Out of Control

It’s crazy how life can change so quickly.  A few weeks ago I had no idea I’d be sitting mid-day on my front porch trying to navigate work and family life simultaneously.  COVID-19 has certainly thrown my household for a loop.

It amazes me how out of control I feel in this season.  I use the word amaze intentionally–it is unbelievable, awe-full, and at times comical.  I am restricted in countless ways, who I can see and where I can go.  My day to day work and life are constantly shifting with the onslaught of new information and updated guidelines.

I’ve been struck during this time with the reality that, as disorienting as COVID-19 is, my ‘normal’ life is always held together with a precious precariousness that I actively chose to ignore.  I cannot decide if this is comforting or terrifying as I sit in that precariousness now.

Although I typically am able to control much more than I can at the moment, I cannot avoid the uncomfortable reality that much of my life, COVID or not, is out of my control.  And naming this somehow invites me to a new sort of freedom–a freedom I would rather avoid.

In the short term, I benefit from the illusion of control.  This illusion provides the needed reassurance that I can make plans and move towards new seasons with confidence.  Yet, at the same time, my plans and dreams are more often determined by a myriad of factors beyond my reach.  Who knows when my childcare will fall through, when my heater will break, when my mom will need a hip replacement, or when a pandemic will strike.

Yet, over a long period of time, I feel a sense of knowing that perpetuating an illusion of control keeps me from the connection and wonder life has to offer. I am not invincible. Those around me are not invincible either.  Not one of us is immune to the chaos that can change our lives in a matter of moments.  This is the beautiful mess that can bring us together.

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What would happen if I took this season to accept the invitation to face my limitations?

Can I be kind to myself, to my family, and my community in the face of this vulnerability?

How would our world look different if each moment of uncertainty, and there are many, became an opportunity to turn towards one another with compassion?

Lessons From My 2 Year Old

I’ve taken a surprising amount of comfort in my son’s Daniel Tiger jingles lately.  The show is a lovely spin off of Mr. Rodgers, offering a new generation of littles the opportunity to explore emotional intelligence and communication skills.  In this new and chaotic season, I cannot tell you how often I’ve heard a sweet small voice say, “mommy I feel sad” and, “I need some attention from mommy.”  I’m filled with pride as I watch my tiny human “use his words” and at the same time totally crushed.

Thankfully, these aren’t the only things my little guy’s been saying.  He’ll also randomly burst into song, “when you wait, you can play, sing, or imagine anything”.  Other favorites include, “when we do something new, let’s talk about what we’ll do” and “it’s okay to feel sad sometimes, little by little you’ll feel better again.”

These are powerful reminders.  These simple little songs stop me in my tracks and give me just a moment to ponder where my own emotions are located–the knot in my stomach prompting me to acknowledge my anxiety, be kind to myself, and find someone to talk to.

When we do something new, let’s talk about what we’ll do.

Feeling sad, confused, frustrated, disoriented, etc. is normal.  I have been invited, by my son’s sweet songs, to accept my emotions as they are, without judgement.  Taking a moment to breathe, take a walk, or just sit still has become a crucial part of making it productively through these challenging days.  In the quiet moments, I can feel myself sink into the emotions of the moment as I catch myself singing…

It’s okay to feel sad sometimes, little by little you’ll feel better again.

As we wait for this season to be over, let’s embrace opportunities to explore the imaginative resourcefulness that can come from new rhythms.  It is hard to wait, but let’s join together in the waiting and build the reality we hope to return to.

When you wait, you can play, sing, or imagine anything.

be present

tonight i stood staring at the sky as the clouds flew by so quickly my breath paused in my chest.  in awe that this world spins and that stars and moon poke out from behind white and gray masses of rain to come, eventually, someday.

you said putting babies to sleep was good for your soul.  and that typography made you giddy with excitement.  and my heart jumped a little inside my skin.

story poured from your lips like paint sweeps across canvas.  you crafted words into shades and shapes of vulnerability that made me weep for your pain while bursting with proud astonishment at your courage.  words cannot be so well crafted by myself in this moment to accurately describe my hope in hearing and holding your life.

