LOST A SOCK

Something Like January

I hope that I remember this January of 2012, and its predecessor, December 2011, as That Time We Had An Unseasonably Warm and Tolerable Winter.  Kind of like the Chicago summer a couple years ago, when temps hovered in the low seventies instead of the upper eighties, with bright blue skies nearly the entire season, and my children wept from their souls about not being able to swim.  It was like living in Tahiti.  If Tahiti had more smog.  And Italian Beef sandwiches, dipped in juice.

What I am saying is, it hasn't snowed very much, and I believe today is the first day I've noticed the thermometer dip below ten degrees.  I feel so very alive, still, this Winter.

(Okay, so today we had a homeschool class at the Shedd Aquarium, and parked our car way back at Soldier Field and walked all the way from one to the other, and back, in the nine degree wind.  I am officially sporting my Winter in the Midwest Tan, which involves bright red frostbitten cheeks and chin.  Thank you, icy wind, for avoiding my still-pale, chalkboard sized forehead.  Nothing like keeping things interesting.  Ahem.) 

But last week we spent a day at the zoo, and it was perfect.

Perfect enough to get a really good look at the Winter color palette.

This is the Winter I figured out what was going on with our girl.  Sensory Processing Disorder-- Tactile Defensiveness, specifically.  An over-responsiveness of the protective responses of the nervous system. I have now read through no fewer than four thousand web pages recommended to me by Dr. Google, and the descriptions of other children struggling with these same issues are just uncanny.  I had no idea that other families were going through the same things, and I am both relieved and completely overwhelmed with all of this new information. Furthermore, with all of this reading comes new understandings about myself in relation-- my absolute inability to tolerate crumbs, chalk dust, newsprint, the fine dust left on skin by sand, anything sticky on any surface and most especially my hands-- all the damn hand washing, and my absurd aversions to toothpaste, hand lotion, sunscreen...

Apologizes sincerely to girl child, for handing down disorder undetected.

I thought these were...oddities?  Quirks?  Regardless, I have figured out how to navigate my days in spite of whatever all of that relates to, and Marin will, too.  I am anxious to meet with her occupational therapist again, to ask eleventy million more questions.  We're going to get this thing figured out.  

This Winter also gets to go down, so far, as The One We Did School Really Well.  Above, winter insect homes, as per the monthly outdoor Science class we attend.  Who knew?  I feel like I have learned so much, right along with my kids, and there have been a variety of topics that I was a bit unsure of as we got started (I am looking at you, Light and Heat) but we jumped in with both feet anyway, and have come away with great experiences.  

The two quiet hours we spend each morning now, while Marin is at her preschool, have truly revolutionized our homeschool process.  We've got better schedule structure, less distraction, and perfect reason to tackle the big stuff first, and save the story reading and art projects for the afternoon when we are all back home together. Jack's reading gets better each day, KJ has conquered ridiculously long division, and the history of North America is behind us.  The boys are currently attending a weekly Gym & Swim program for homeschoolers through the YMCA, Jack is taking a theater class and KJ a fun Science class (he dissected cow eyeballs tonight) and basketball begins in a few weeks. We pick up our chick eggs and incubator next month, already. 

This also gets to be the Fall and Winter that I loved these guys best of all.  These Canadian Geese with their smooth black heads and their rounded brown bodies, following the leader in v-formation in search of warmth and food.  I have been watching them for months, and stopping to listen to their honks as they sit along our lake on chilly nights.  

I love them every time I see them.  They're really incredible, aren't they?

These get to be the days I play my favorite music on repeat.  The time I rediscovered Jewel.  The weekend I purchased enough fabric to make a queen-sized quilt-- my first ever so large.  And the time I discovered Pinterest, for the first time.

Let us skip the polling for who hasn't slept in a week, with all of that pinning, m'kay?

The grey clouds up above have been toying with the notion of snow, now.  For Real snow, rather than the silly little dustings and meltings that have graced us occasionally.  We might just put our new snow blower to use, yet.  

I am brave.  I can take it.

(Future Self punches Overconfident Present Self in the kidneys, imaginably.)

Fixing It

One of the things I hadn't really brought up here in the last few months, and really for no other reason than I was simply working to figure things out and hadn't solidified my thoughts yet, was the concept of my daughter starting preschool.  KJ went to preschool for two years.  Jack went to preschool for two days.  Marin, I assumed, would begin preschool in late August of this year.  Homeschoolers or not, I really like formal preschool.  I like the early social interaction in a playfully educational setting, I like the projects and the stories, I like the general environment.  I was once a preschool teacher and it was a positively swell place to spend my days.  

As I have watched Marin emerge from her babyhood, there are a few things that stand out about her.  First, she is quite independent.  She knows what is going on around here all of the time, and she has the determination and confidence to jump right in when she thinks she can handle something.  She cooks meals with me, cleans up her own messes, and tells her two older brothers like it is.  It is really fun to watch her work at her own pace, as I welcome the ways in which she chooses to exert her independence, and also every way she is still a baby.  She is often so sweet, rubbing the palms of her little hands on my cheeks as she says she loves me, and dancing while Kevin plays the acoustic guitar on the edge of our bed.  All of these things make it a great time to be her mom, and these were also some of the reasons I thought she might benefit from starting preschool a little earlier than her brothers did.  She could have her own friends, then, instead of always being the littlest sister in the group of homeschoolers, and she could "do her work" as she always asked for when KJ and Jack sit down to do theirs.  I wanted to give her the opportunity to expand her little self in a larger setting, and as an added benefit, the boys and I would gain two quiet hours each morning in between drop-off and pick up where we could conquer the "tough" work of the day-- reading about the Renaissance or classifying living species into categories and sub-categories.  No more occupying her with Peppa Pig on tv or the box of dry beans and rice or play-doh, while I crammed in as much as I could with the boys while her attention was diverted.  We could each have something appropriate to put our energy into. 

We are in week three of preschool now, and back to homeschool after Christmas break.  Marin is taking her time to transition in, and her new teachers have been great about letting her do as much or as little as she is ready for.  I took my time during the late months of last year to find the best fit for her, and I kept coming back around to Montessori being it.  The self-guided pace is exactly the way we homeschool, and the atmosphere is structured, but not in a way that would squash personal development.  There are quite a few kids in class that are Mar's age and even younger, so I don't feel like there is any pressure for her to be more of a "school kid" than she is ready for.  She sings Wheels on the Bus, draws pictures, enjoys snacks.  So far, so good.

The other thing, about this particular moment we are in, seems to be all about eruption.  Not knowing exactly how to address it, where to file it, or how to put something like this out there delicately, up until now I have never discussed here, that my girl is struggling.  From the time she was about a year old and learned to do it, Marin has been tugging at her clothes and fighting the very idea of dressing in the first place, and most often spends her days mostly without them.  Early on I assumed this would be a passing phase, or even something funny she was just going through.  I just let her be as much as I could, and worked around the little quirks she seemed to have about gym shoes and socks, diapers and having anything done to her hair.  She melted down, almost always, when it was time to get dressed to leave the house, or get ready for bed.  It became stressful, and I tried everything I could think of to curb the meltdowns, just waiting for her to outgrow this silliness.  I praised her like crazy on rare occasions where we made it out of the house and to the car without a fight.  I distracted her.  I gave her choices, allowed her to wear what she wanted.  I got strict with her.  I got frustrated and yelled my head off sometimes because I felt I could not handle yet another meltdown.  

