to carry the onus of your accomplishments along for my day.  

In the first few miles, as all the runners filed through the singletrack, overhearing people's nauseating conversations was unavoidable.  I wished desperately for loud music and earbuds to drown out the lunacy.  I couldn't decide if I should fall back or push harder to get away from all the talking.  And yet, as Universal Kindness Rules, the talkers disappeared.  And what was left behind was just a lone woman.  A lone, quiet woman.  And she wasn't me.  

We introduced ourselves somewhere before the 4-mile mark (or 6.4-kilometer mark in this case).  I asked her up front how long it would take her to complete the race.  Her response?  She had NO IDEA.  She was just out to have a good day, have some quiet time, do some running.

Sole-mate.

I learned a fair bit about her over the miles.  We jockeyed back and forth, sometimes even moving along together.  Other times, one of us ran ahead while the other fell back.  She was casual.  Humble.  Quiet.  We ran along with each other for miles (or kilometers in this case) hardly saying anything.  She was graceful and rugged and common-sensical.  She barreled through water-crossings -- knee-high, frigid water-crossings -- without batting an eyelash.  She hiked up hills with incredible speed.  She jogged along, sipping water, eating salt tablets.  

We separated for good around the 20-something mile mark (yes, or the 32-something kilometer mark in this case).  And while I ran along this thought occurred to me:  The Universe is Kind.  If I'd had my pre-arranged running mates, I'd have missed this angel on the trail.  I had to have the missing to have the finding.  And so it is...and is often...the thing that looks like loss is actually the open space for gain.  The thing that looks like emptiness is really full of living...overflowing life.

Life is good.

And PS...if you are a blogger and you leave an unpublished post on your desktop on Valentine's Day, you might find this from one of the loves of your life:

mom, i love you no matter what. thank you for being my mom.

I say again...Life. Is. Good.  

Cultivation

Birthdays.  They're not my favorite.  There are too many in this house.  And spaced poorly to boot.  I should've been Jehovah's Witness when it comes to birthdays...I'd rather skip them.  I crumble under the pressure of providing a sense of celebration or fanfare.  Presents are always difficult.  I hate spending money for the sake of spending money.  I'm not a buyer of wants...I'm more of an as-needed shopper.

So this is what I offer:  Dinner of your choosing.  Cake of your choosing with our neighbors.  Presents: TBD by birthday person.

I love offering birthday meals.  The food I make -- I put love and good feelings into it.  It tastes good. I choose my ingredients with care and consciousness.  I put them together not by measurements, but by feel and by intuition and, most importantly, by taste.  Our time together around the table is another kind of gift in my book.

And cakes -- I love the birthday cakes of our past.  Each one has been a testament to where each boy was in his life at that time.  We were stuck in Batman for many, many years.  Honestly, I'm glad those days are mostly over.  How many times can a person make a Batman cake?  How many different ways?  Batman.  The Batman.  Batman Beyond.  Lego Batman.  You name, I made it.

My personal favorite birthday cake?  Glad you asked.  It's simple.  No brainer.  Carrot.

Which brings us to carrots.  One of our favorite books in this house is The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss.  If you haven't read it, here you go:

We first heard about the book from a song.  It's available here.  Well worth the listen.

So we've been reading this book and I've been thinking about that type of dedication to an eventuality that has yet to reveal itself.  It takes faith.  It takes determination, perseverance, effort.  The cultivation of something from almost nothing; the regular maintenance of a patch of blank, with merely the hope that something develops; the every day exercise of plucking out that which isn't fruitful to make space for that which is -- the task is daunting.  

And so I ask myself:  What am I cultivating?  Daily in this life, I know I'm making strides in a direction.  Most days, I'm not sure where to.  Hourly, I'm course correcting, redirecting -- my energy, my focus, my attention.  Each minute, I'm aware that there's effort involved; trudging along feels like work.  

But I found my carrot -- one of many -- the other day.  It popped up right before my eyes.  And it looked like this...