goodness, your affirming laugh makes me want to be myself forever.  how could you have done this to me?  you who could disappear at any moment, maybe never to return.  my little girl heart pounds and my feet curl underneath me as i hold my knees, attempting to hold in my feelings.  i shall never know if i succeeded.  i secretly hope i did not.

i cannot believe we begin again tomorrow.  fresh, new.  sliding between my sheets and covering myself in the weight of many, many blankets i wonder at the beauty of tomorrow.  as the clouds continue to glide across the sky, i pray.  oh spirit, breath take up all the space.  come into my home and my days and my life until i burst with you.  be present.

original post: be present.

growing pains

today i walked up the hill for the second to last queen anne farmers market.  i have grown to love my thursday evening routine.  buy a head of lettuce, walk through stands of fresh goodness, smile at all the people.  after purchasing a grilled veggie quesadilla for dinner i made one last stop and picked out a bouquet of flowers for our coffee table.  i walked home, treasures in hand, crunching leaves under my boots, thinking.

inside all the excitement of a new season, there still exists that slight ache of change.  i remember someone saying once that every change, no matter how great, comes with grief.  because every change means letting go of what was.  i think new seasons parallel some sort of growing pain.  transitions are like waking up in the middle of the night with a cramp in your leg because your body, apparently, has to get bigger and stretch itself out.  growing is good, but still the stretching itself takes a bit out of you.

i am exhausted and thrilled at the same time.  i am overwhelmed and impatient.

sometimes i wish we could transition without goodbyes.  i wish fall could move forward without sunshine disappearing and without the queen anne farmers market ending.

original post: growing pains.

Broken Trees

Broken trees

growing up out of marshy waters.

Black boney hands

reaching for a life that only comes with time,

only comes with spring.

Gray hovers over—

Blankets. Dampens.

Yet the bare trees must echo promise

if you look at them long enough

Let your imagination give them life!

I beg you

Dream.  of green leaves and ripe fruit.

Let the choking fog of reality become the sweet sap of hope.

Life is already here

but not just yet.

Little one, imagine!

Dream of budding life.

Live like spring is present, and it will come.

the courage to continue

When I ordered my decaf white chocolate mocha, I knew it was time to write again.  I haven’t actually stopped, but clearly nothing has made it to the eyes of others for weeks.  Even falling behind for a few short days left me swimming in the lessons that daily fill my brain.  I have been trying to pinpoint what caused the sudden stop in posting.  Despite the short list I have mentally compiled, none of my brainstorming seems to be accurate or beneficial to regurgitate.  As I sit now, I have decided that focusing on the courage to continue trumps any discussion surrounding reasons for the pause.

So, the courage to continue…

Courage and confidence seem to be swimming in the same stream of thought these days.  In highlighting my lack of confidence, my lack of firm trust in my own intelligence or abilities, I have found that life takes much more courage to live out than maybe it should.  Granted there are multiple ways to look at courage, but I am inclined to think at this moment that courage is somehow linked to fear.  If courage is the ability to do something that frightened one, then there is an integral connection to courage and being afraid.  I don’t want to be overcome by fear.  I don’t want to be approaching everything in my life with a courage that implies the constant presence of fear.  I could say that I have mustered the courage to begin writing here again, but that would suggest that I have been afraid to sit down and compile my thoughts into coherent sentences for others to read.  Maybe I have been afraid, but if I have not, courage may not be the correct term to describe my beginning again.

I guess there are times when I am hyper aware of the words that we use and the way that they color our thoughts and attitudes and life.  Whether I have found the courage to post again or not, here I sit, determined to once again share and determined to confidently approach life without accommodating a spirit of fear.

 

I’m back.

 

Memories

The secretary placed a glass of ice water on a silver coaster next to the Response magazine on the coffee table.  As always, so many things were swirling through my brain, but everything paused when I saw the detail on the coaster through the bottom of the glass cup.  It had a pretty engraved design; quite fancy looking.  I recognized it.  My grandma had those coasters.  I used to lay them all out on her coffee table.  They were surprisingly weighted, but not heavy or chunky.  As a little girl, my grandma let me hold them and stack them and place them in organized rows.  She let me be a little girl.

Sometimes we don’t forget easily.  One little thing brings back a flood of moments and words and experiences.  The presence and aroma of some long ago time meet us right where we are with one glance of an etched silver coaster.  It is bittersweet to remember.