I tried preparing her to dress in the morning, or giving her time to ride the panic out, but I learned pretty quickly to wait, until almost the last minute before we were leaving somewhere, to dress my daughter.  From the minute she knows clothes are coming, she freaks out.  Things escalate very quickly, then, from anxiety to full-on temper tantrum.  I move from one article of clothing to the next as she kicks and screams-- yes, every time we leave the house, as many times a day as we leave the house, for almost two years now.  Our neighbors have watched me carry her to the car, red, flailing and screaming, more times than I care to think about.  The colder it is and the more clothing that is required, the worse it is.  Coats are near impossible, and zippers, hats and gloves out of the question.  Fixing her hair is hardly worth the battle, and thus her recent short haircut.  Even worse is putting the five point harness of her car seat on her, because she will carry the tantrum on in the car, for every car ride, for up to thirty or more minutes, depending on where we are going.  She simply cannot tolerate anything restrictive or setting up against her skin.  There is no distracting her, there is no reasoning with her, there is no punishment or reward that has worked to change this every-day scenario.  Every homeschool outing and every drive to church begins like this for us, as does every summer camp and preschool drop-off, and every playdate.  

Bedtime is just as bad, and sometimes worse because The Tired is involved.  Sleeping in pajamas has been a no-go for a very long time, and pull-ups the fight of a lifetime.  She doesn't tolerate blankets, and after spending so many months of fighting about keeping the nighttime pull-up on, we gave up.  She is on her third mattress, and there have been days and weeks we've even given up on the concept of sheets, if only to change and wash them every single day.  

I tried for so long to just handle it.  I so rarely even brought it up to people, for fear that I would make my poor girl look like a screaming lunatic.  By the time we arrive at our destination, generally, she knows that she will be free of her car seat buckles and able to at least remove her coat and on to the activity, and she gets some relief.  She is as sweet as can be, a truly adorable kid, when we are not in these moments.  At her two year pediatrician appointment, I brought the clothing thing up.  I still assumed she was being an obstinate toddler and would outgrow it, and our doctor thought the same.  By her three year visit late this summer I was tired, and I stressed to our pediatrician how difficult a situation this is, having our child constantly melting down about clothing and screaming for us to FIX IT and get it away from her skin.  The doctor suggested we have her fix it, only, and she would learn to deal with whatever she was going through.  It seemed to get worse instead of better after that, and one night I confided in two of my homeschool mom friends, completely opening up about how awful this has become, for all of us to live with this constant problem.  They suggested I find underwear without any sort of edging, and let her wear sweatpants every day if that was what she could tolerate, and for goodness sakes, call the doctor again.  They near simultaneously said it sounded like a sensory problem, something I had considered before, but had pushed away when our pediatrician suggested we ride it out.  

I felt so relieved.  I felt awful, too, like I was ratting my sweet little girl out, but my friends were so understanding and helpful.  Of course things like skirts with tights, gym shoes and braided hair had been out of the picture for so long I'd forgotten them, but I moved on to the most simple clothing I could find.  I have allowed her to choose her clothing every day since, even when it means mis-matching, even though it always means the same pair of shoes, one size too big so she will agree to socks.  I allow her to wear last year's play coat everywhere now, instead of the pretty new one I had bought for this year, because there is no elastic at the wrists of the play coat and that is one less thing to get worked up about.  We don't zip her coat.  Even now, in the winter, unless we are outside for an extended amount of time and I become willing to battle if we must.  We still deal with meltdowns, every day in the car and most nights at bedtime.

I did call our doctor back that week, and somehow ended up speaking with another doctor in the practice, who agreed that it sounded like something sensory was going on.  We received our referral and were placed on waiting lists at several different clinics for an evaluation.  Finally, after more than two months on waiting lists, we received a call from a clinic and on Monday, Marin had her evaluation.  And she does indeed suffer from Sensory Processing Disorder, where her brain is having difficulty regulating her sense of touch, creating inappropriate responses to perfectly normal things like clothing.

And there are ways to help her. 

To say that I feel that a weight has been lifted is an understatement-- even by the medical validation alone.  My beautiful blue-eyed, blond haired little girl is not badly behaved.  She has a real problem and she is going to get help.  Just a few days in, I am reading everything I can about SPD and pressure massage and serotonin release.  We've now had our first pow-wow with our new occupational therapist, and she has lots of ideas for how we can begin working to calm my daughter and teach her nervous system what is okay.  I continue to be frustrated in the car, this morning even, on our way to school.  The screaming and the squirming out of her buckles and removing her coat in the middle of January while I drive, causing me to pull over and re-buckle her... though forget it about the damn coat, at least until we arrive.  

Somehow we are really going to fix it.  I am so thankful for that.

2011 in the rearview

Initially I thought to comment, Well that went fast, when I realized it was time to recap the year that just started five minutes ago.  But then as the past year came into better focus, I knew that the quickness of its passage was less about its days and moments, and more about the fact that the years--they are really moving.  I love growing, I love getting older, I love my grey hairs and tiny little wrinkles left from smiling, I love change.  Bring it, 2012.

But first, for the short and sweet in the record book, allow me to recap 2011.

We began the year as we always do, on a ladder with paint brush in hand.  (Myself, that is. Not my kids.)  My kids were elbow deep in homeschool, and in a bin of dry rice and beans at the time, and we were eight months into our wait for our baby to be referred to us, from Africa.

This was a path that I somehow knew I would walk, at least in the years after I became a mom, though I never could have predicted our story thus far to present as it does in this moment.  While waiting for our referral, we began learning of so much corruption surrounding the situation in that particular country, and eventually we made what felt like the only ethical choice to make, given the circumstances, and we brought our paperwork back home.  I know with certainty that even now, had we stayed the course in spite of our concerns, we still would not have had our baby home today, and if we felt waist-deep in a terrible situation at the beginning of the year, without going into detail, we would have been up to our eyeballs by now.  Even our own agency, who we once had so much faith in, has not emerged with clean hands, and it leaves me feeling just sick for the babies and children who are involuntarily growing up in the center of this cold and dirty hurricane.  In this way the world appears uglier than ever to me, having joined the scene ready to help a child or children as we could, and then having witnessed such an unfolding.  It left me feeling hopeless for the kids at the center, and so very sorry for the well-intentioned adoptive and birth families caught in the swirling periphery. 