My morning was busy and full of errands.  Groceries for birthday dinner.  An agreed upon present to be bought.  More groceries for glorious cake.  And in the middle of all those errands, as I was walking to my car, my cart full up of ingredients for a life well-lived topped off by a huge, gift-wrapped, luxurious present, I passed a man.  With a sign.  "Hungry.  Homeless.  Anything helps."  We made eye contact, with a knowing head nod, as I passed by to my car.  

As I started unloading my goods into my car, the conversation in my head sounded like this, and LOUD:  I am the single mother of four boys.  I have three, four jobs.  I work tirelessly to provide for my family.  What is my obligation to him?  Am I only feeding his dependence on hand-outs if I give him something?  Should I give him food instead of money?  What's my responsibility here?  To my kids?  To a stranger?  What's the right thing to do?

I turned from the cart back to my car when I heard a voice.  "Boy or girl?" I looked back.  There he stood.  

"Excuse me?"

"Boy or girl?  The present?  Whose birthday?"

"My son."

He reached for his pocket.  Retrieved a dollar.  

"No," I said.  

"Yes," he replied.

"I can't," I insisted.

"You must," he responded.  "I want to do it."  Stuck the dollar under the ribbon on the huge purple package.  

"No," I repeated.

"It's what I want to do with what I have.  Makes me happy."

I stood in stunned silence as he turned and walked away.

Carrot.  A bigger carrot than I could have ever hoped for.  That day's yield...far greater than expected.  

Revelations

I remember one of my boys, when he was tiny, and not wanting to meet strangers, would say, "I'm shy of you."  I used to think it was cute.  Now I know what he meant.  I'm shy of writing.  She's like a dangerous stranger to me.  Only worse, because it's like we used to know each other and know each other well, and now...well, we're strangers.

I have always heard "write what you know" and that's what I do here -- at least until I realize what I know is merely what I knew, past tense.  Life is like that for me...one day it's true, the next day not so much.  I'm constantly examining and re-examining, chucking the old and fetching the new.  It's trouble for people associated with me -- my ideas and approach constantly shifting.  It's got to be maddening to interact with someone as fickle as I feel.  And I can honestly say, it's no cakewalk being this way either.  When I'm in the middle of whatever it is -- a feeling, an idea, a belief -- I'm all there.  In that minute, I'm clear, committed, a true believer.  And when the winds change -- another perspective is shared, time passes, emotions settle down -- well, I'm all there, too.  Equally committed to exactly the opposite.

So writing.  I was all in.  Until I wasn't.  And it wasn't because I was at a loss for things to share.  More so because this writing, this space felt too revealing and too exposed.  And that's when I retreat.

I'm amazed and thankful there have been people, and continue to be people, who write down their insides, the workings of their minds, the details of their existence.  We, as a people, have benefited greatly from this kind of sharing.  From novels to scientific endeavors (successes and failures) to religious and spiritual texts and beyond -- I'm grateful there was a need and way for people to write down what was going on.

But that's not me.  I'm not revelatory in that sense.  I'm always aware that you're reading this.  I'm haunted by the idea that my mother, my workmates, my kid's teacher may be looking in on my insides from this vantage point.  When all else fails, I revert to what my high school boyfriend's mother used to tell us:  Only do and say what you'd want Jesus to see you doing and saying.  

This is what Jesus can see of me.

I remember 24 years ago like it was yesterday.  Better than yesterday, in fact.  I remember climbing out of a car in a parking garage, being met by my brother there in that dark, exhaust-filled space.  It was a Friday, late afternoon.  I remember him telling me what he had to tell me:  They say she won't make it through the weekend.  They were right.  I remember that brother, that bearer of news, that brother who now has theys of his own, telling him news of his future.  

I remember what I was wearing...black cut-off sweats.  Everyone wore cut-off sweatpants then.  The ultimate in relaxation or sloth or slobbiness?  I'm not sure.  I had a light green shirt with ducks on it.  Said something about being different.  I had my period.  The news felt insulting.  I had my period, in my black cut-off sweats, with my green shirt, and you're telling me she won't make it through the weekend?  As if.  

I remember sitting there that afternoon, by her bedside, as they came in to take blood.  I had come of age in that hospital, among those people.  I had watched small people come into being only to leave just as suddenly.  I had witnessed young people come and stay so long that falling in love and getting married, there in that hospital, seemed logical.  I watched people fight and struggle -- mostly the family members.  The patients seemed at peace.  Nurses -- their names, their lives were -- became like extended family.  

I remember that blood draw.  I'd seen them dozens and dozens of time.  And yet that blood draw was different.  That blood draw made me swoon, lightheaded, dizzy, faint.  I remember my conversation in my 15-year old head debating the meaning of it all.  What was going on?  Why was the world spinning uncontrollably?  Could I make it stop?  

I remember being present when the doctors came in and brought the news to her.  I remember as they told her that they refused to perform surgery on her.  I remember her objecting.   I remember them explaining in horrifying, life-ending detail what would happen if they tried.  I remember the lone tear that slid down her cheek, her eyes too swollen to open.  I remember the doctors' tears, too.

I remember sleeping in a room of strangers, still in my black cut-off sweats and green duck shirt.  We were strangers in cots covered in scratchy blankets linked by the sadness of loss and losing.  I remember waking in the middle of the night, because in times like that the clock doesn't matter.  I remember the sense of panic that I might have overslept, might have missed my last minute with her, might have missed what she had to offer.  

I remember lotion.  Some people crave absolution.  She craved lotion.  I remember the feel of her skin, the softest skin you would ever touch, the result of years of lotion.  Lotion.  More lotion.  I remember our last conversation, the minutes we shared.  I remember apologizing and I remember her asking me not to.  I remember her thanking me for always treating her just as horrible as I treated anyone else.  She was like that.  We laughed.  Cried. 

I remember retreats to the cafeteria where I drowned my loneliness and disbelief in dark purple grape juice and donuts.  I still can't see either, smell either, consume either without spending time back in that cafeteria.  Those days.  All those days.  How many days in that cafeteria?  

I remember golf.  Golf?  Yes, I remember golf.  Golf in the background, lotion on the feet.  I remember her losing consciousness.  I remember the methodical, meditative state of applying lotion to her feet, her legs and back again.  I remember feeling the slightest of movements under my fingers and looking up to see the sweetest of smiles on her face.  

I remember that moment of disbelief when it happened.  When the theys became right.  When she was gone.  Sunday afternoon.  That minute when you want to take it all back and start over again, not wanting the way it is to be the way it is.  The panic at the unchangeable.  Sunday afternoons still inspire that sense.  Sunday, 4:15, sadness.  

I remember riding home with that brother, the bearer of news.  I remember what he said:  She would have helped you pick a college.  I can help you pick a college.  You have to go to college.  I'll help you get to college.  Go to college.  

I remember getting home and taking off those black cut-off sweats and that green duck shirt.  Packing them in a box.  You can't get rid of the clothes you wore the last time you saw her.  Right?  Pack them away, with the grape juice stain, the smell of strange cots, the tears woven into the fabric.  

I remember all of it.  And this year marks the shift...she's been gone longer than she was here.  That's how my life clock has been calibrated.  By that day.  The marking of time in relation to the end of her.  

And yet, these days, she's here more than gone.  I see her in the eyes of my boys.  I see her in their tenacity.  I see her in the way they angle their heads or purse their lips.  They embody her having never met her.  They remind me how close she is even when she's so far.  

I see her in my life's work, as I hover in that space between beyond and living.  Living and beyond.  Those days, that day, she led me here.  Comfortable in the space between.  