I am sorry to say that I came away from this once-exciting time to experience a grief I hadn't known before- a miscarriage of sorts, only for which there are no pre-determined parameters for how one should expect to feel after spending the better part of two years preparing for and dreaming about this very real baby that would join our family, only to walk away with empty arms.  Adoption is not just a thing that people decide to get into, but something we get into with our whole hearts and with our kids and families and friends and finances.  We create space in our homes and excitedly count down until this little person who already feels like one of us, comes along to finally be one of us.  The process, then, of giving away the toys I had saved, the blankets and clothing I had collected and telling each and every person of our turn of events left me mournful and exhausted.  The winter went long, and it felt dark and sometimes lonely.

I journaled a lot through that time, and searched to find the silver lining day after day, because it was the best of my options.  And I opened myself up to the possibility that I could somehow come out of this experience with greater breadth, and build something from all the little pieces.

By the grace of God, I met a friend of a friend very soon after that, who somehow got me instantly, right where I was, and sat with me in the space where I chose to work through our adoption into its roots.  My sadness for everything that had ever failed was palpable, then.  I saw all of that emotion and heartache, some of which I had carried with me since I was my own little kid, and I picked it apart and allowed it to become something new when it was ready.  I had grown into a better mother for all I had learned, and a better self for what I now understood.  The process, the preparation, the loss and the disaster we witnessed was what we simply had to endure for all that could come out of it and still is yet to come.  

And just like that, Spring arrived.

We were okay. We were all okay.  We were built for these sorts of deep life lessons-- a whole Master's Degree, really, on what fear and disappointment and love are all about.  How thankful I am to have come through all of this with a heart open to possibility, though it was no picnic at the time.

It was Mother's Day before I knew it and I was the mom of three amazing little kids, and we spent the morning on a hike, and laying in green grass, absorbing the sunshine.  I will never forget that Sunday morning, because I think it was one of the most perfect, ever, in my book.  I hired our wonderful babysitter for a few hours a week, beginning last Spring, to give me the occasional break that I didn't know I could (should!) grant myself and my kids. I became more familiar with poetry and bounced along on positive, super-fun music.  We had kitchen dance parties in the afternoon and at night, just the kids and I, or the kids and I and Kevin and Sant and Leslie-- all through the house with the music blasting.   

I threw caution to the wind and painted on all sorts of canvases, and put hardwood floors in our house and painted a few walls more.

We saw art.  We made art.

We plastered art all over our walls, and we didn't apologize for the mess.

We hiked,

and we drove,

and we celebrated.  

I felt that I should meet my inner perfectionist, somewhere in all that, and shake her up a little bit.  The world was not perfect, and I was not perfect.  The world was ugly and messy and dissapointing, and I needed to stare into all of that to understand that it was somehow part of something beautiful.  And so with each opportunity, to this very moment, I am asking myself what I can do with the beautiful messiness, and who will still love and accept me should they walk right into it with me.

And the answer, of course, is this little, solid group of friends and family whom I have intentionally placed around myself, like a group of fluffy pillows to pad my falls.  I am blessed.  Not lucky, as I tossed out there in my last post.  I believe, actually, in neither luck, nor coincidence, nor accidents.  I am here and happy and more whole than ever because I chose to experience awe and gratitude, again and again, for all of the blessings that come my way.  I am following my intuition as best I can, always chasing truth and what is real, and facing the hard work as it shows up, so that I can continue growing into the best version of myself-- all of those failings, and all of that messiness included.  There is more work to be done.

I added to my inky collection last summer, the word that hums through the undertones of my life, and five little birds in flight, for the five of us- Kevin and the kids and I, making this journey together.

We traveled a good deal this year, down to Indianapolis to spend some days with these little buddies of ours while their Mama delivered their new baby, 

and with these buddies of ours (also speaking of new, third babies) to Wisconsin Dells for a fun vacation.

We did the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee this year with family, 

in a mountainside cabin with a view and a settling energy I will never forget,

and we found ourselves floating down a river in bright yellow innertubes.

Kevin and I took a trip to Vegas for our eleventh wedding anniversary, 

and we experienced Utah and Arizona, where we hiked through quiet and still, rocky caverns.

I collected twenty-three pages of favorite quotes this year,

and finally figured out a layout and an atmosphere that is comfortable to me, here.

We saw the Dalai Lama speak in person over the summer, and I attended a fantastic monthly Buddhist meditation class.  Each Kevin and I did something we said we would never do again, and spent the last six months settling into churches we both love, each of us supporting the other with where we need to be.  We've gotten involved with a monthly soup kitchen, and we've met more new friends who have turned out to be icing on the cake.

We've created bonds with our homeschool buddies and taken lots of day-trips.  I bought an iPhone, I conquered every version of Angry Birds, I took the kids to see lots of plays and musicals this year.   

Kevin and I saw U2, which was hands-down, the best concert ever (even if I failed to bring my real camera).

I read this year.  I read and read and read and read, 

and it was one journey inward (and backwards and forwards) after the next.

We said good-bye to friends, both very real friends and quasi-real,

and we watched quietly the sun set,

the silkworm dangle,

and the Autumn breeze blow.

We hosted the holidays again,

and counted ourselves so blessed for full tables and full bellies.

We enjoyed the glow, 

remain present,

and bring nothing but hope, bravery, possibility and love to the year ahead.

Winter Solstice

Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.  -Rabindranath Tagore

As I mentioned last month, this is not my favorite time of year.  I miss the light, miss the sunshine, miss the leaves on the trees, miss the easy opportunity to spend days outside.  The days are more often than not, gray, and night sets in very early.  Today, the Winter Solstice, is the longest darkness of them all.

Instead of dragging my feet into November, however, all the way through February or March, I decided that this year I would create something good with these days.  Just as my family bounces along with Springtime breezes and blooms, spends long Summer days out in the hot sunshine, and then breathes in the delicious Fall, I am completely dedicated to going where this season calls us as well.  Inside.  We are inside our house, inside our car, inside museums and places to play-- as it feels too cold to be out, as the darkness arrives in the afternoon.  

Most importantly, I accept the opportunity to sit quietly inside myself, experiencing the cold and the darkness in a visceral way-- exploring my deepest capacities and honoring my greatest potential.  Holding them in my hands, and building something beautiful.  And after today, trusting that the light will return, slowly, after all of this darkness.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring, will be to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time.  -T. S. Eliot

Story of the Three Bears

Just before she moved away last month, my girlfriend showered my children with birthday and Christmas presents, all at once.  As part of that showering, each of the three of them received a Build-A-Bear gift card, which is super because it is an experience-- something I find way more valuable than stuff, and also it is fun because they never get to go there.  

Ask them.  They will communicate this to you with a sing-song whine that emphasizes the word Neverrr.  This melodic whine, emphasize Never, a rite of passage for American middle-childhood, yes?  We'll go with it.

Anyway, I think that everyone has now been there once.  In the past I have gone in with one child or another and allowed bear choice, sound choice and an outfit choice, using their gift card to cover as much as it could, and then I would pay for the rest.  I had never been in with all three children at once, however, and just cannot shake the feeling these days, the more aware my children become, that it is my job to at least somewhat counteract the intensely consumerist plateful of awful that we are continually fed by the American Media, foi gras-style.