Last year, I picked up my cell phone and tried to call her.  A cell phone.  Her.  I remember the conversation in my head that happened at lightning speed.  What was her contact info?  Work?  Home?  Why have I not talked to her in so long?  A cell phone.  How profound the disconnect between heart, head, logic, and reality.  

I remember that day, that 24-years ago day.  I remember that bearing witness to someone going from being to beyond.  I remember.  

How could I forget?

Stepping Stones

I am a believer that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. I look at my life experiences and I see their individual worth, but when I put them all together, I wind up with something that is exponentially more than just the mere accumulation and conglomeration of events. I love the looking back on life, welcoming the realization that what seemed like wrong turns down life's lane or what felt like life's greatest injuries were mere course corrections, necessary fine-tunings to bring me to my current perch.

My life is hallmarked by some definitive moments -- most of the ones that stand out are the ones that brought forth the most exquisite kind of pain -- physical, mental, emotional, psychic, spiritual. Perhaps that is the human condition. Perhaps it is unique to me. But the pain of this life is matched always by the joy, such an expansive, bottomless, whole-body goodness that I'm not sure I even possess the words to describe it. I have come to believe that we don't get to experience one without the other -- joy and pain are life's inside-out twins. I have also come to believe that to the degree I experience one, is the degree I am able to experience the other. The deeper the pain, the deeper the joy. Or vice versa.

Last week was one of those divine life moments where the two -- the pain and the joy -- coexisted. Side-by-side. Instead of bickering and misbehaving like usual, the pain and the joy sat quietly. And tearfully.

For years now -- seven to be exact -- we've traveled a few towns over five days a week, 180 days a year -- to a little school nestled in an apple orchard. My boys have blossomed just like the apples in that seemingly always sunny valley.  It would be hard not to thrive in such a location, surrounded by such natural beauty.  But more importantly, nurtured by the most incredible people.

Every graduation, the 6th graders play this song.  This year -- my third time hearing one of my boys play it -- was full of anticipation and a looming dread.  It never sounds great.  They're 6th graders.  New.  But this year, it sounded, to me, magical.  

My graduate chose to sport bright blue skinny shorts and high top Converse to his graduation.  He's spunky and feisty, but soft on the inside.  He's punk to his core.  Although he doesn't know this yet.  It delights me to see him developing in spite of himself...watching his strengths surface, observing his passions, witnessing his struggles.  He's the one I always labeled a firecracker.  He still is.  One hundred percent.  All the time.  Explosive in his activity, his love for friends, his dramatic failures, his crushing defeats, his profound disbelief in his abilities.  He's all-in, whatever he's doing -- even being half-committed.  He's all-in, in a half-committed way, too. 

I'm not sure what kind of thank you note is appropriate to an institution that allowed life to flourish.  That insisted on enjoyment.  That ushered in the birth of beings -- human beings -- rather than human doings.  I'm not sure, on a personal level, how to ever thank the people and a place for providing the framework of family when our family fell apart.  I'm not sure how to thank the men of the school -- the world's best teacher, the most gentle and firm of principals, the dads who showed up in gratitude and enthusiasm in their roles as dads and helpers.  These men have taught my boys lessons words can't capture.  They've lived as good examples, which is more powerful than any book learning ever could be.

It was the time of our lives.  Of this, I am certain. 

And for my punk rocker at heart...his way of coping, the way he chose to usher in the next chapter of his adventure -- well, it sounded like this.  

I've never been so proud.

From the Archives

I wrote this in November of 2009...I remember the day like it was yesterday.  I bet the mom, whose birth I missed by minutes, remembers that day, too.

I am a student midwife apprenticing with a midwife in my community. Recently, she asked me to begin documenting the births I attend in whatever way seemed most appropriate. A few days after she made this request, she called in the middle of the night to let me know one of our moms was in labor.  I knew intuitively that I would miss the birth. My mind wondered why I shouldn’t go back to bed, save the gas, and the energy. But my intuition told me to go forward. In the end, I might have missed the birth, but I think I found the lesson.