So back to the Teddy Bear Store.  

In addition to your teddy bear, you can buy sequined skirts and graphic tees, high heel shoes, bling boots, roller skates, satin underwear, sun glasses, and uniforms for every major football, baseball, basketball and hockey team imaginable.  And the bear creation ends at the back of the store, marching wide-eyed children through floor to ceiling displays of stuff for newly created BFF's.  

I kind of like this place.  Should I say that?  I have this very same Love-Hate thing with Disney. I think it magical to pick out and stuff your own teddy bear, kissing his sweet little heart before you place it inside him and have him sewn up.  It is fun in theory to personalize him.  But it's really tough to get out of there, with the average kid, without dropping fifty bucks on a bear.  That times three in our case, and the only word that comes to mind in the equation of three teddy bears and a hundred and fifty dollars?  Ridiculous.

As we walked in today I handed everyone their gift cards, and explained that they needed to spend the thirty dollars that was on each card, and no more.  When we picked out the bears, I attempted to direct people towards the fifteen dollar area, and away from the twenty-fives.  When they chose voices for their bears, I helped each child calculate how much they had spent thus far, and what they had left to spend on clothing and accessories. When it was time to choose clothing and accessories on the remaining one, eight and ten dollars?  It was hard.  

For a few minutes I felt like a heartless jerk, obvious money in my wallet that would easily cover the extra two dollars needed for a football, six fifty required for pants.  Kevin's mom was with us today, having just appliance shopped for her kitchen before this magical stop, and in my heart I hoped she would go along with my Applied Lesson In Real Life Budgeting.  Minimally, I hoped my heartless jerk colors were not shining through too brightly.

After a while the kids figured it out.  They had to choose the accessory that they really wanted, instead of a handful of things that seemed pretty neat.  This place, for whatever reason, made the word No intensely more felt than in the toy aisle at Target or when presented with shrieks over (no) Halloween candy for breakfast, at the kitchen counter.  I stayed with it.  Kevin's mom offered that she could make little pants and shirts for teddy bears as Christmas gifts, and later at lunch applied her own situation to teach the kids- that she'd just spent her money on a new stove and refrigerator, and would forgo dinner out or new shoes because buying is about making choices.

Little by little, I really hope to teach them the great benefit of living within their means. 

Currently, the free red bow that came home around Jack's black bear's neck has been transformed into a karate belt.  And Marin's heart bear has been further accessorized with Finding Nemo training pants, the plastic crown from her Halloween costume, and her own black dress shoes.  All new friends have been introduced to their twin bed cohorts, and are adapting nicely.  We are doing just fine.

Navigating the Path Unknown

I wondered what it would be like to quickly jump in here, when inspiration hit me late some random Saturday evening, and write.  Without concerns for sentence structure or complete thoughts, without giving pause for who’s reading and what I am sharing, and just go.  When I paint, I apply enormous, free range strokes or tiny, delicate ones- whatever moves me.  When I take pictures I shoot what I experience and what I love, and don't give a second thought to who will critique...I just go from where I feel.  But I have been stuck with blogging for a while, holding a nonsensical standard for how I come across and what my content should look like.  And I have realized it is killing my creative process.  

So this place becomes something new again.  For just a while I am going to let myself off the hook, and write two lines on a Tuesday, and publish.  And then post something that really inspired me on Wednesday.  And a handful of shots from our adventure on Friday.  Then I would be back to regular blogging.  

This is that.  Clicking refresh.  Slightly redesigned, permission to just GO.

The archives of this website contain the story of transformation, documented moment by moment or week by week, depending, of course, on how busy these days get.  Documentation of the world, on being a mom, on looking at one’s own life and choosing to see it for all of its beauty, and run with inspiration. Sometimes the stories complete themselves—there was a positive pregnancy test, and a beautiful baby girl nine months later. Sometimes they go on and on and on.  There was a house.  We just wanted to move. It failed to sell.  We rented it.  We saved it.  We saved us.  We sold it.  Years, this one unfolded.  And I know there are other story lines that are left dangling in the breeze, because I don’t know what to say publicly at the moment, or for a long time. Adoption, and deeply felt, unexplainable love for a far away place and its beautiful people.  A treacherous, magnificent path to experience- to learn things one could never learn in any other way.  

I was thinking about this path.  I was thinking about all of these things documented here over nearly six years here, and I talked to a friend about the holes and the untold stories.  I have been thinking for months now about my direction here and whether there even should be one, or if I continue on documenting here or elsewhere, or where I put my energy.

Do you overthink sometimes, too?

I don’t have a specific goal for this space right now, in spite of being such the goal-oriented person.  I have dedicated years, now, to unearthing authenticity, and probably more in the last year than ever.  I’ve been unsure as to whether this exists as the appropriate forum for sharing all of that or not, but at least for now, I am deciding that this space is going to contain anything I can give it.  

I still want to write a book.  I still want to homeschool three or four days each week, with those remaining one or two being the difficult ones, with three kids at home all day, every day, their educations and their upbringings (not to mention their meals and their playdates) completely my responsibility.  I want to write openly again about food and struggle and creativity and home décor.  I want to unapologetically contemplate the hell out of every good book, and all the trees and leaves on every hike, and share that here, even if clumsily and hurriedly some days, because that is just where I am.  I am just going to show up more often, with whatever comes.  And then one day again, I will bind it all into a book and keep it for myself and my growing family, knowing I once took an opportunity to throw perfection's silly constraints to the wind, and this is what it looked like.

Thanks for coming along.

Think Different

Here's to the crazy ones.

The misfits.  The rebels.  The troublemakers.  The round pegs in square holes.

The ones who see things differently.

They're not fond of rules.  And they have no respect for the status quo.

You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or villify them.

About the only thing you can't do is ignore them.  Because they change things.

They invent.  They imagine.  They heal.  They explore.  They create.

They inspire.

They push the human race forward. 

Maybe they have to be crazy.

How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art?  Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written?  Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?  We make tools for these kinds of people. 

While some see them as the crazy ones, we see genious.

Of Autumns Past and Present

I was talking with someone the other day about Fall.  Who doesn't love Fall? She was telling me that Fall seems to be her creative time, and I took that in.  My mind went to early January, which is naturally my creative time, and then I had to think about what Fall is, for me.

And I got it, easily.

Exploration.

Amazing Colorado

Wyoming Calm

White Mountains, New Hampshire

Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia

Connecticut

Mount Rushmore, South Dakota

White House, Washington D.C.

Oh my God, Kennebunkport, Maine

Awe-inspiring Mr. Lincoln

Jack Kerouac's grave, Lowell, Massachusetts

Beautiful Lady Liberty, NYC

Rustic Southern Michigan

Air Force Academy, Colorado

Historic Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Up-all-night Times Square, New York City

Indiana Dunes State Park

History

Mystery

Spirit

Simplicity

Love

Release

I entered a brand new place this season, this last week.  It is dark and beautiful, exactly like this.

It is a place I did not see coming, nor did I fully understand that I was headed to, until very suddenly I stood at the edge of this brown, twiggy, comfortable nest and was thrust upward and outward by a burst of air.  There I was, looking for something to set my feet on, though there was suddenly little familiar.  

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart).

I experienced a loss this week, a person very close to me who moved away, across the country.  I've had her nearly my whole life, to walk arm and arm with on the breezy Chicago sidewalks to get stir-fry and later, giant cups of coffee, and drive up and down Lake Shore Drive together in every season with the very best music playing like our soundtrack.  But the time came.  

Then I heard just a day later that our once-home, our high school, was closing.  How appropriate, I thought.

I have moved out of my childhood home, my state, my first little house with my husband and babies, have graduated from schools, changed jobs and grew apart from friends, just like everyone.  This one feels different-- sharp and dull at the same time, leaving me to ache.

And ache, and ache, and ache.

I just want to pull off the road and stop moving for a few minutes-- sit in the grass and take it in.  Honor it.  I've sat quietly with my head on Kevin's shoulder, slept in, carbed out, read my favorite poems and quotes, played Adagio in G Minor on repeat, and now this one.  Just for a few more minutes, until the world makes sense again.  

Everything is going to be okay.  Everything IS okay.  Of course it is, I know that.  We are each moving in the exact perfect direction.  So my life will involve more airplane rides, and the California sunshine and mountains and the Pacific Ocean.  Like that's a bad thing, right?

This weekend as Kevin and I and the kids went out to Notre Dame, while we were eating our picnic peanut butter and jellies on the soft green grass under the trees, I was looking up and watching the leaves fall.  I was thinking about this past Spring when I watched them all blossom and grow in.  They were yellowish babies and flowers, and green and alive and delicate all summer. They saved the best for last, I think-- each one changing to glorious reds and oranges and bright yellows like the summer sun.  How does each one know when its moment has come?  When it is time to release from the tree that grew it?

Off on its own after that familiar sway in the wind all Spring and Summer and early Fall.  One big opportunity to really fly before it reaches the ground.

Before it reaches these guys, to eventually become the very soil that will nourish the tree from which it grew in the first place.

I have been thinking a lot about how everything moves in cycles.  I am working on the Rock Cycle with my kids right now in Science.  (Who knew there was a Rock Cycle??)  Last year, the Water Cycle, the Seasons, and so on.  There is familiarity everywhere, over and over again.  We're looping, and without so much as my asking for it, the next perfect thing shows right up.

I remember being a kid, growing up in our South Side Chicago church.  We practically lived there, I thought.  (We did.)  I knew the leather kneelers and the patterns on the floor, and the red carpeting and its texture which was somewhat puffier on the altar than it was in the aisles.  I still know the smell of the finish on the old wooden pews and the way the sunlight would come through the enormous stained glass windows during certain masses, and afterward.  It is what home felt like.

The time came for us to leave there just as I began college.  I grew up and got married and looked everywhere but just couldn't find the place that felt like home.  I left the religion altogether and thought for sure I was finished with any sort of building that could hold such a great, big, fascinating God.  I was as finished as I needed to be, and for as long as I needed to be.  I thought maybe forever.

It is really important to grant ourselves all the space we need, sometimes.

It allowed me the freedom to walk through every kind of church-- great big buildings with crosses or Buddhas, green, crunchy forests of old, knowing trees, and the relaxed breathe in, breathe out of my favorite, quiet meditation spot. It was perfect.  And then within a few years, or ten, we cycled back.  We branched out, and we are settling in.

A couple weeks ago on a Sunday morning, as we drove up the block in front of the church we joined earlier this summer, Marin said something from the back seat of the car about our church.  And it felt like...something.  Maybe the grain of the pews make sense to her little three-year-old mind, or the cool morning light that enters the blue stained glass windows.  Maybe familiarity is growing and we are circling back.

Maybe, I hope, this sort of ending too, is actually the very small, still unfamiliar beginning of something enormous and beautiful that I will come to understand, and curl right up into.

Five more minutes of quiet, hanging here like a silkworm on an invisible, yet strong, stable thread.  Remaining still until the breeze blows again and the ache subsides, reminding me that everything has always been perfect.

This entry brought to you by the colors red, yellow, orange, green and blue. And a smidge of purple. Brought to you by...Fall.

Friends!

It has arrived.

Everywhere we go I am watching these leaves turn brilliant hues.

First it's those beautiful baby Maples that go orange and red.  That is where we are this week.

And sweet yellows.

We are also in fall football-- nine through eleven year old flag football for KJ, and Notre Dame, and the Oklahoma Sooners.  And occasionally, Da Bears.

That is, when I am not loading our crew into the car, seeking out wooded trails and reflective ponds, and festivals where the sweet smell of kettle corn bounces along on the cool Autumn breeze.

Have I ever told you how much I love Fall?  That it is my season?  Don't worry.  I will share with you.  Everything is better when it is shared.

Go pop yourself a big bowl of popcorn, slice a couple apples and drizzle a little caramel on top.  Sprinkle that with a handful of dry-roasted peanuts.  Then grab a cozy, hooded sweater and come back here and get dreamy with me.  

Go ahead.  I will wait.

Perfect, right?

We purchased a family membership to the Chicago area Arboretum & Botanic Gardens this year, because when a family of five pays admission for a one-day visit it is well within common sense to get a membership instead, visit just once or twice or fifteen times more within the next twelve months, and deepen the discount.  Most especially with the way we hands-on homeschool, this makes sense for our family.  

It gives us lots of excuses reasons to return, as often as the mood strikes us.

In the last few months I have been playing a lot with light-- the late afternoon sunshine in this season, and the way it sits on flat leafy surfaces, and lines the pointy edges.

I love the way it filters through the just-thin-enough leaves and creates shadows of neighbors in the overlaps, and spotty bokeh backgrounds.

Especially fun throughout this summer and fall has been my ability to let go of the need for still days, and photograph with the wind.  I like to study the outlines of background twigs and leaves in the shot to get a feel for the energy of the trees.

Energy what?

We have been getting all kinds of weather during this time of year, and one day find ourselves in coats, gloves and blankets on KJ's football sideline, and practically the next day all three of my children are in the backyard sunshine in pairs of shorts and nothing more.  (True story.)  (Today.)

This feels like the time of year to pay attention, slow down, and look closely.

And to be outside as much as possible.

Yesterday morning we went park-hopping, from one to the next for a few hours until we really needed to get focused on written school for the day.  I was able to move around with my camera nestled in the nook of my right arm, and my kids had the opportunity to explore, and visit all sorts of different hills and sticks and playground equipment.

On our last stop, as I cleaned up from our picnic lunch and my kids played at the butterfly park, a man who was there watching his grandaughter started a conversation with me.  He was friendly enough, talking about his own grown children, and then noticing that I had older kids, he asked if we homeschool.  