How Birth Is Like A Country Road

It occurred to me today that there are a life's lessons in the travel to a birth. We are often misguided in the notion that the birth is the event we are attending to. We fail to realize it's actually the moment that will be our teacher. 

So country roads, damn country roads. Never fails. There they are. They look so different in the dark, dark night.  Even if you've traveled them numerous times in the daylight, their night life is like a long lost identical twin -- the exact same, but totally different. 

I think childbirth classes are like the general driving directions: cross streets, landmarks, things you'll pass along the way, the signs that will point your direction.  Your mother's story, your best friend's birth, the story of the mother of the brother of the sister of your co-worker's neighbor are just the same: merely guideposts along the way.  When you see the stop sign, stop; the yield sign, yield.  Markers, posts, landmarks. 

But here's the thing: in the cold, dark night on a country road, you can't necessarily see the things that people have pointed out to you to guide your way. Your field of vision is limited to the spray of light shed by your car's headlights. Even when they are turned to bright, it's not necessarily any more illuminating. There's more glare and perhaps more peripheral vision, but not really any more sense of what lies further beyond. 

No, on a country road in the dark, at some point you realize that the only information to see you through is the few feet in front of your car as you travel forward.  In a somewhat meditative process, the music that seemed to be your friend on the journey is quieted so you can focus more on the road ahead, the next contraction. Just as much as you need to know, need to see is available -- a gentle hand, a warming word, silence.  That's what we get and that's what we give -- just enough for the now. 

The potholes always catch you by surprise, even when you're ready for them. There is something about the way the light plays on the landscape that makes us incapable of perceiving every pitfall in our path. It's only as we survey our trip in retrospect that we think, "And then I hit that hole right near the sycamore.  Remember it's there on the way back through next time."

Along the road, somewhat lost, not able to rely on our usual senses we find that our sight and hearing have been supplanted by that internal sense of direction.  We may continue to reach out the way we know how -- phone, knock on a door ("Can you help me? I'm looking for a certain house."), perhaps even a co-pilot. Invariably, there is only one person able to put foot on gas pedal, hands on steering wheel, eyes on road. Only one person who will birth that baby. Invariably, the cell phone connection will be lost; the kind neighbor will give inadequate directions; the co-pilot will remain 16 inches away in her own seat. It's a singular journey.

At some point, when all else is exhausted, there comes a time when the only way down the road is...well, down the road. A surrender is made.  "I feel really lost. I'm not sure this is the way. I've done the best I know how. I can only keep going. What other choice do I have? Stop and wait for daylight? A rescue?" 

And in that minute there is no more noise, no more second-guessing, no more wondering if you took a wrong turn. There is only intent mindfulness on the next indicated action, movement, lurch forward. Commitment. What falls away is the belief that there is only one way down the road, to the house. What becomes apparent and entire is that right there -- in that moment, at that time, hands on wheel, foot on pedal, eyes closed -- is that we're moving toward something.  We are going somewhere. 

I believe there is a second time when along the road we submit to the minute. We say to ourselves, "I'll do whatever it takes to keep going forward." We say it to ourselves in a way that doesn't even sound like speaking. It is an intense, full-bodied knowing and display that we will go, we will do, we will be whatever and wherever we need to make progress. Squatting, walking, rocking, crying, silent, rhythmic.

That last effort or instinct on our part, in my experience, is most often met by the surprise find of the exact house you were looking for. It's like in a split second you see the house, think to yourself, "There's a house," then wonder what in the heck a house it doing way out here, and then remember that that's where you were headed in the first place -- exactly like the first time a mother touches her baby's head as it is emerging. That connection is complete.

Opening the door, walking the walkway and crossing the threshold -- you're finally there. You have arrived. In that minute, you have arrived at the destination. The pieces are finally in place and the jigsaw that was the reality of just a minute prior now fuses to make a perfect picture. Baby on belly. 