This is the funny door to walk through, as a homeschooler, because you never know quite what will be on the other side of it, with a stranger.  Almost always it is assumed that you and your children are shut-ins, as was the case yesterday.  The man went on for quite a while, about how he has lots of friends who homeschool (exactly like people who attempt to cover over racial biases by bringing to mind all of the fill-in-the-blank friends they have) and the most important thing that I should remember is to take my children out places.  You know, so they can socialize.

I always get stuck here, in a conversation, part realizing that I have no need to justify myself, my choices or the regularity of our outings to anyone, but on the flip of this, also understanding that our family is an example of effective, adventurous, wonderful homeschooling, and that with each conversation I have the opportunity to add to its good name or not.

I carefully explained that homeschoolers traditionally get a bad rap about socialization, from the fringe people of our widely assorted group, and that this is untrue of homeschoolers, in my experience.  We interact with all sorts of kids in all sorts of settings, blah blah blah, and we think outside the box and learn from the world, and all cultures and skin colors are beautiful and gay people are regular ol' people, too.  Okay I didn't go that far.

The guy was clearly set in his judgments for what our group is like, and waste my time no further, we were off to find more Fall.   

Nothing like a little digression, eh friends?

I hope that you are enjoying the pretty leaves wherever you are, and celebrating who you are and what you love in this moment, in whatever form that may come.

I throw my hands up in the air sometimes...

I guess you could take that title one of two ways, but I was quoting a fun and energizing song.  My oldest child has been singing it without taking a breath, I think, for several days now.

I wanna celebrate and live my life, 

singing Ayo! Baby let's go!

So it is mid-September already, and we are about to witness the color scheme of these pictures shift from their Lake Michigan blues, sands and silvers to green.  All green!  

(And soon, bright red, fire orange and explosive yellow, yes, friends?  Fall is upon us.)

See that special kind of Autumn late-afternoon sunshine?  There it is!

My favorite.

And monarch butterflies all around, and Canadian Geese up above in their V-formations for the long journey South-- the kids and I wishing them well on their way.

Early Fall, September, draws me to the outdoors even more so than during the summer months, I think.  It is a different time when sweatshirt weather taps you on the shoulder by surprise, and then the two of you play chase for a few weeks, until finally you're ready to snuggle up by the fire together for a few long months.

I remember once during my senior year of college, being asked randomly by a professor what my hobbies were.  And truthfully I did not know myself well at the time.  I worked, a lot, and went to class-- lots and lots of class, and I went on dates with Kevin to the movies and to the local bar with my girlfriends for Malibu rum & pineapple juice over ice, in little plastic cups, for a buck or two.  

"Hiking," I blurted out in response.  And then I sort of stepped outside of my self and cocked my head to the side and gave a puzzled look to the girl who just said that, because I did not hike, then.  At all.

But it was like we were meant to be, the woods and I, and my rapidly growing-up family.  I just could not have understood this, back then.

What would I have done back then, with my one wild and precious life?  (I love that Mary Oliver quote.)  Back then, I would become a shiny new teacher, and a partner.  And now?  An experienced teacher-- in my best classroom yet, and a partner redefined many times over, in this year fifteen.

What will I do now, with my one wild and precious life?  Now that I am here? Photograph and explore, paint and sew, cook, travel, dabble in poetry, meditate and exercise bravery.  And learn and grow alongside my children every day.  Breathe it in deeply and be who I am, a girl on land, in the process of becoming whatever comes next.  It feels like the perfect thing to do, because there is no external force, no person's opinion, no thing I can ever think of that would be worth waking up to say, I am not the person I want to be.      

So early September calls my crew to hiking shoes and the changing woods, and of course to the zoo, and to the apple orchard every year.  

Mmm, yes, the apple orchard.  We understand by now, the differences between the Galas, Granny Smiths and Red Delicious, and that to get an apple off of a tree you must first twist, then pull.  And after that, of course, shine it up on your pant leg and take a big bite.

Everyone right down to Marin can weave the tale of Johnny Appleseed, and bake cobbler, and create apple art.  

I honestly cannot put rhyme or reason to it.  Nothing more than it being the perfect way to celebrate September.

I did these things with KJ and Jack in the very first few weeks we ever homeschooled, a few years ago, and every year since.  By now my big guy has mostly outgrown apple prints, but I am lucky enough to have a new preschooler coming up through the ranks, and she is very excited about investigating cores and seeds and textures with her Kindergarten brother.

This, our third year of homeschooling, is the year of the project.  Exploration! One true, unapologetic mess after the next all for the sake of enjoying, and also learning at the same time.

Dare I say I think we are getting a rhythm down?  

(Year three, friends.  Sense emerges.)  

When I compile our list of topics to investigate, we generally start in the same place each year and build.  We are lovers of the outdoors, and so we do trees and plants in the Fall.  And Native Americans.  And Space, because it's fun.

Jack is especially interested in all things Space, here with his diorama-in-the-works that includes the Hercules constellation, wielding his giant club somewhere in the neighborhood south of the Little Dipper.  We were also so excited to read of the fifty newly discovered exoplanets this week.  What great timing, Scientists.

So honestly I was a bit unsure of my footing, stepping out of summer this year and into the cooler season.  I knew I was doing well with sunsets on the beach and pb & j's and rock collecting, so I was not thrilled with letting go just yet. But little by little, through the process of diving head first into our school year and embracing the goodness that comes with the dawn of a new phase, 

we've arrived here.

Happily!

And it's birthday season!

Marin, myself, my sister and KJ all together in just a few short, super-celebrated weeks.

My sister and sister-in-law?  Pure genius.  This is how you weave together a couple very different party themes, apparently.

My baby is now three, and my oldest on the brink of nine.  I remember nine, vividly, and I attempt to remind myself over and over that he will too.

Here's to making it count: every day, every step, every exchange. And every swiftly changing leaf, and child.

Love Will Find You Out

It’s okay to fall apart.
You don’t have to know the answers.
All those pieces you’ve been holding for so long while you raced around your life looking for the last roll of scotch tape, go ahead, let them fall.
Let them fall.
Every last piece.

It’s okay to scramble.
You don’t have to be calm now.
All those plans you’ve been stringing together like a macaroni necklace in kindergarten–
every last one is beautiful, so beautiful, so go ahead.
Keep grabbing at everything you ever wanted and always feared you’d never have.
Every last beautiful dream.

It’s okay to hope against hope.
This is not a time to be reasonable or rational.
Run, run as fast as you can against the tide that is crashing down now.
When the last wave sweeps over you
and every hope has been dashed
You will still be here, right here
and you will not be sorry you tried to make all your sorrows disappear.

It’s okay to cry.
Even if you are a man. Even if you are a mother. Even if you feel each tear
as an accusation against your strength, your resolve, your natural equilibrium.
Cry in the car. Cry in the shower.
Cry in bed when no one is listening or looking.
Cry when you kiss the kids goodbye for school.
Cry when you do the dishes.
Berate yourself for not being able to get it together
and then cry anyway.
How else will you know you lived, if not for these tears
reminding you were not made of metal, wood or steel
after all?