But here's the thing I love the most about the drive and about the road. The birth will take time, the labor, the welcoming, the checking, the mothering, the cleaning -- and then you'll get back in your car. It will be light; hours will have passed. 

You'll back your car down the road and start for home, but what you'll see is that the entire landscape has changed. Your vision is no longer limited to the destination. Your eyes will no longer be riveted on the few feet in front of the car. What will happen is you'll raise up your head and witness the trees, their colors and their leaves in the wind.  You'll realize you are nestled in a valley or on a hilltop, not just at the end of the road. There will be endless heavens above and fields around, the animals and plants will be coming alive with the heat of the sun. And there is it is: life all around, inside, outside, throughout you and everything, everyone. Motherhood everywhere. 

And that's what happens. You arrive at the place you think is the destination, and once there, you finally see that there is so much more to behold on the journey. 

My Mother's House is Full

I believe my car could find its way home even if I forgot.  If I was blinded, I could see the path clearly laid out before me.  If I was struck memoryless, I'm certain the cells of my body would pull me along, straight back to that door.  


Arriving to see blooming bulbs in the middle of a desert is odd to say the least.  For the most part -- except for the stunning sunrises and sunsets -- the palate of the desert is muted and bland, camouflaged from itself.  But there they were in the front yard greeting me, an entire bed of irises.  Color is not part of my early memories.  


I can walk in that front door all these years later and feel a sense of belonging.  It is still my house even when it's not.  


We wordlessly orbited, a silent ballet -- mother, son, daughters -- artful movements set to the music of life.    It calls to mind instantly the cleaning and packing of years ago, before I set off abroad.  My sister and I singing our way together up to the point of departure. Working together and apart in different rooms, walking towards and past one another, humming the same tune, singing along with the same song.  Ships.  Stars.  Satellites.   

Intuitively, our togetherness migrated immediately to the backyard, the strong sunshine, the garden that survives the harshest environment.


I see another silent ballet in my mind's eye -- tables, chairs, decorations all laid out for big birthday or remarkable retirement.  We work well together.  We speak the language of people who share a common past, one that centers on silence and understanding. 


Lilacs.  Talk of their origin.  Their quick blooming and passing this year.  Their tendency to want to shrivel up as soon as they are separated from their roots.  We are so like them.  "Hammer them as soon as they're cut, otherwise they won't absorb the water," my mother warns.  "Hammer them?" "Yes." 


The irises in the back rival the ones in the front.  Yellows.  Purples.  An almost brown....the deepest of dark purples.  


Roses.  Blooms that go on for days.  Long stems.  Sharp reminders of the pains of life.  Trimmed buds.  Delicate and showy.  


My mother's house is full.  Five bedrooms full of furniture, tools for living, pictures.  My mother's house is full of outdated everything, garbage to some, the onus of years.  My mother's house is full of the accumulation of lives well lived.  And vases.  


The gathered bouquet set inside a sturdy, rectangular, glass vase.  Surely the remnant of some past arrangement -- something I would have donated to a worthy cause.  Something my mother saw fit to keep.


Corals. Yellow.  Pale purple.  Bold purple.  A fragrance unlike any store-bought, florist-delivered bouquet.  


We have done this dance before together.  We know the steps and the tempo of the music.  We are studied in this area, have practiced, keep practicing.  


The ride in the car, my mom as driver, her full grown children as passengers -- just like a childhood trip, except for the lack of complaining, "Are we there yet?"  No jumping over the backseat into the way back.  No mother with her hand flailing in our direction trying to make contact.  


Our togetherness stood out among the others...its vibrant sense of life, that just pickedness of it, the scent.  It took its place with the rest, but I heard people talking about it.  "What is that great smell?"  "Oh, look, lilacs."  "Those roses are gorgeous."  Our togetherness.  There in the midst.  


We've done this before.  


My mother's house is full.  I am so fortunate. 