It’s okay to be lost.
Throw away the map. Leave the keys in the car.
Get out and walk.
Forget about everything you ever knew.
Crumple up those directions and move now from memory
The memory of your heart
The memory of your breath
The memory of that one time you laughed so hard you cried
The memory of that one kiss, the one that left you longing
to be loved for ever and ever.

At the end of your unraveling,
you will look down and see your own feet
that have carried you so, so far
and you will decide for once that it is okay
to sit down
to rest
to hold out your hands
to lift up your head
to open your heart
to the possibility that you were never alone after all
not for one minute

That Love was right there
in her terrible silence
not quite sure how to say it so you would believe her
that you were a thing of rare beauty on the earth
That She still has your macaroni necklace
That She’s been following you around,
making maps of all the places you’ve been lost,
so you’d know how to get back when the time came
to put it all to rest.

Go ahead, be disappointed.
Nothing turned out how you hoped.
Sit under a tree and tell me the whole of it
and I won’t say a word.
I won’t say a single word.

This is the secret nobody knows.
All these days Love carried my heart in her heart.
I was her favorite, even as I cried,
and now I am sitting under her tree
listening to you
the way she listened to me
while I swore she was never ever there.

It’s okay to feel lonely.
At the end of your wanderings
when there is no more scotch tape
and you can’t find your macaroni necklace of dreams anywhere
your heart will trace an unpredictable path
to this place and you will have just enough courage
to let Love tell you the terrible beautiful truth
of how loved you were
and how even now, at the end of everything
it’s not too late.

 

--words by Jen Lemen

Not Perfect

This week marks our tenth and final week of summer camp for the year, leaving us with little more than a week or two for school-free afternoons.  We are in the home stretch, with brand new boxes of crayons and washable markers, piles of age-appropriate workbook, and curricula--- almost typed and printed out for future, frequent reference. 

Last spring I imagined that the summer would be busy, and that it would also allow time for staying close to home.  And there was that, a bit.  Marin mastered about fifty percent of the upper-case alphabet, and potty training, we played lots of Memory and snoozed on the couch during a handful of afternoons… because finally the teacher was off, and we could.  Part of me wishes to share that I hauled baskets filled with wet sheets and beach towels out to my laundry lines in the effort to save the Planet from dryer-overuse as I had in summers’ past, and that we walked our nearby trail more, but we did a bit less of those things this summer.  

We swam—we did that a lot.  And we did roller coasters, bouncy houses, splash pads, hot dogs and cauliflower on the grill.  Concerts, museums, playdates, overnights, vacations-- we did those, too.  We were out exploring the world and enjoying our people this summer, for sure.  We were away from home so much sometimes that I felt like I was barely seeing my bed, let alone the evening comforts of my living room couch, before it was time to get up and begin the next day.  

I did manage to shower every morning, except one, before camp drop-off. {Great success.}

A funny thing happened this summer, though, as it sometimes does when we get really busy: I had to let some things be.  You know what I’m talking about—running out to this or that and often leaving a mess behind as we exited.  And when we returned home to those tasks, I sometimes chose to read, nap or meditate first, instead of hopefully later or not at all, once the mundane tasks were crossed off my list.

Those two taunting words, bad mom, often crept in with this rebellious permission, as the kids battled with light sabers and each other in the back yard while I bounced around the Internet within earshot of them, but not engaging.  I sometimes wondered if Kevin thought I wasn’t keeping up with my end of some mythical spousal agreement we do not actually have, where I expend my every ounce of energy on collecting dirty dishes.  I have spent years running myself silly with homeschool and engage with each of the kids all day long, and in the little cracks of time in between keeping our laundry very folded and our pantry very stocked and our checking account very balanced.  And then if there was time later, generally in the middle of the night, I could read or meditate or write a blog entry.  

I am learning to re-prioritize and balance, and to choose my self when it is applicable, just like my kids do effortlessly for themselves all day long.             {They are really onto something.}

Letting go of that need to prove I can do it all is not a new concept. I have been fiddling with it for as long as I have been a mom, as is so common in our culture, but it became a non-negotiable in these recent months, and oddly something I had to learn—that my imperfections could serve as a way to access freedom, and even as an invitation to be loved.  I am sometimes guilty of saying the wrong things, forgetting what I had promised to do, taking too long to respond to emails, and now occasionally I plop down on the couch when there is potential work to be done.  And I ask silently for what all of us are really looking for in our messy, imperfect lives-- please love me anyway.     

Truthfully, I realized that maybe the issue wasn’t so much that my house was always so clean, because clearly not with three active children, but instead it was the scathing, unkind judgments that I had been laying upon myself for what I considered Not Perfect.  

Truly, the story of Leo Buscaglia that I love so much, with the fall leaves scattered about his living room floor, has become my own story this summer, only with scattered pairs of sandals in front of the closet doors and overflowing recycle cans—as evidence that we were busy out in the world experiencing, and that when we are at home, we are living first and upkeeping second.  I am finding the balance here, slowly and with new footing.

A work in progress, friends.

My personal Opportunity of a Lifetime

I am sure we have all been asked the common question, If you could meet any inspirational person, who would it be?  I generally rattle off a sincere list of the select few who most inspire me with their honest living, bravery and inner peace-- Gandhi, the Dalai Lama, Oprah and so on, but everybody knows those questions are just hypotheticals, right?

Well, last week I heard that the Dalai Lama was going to be in Chicago, for only the fifth visit ever for the seventy-six year old Buddhist leader, and the thought actually crossed my mind that I could somehow see him.  I have read so much of what he has written and have long been inspired by his teachings on kindness, tolerance and love.  He is truly the most peaceful man, and has a joy about him and a laugh that is just unforgettable.  I read that he would be giving a talk on Bridging the Faith Divide, which is exactly what I have been personally exploring lately, and though honestly I figured it completely out of reach, I poked around to find tickets to the event, just the same.  More than anything, I wanted to experience his energy and his presence.   

Also, it has been on my Life List for years-- one of those way-out-there sort of goals that I hardly imagined I could ever really attain.  

I was shocked to find tickets.  We bought them, we lined up our babysitter and we pinched ourselves a million times.  We were going to see the Dalai Lama.

There were no cameras allowed, of course, or even purses for that matter because of the high security for the event.  So here we have a couple shots from my beat up old cell phone, a hand-me-down from Wilma Flintstone.

When he was introduced and quietly took the stage, I reached over and grabbed Kevin's arm to communicate the thought that I could hardly believe we were in the same room as this epic person whose teachings and peaceful life have been such an inspiration to me, and the rest of the planet.

An entire set had been created for him on stage by many different faith communities throughout Chicago, and yet he was happy to stand beside the podium, leaning with his arm, until he was encouraged to have a seat in the center for the photographers and those recording and live-streaming.