Change

Blogger changed its format.  I rebelled.  Quit writing.  It seemed/seems stark and unfamiliar.  Unfortunately for me, even when my normal is outdated and no longer functional, I still tend to stick with it.  I'm a creature of habit and the known.  Change is daunting.  New is not my thing....except when it is.


There is another kind of change, though, that I do welcome wholeheartedly.  It's this kind...

You see, I find money.  I find money frequently.  And I have for a long time now.  I'm not sure why...perhaps it's because I'm looking?  Perhaps it's because there are a few people who know I find money, and maybe they run around in front of me all the time emptying the change from their pockets?  Perhaps it's because there are souls in the great beyond that don't want me to forget them and they sprinkle my way with Abraham Lincolns as their personal galactic calling card?

I'm really not sure.  I am sure, however, that I'm reluctant to talk about this fact of my life.  I'm afraid if I call attention to it, it will stop happening.  But I believe, today, that kind of thinking is outdated.  There is no reason to believe that pennies will quit throwing themselves into the path of my oncoming feet.  They've been there for so long now.  Why would they just quit showing up?

I love the money I find...this was my latest.

One of my friends said, "This doesn't make cents."

Sometimes they try to blend into their surroundings.  This one above was almost missed.  I had just walked this way not ten minutes before, then on the way back down the street, there it was.


I have found money on my way into big girl business ventures, just outside the doorway of my future.   I even found a penny in the middle of the LA Marathon.  I have found money right outside my car door on way more than one occasion.  


I find money in the weirdest places...out in the middle of my country road runs.  And even on trails....

This one above I found in the middle of a five-mile hike...just right there in the middle of the trail.  I'm sure it's possible, but oftentimes it seems not plausible.  I once found four pennies in four different locations on a four-mile run.  I never know where I'm going when I start out on a run, so I'm always surprised when I find money...it's not like I plan my runs for high-pedestrian traffic ways, and therefore high likelihood of finding loose change.  I'm usually running in the middle of nowhere....

Like this one above.  I found it just three weeks ago.  For the first time in years, I visited my hometown.  I needed me some mama time.  While there, I decided to sneak out for a run.  I hadn't been much of a runner when I lived in that town.  I don't have designated routes, and even if I had, the whole place has grown and changed so much, that they'd likely be covered over with Wal-Marts by now.  

My hometown is set up on a grid system, so it's fairly easy to keep track of where you are.  Except when it's not.  To be honest, I kind of got lost out there.  Some streets didn't go through.  Some roads seemed a little wicked to be on alone.  So there I was, out in the middle of the desert.  I'd forgotten how windy it could be out there.  Wind from every direction.  Wind so loud I could not hear the music blasting from my earbuds.  Wind so strong I could tell my legs were moving, but I didn't feel like I was making any progress.  

Then I stumbled upon the penny above.  Just out there by itself.  Minding its own business.  Not a building, not a car, not a sidewalk in sight.  Out in the middle of stinking nowhere.  

When that happens, it feels like the Universe is spurring me on.  It feels like I'm being assured that I'm on the right path, that I took the right route.  It feels like I'm getting a pep talk, like there's someone there saying, "I know you feel like you can't go on, but you can."  Or maybe, "I know you're tired, but keep moving this way."  Or maybe even, "Surprise!  I'm still looking out for you even though you think I've forgotten you."

I have this ritual that I practice every time I find money.  I say a prayer of thanks.  I thank the Universe for all the unexpected treasures in my life, for abundance, for the element of surprise and for reminding me that my greatest gifts come in really small packages.  It's my reminder to be grateful.  It's my reminder of mystery.  It's my reminder that the miracles of this life keep on appearing...

...over and over again.  If I'm willing to see them.  

***EDIT***

So this very morning (March 11), the next day after posting this entry, I went out my door in the misty rain for a little run.  A mere half a mile into my run....just there, in the middle of the road I found this. 

Haha!  


Signed, 
Happy Me