In fact, his energy was nothing like I had expected-- he did not have a commanding presence and he did not take over the stage with his energy.  He was so centered and simple and sincerely, perfect.  It was obvious that neither the lights nor the crowd nor time constraints or anything else concerned him. He spoke from his heart and said what he needed to say, and I believe he would speak his truth whether in a room of ten thousand, or ten.  He spoke as if he were addressing each person.

He also talked about the goodness of all religions, and continually circled back to love, compassion and forgiveness.  "Everybody needs that," he said.  "In love, compassion and forgiveness there are no divisions."

I was so grateful to be part of this day, and have spent every day since trying to remember the details and remember exactly what he was like, to create a long-lasting imprint in my mind.

This has truly been the summer to remember, and we're only half-way through!

Of Elephants and Sunday Mornings

   .:. The Blind Men and The Elephant

Once upon a time there lived six blind men in a village.  One day the villagers told them, "There is an elephant in the village today."  They had no idea what an elephant was, so they decided, "Even though we cannot see it, let us go feel the elephant."  And each of them went and touched the elephant.

The first man, who touched the elephant's leg, declared, "The elephant is a pillar."

The second man touched the tail and said, "The elephant is like a rope."

"Oh no," the third man said, touching its trunk, "It is like the thick branch of a tree."

The fourth man touched the elephant's ear and said, "It is like a large hand fan," while the fifth man felt the belly of the elephant and added, "It is like a huge wall."

Finally the sixth man touched the tusk of the elephant and said, "It is like a solid pipe."

The six men began to argue about the elephant and every one of them insisted that he was right.  They were becoming quite agitated.  Just then a wise man was passing by, and witnessing the dispute he asked, "What is the matter?"  

"We cannot agree to what the elephant is like," they replied, and in turn each man told what he had experienced of the elephant.  "Which of us is correct?" they asked.

"All of you are right," the wise man explained, "for it has all of the features that you have described.  And if you put your partial views together, you will have the idea for what a whole elephant looks like."

"Oh!" exclaimed the six blind men, and each of them were happy within their experience. 

The moral of the story is that each of us sees things through the eyes of our own experiences and points of view.  We can gain perspective by understanding and respecting the experiences and beliefs of others, so rather than arguing like blind men we could simply say, "Maybe you have your reasons."

--Indian Teaching Story 

So we tried out a new church today.  It was something I had been considering for a little while now, after having left Catholicism a few years ago and spending some time in Free-Spirit Land.  I have loved, in the last several years, experiencing the freedom that is not being tied down to a specific religious doctrine (that one may or may not agree with parts or all of) and the absolute pleasure that is exploring God and the Universe at any time of day or week, without any guidelines or guilt.  I have come to appreciate nature and meditation and concepts such as reincarnation, and plain old fashioned quiet, more than I ever realized possible.  And I've had the freedom to experience the exchanges of love and kindness and generosity without any of the pressures that go with should's and shouldn'ts.    

Though not without concern, mostly in the early days regarding how our extended families would handle our decision, we followed our intuition straight out of our religion, through a very gradual, thoughtful process, and it opened a door to one of the sweetest spaces I ever could have found: The Place To Define One's Own Beliefs.

None of this is any big shocker, of course.  We homeschool.  We seek out vast arrays of art, music and cultures, and we are hopelessly dedicated to travel and reading and education.  So, duh, we needed to think God through.  Or at least, everyone else's teachings on the subject.  Who was right and who was wrong and where did I, as an individual, feel most comfortable?

Now lest you get the wrong idea, I am not saying anyone's religion is wrong, per se.  Anything that keeps your life moving in the right direction-- kindness towards fellow humans, personal development, love-- could very well be the right place for anyone, and if it is, stay there.  All are parts of one big elephant, if you ask me.  But over time I felt the need for some growing space, and with Kevin being ready to go long before I was, we went.  

And there were things to love, such as the Harmony of the Universe in Taoism, meditation and the ideas of suffering and desire in Buddhism, reaching out your empathetic hands in many forms of Christianity, and though I latched on to most of the principles of a couple different religions over time, I never felt that I could fully commit to one.  (A true spiritual cherry picker, and maybe always will be.)  But also there were things to miss, such as a sense of community or place to lay down family roots.  We were without religious tradition, mostly, and while it was like a dream come true to give my kids the wide range of spiritual possibilities, I never felt that I answered the question very well, "What religion are we?"  I can tell you now that it is infinitely more cut and dry to raise a child within a religion, which generally has some sort of framework already constructed for growing, wondering young people.  And without a Sunday service or classes to point to, it was always at the forefront of my brain to give my kids the experience of God, and teach them to be seekers of God and truth, just as I teach them to be seekers of knowledge and passion within their education.  That responsibility was then my own (and their father's,) rather than shared by a community.

So lately as I have been re-writing parts of my life list, it has been on my mind to give a few new churches a try (#61).  I feel at this point in my journey like I could put more of this being into doing, and I am not at all opposed to using a more structured faith community as a vehicle from which to serve.  I know the minister of a nearby Interfaith church (sort of Catholic-lite) and have tossed the idea of that place around, and then one evening while poking around the internet (re: Google Search: CHURCH) I came across a Unitarian Universalist Church in the area. They boasted being a faith tradition that supports individuals in developing their own personal faith, drawing from many religions and philosophical sources with the belief that not one single religion has the exclusive lock on the truth.

Well sign me up.

So the church was small, and comfortable this morning.  It felt light and inspiring, but also quiet.  Maybe it was the particular day or the service time, but it became quickly obvious to me that we were only one of two families there with children-- my three children comprising three quarters of the under-ten crowd.  And in a smaller congregation, we stood out just a bit.  (Much like a bright yellow t-shirt that reads: We are here!  And we brought fruit snacks! And a leaky blue pen! And eighty-seven ways to whisper the question to increasingly annoyed parents, Is it done yet?) 

What I loved most was hearing the story of the Blind Men and The Elephant, and discussing it at dinner with the kids.  And hearing someone stress that structure is important, until it isn't.  And a whole new line-up of hymns, a blue aluminum change cup for the local charity of the week, and gay and straight couples all valued, and nine a.m. community meditation, if you'd like.  

What I strongly disliked, and can already see myself re-patterning, was my off-the-cuff response to all of the climbing and poking and child chatter during the service.  We talked to death the idea of "church behavior" before we went in, but still an hour is an awful long time for a child to sit quiet and still, and without the aid of any sort of babysitting room or Sunday school classes (read: anywhere to hide restless children) the three amigos are all ours in this little place.  So in reaching the car I took away the movie privilege, and remained frustrated with myself for much of the afternoon for not quite knowing what to make of the situation.  I now know to have a better plan in place for the future. (Now who borrowed that Parenting Manual?)

We plan to try again, of course, here and maybe a handful of other places. Because maybe it is time, or maybe we will find that it isn't quite yet.  But lately I like the idea of the option, you know?